Page 27 of My Demanding Duke

“We’re home,” the duke observed, with a rueful sigh.

Worried that he might instruct the driver to do another circle of the square, Anna quickly scooched away from him, her hands busy smoothing the fabric of her skirts.

“Thank you for an enjoyable morning,” she parroted, feeling entirely discombobulated.

The duke regarded her with open amusement, one brow arching to acknowledge he saw that her composure was feigned.

“Is that all I get? A polite dismissal after such—” he reached out, catching her gloved hand before she could escape entirely. “—a passionate embrace?”

Anna’s breath hitched, but before she could retort, a footman rapped on the door and swung it open. Cool air rushed in, soothing her heated skin and allowing her a modicum of composure.

“It wasn’t a dismissal, it was a review,” she whispered, feeling bold, “That was most enjoyable, despite the abrupt ending.”

With a mischievous smile to her husband, she slipped her hand free of his and allowed the footman to assist her down.

Hugh quickly followed, taking her arm to escort her inside. He would have followed her up the stairs, she guessed, had she not firmly informed him that she intended to nap.

“I’m sure you have correspondence you must attend to,” she said, refusing to meet his eye.

“Nowthatsounds like a dismissal,” he observed, sounding both amused and a tad disappointed.

To her surprise, Anna felt a pang of guilt, worried that she had hurt him. She met his gaze, allowing herself, for just that moment, to be vulnerable in front of him.

“It’s just, I really am overwhelmed by it all,” she admitted, her voice at a whisper.

Falconbridge stilled, his eyes thoughtful. For a moment, Anna worried that he would bat her concerns aside, lead her upstairs, and demand his marital rights.

But he did not.

Instead, he nodded silently before offering her a curt bow.

"I am a slave to your happiness," Hugh said softly, as he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "And I am happy to wait for you."

The slight look of regret in his eyes had Anna guessing that the second part of his statement was a case of definite hyperbole. Still, he brimmed with warmth, concern, and kindness.

“Until this evening, Hugh,” she said, with a nod before turning toward the stairs. She climbed quickly, wishing to be free of him and the conflicting feelings he elicited within. Perhaps she should have allowed him to follow her upstairs to claim her maidenhead, she thought in a panic. It might have been easier to bear his demanding embrace than this unexpected gentle kindness from a man she had promised she would never love.

CHAPTER NINE

HUGH BARELY SPAREDa glance at the stage as Sheridan’s The Rivals unfolded—his attention fixed instead on his wife beside him. She sat still, hands folded in her lap, her posture poised yet betraying a quiet tension.

Perhaps, Hugh thought—or rather, hoped—she was as affected by their closeness in the intimate confines of their box as he was.

From his seat, he had an unimpeded view of the audience below—London society in all its chaotic splendor. The pit churned with the restless energy of drunken gentlemen jostling for space, while fruit sellers wove between them, shouting their wares. Above the fray, the elite preened like peacocks, their jewels catching in the candlelight as they turned to see and be seen.

Yet, throughout the performance, it was not the stage that held the audience’s attention but Anna. The flicker of quizzing glasses aimed in their direction had been relentless all night long.

Her debut as Duchess of Falconbridge would be dissected in the papers the next morning with greater scrutiny than the performance on-stage could hope for. Even if Shakespeare himself had risen from the grave to present a new work, he would have been ignored in favor ofher.

Hugh reached out, resting his hand atop hers—partly to offer support, but mostly to satisfy the desire to touch her that had consumed him all night. Her fingers curled slightly in response, and he waited to see if she would pull away.

Much to his relief—for his ego was only so resilient—she did not pull away. Instead, she turned to him, her expression anxious.

“It feels as though everyone is watching us and not the play,” she whispered. “I might as well be sitting here naked for how they’re staring.”

Hugh went utterly still. Her words were innocent—yet his traitorous mind seized upon them with unholy enthusiasm. A grown man of two-and-thirty, and yet, with nothing more than an offhand remark, she had reduced him to a randy schoolboy, his body betraying him with embarrassing swiftness.

"If you were sitting there naked, my dear, the performance on stage would be entirely forgotten—for I’d be putting on quite the show myself."

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