Page 11 of Taken By the Icy Duke

Alison busied herself with smoothing Diana’s gown from behind. “You are perfect,” she murmured, adjusting the rose once more. “Just breathe.”

Diana advanced, her father at her arm. The duke stood at the front of the church, his dark, liquid eyes watching her as she walked up the aisle. Each time she glanced up at him her heart would jump a little. She clenched her fingers together, trying to maintain her composure. The duke nodded imperceptibly, but said nothing. The vicar cleared his throat and began the service, his voice echoing softly throughout the stone chapel.

Alison hovered a few steps away, twisting a handkerchief and offering small, encouraging smiles whenever Diana’s gaze found hers. When the vows began, Diana forced her voice to remain steady. She did this for her father, but especially for Alison, who had tried so hard to add a spark of beauty to a rushed and muted ceremony.

With each spoken promise, Diana fixed her mind on Alison’s hopeful eyes and the wilted rosebud that she had carefully tucked into Diana’s hair.

The moment the vicar’s words ended, the duke presented his arm. Diana hesitated only a second before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. Alison clapped softly, stepping forward to place a gentle kiss on Diana’s cheek. “I am proud of you,” she whispered.

Diana nodded, pressing her lips together in gratitude. She held that warmth in her heart as the day began to move forward ata brisk pace. She left the chapel and all its lingering murmurs behind, settling into a coach with her new husband seated at a measured distance. Neither spoke during the journey, and the roads passed by in quiet succession; fields giving way to tidy lanes, and lanes to manicured grounds.

By late afternoon, she descended from the carriage onto a gravel drive, her skirts brushing over the stones. Rivenhall Estate rose before her, all polished windows, stately columns, and sweeping lawns that seemed to go on forever.

Behind her, the driver and a footman busied themselves with their trunks. Her new husband paused, then turned to gesture toward a cluster of servants that were waiting to greet their new mistress. His face remained expressionless as he went through the motions of introducing Diana to her new home.

“Mrs. Hardwick,” he addressed the housekeeper, a stout woman with quick, shrewd eyes. “This is Her Grace. She will be staying here for the time being.” He turned to Diana. “My staff stands ready to serve you. Mrs. Hardwick can answer any immediate questions.” Then, without waiting, he swept up the steps and through the doors, his tall frame disappearing inside.

Diana opened her mouth, then closed it, uncertain if she should say something. Before she could decide, Mrs. Hardwick stepped forward and offered a polite curtsy. The servants lined up in practiced order—footmen, maids, the cook hovering at the edge with flour on her apron, and a gardener who nodded shyly from behind the lot. All regarded her with careful courtesy.

The housekeeper’s voice was calm, and her words were brief. “Your Grace, may I give you a short tour?”

She did not wait for a reply before turning and leading Diana through the grand foyer, pointing out a wide staircase with a polished banister, a corridor leading to drawing rooms and a morning room bright with windows. “You will find most of the household quiet and well-managed. The duke prizes efficiency.”

Diana followed, taking in the tall windows and carved paneling, the ornate tapestries, and fresh flowers that the staff had arranged with tasteful reserve. Though the place was magnificent, it felt…empty.

The duke’s absence pressed on her. Diana thought about how he had introduced her and then departed without a word. Although their wedding day was now behind them, he offered her no warmth or assistance to ease her transition. It was as though her had simply installed her in the manor like a new piece of furniture.

As they walked, Mrs. Hardwick outlined Diana’s expected role as duchess: letters to answer, menus to approve, linens to reorder, charities in the village to support. “His Grace is particular, but fair,” she said, guiding Diana through a bright hallway. “He values an orderly household.”

Diana nodded, noting the way the woman’s eyes lingered, searching her face as if gauging whether she would be capable, or crumble under her new duties. Diana swore to herself that she would not crumble. Although circumstance had thrust her intothe marriage, she would not fail her family or let the servants sense her unease.

They passed a small sitting room with a view of a rose garden. Mrs. Hardwick paused. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you might find comfort here. The late duchess liked this room.” There was a softness in the older woman’s voice; a hint of warmth that Diana found endearing.

She drew in a slow breath and stepped inside. Pale curtains framed a set of French doors that opened onto a terrace. A writing desk stood in the corner, and a charming tea table nestled next to the window seat.

It was a tranquil cocoon made for chatting and contemplating. She tried to imagine the days ahead, filling this space with her tasks and presence. If the duke had no interest in guiding her, she would learn to navigate her new life on her own.

On the conclusion of the tour, Diana returned to the foyer and glanced in the direction the duke had disappeared. He might not welcome her questions or her company, but she would at least know how to run his home.

Candlelight flickered against the chamber walls, casting long, nervous shapes that stretched and shrank as Diana paced. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing.

Her silk nightgown whispered against her skin with each restless step. She startled when the old floorboards near the door creaked, but it was nothing more than the wind. As the clock chimed and the hours passed, she waited anxiously for the duke to make an appearance until her stomach became knotted with disappointment. There were no footsteps, no quiet knock, and no presence hovering outside her threshold.

Was it her duty, then, to come to him? After all, he was her husband, not some stranger for whom she risked impropriety. They were bound together now, and wives had certain responsibilities, just as husbands did. Her father’s old lessons, halting and awkward, had taught her that much. Flushing with uncertainty, she pulled on a thin wrapper over her nightgown and eased open the door.

The darkened corridor stretched silently before her, lit by a single lamp near its end. She debated turning back and pretending the impulse to go to him had never taken hold, but she could no longer worry and wait for him to come to her. With trembling steps, she approached a half-open door glowing with muted light. She hesitated, tugging the collar of her wrapper higher as though it might shield her from whatever awaited. Determined not to be a timid child, she rapped gently and listened. Silence.

Diana swallowed. If the duke had desired privacy, he would have locked the door. She pushed it inward, stepping over the threshold as a warm glow of lamplight greeted her.

Gilbert stood behind a writing desk, his coat draped over the back of a chair, his white shirtsleeves rolled up just enough to reveal lightly furred, sinewy forearms. The sight stopped her heart for a beat.

His gaze swung toward her, and in that moment the air thickened and an intensity sparked between them that stole her breath. Every nerve in her body hummed, but she lifted her chin, trying to appear poised despite her unsteady knees.

His eyes wandered up and down her body, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin of her neck. She felt bare under the intensity of his stare, and warmth grew between the apex of her thighs. She wondered what would happen if she reached out and drew him close to her.

The duke visibly stiffened as she neared, drawing back as though warding her off.

“Your Grace,” he announced, his use of her title creating a distance between them that made her flinch inside. “There is no need for this.”

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