Page 38 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

Frederick’s jaw tightened, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that she had a point.

He stalked toward the fire, still bristling with anger, but eventually returned and sat down in the chair opposite hers.

For a moment they sat in silence. The only sounds in the room came from the crackling fire and the more distant howling storm.

Gemma sighed softly and looked over at the tray of treats. “You know,” she said, trying to ease the tension, “I think your grandmother might have planned this down to the very last detail. She did not simply lock us in here. She has set the perfect scene. Fine pastries, soft blankets, and just enough warmth from the fire to make us feel cozy.”

Frederick scowled, though his gaze flickered to the tray of sweets. “This is absurd,” he muttered, but the edge in his voice had dulled.

Gemma raised an eyebrow. “Absurd, yes. But she is persistent, I will give her that.”

He didn’t bother to respond and merely crossed his arms and stared into the fire, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Gemma briefly wondered if she should stop trying to make conversation, but sitting in silence with Frederick wasn’t any more appealing than talking to him when he was in one of his moods.

She reached for one of the delicate pastries, taking a small bite and savoring the sweetness. “At least the food is good,” she said with a grin, trying again to lighten the mood.

Frederick glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “You are remarkably calm for someone who has just been locked in a room.”

Gemma shrugged. “What good would panicking do? It is not as if banging on the door is going to get us anywhere. Besides, I have had worse things happen to me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she could tell he was curious but did not want to pry. He instead turned his attention back to the fire, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of the chair.

After a long pause, Gemma finally spoke again. “Does your grandmother do this sort of thing often?”

“I would not know anything about locking people in rooms, but meddling? Oh, absolutely. She has been setting us up since the day you arrived. She is relentless,” he muttered.

Gemma nodded. “In my limited experience, people who interfere tend to care, in their own way…”

She trailed off, her thoughts turning inward. Her mother had never interfered. Not once.

Frederick’s gaze sharpened at her words. “What do you mean?”

Gemma hesitated, feeling like she’d said too much. But there was something about the quiet intimacy of the moment, the crackling fire, the fact that they were locked in this little room together, that made her feel like she could be somewhat forthcoming.

“My father,” she said softly, staring into the flames, “used to interfere all the time. He was always getting involved in things, especially when it came to my education or my future. I remember once, he had this grand idea that I should learn Latin of all things. He insisted on hiring a tutor, even though I had no interest in it. But he cared, you know? He thought he was doing what was best for me.”

Frederick’s eyes softened slightly as he listened, the hard lines of his face relaxing just a bit. “And your mother?” he asked quietly.

Gemma’s smile faded. “She never interfered.”

A thick silence developed as the weight of her words settled between them. She could feel Frederick watching her closely, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she reached for another pastry, trying to shift the conversation away from her past.

“Here,” she said, offering a tart to him. “You should try one. They are really quite good.”

Frederick hesitated for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden change in tone. After a brief pause he leaned forward and took the pastry from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers.

He pulled back quickly as if the contact had startled him, and Gemma caught the way his gaze briefly flicked to her lips before he looked away, his expression unreadable once more.

She pretended not to notice, biting into her own pastry and smiling to herself. “See?” she said, her tone light again. “Her Grace might be a meddler, but at least she knows how to spoil us.”

Frederick offered a low grunt of agreement, biting into the pastry with a grudging acceptance. For a while they ate in silence, the discomfort between them easing as they bothfocused on the food. Gemma could feel the mood beginning to improve, becoming less fraught and more comfortable, if that was possible under the circumstances.

“I have to admit,” Gemma said after a while, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “your grandmother does have impeccable taste when it comes to sweets.”

Frederick’s lips twitched and Gemma thought he might actually smile. “Indeed she does,” he agreed, his voice low.

They sat in companionable silence for a few more moments before Gemma couldn’t resist teasing him again.

“So, tell me, Your Grace,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “what is your favorite sweet?”

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