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Chapter 7
His fingers trailed the woman’s bare skin, inching closer and closer to her unblemished, masked face, which the moon illuminated with a blue shine. He desired to uncover her identity, find out who she really was. But the moment he moved to unlace her mask, she pulled away.
“Not yet,” was all she said. Her lips touched his, as they stood in the middle of nowhere—vaguely familiar surroundings merging together in a blur. The woman was still wearing her feathery dress from the ball, but it was slightly stained with wine.
“Who are you?” he asked, slowly backing away in a frantic attempt to not lose this chance.
But her figure only pushed closer into his body, her arms twirling around his shoulders now, as she kissed him once more in a spur of passion. He closed his eyes.
Simon awoke again in desperation. This was the third night he’d had a dream like this, and he struggled to understand why. The woman didn’t leave an impression on him. She meant nothing to him. She was merely a stranger he met once, among a number of rakish meetings; she couldn’t mean anything more.
He stood up from the bed, groaning as a streak of pale moonlight illuminated the mantel clock. Four o’clock. He awoke again before his staff, before the sun, and before his willpower for the day. Throwing on a loose white garment, he exited the room for some water. All the alcohol from the previous night had dehydrated him tremendously.
He walked through the endless corridors, occasionally looking out the window bares, trying to make out if the snowstorm had subsided and he could finally leave this prison he was being caged in.
The moon shone through the windows, a light of heavenly blue and hellish red mixing inside the hallway as a figure approached from afar. It looked like the silhouette of a woman, slender and tall—and incredibly toned. He stepped closer with his eyebrows raised, momentarily able to make out who it was.
A woman, her hair brown and loose, her face perfectly pale, chiseled and unblemished, and her clothes…Goodness, she was in her nightgown. He wasn’t one to shy away from such a sight, but the dream had awoken something inside him tonight.
He paused in front of her, and she did the same, her hazel eyes widening.
“I suppose,” he started, “if I knew I would behold such a sight, I would have kept away from the bottle.”
There was a small pause, and he noticed the way her hands clenched into tiny fists while her face grimaced with what could only be described as disdain. She didn’t take kindly to his compliment. “And if I knew I would encounter such impoliteness, I think I would have remained in my chambers.”
Simon dared gaze further down at the way the thin fabric clung to her skin. It was highly inappropriate, he knew. She was a Lady, after all. But it was hellish, the way her nightgown perfectly outlined the shape of her breasts. And as if to make matters worse, she folded her arms across her chest.
After a few seconds, the realization of what she had said hit him. Was she trying to be brazen?
“Mayhaps, My Lady, you should be kinder toward your host. But charm and politeness aren’t qualities everyone possesses, and I see that you,” he took a step closer to her, smiling, “don’t possess either of them.”
Instead of backing down, the woman remained still in her spot, pushing her body outward to appear unaffected. “Chivalry isn’t something a lot of people possess either. Certainly not you. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have tried to…to…”
“To what?”
“It honestly doesn’t matter. It would be best if we kept our distance.” Her voice was sharp and confident.
“I couldn’t agree more. And what might your name be?”
There was a pause once more, and Simon could swear he heard the wheels in her head turning. “El—Ellie. I’m Lady Ellie?”
“Ellie? Are you asking me or telling me?”
“It isn’t proper to call me by my Christian name.”
He paused for a moment, thinking this over. He wouldn’t see this woman again, but the last thing he needed was a bickering guest.
“I believe it’d be better if we started over,Lady Ellie.” He held her hand in his own, kissing it gently. “I’m Simon, the Duke of Richmond. And you, My Lady, are enchanting.”
Simon knew he had a way with words. No matter how hostile a woman appeared to be, the moment he offered one of his special gestures, she would be enticed into accepting his friendship. Of course, he despised it in a way as she’d, too, soon begin swooning, but it was far better than the alternative.
“Please, don’t insult me with some trite attempt to woo me. I’ll be out of here by noon, and we won’t have to meet again. It’ll remain an incidental encounter between a charmless woman and an un-chivalrous man.”
Simon was stumped. He was sure his charms would work; they always did. And here she was, rejecting each advance and implying he was somehow boorish. He felt anger stir inside him, almost hurt with how his words could evoke no reaction from her.
“Are you trying to imply something, My Lady?”
“I don’t think I implied anything.” She grinned. “Pardon me, I’m returning to my chambers.”
“What—”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
He didn’t say farewell, nor did he ask anything else—he simply looked on, wide-eyed, as she turned on her heels and disappeared into the dimly lit corridor.
After what felt like minutes of nothingness, his shock finally began subsiding. “Well, that was…unexpected.”
