Page 21 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction

“Oh, I have.” Noah selected a book at random, flipping through it with feigned interest. “He was most illuminating on the subject. Though I must say, he seems unusually preoccupied with the mysterious authoress. I’ve never seen him so invested.”

Marina’s pulse quickened. “Invested?”

“Indeed.” Noah returned the book to its shelf. “In fact, I believe this is the first time in a decade I’ve seen him truly engaged with anything beyond his search for his brother. It’s rather refreshing, if not alarming, for those unfortunate enough to cross him when he’s in such a mood.”

He leaned slightly closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, Lady Asquith, I think you’ve accomplished what years of friendship failed to do—you’ve made Leo actually feel something again.”

Before Marina could plan a response, Noah straightened and offered her a polite bow.

“A pleasure encountering you, My Lady. I hope our paths cross again soon. The Season has become so much more interesting since your arrival in Leo’s life.”

Marina’s hands still trembled as she dipped her quill into the inkwell.

She had barely slept since her encounter with the Duke three days ago.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom pressure of his fingers against her skin, saw the dangerous heat in his gaze as he’d backed her against the wall.

Caroline had extracted every detail from her on their walk home, alternating between delighted scandal and genuine concern.

“That’s a risky game he’s playing,” her friend cautioned. “And so are you.”

Perhaps that was true. But as Marina’s pen flew across the page, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

The Duke’s touch had awakened something in her—something her late husband had never stirred, something her ownimagination had only hinted at. Now those sensations poured onto the page, reckless and vivid.

Her latest heroine—a widow with a secret passion for literature—found herself cornered between towering bookshelves by a nobleman with wicked intentions and knowing hands.

Marina blushed as she wrote their encounter, the scene unfolding with an authenticity her previous stories had lacked. The rustling of pages, the scent of leather-bound books, the thrill of forbidden desire in a public place—all infused with the memory of hazel eyes burning into hers.

The ritual of writing had become as familiar to Marina as breathing, yet tonight had been different. Usually, she approached her desk with a clear purpose, arranging her tools with methodical precision—the stack of paper, neatly trimmed quills, the ink she mixed herself to the perfect consistency—neither too watery nor too thick. Everything ready for her to write.

But tonight, the memory of Leo’s touch had disrupted her careful routine. Her fingers had trembled as she dipped her quill, splattering tiny droplets of ink across the pristine page.

The first draft had been a tangle of half-formed thoughts and sensations—his scent, the pressure of his body against hers, the precise texture of his lips. Too personal, too raw to share, even behind the veil of fiction.

She had crumpled that attempt and started again.

“Focus,” she’d whispered to herself, closing her eyes to center her thoughts.

When Marina wrote, she became someone else—not the scandalous widow, not the woman society shunned, but a creator of worlds and sensations. Her hand moved across the page with a confidence she rarely felt in her daily life. Each stroke of her pen transformed memories and whispered confessions into something greater than their parts.

Tonight, she had woven truth with invention. The bookshop scene began with her own encounter with Leo, but as her pen flew across the pages, the characters took on lives of their own.

Her fictional widow was bolder than Marina dared to be, answering the Duke’s challenges with fire rather than retreat. And the Duke himself—she filled in the gaps of what she knew about Leo with imagined details, crafting a man who was both commanding and vulnerable, whose desire masked a deeper hunger for connection.

Marina paused once, setting down her quill to press her fingers against her lips, still tender from his kiss.

This was dangerous territory. Her stories had always been drawn from others’ experiences, safely distanced from her own heart. But now she was writing something perilously close to her own desires, exposing a longing she scarcely admitted to herself.

The candles burned as she worked and cast shadows across the study.

When the last words flowed from her pen, she felt the familiar mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion that followed creation. This story differed from her others. It was more honest, more vulnerable. In these pages, she had revealed not just the secrets of a fictional duke but the longings of her own heart.

Dawn’s first light painted her window as Marina read through the completed manuscript one last time.

Would Leo recognize himself in these pages?

Would he see how thoroughly he had invaded her thoughts, her dreams, her very blood?

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