Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

" T he green dress will bring out the color of your eyes, dear," Her Aunt said the next day as she stood in the middle of her room in just her petticoat.

"You do not think it makes me look washed out?" She took the dress from the lady's maid and held it up in front of her. It was an apple green color with a bit of lace lining the throat and the ends of the sleeves. A darker green sash made a bow around the waist.

"Not at all."

"Very well then," she nodded at the servant then handed the dress back to her, "This one please."

"I'm surprised Jenny has not come around and I do not remember seeing her at the ball last night either."

Lavinia bit her lip in guilt and avoided Lady Hartfield's probing gaze. "I was planning to check up on her soon."

The truth was that Jenny had gotten a nasty cold and had taken to her bed. The letter she had written to Lavinia said as much. The response she had sent back to her friend wished her quick recovery and some other mundane gossip tacked on, but she had written nothing about her entanglement with the Duke.

On one hand, she didn't know if she was allowed to tell Jenny the truth. She didn't think even Victor had told his friend the Viscount. On the other, well, she hated to lie to her friend, and she knew that Jenny would take one look at her and know she was lying.

Lavinia was conflicted, and she hated to admit it, but she was glad Jenny was away for a while. At least until she could put her story together.

"She's in bed with a nasty cold," she replied, "I'll pay her a visit soon."

The older woman made a noncommittal sound and then rose up from where she had been sitting, smoothing down the front of her dress, "Very well then, I will be waiting downstairs. Do hurry up, but not too fast. It will not do for you to appear too eager for him."

With that, she left Lavinia to get dressed.

By the time she got downstairs, hair swept up into a secure bun, with a few loose tendrils left to frame her face, The Duke of Wyld was already there, seated in a bright orange sofa. He dwarfed the furniture and the way he lounged back on it made him look like a king on his throne overseeing his subjects.

She wasn't sure if the authority that enveloped him was a result of his title or if it just came naturally to him.

"Your Grace," she curtsied and he rose to his feet. To her surprise, he took her hand and brushed a kiss against the inside of her wrist, right above her gloves.

The feeling of his lips lingering against her skin made her breath stutter and she froze. The touch had barely been enough to be a thing of note, but it affected her all the same.

And then his eyes rose and met hers, rooting her in place.

Lady Hartfield's throat clearing pointedly behind them caused them to jerk apart.

"These are for you," it was only then that she noticed the flowers in his hand. She took the roses with a pleased smile and a moment later, her aunt was at her side, taking them from her hand.

"Thank you, Your Grace, they are beautiful."

"Please sit," he told her.

A smile curved her mouth, "I believe that is my line," she replied before dropping into the bright sofa.

It was only when he joined her in the chair that she realized how small it was. Or maybe he was just so large. His thighs pressed into hers and even through layers of fabric, that contact seemed to burn through her. She could only imagine what the contact would feel like without anything separating their skin.

Lavinia swallowed nervously, refusing to meet neither her aunt's nor her fiancé's gaze. For some reason, she thought they would be able to read her lurid thoughts and be appalled.

"How are you?" Victor's voice cut into her thoughts.

"I've never had a gentleman or any other type of man call on me," she said honestly, "I must admit that I am at a loss. Are we to talk about the weather now?"

"It's a dreary gray that looks like it will be rain."

She shook her head at him, "You could have made some attempt to be poetic."

"I've never seen the appeal in dressing words up when it could be just simply said."

"I still find it hard to believe that there are so many male poets and writers with how common it is for men to think like you," she mused, "I suspect that they are all women who have taken male pseudonyms and identities to avoid a scandal."

"Do you read a lot of poetry?" he asked curiously.

"No," she replied, "But I do read a lot of books," then she lowered her voice, embarrassed, "Mostly romance books, but I've been known to dabble in some mystery and some work about travel and geography."

"I must admit that I've never read a romance book, but I have several travel journals that describe the locations so perfectly, one could almost feel that they have been transported by the words."

"How fascinating," she said, "I have always wanted to travel."

"Where would you like to go?"

"I really have no idea where I would start from. The wall in China perhaps, but then again, I am far too restless to even think about being cooped up in a boat for weeks on end," she let out a breezy laughter, "It is the most contradictory thing ever."

"You are a contradicting woman."

She peeked up at him through her lashes, unable to read his expression. There was something very intense about the way he was staring down at her, like he could see something that she couldn't.

