Page 10 of Taken By the Icy Duke

“So, this is all honor and no sentiment?” Victor pressed gently. “No… personal interest?”

“Personal interest?” Gilbert let out a short, dry laugh. He would not voice how her defiance intrigued him, how thoughts of her mouth and warmth had remained since their encounter. “I assure you, Camburn, this is nothing more than a practical arrangement.” He picked up a quill, as if the act of holding it would anchor his focus. “I must restore order, that is all.”

“Order, yes. That sounds like you. But it begs the question—how long can you keep emotion at bay when you have married someone like her?”

“Someone like her?” Gilbert’s gaze snapped to Victor, trying to discern his friend’s teasing.

“She is quite handsome, so I hear, though many speak of the shame of her low standing as a contributing factor to her not yet receiving an offer. I dare say the ton will say she is quite lucky to have enraptured you with her looks once this news breaks,” Victor explained with an amused expression.

Gilbert practically growled, annoyed by the implication.

Victor laughed and slapped his knees, rising. A lesser friend might have pushed further, but Victor knew better. He stood, smoothing his lapels.

“Very well. I shall keep my ear to the ground about your brother. Should anything surface, you will know of it immediately.”

“I am obliged,” Gilbert nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Camburn.”

After Victor took his leave, Gilbert remained behind the desk, the latch clicking softly as the door closed. He dipped the quill into ink and tried to fix his attention on the first letter: his steward’s request for revised guidelines on tenant leases.

He dictated notes to himself in a hushed murmur: “Adjust terms… reasonable payment schedule… ensure spring planting goes unhampered.”

But between each careful phrase, Diana intruded. The shape of her mouth when she challenged him. The feel of her hand, small yet firm, pressed against his chest. The memory tightened low in his belly; a sensation he had no right to feel. He lowered the quill and let out a slow breath.

Her chin had lifted when she spoke, the faintest tremor in her voice betraying her nerves. Yet she had stood her ground, meeting his gaze without flinching. A scandal like hers would crush most women, yet Diana continued to carry herself with a ladylike composure that pricked at his own resolve.

Could he truly shield her from the harsh scrutiny of the ton? Gilbert had seen countless women wilt under his scrutiny, but Diana Gillingham had faced him as if she dared him to underestimate her. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He would be her husband soon. What would it be like to kiss her properly, and silence that quick tongue with something more potent than words?

Such distracting and dangerous thoughts twisted inside him. He tried to banish them and resumed writing, forcing his pen to glide over the parchment. He would not give in to desires that complicated his duty. Still, the taste of such imaginings lingered in his mind.

Could he shield himself from the emotions she stirred within him? He frowned, pushing the thought aside. Duty, not desire, had guided him all his life. He would not waver now.

The letters did not flow easily. He set the quill down and pressed a thumb and forefinger to his temple.

He was a duke, accustomed to command. He would master their arrangement as he had mastered everything else—through discipline and resolve. The sooner he turned his focus to what must be done, the sooner his inconvenient longings would vanish.

Until then, Diana’s face hovered in the corners of his mind, refusing to be tamed.

Chapter Five

“Diana, stand still,” Alison whispered, pushing a stray lock of brown hair behind Diana’s ear. “There, that is much better.” She stepped back, frowning at the plain muslin gown, then attempted a bright smile. “You look lovely, truly.”

Diana swallowed and nodded uncertainly. Her sister had found a half-crushed rose in the garden and coaxed it into Diana’s hair. Perhaps it was not the grand wedding of which their father had dreamed, but Alison was trying her best to turn her into a beautiful bride, and Diana would do her best not to disappoint her.

Voices drifted in from the corridor of the small chapel; the soft scrape of Lord Crayford’s shoes, the muffled cough of the vicar. From outside, the duke’s footsteps approached with calm certainty. Diana straightened her shoulders, gripping Alison’s hand for a moment to garner some courage.

She had not seen the duke since he had proposed. The moment when she had pressed her hand against his chest had haunted her in the days that followed.

She had assumed her fate would be to marry an older widower, and live out her days doing her duty to produce an heir. Perhaps that fate was still before her, but the duke was far from an old man. Her dreams had been occupied with the feeling of him under her fingers and the sensuality of his gaze.

“You shall be fine,” Alison whispered, drawing Diana’s attention back to the moment. “The duke is an honorable man and is also quite fetching, if you allow yourself to admit it. Much better than a doddering old widower.”

Diana tried to smile. She released Alison’s hand and turned toward the arched doorway. Her father stood at one side, wringing his hat until the brim was nearly flattened. When he saw her, he hiccupped and gave a weak grin.

“My dear girl,” he managed, “I…you look…well.” Another hiccup, then he cleared his throat, stepping aside to let her pass.

In the small chapel, pale light filtered through dusty panes. A handful of witnesses—only two neighbors and the vicar’s wife—sat scattered among the empty pews. The Duke of Rivenhall waited at the front, tall and silent, his gaze steady. His dark eyes met hers, but she still wondered if he even really saw her.

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