Page 35 of Taken By the Icy Duke

Gilbert inclined his head, keeping his voice neutral. “Good evening.” He offered her his arm like any dutiful husband. “Shall we depart? We ought not to be late.”

The swirl of her skirts rustled as she took his arm. He led her to the waiting carriage, struggling to keep his breathing steady.

Stop this.Behave like a gentleman, not a boy starving for her attention.

He helped her inside, then slid into the seat opposite, his spine rigid against the upholstery.

The carriage jostled into motion. Small talk ensued; her fitting at the modiste, and an inquiry about the estate improvements. He responded courteously to each question, determined to mask the churning sensation beneath his composed exterior. Whenever she smiled or brushed her hand lightly along her skirts, a bolt of electricity shot through him, nearly unraveling his outward calm.

At the theater, a buzz of conversation and sparkling chandeliers surrounded them. Gilbert guided Diana to their private box, acknowledging fellow acquaintances with the barest of nods. As they settled in, he placed one gloved hand on the velvet rail, reminding himself to watch the stage, not her.

Society would be observing them, and any sign of unguarded fascination would surely draw more speculation. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he noticed how the lamplight caught the subtle sheen of her hair, and how the lines of her gown emphasized her graceful shoulders.

He forced his gaze forward, focusing on the performance. Actors flitted across the stage in dazzling costumes, delivering witty lines. His chest constricted each time Diana leaned a fraction closer, wanting to whisper some remark. He respondedcourteously, indeed, carefully, offering a hushed answer that betrayed no hint of his inner turmoil.

At the first intermission, the curtains fell to polite applause. Diana turned toward him, her eyes reflecting the subdued glow of the theater’s sconces.

“Are you enjoying it?” she asked, her voice low enough not to carry to the neighboring boxes.

“Quite,” he replied, his tone even.

A lie.

He had hardly followed the plot. He was too distracted by her faint floral scent, and how his pulse quickened each time her arm brushed his.

“The play is…pleasant enough,” he added, grasping for something to say.

She nodded, then looked back at the stage. She seemed poised, but he saw a hint of confusion tightening her brow, as if she was aware of his measured distance. Guilt flared beneath his ribs. He wanted to close that distance, to bask in her company without restraint, but the rigid part of him insisted he maintain control.

Their marriage of convenience was quickly becoming anything but that. He had never suspected that his desire for her wouldovercome his resolution for their relationship to be no more than a contract on paper.

When the final curtain fell, they made a proper exit, greeting a few lords and ladies with polite smiles. Gilbert offered Diana his arm again, resolutely ignoring the gentle pressure of her hand resting there. They descended the theater steps in near silence, the clatter of carriages in the street echoing around them.

Once inside the carriage, Diana looked down at her hands. The hush felt heavy, leaving Gilbert uneasy.

“Did you truly enjoy the performance?” she ventured at last.

“Ifyoufound it diverting, thenIam satisfied,” he replied carefully. He stilled, weighing honesty against tact. “It served its purpose.”

She glanced up thoughtfully, and Gilbert felt a pang of remorse. He could sense she wanted more than this stiff politeness from him. Before he could form an apology or explanation, the carriage jolted to a stop at Rivenhall House.

Inside, the servants discreetly vanished, leaving them in the foyer’s subdued glow.

“You must be tired, Your Grace,” Gilbert said, avoiding her gaze. “I trust you will want to retire soon.”

“Yes,” Diana answered, though her voice held a note of uncertainty. She seemed to linger, as if expecting him to say something further, to break the shell of courtesy he had maintained all evening.

He swallowed, tension pulsing at his temples. Another night parted from her bed would be the safest course, less chance to reveal the tumult beneath his cool facade. Yet his memory intruded: her softly parted lips, the gentle ache he felt at the thought of holding her again.

Fool!Decide.

“Allow me to escort you upstairs,” he offered quietly. It was a courtesy any husband might show, but his pulse thundered. She nodded silently, and they ascended the staircase together wordlessly.

At her chamber door, they paused. He hesitated, torn between retreat and surrender. She turned the knob, then glanced back at him. Her expression remained neutral, but he saw the question in her eyes. Could he keep up this aloof act or was he about to fail completely?

“May I come in?” he murmured, his tone strained by the struggle that raged in his mind. A small flash of relief crossed her features and she opened the door.

Stepping inside, he closed it behind them. Her bedchamber was lit by a single lamp near the hearth. The firelight played over her gown and illuminated the faint rosy glow of hercheeks. Suddenly, the distance he had guarded so meticulously collapsed under the force of his own longing.

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