Page 48 of The Duke’s Suspicion

He said nothing, and the hard bud of her fear split its calyx and blossomed into defiance. Insolence. The jutting chin. The bold words. “You may regret the lost triumph of unmasking a spy, but you must be relieved I did not accept your hasty proposal.”

With one long finger, he traced a corner of the cover of her journal, where the leather had softened and curled. She watched the movement stir the fine bones in the back of his hand, then allowed her gaze to travel up his forearm, over the curving bulge of his bicep. When he lifted the book from his lap and extended it to her, she reached to snatch it from him, lest he change his mind. But this time he released it without hesitation.

In that moment of exchange, however, his other hand rose to catch hers. With the lightest of touches, he mapped the sharp angles of her fingers where they gripped her journal, the regrettably tanned skin of the back of her hand, the soft, plump curve at the base of her thumb. He made no attempt to hold her. With the slightest flick of her wrist, she would have been free of his touch. If she turned and walked away, she would be free of him, for he was in no condition to leap up and follow her.

She watched his fingertips skate over her skin. She stayed where she was.

“May I ask one question?” His gaze was fixed where he touched her, and he did not look up as he spoke. She hadn’t the strength, suddenly, to do more than nod.

He must have sensed the movement, however, for he lifted his eyes to her face, his expression at once fierce and uncertain, seeking confirmation. She nodded again.

“I wish to know…” The words came with difficulty, and why not? A clenched jaw was hardly conducive to speech. “The course of…correction you undertook.” Revulsion. Anger. In his voice and in the depths of his blue-black eyes. “Who recommended it to you?” Clearly, he wanted to punish the offending party.

Well, so had she.

“It was my own device,” she said. “Henry gave me the journal, to record my botanical observations, he said. But it gave me an idea. You see, I’ve always been able to recall every flower, every plant I’ve ever studied, and I thought, perhaps, if I wrote down other things, if I kept a schedule, I might…I might manage almost to be a real wife to him. Not”—heat prickled in her cheeks—“not in all ways, of course, but someone of whom he needn’t be ashamed. Surely, I told myself, surely I was capable of organizing a dinner party without forgetting to invite the guests. Or dancing a quadrille without stepping on his toes. So I embarked on a course of self-improvement. I tried…” Her shoulders rose and fell with an unsteady breath. “…everything.”

“Erica.”

His chiding whisper held a bewildering mix of emotions. His disapproval she understood, even shared. After all, every attempt to better herself had ended in miserable failure. But disbelief? No, he needed to understand that this—she tightened her grip on her journal, inadvertently drawing his hand closer to hers—this was exactly who she was.

“Every bit of what you saw in that journal is true. The confusion, the messiness…”

“The artistry, the cleverness,” he countered. “The dreams. You might have done yourself real harm, Erica.” Mournfully, he shook his head. “All in an effort to eradicate a few trivial faults.”

“Trivial?” To hear them dismissed as such hurt worse than anything that had gone before. “So they may seem to you, when they affect you not at all. You who have no difficulty concentrating, or composing your thoughts, or—or—remembering when you last ate.”

“No,” he agreed, a bite of annoyance in his voice, echoed in the press of his fingertips. “Your struggles are not mine. It does not therefore follow that I have no struggles at all. And in a world of men who lie and steal and even kill, I can see no earthly reason for you to—to mortify your flesh like some medieval monk, just because the dinner hour slipped your mind.”

Here in his bedchamber, with him stripped of his uniform, it was easy to forget he was a soldier. That he’d surely seen terrible things. And perhaps even done them. She inched toward the bed, hoping to slacken his taut grip. But coming closer did nothing to ease the tension between them.

“You’re right,” she said, glancing away, no longer able to meet his eye. “A lady’s choices are few, her actions often insignificant, for all that she might hope otherwise. Perhaps that’s why I never aspired to be a lady.”

“Yet you were willing to marry, despite your concerns.”

“I did not want to be dependent on my parents for all their lives, and on my brothers thereafter. Nor could I see myself pursuing any of the options open to a young woman in my situation. Can you imagine me teaching?” A ragged, uncertain laugh bubbled from her chest. “I might plan and organize for days or weeks, then forget to give the lesson. Or daydream during the children’s recitations. Oh, if you’d taken the measure of my pulse the other evening, when I feared you were about to offer me the post of Lady Viviane’s governess, then you’d—”

Whatever words she’d intended to say evaporated into the ether. Slowly, gently, he’d turned her hand and eased his thumb beneath the hem of her sleeve to stroke along her inner wrist where the skin was soft and thin. “It races even now.”

Yes, of course, she wanted to say. Her heart often rattled against her ribs, as if trying to keep pace with her thoughts. And yes, of course her heart raced now, because she’d cracked open her chest for him and laid everything bare. And yes, of course her heart raced now, because he was touching her, and although the last thing she wanted was to bear the responsibilities of being a duchess, that didn’t mean she didn’t want other things from the duke. Things she’d sworn she would be content never to have. Things she sensed she could have at this very moment if only she were brave.

She held her breath, rose up on her toes, and leaned in to kiss him.

Eyes wide with surprise, he drew back sharply, the back of his head almost striking the ornately carved headboard.

In her life, she’d frequently been troubled by mistakes she’d made. Even in the short history of her acquaintance with Tristan, she’d had ample occasion to feel embarrassment. But never—oh God, never—had she wanted to run and hide from what she’d done the way she did now.

She tried to right herself, fumbled for balance, and might have fallen if not for the fact that the journal still linked them. In the split second during which she debated simply letting go of it, his other hand came up and caught her. One strong arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her against the mattress.

She didn’t struggle against his hold. All the fight had gone out of her. What a fool she had been. Fixing unseeing eyes on the pattern of the coverlet, she waited for him to release her.

The hand that had been curled around hers let go first…only to slide slowly, lightly up her arm, over her shoulder, to cup the side of her head. “Erica?” A question and not a question. Wonder. Reassurance. The warm pressure of his arm against her hip did not relent. “I’m sorry. You caught me off guard.”

She dragged her gaze back to his face. “I should have thought by now you’d have come to expect the unexpected where I’m concerned.”

A smile ghosted across his lips, momentarily softening his granite features. “You’re right, of course. I only meant…that is to say…after you turned me down…”

Once more her eyes were drawn to the complex geometry of the coverlet. “I turned down your offer of marriage.”