Page 21 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
But there was something about her that struck him as familiar, tickling his senses until he thought it might drive him mad.
“Dinner,” he agreed, feeling as though he was stepping into the lion’s den. “I hope you know I would never deny you anything that is in my power to grant.”
Both her brows rose then, and he almost wished he hadn’t spoken.
“Is that so?” she asked, laying one hand on his arm. Surprised by the contact, he glanced down. “I suppose we shall have to see about that, Your Grace.”
He didn’t like the sound of that, either.
As was customary, the servants set the table with Alexander at one end and Lydia at the other. As soon as she entered the dining room, she knew she would have to do something about this. If they were so separated, she would never have the opportunityto feed him. And what was romantic about a dinner where both parties had to squint to see each other from a distance?
No, she would have to be close to him.
Her stomach rebelled a little at the thought. While she could confess he was handsome—very handsome, in fact—he was also proud and remote and cold. And by making advances, she would be making herself vulnerable.
In order to defend against that feeling of vulnerability, she had requested Rosie make her as appealing as possible. She wore one of her new evening gowns, a chiffon that clung to the soft curves of her hips, and Rosie had dabbed a tiny amount of rouge on her cheeks and lips. Not much, but just enough to give her color when she felt as though she had been drained of it.
This way, she knew she looked her best.
Unfortunately, Alexander came into the room when she was bent forward over the table, reaching for the candelabra, which she intended to bring closer.
Humiliation swirled through her at the undignified position, and when she abruptly straightened and turned, it was to find him with slightly flushed cheeks. Her heart gave an almightythump.
“What, may I ask, are you doing?” he said, glancing from her to the table.
“Rearranging.”
“Rearranging what, precisely?”
“I thought it might be a little more”—she stumbled over the word ‘intimate’ and settled for ‘cozy’—“cozy for us to sit beside one another.” She glanced pointedly at his hand, now neatly bandaged by someone other than her.
“I am able to feed myself, Lydia,” he said dryly.
“All the same!” She took his arm and practically dragged him to his place. “Do you not think it’s odd that we have supposedly been married for a year, yet know nothing about one another?”
He sank into his chair. “I expect that can be explained by the fact that we have spent very little time together until now.”
“Then why not learn a little about one another?” She took her seat and waited as the footmen brought in their dinner on steaming platters. After they had both been served and Oliver had gracefully retreated, Lydia reached for her spoon. “Shall I go first? I love to read novels. It is what I spent the majority of my time doing when I first arrived here. You have an extensive library.”
Alexander nodded curtly. “It was my father’s.”
She toyed with her glass for a moment, not quite daring to look at him. “How long have you been the Duke?”
“A little over six years.”
“You must have been young when you inherited, then?”
“One-and-twenty,” he answered.
“Was the transition difficult?”
He shrugged carelessly, as though the subject meant nothing to him, but there was a certain tightness around his jaw, she noticed. “It wasn’t so very bad. My father and I were not close.”
“I was close with my father,” she murmured. “That is, I never used to be. I suppose you must know that my mother died, seeing as when my father died, I had no one. She passed away when I was thirteen, and before then, I had never spent much time with my father. What time did he have for a girl? But afterwards, when we moved to London, he made more of an effort. We both realized that we were all the other had left, by then.”
“I am sorry to hear about your mother.” His ice-blue eyes focused on her fully, but as he raised his spoon to his mouth, his hand shook, spilling some of his soup. His mouth pressed together in a hard line as he tried again. “And your father. I didn’t—I didn’t express myself well at the time.”
He hadn’t expressed himself at all, save to say he would marry her, and what a pathetic excuse for a marriage it had been. Ifthere was a bare minimum for a husband, he had ducked under the line.
