Page 7 of The Unwanted Duchess

She froze for a moment. His room. Suddenly, everything began to make more sense. Yes, itwashis room. He was the Duke of Gloryfield, and this was not her home. It was Lord Drowshire’s, and she had no right or purpose being in that room in that moment.

She had misjudged the situation. She was wrong, and she hated the Duke for that. She chastised herself, but only slightly, because she knew that it was not his fault. Then again, he had been arrogant since the moment they had met, and so it was easier to blame him.

“I am… I am —”

“In my room, yes,” he repeated. “Why?”

“Because — because I am,” she snapped. “Now you should quieten down before someone hears the two of us!”

“My voice is not raised, Lady Samantha. Yours is.”

He was right once more. She could not stand how right he was, but what was even worse was how he was no longer looking at her with the same awful smirk that he had before. Now, he seemed almost genuinely concerned for her, and she loathed it. It was not genuine. He was mocking her still.

“Very well,” she whispered. “But that does not mean that you are any more correct in what you have done.”

“And what exactly might that be? I was asleep, you entered my room and climbed intomybed, and somehow, I am to blame for that? What more could I do, bolt my door closed?”

“That might have helped,” she sighed. “What you did was take advantage of a young girl in a very vulnerable state. That is shameful.”

“If I wished to take advantage of you, you would know about it. And believe me, you would then know how it felt to do something shameful.”

Samantha told herself that the burning in her cheeks was from the candle, nothing more.

“That is quite a nice nightgown you have on,” he continued, almost as though he was trying to lighten the conversation.

It was a nice nightgown, too, a gift from her aunt. It had been a strange gift, but Samantha told her that she did not want jewels or a ballgown, and so it was the only other thing that her aunt saw fit for her. She had needed new clothes, too, and so it was the perfect thing to receive when all was said and done.

Samantha cast her eye over the gentleman, wondering why he was not sending her away. She was not supposed to be there, and he had every right to throw her out, but he was not doing it. Then she began to look at his own bedclothes or lack thereof.

He was only half dressed, and as she cast her eye down his chest and dared to look slightly lower, she froze. This was most unbecoming, asking for trouble, and even though she had never strayed from trouble if it meant learning more, this was one lesson that she could do without.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Regardless of the situation, she needed to steady herself. There was no hope in helping herself if she was erratic. She had thought herself to have calmed down, but once she opened her eyes to see him watching her with that stupid grin once more, she felt all her rage flood back.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Why is it that you have been looking at me like that since I arrived?”

“I find you amusing, that is all.”

“Why?”

“Because you are exactly as I imagined. No refinement and an ability to do everything that you should not if it means achieving your goal.”

“My goal is none of your concern. I have already told you as much. Even if I wished to marry, which I most certainly do not, I would never lower myself to being your wife. Look at you!”

“You certainly seem to enjoy looking at me. You were doing it all evening.”

“Becauseyou —”

She stopped herself. He had been trying to get a reaction out of her, and once more, she had allowed him to. It was infuriating; her father had been so awful to her for the parts of her life that he was present that she had thought herself immune to terrible men, but the Duke was something else entirely.

“If you loathe my very existence so much,” she sighed, “then it would be best if you refrained from looking at me at all. I do not see what is so difficult about that.”

“But I take far more pleasure in being irritable.”

“That much is clear. It certainly appears to me that Lord Drowshire keeps dreadful company, given the both of us.”

“You believe yourself to be dreadful?”

“You quite clearly believe me to be. I am merely agreeing with you. One would think you would be glad about that.”

---