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Chapter Fifteen
Hermione froze in shock at the look of horror on the Duke’s face as he gazed down at the bruise on her wrist. She had forgotten about it and had never even considered that there may be a need to hide it.
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, trying to pull her hand out of his. He wouldn’t let her though. He entwined his fingers with hers, gently holding onto her.
“Lady Hermione,thatis not nothing,” he said with surprising strength. His features were contorting into a kind of anger she had not seen him express before. “Who did this to you?”
“No one.” She was able to retract her hand this time. She couldn’t stay on his lap like this, indulging in the seduction of his near kisses, not when he was about to pry into the reasoning behind her bruise. “I… I should go,” she stammered, trying to move to her feet, but he lifted an arm around her waist and kept her in place.
“I’m not letting this go,” he said with feeling. “Someone has hurt you.”
“No one has hurt me,” she said, trying to make the lie sound convincing. “I… erm…”
“You… what?” he asked, clearly ready for her to lie.
“I twisted my hand when I was playing shuttlecock with Phoebe.” She sat a little straighter, pleased with her lie.
“If that were true, you would have had this bruise when we were down at the beach. You did not.” He spoke plainly, making her spine soften again as she realized he was right.
“It doesn’t matter. I should go.” She managed to escape his arm this time and jump up.
“Lady Hermione?” He was on his feet, following her. “You’re escaping me now?”
“Yes,” she said. Snatching the book up from the chair and trying to make her way through the bookshelves.
“A second ago, you didn’t seem interested in going anywhere. I can only assume it is because of the bruise you wish to leave.”
“No,” she said, turning around between the bookshelves to face him. He was closer than she had expected. He backed her up against one of the nearby bookshelves. She held the book between them, as though she could use it as a barrier to stop herself from going to kiss him.
She couldn’t bear to see his fear for her or his anger. It made what was between them too deep, too personal. She couldn’t let that happen, or he might actually propose and be trapped forever with her. An image flashed in her mind of marrying the Duke. She thought briefly of how happy it could make her, married to a man whose kiss thrilled her and conversation was full of spark.
Then the memory of her father’s instructions came back to her, and her longing for the Duke was tainted with guilt. “Let me go, Your Grace,” she pleaded.
“I could say no. I could keep you here until you tell me who hurt you.”
“No one hurt me,” she said, looking at him. “It was just an accident.”
“That’s one hell of a bruise for an accident!” he said wildly, still holding onto his anger.
“Please, your Grace, I beg you not to ask any more. Just let me go.” Her words seemed to make him capitulate, only to a degree. He gave up asking her and rested his hands either side of her on the shelves.
“You’re keeping secrets,” he said with a sigh.
“I am,” she accepted, thinking of the great secrets she was keeping from him. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Please believe that.” She lifted one hand off her book and placed it on his chest, needing that connection to him. He closed his eyes and sighed at the touch, as though he were indulging in it.
Slowly, he lifted one of the arms that was blocking her in, giving her the freedom to leave. She hurried away from the bookshelves, out to the door of the library where she looked back just briefly to see him standing where he had left her.
“Will you ever tell me these secrets?” he asked gently. The pained expression on his face made her ache. She couldn’t answer him, for she didn’t know. Part of her was tempted to tell him right now so he could run from her for good, but then what would happen to Phoebe’s future? She couldn’t risk her sister like that.
“I do not know,” she answered honestly and ran from the room, leaving him behind.
* * *
Antony had been trying to catch Lady Hermione’s eye all morning throughout breakfast, but she appeared to be purposefully avoiding his gaze. Come what may, she found something else to look at; whether that was the bottom of her teacup or the cutlery in her hands, it was all much more interesting to her than him.
He kept trying to catch another glimpse of the bruise he had seen on her arm the night before too, but this morning she had worn a long-sleeve dress, despite the heat of the day, that neatly covered the bruise. Antony was no fool; he knew when a bruise was likely to have been caused by someone rather than an incident. He found his eyes lifting to the Earl of Branigan at the table, wondering if her father were capable of doing such a thing.
“What do you think, Antony?” Rose asked from the opposite end of the table. He turned his gaze on her, realizing he had not paid attention at all.
