Page 13 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
A soft knock came at the door. No doubt Mrs. Jones, come to ask if she intended to venture downstairs to the duke or if she would sulk the remainder of the day in her bedchamber.
If she was given the choice, she would have chosen the latter, but there was no choice really. She would have to go downstairs.
“All right,” she called, sliding off the bed and approaching the door with a sigh. “I know I ought to see him, and I know he is my husband, but I confess, I cannot bear the—” She opened the door, and her words failed her.
Behind it stood the man himself. Up close, he looked even more stern than before, and in just as much chiseled perfection as she remembered. This time, however, the sight sparked not reluctant admiration but resentment. He had no right being so very handsome when he was so cruel, forcing her from the home she had come to love.
A single brow quirked at the sight of her. “Do finish the sentence.”
Startled, horrified, Lydia slammed the door, only to hear a cry of pain. Immediately, she opened it again to find the duke cradling his hand against his chest. When he glanced at her, it was with unmistakable ire.
Oh no.
She fluttered her hands around his injury. “Oh goodness, Your Grace, I had no inkling your hand was there, or I would never have… Are you very much hurt? Here, let me help you.” Taking his arm, not thinking about anything except for the fact she had hurt another human being, she led him into her bedchamber. It was only when she seated him on the bed that she realized, with a jolt, what she had done.
By the slightly wry expression on his face, he recognized it, too.
He was here. In her bedchamber. Sitting on her bed.
Before she could think too deeply about it, or even panic, she went into her wardrobe and pulled out old strips of cloth; dresses she had cut down for this precise purpose.
“Let me see your hand,” she managed, reaching out. With another of those wry smiles, he allowed her to take it, smoothing a thumb over the reddened knuckles.
“Nothing has broken,” he assured.
“Even so.” She couldn’t meet his gaze as she began winding the material around his fingers. “I did not know you were at the door. You startled me.”
“So I gather. I doubt you would have spoken about me in that way if you had known I was there.”
She darted a glance at his face. “Are you… angry?”
“Not about that,” he said indifferently. But his hands were shaking in hers. A line creased between his brows, and she sat beside him, holding his hand gently in her lap. Still, the shaking didn’t cease.
He must have been very shocked by her behavior.
Remorse overcame her. “I am truly very sorry,” she coaxed. “Is there anything I can do?”
“It is all right.” He looked as though he wished to call her something, but didn’t know precisely what, so settled on, “Wife.”
“Oh.” An unsettled feeling rose in her breast, along with the resentment she had been fighting. He was perfectly content to call and consider her his wife until he intended to end their arrangement altogether, with no consideration for her.
His eyes tracked her reaction. “Does my calling youwifeoffend you?”
“Of course not,” she said primly, finishing wrapping the bandage and tying it neatly. “You may do as you please, Your Grace.”
An expression crossed his face, one she couldn’t read. It looked like irritation, although she hardly knew what she had done to irritate. Exist, perhaps. No doubt he would much rather he didn’t have the burden of a wife to dispose of.
“I hear I must thank you for the soiree thrown in my honor,” he began. “You are very gracious, but there was no need.”
Lydia froze. The soiree.Of coursehe would assume it was thrown for him, when, in truth, she had forgotten about his return entirely. “Oh,” she stuttered. “Yes, I—yes, well… You are welcome, Your Grace.”
“You may call me Alexander,” he stated in a tone that indicated she was no doubt supposed to consider this an honor of the highest accord.
“Are we truly on such terms?” she asked, her eyes downcast.
“Why not? Then I might call you by your given name, too.” He sighed, withdrawing his still-shaking hand from her grasp. “That suits me better than using titles inside my household, and it seems a little precipitous to call you by my title.”
“Why? Because you intend to revoke it?”
