Page 3 of Claimed By the Duke of Ice

His Aunt Tabitha’s voice screeched against Nathaniel’s ears as he heard her call his name, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he stopped leaning against the balcony’s railing. When he turned around, he saw his aunt standing in the doorway, glaring at him. She was his father’s sister through and through, both in nature and looks. While Nathaniel looked like his mother with dark green eyes and wavy, thick brown hair, Tabitha had raven-black hair and icy, ocean-like eyes like his father. While his mother’s beauty was soft and warm, Tabitha’s was sharp and cold.

“Greetings, dear Aunt,” Nathaniel replied drolly.

“Nathaniel, you cannot just walk away from a young lady like that!” Aunt Tabitha chastised, taking a step closer. “We’re here to find you a wife, remember? Not insult every young eligible lady that comes across your path!”

She shouldn’t have touched me then, Nathaniel thought. “Yes, well, Miss Asherton is not the right fit for me anyways,” he replied instead, keeping his tone calm and matter of fact.

Aunt Tabitha let out a long breath through her nose as her sharp eyes studied his person then landed on his gloved hands.

“I see you’re still wearing those,” she said in a bemused tone. “I thought we agreed that you would not wear them while we are summering in London?”

“No, dear Aunt, we did not agree to that,” Nathaniel replied coolly. “You gave me a command. I chose not to follow it. Your opinion of my particular fashion is just that. Your own. I will take your advice regarding everything else, but this is not negotiable.”

Aunt Tabitha glared at him furiously, her tiny nostrils flaring widely at the base of her small, narrow nose. Then, after a moment, she lowered her chin in a respectful nod and relaxed her stance.

“Very well, Your Grace,” she replied respectfully, “but my previous concerns still stand. We are here to find you a wife, and if your plan is to abruptly leave every time a lady talks to you, this venture will not end well. Surely, you must know that.”

Nathaniel let out a steadying breath from his Romanesque nose and clenched his handsome jaw tightly.

“Yes,” he agreed begrudgingly. “I believe you are correct about that. Forgive me, dear aunt. I meant no offense. I spend little time at Ninter participating in social gatherings. Perhaps my manners do need a readjusting. I shall work on it for the future.”

It was partially true. He truly did spend most of his time buried in work and often surrounded entirely by other powerful men who needed his guidance. Nathaniel had very little interaction with the opposite sex aside from his beloved housekeeper, Mrs. Snievely, whom he looked to more like a grandmother, and the few housemaids the estate employed. He’d give them a gracious nod, a thank you when his mental state was in the present, but nothing more.

He also knew that he had to marry which was no fault of his aunt’s either. It was the expectation of his title—one he’d put off long enough. He wanted to be done with the thing. Somehow he’d figure out how to bear whatever duration of touch he’d have to conduct to produce an heir and then never do it again.

It wasn’t that he despised a woman’s physical form. Since coming to London with his aunt, he’d seen many beautiful figures wrapped in shimmering fabrics pinned in interesting places. He even found bits of Miss Asherton’s form quite appealing. But the touch. The touch was not something he could handle.

Since his mother’s death, he’d been repulsed by touch. Any time he came in contact with another person, a hateful numbness, followed by a piercing tremor, would spread at the spot that had been touched. He’d begin to convulse almost instantly, and his mouth would twist involuntarily into a snarl. He couldn’t control it, and he hated that. But he could avoid it if he was careful.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Aunt Tabitha said, her tone now much softer. She smiled at him optimistically. “I do believe we can still be triumphant in finding you a wife this season now that we know what to manage. I shall spread the word that you are a very respectful gentleman and don’t believe in physical contact until a true friendship has been established. The ladies will simply fawn over that.”

“As you say, Aunt,” Nathaniel replied with a curt nod. He was happy the conversation had failed to turn into an argument. “I shall find you inside shortly. I just need a few more moments.”

Aunt Tabitha curtseyed to him and, without another word, turned and left, first the balcony then the room. The moment he heard the door close, he unlocked his jaw and sighed as he looked down at his gloved hands. With slow movements, he removed the first one then the other. The cool breeze felt heavenly as it stroked over his sweating palms. The heat of London city was so much worse than back home. It made wearing his gloves almost unbearable at times which only contributed to his gruff mood.

If only I could find a way to keep them off, he thought longingly, tossing the gloves on the small nearby table.

Turning, he walked back into the library, hoping to find a decanter of spirits somewhere. As he looked around, he spotted a drink cart just beyond the couch and began to walk toward it with a small smile. He would have a nip or two, calm his nerves, then go back out and try again. Just as he brought the decanter to his lips, he heard a crash and a small shriek.

With a start, he turned toward the noise, spilling whiskey over his chin. There, frozen in place and hunkered down under a table behind the couch, he saw an angelic woman dressed in a beautiful ice-blue gown. Atop the table had been two matching green vases; now, one was shattered on the floor, just a scarce distance away from the woman’s hands. Her eyes, the very color of her gown, were trained on him, wide with shock.

* * *

No. No, no, no, Grace thought, caught in the gaze of the handsome man she’d just accidentally spied on. Oh, you’ve really done it now, Grace, she groaned inwardly.

“Sir,” Grace stuttered, crawling out from under the table. “Um, I mean Your Grace, I- I’m so sorry. This—oh dear—” Grace faltered, accidentally stepping on the hem of her gown, making herself stumble. “This is not at all what it looks like-”

“It looks like you are spying on me,” the gentleman accused, setting the decanter down with a hard thump. His handsome face twisted into a look of anger, and he glared at her as she attempted to find her footing.

“What business do you have being in here, hmm? You think you can trap me with a spirited coup?” He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “You know, I heard the ladies of London were resourceful when it came to husband catching, but I must admit that I wasn’t expecting this level of trickery.”

Grace’s blush only grew darker as she finally found her footing and stood up straight. She crossed her arms haughtily, the conversation she’d just had with her mother about being sweet completely leaving her mind.

“I said it is not what you think, Your Grace,” Grace shot back. “I came in here for a respite and didn’t know you were in here at first. When I tried to leave, that woman came in here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do just that before we’re caught in this rather uncomfortable interaction. Heaven knows, my family doesn’t need any more scandal.”

“Scandal?” the man asked, taking an angry step toward her. “Is that how you plan on capturing me? With a threat of scandal?”

Grace’s blue eyes grew wide, and she stared at the man ludicrously. She had no idea who he was, though from what she’d heard, he had to be a man of high title since the woman called him “Your Grace.” A duke but from where? She’d met most of the eligible men of the Ton over the course of the last two years, and this particular one was not familiar at all.

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