It made her squirm in her seat, "I don't know if that is an insult or a compliment."

The Duke merely smiled at her, unwilling to clarify what he meant. She huffed.

"I did not travel much because I was the sole heir to the duchy, even now my responsibilities keep me rooted to the country. I must admit that it would be delightful to see the world," he looked thoughtful for a moment, "But I'm afraid I could never abandon my duties so callously."

He was as much of a prisoner as she was. Oddly, it made her feel more connected to him than she had ever felt. They were both stuck to an extent. Her by her gender and him by the thing people envied him of; his title.

"What use is a lofty title and wealth if one cannot just toss everything aside and disappear?" She shook her head.

"Those two things are the most attractive thing about me," he pointed out, "Even you must admit that I am only seated here and you are only bound to me now because of those things."

She flinched, a little hurt but it was the truth nonetheless, "You are wrong. Not about me being with you because of those things, I will not bother claiming to be a much better person than I am."

"What then am I wrong about?"

"Those are not the most attractive things about you," she said, "you're an interesting man, Your Grace and I'll take a conversation with you over one with any other gentleman of the ton . If you have ever listened to an impassioned monologue about horses by one of my cousin's friends, you would say the same."

The Duke let out a snort of laughter, "At least he's passionate about something."

She made a face, "Or he just really likes to listen to the sound of his own voice."

"As much as I don't wish the horse whisperer on anyone else, I must say that the ladies of the ton are far worse," he shook his head, "There is so much batting of lashes and fluttering of fans. It still comes as a surprise that my hair does not get wind ruffled after conversations with them."

"You are terrible," she laughed, imagining the picture he painted for her of ladies batting their lashes hard and rapidly enough to create wind.

The conversation progressed, sliding effortlessly from one topic to another. There was never a moment of awkward silence between them.

"The one thing I would like to try if I were a gentleman," Lavinia thought about it for a minute, "Drinking myself to a sore head perhaps. My cousin Noah swears he would stop every morning, but there must be something great about it because he always goes back to it that very evening."

The Duke threw his head back and let out a loud bark of laughter that made the Adam apple on his throat bob. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the strong column of his throat. Her mouth dried up and she felt curiously parched all of a sudden.

"I shall save you a sore head and humiliating nights by telling you that it is not as appealing as your cousin has probably made it to seem. In fact, from someone who has had his fair share of drunken nights, I will warn you to try something else."

She pouted, "I cannot think of anything else. I may just have to try them all till my time runs out."

The Duke shrugged and pressed his leg harder against hers, "Very well then, my lady. I shall help you try them all."

"What do you mean?" She blinked at him, confused.

He leaned closer, almost caging her into a side of the chair. She would have felt trapped and irritated if it were anybody else, but it was him, his leather and spice scent filling her lungs.

"I've never planned to live my life in the drudgery of regular genteel life," he hesitated, "And you do not have to either. I shall sweeten the pot of becoming my Duchess for you. If you want to imbibe in alcohol or ride astride, I shall be all too willing to indulge you in that. Under my supervision of course."

"Good," all the words she knew had departed her and she could only give that bland reply.

Amusement lit his eyes, "Good?"

Lady Hartfield cleared her throat from the sofa across the room, but instead of springing apart, the Duke took his time moving away from her till he was completely on his side of the chair again and she could breathe fully.

"I think calling hours are over," he dug out his pocket watch and she was shocked to see that it was a beaten up silver piece.

"It belonged to my grandfather," he explained when he caught her staring, then rose to his feet, "I must leave now."

She stood up too and then curtsied, "Your Grace."

Lady Hartfield curtsied as he walked past her and out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Lavinia fell back into the chair with a sigh, her hand over her chest. Why did he affect her so much?

An arrangement such as theirs should have been devoid of any thing that wasn't platonic. Was she the only one being affected then? The thought made her chest feel tight.

"Are you alright, dear?" Her aunt asked, eyes searching hers.

She nodded, unable to form the lie in her mouth that she was fine.

"The way he looks at you darling," Lady Hartfield sighed wistfully, "He must be really taken with you."

She sat up, eyes wide, "And H-how is it that he looks at me?"

"I do not have the words to explain it, but quite simply put, only a man who is smitten can look at a woman like that. Everything else can be feigned, but the eyes stay honest."

Those words replayed in Lavinia's head for the rest of the day and haunted her even into her dreams that night.