Page 70 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
The dogs regarded him with soft whimpers, as if expecting a treat or a secret. Their attention only broke when the wind picked up, ruffling the leaves and stirring the branches. Beowulf barked sharply at the gust, his tail high and bristling, while Achilles maintained his quiet, stalking pace.
Dominic nudged his horse forward. “That woman drives me mad. Utterly mad. And here I am, talking to animals.”
Deeper into the forest he rode, the trees growing dense, their branches weaving overhead to form a canopy.
At first, the shade was comforting, but as the shadows deepened, isolation crept in—the very solitude he sought.
He breathed in the scent of moss and damp earth, the faint decay of rotting wood far preferable to perfumed soaps and stifling drawing rooms.
“I am getting in too deep,” he murmured, ducking beneath a low bough. His horse neighed, and the dogs barked in response. “And that won’t end well. Not well at all. I should keep my distance.”
Beowulf let out a disapproving huff.
“Don’t tell me you’re on her side,” Dominic grumbled.
A sharp bark from ahead drew his attention. Achilles had surged forward again. Dominic followed at a steady pace, letting the dog lead for a moment before gathering the group back together.
He slowed to a trot, the familiar rhythm of the forest calming his restless mind.
Marianne might see him as a predator, but beneath that, he was a protector. He needed his dogs near him, like anchors in the storm she stirred within him.
“She gets under my skin,” he admitted quietly. “Without even knowing it.”
At a thick cluster of trees, he stopped and dismounted, the forest floor solid beneath his boots. The quiet of nature eased his breath, but not the ache in his chest.
What was I thinking?
The memory of their kiss—the hunger, the possessiveness—returned in a sharp rush.
Why do I torment myself like this?
Beowulf panted beside him, his tongue lolling, his eyes wide and watchful.
“Yes, I know, Beowulf. I’m losing my mind,” Dominic muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
Birds squawked overhead. A fox hid in the bushes nearby.
A moment later, Achilles returned, proudly dropping a squirrel at Dominic’s feet. The dog’s chest swelled with pride at his catch.
“Well done. Good boy,” Dominic grumbled with a smile, and the hound wagged its tail giddily.
Perhaps it was time to return. Enough exercise, enough talking—for now.
He whistled, signaling the end of their outing. The group moved as one—horse, dogs, and man—in the familiar rhythm that had soothed him since childhood: the stillness before the strike, the focus, the hunt.
But even as the forest faded behind him, his thoughts drifted back to her.
Marianne.
He’d left her to face Perseus’s chaos alone, choosing self-preservation over confrontation. A coward’s retreat. But the truth was clear: if he spoke or touched her again, he might say too much, reveal too much.
And that was a risk he wasn’t ready to take.
Back at Oakmere, Marianne sat before her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—silent proof of a night spent wrestling with restless thoughts. Sleep had abandoned her long ago, only returning just before dawn, pulling at her in reluctant, half-hearted waves.
She tugged at a loose strand of hair that had escaped her plait, letting it fall unbothered over her cheek.
“Not even my hair wants to behave today,” she muttered to herself, brushing it away with a sigh.
