Page 36 of Taken By the Icy Duke

She offered a tentative smile. “Gilbert…if you prefer…”

“I…” He faltered, then forced calm. But even as he spoke he moved closer, drawn to her by an invisible tether. He heard Diana’s breath catch.

In that moment, his mask of composure cracked. A surge of intemperate need threatened to overcome his fragile self-control. He set his gloved hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her body through the fine fabric. The tremor in his stomach shifted lower into a steady, primal throb.

He tried to force his thoughts into uttering a polite farewell, something that would let him escape with his dignity intact. Instead, he found himself leaning in, inhaling the faint perfume clinging to her hair, his frustration warring with desire. Then, as though seizing on his weakness, Diana turned her face toward him, her eyes full of unspoken questions.

“Diana…” he breathed. It was meant as a caution; he hardly trusted himself. Yet the moment her gaze locked with his, the remains of his resolve shattered like glass. He bent his head, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that overflowed with passion and pent-up frustration.

She sank into him without hesitation, her hands lifting to grasp his coat. He nearly groaned at her touch, a helpless surrender to the feelings coursing through him. All the self-discipline he hadclung to throughout the evening unraveled in the hush of the lamplit room. He kissed her with a fierceness that startled even him, pouring every hour of restrained longing into that moment.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Gilbert’s hand lingered at the small of her back, refusing to let go.

“I would stay,” he finally said, the words clipped and strained. “If you are willing…”

A faint smile curved her lips and she nodded, slipping her hand into his. In that instant, the tension driving him all evening found its release in the promise of her acceptance. He let go of the last vestige of cool distance, bending to kiss her again, though with more tenderness this time. The night, he realized, would be long, but for once, his duties and decorum could wait.

Dawn cast its pale glow through a tiny gap in the curtains, gilding the room in a muted silver. Gilbert lay on his side, his gaze fixed on the sleeping figure of his wife. Diana breathed softly, her cheek pillowed against her bent arm. She looked impossibly peaceful, making his heart sting at the sight of her.

I should not be here.

Despite the lingering warmth of her body against him in the night, he now kept a careful distance, his arms folded across his chest to prevent any further temptation.

He told himself it was prudent for him to leave before she awoke. Even though their marriage had been about obligations and not attachments, here he was, caught between a painful yearning to drop his guard and the grim fear of what could happen if he did.

A heartbreaking whisper of memory rose unbidden in his mind: the echo of splintering wood, the frantic whinny of horses, the metallic tang of blood. He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the day a shattered carriage had stolen both his father and younger sister. In that instant, everything he had believed in—his sense of family, his faith in his ability to protect those he loved—instantly disintegrated into chaos.

Since then, he had vowed never to be so careless again, or risk anyone’s life by allowing them to come too close. And children… He swallowed hard. Children would only deepen that terrifying responsibility, the prospect of failing them as he had failed before.

His father had once told him that a man carried the weight of his family’s future on his shoulders. Gilbert had taken that to heart. Better to distance himself and keep his emotions locked away than to risk letting tragedy repeat itself. He reminded himself of this as he looked at Diana; her dark hair fanned across the pillow, and her lips parted in a gentle sigh.

His heart clenched, torn by the fragile beauty of the sight before him.

I cannot afford to grow attached. We cannot have children.

He repeated the silent litany, a bleak promise he had made to himself all those years ago. If he maintained a distance, if he never allowed himself the tenderness of waking up beside her in the mornings, perhaps he could hold onto that resolve.

Shifting carefully, he edged away from her. The soft covers rustled and Diana momentarily stirred, tucking her head deeper into the pillow. His breath caught, fearing she might wake and catch him watching her with an agonized longing he refused to voice. Her lips, slightly parted, seemed to beckon him like a siren. Yet she only sighed once more, then settled back into slumber.

Now was his chance. He eased off the bed, pausing as the cold floor chilled his bare feet. A wave of guilt rippled through him for wanting her more than he could admit, coupled with a sense of remorse for planning to leave before she roused. But staying would mean facing the hope in her eyes or worse, acknowledging the pain in his chest whenever she was near.

Quickly, he gathered his discarded shirt and coat from where they had fallen hours earlier.

The ghostly images of that long-ago tragedy again flashed through his mind: the overturned carriage, the flicker of torchlight on twisted wheels. Bile rose in his throat as he recalledhis father’s still face and his sister’s cold hand, limp in his own. The terrible helplessness he had felt continued to dwell inside him, calling out an ever-present warning to his broken heart.

With trembling fingers, he struggled to button his shirt, forcing the haunting memories back into the locked room in his mind.

You must not fail again.You must not let your selfish desire blind you.

Crossing to the window, he pulled aside the curtain by an inch and saw the sky was already faintly pink on the horizon. It was early enough that no one in the house was stirring, save for a few servants who might be polishing silver in the kitchens. Perfect timing to slip away without explanation or awkward morning pleasantries.

At last, he turned back to the bed. Diana’s breathing remained steady; her features relaxed in sleep. The flicker of tenderness in his chest nearly overwhelmed him.

I cannot do this.I must keep my distance, for her sake as well as mine.

He exhaled quietly, then padded to the door. Grasping the handle, he steeled himself. If she woke now, everything would unravel. He would be confronted by the questions in her eyes that he was unprepared to answer.

He could not bear the possibility of having to explain that he would not share a true life with her, that he intended to prevent having children at all costs, all because he feared repeating a tragedy from which he had never fully recovered.

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