Page 100 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“Selina,” he breathed against her mouth, her name a prayer on his lips.

She answered by drawing him down to her, her hands sliding beneath his shirt to explore the warm expanse of his chest. He shuddered at her touch, his own hands mapping the curves of her body through the thin fabric that separated them.

When he pushed the nightgown from her shoulders, she didn’t shy away from his reverent gaze. Instead, she reached for him, pulling him closer until there was nothing between them but heated skin and whispered words.

He worshipped her with his hands and mouth, learning every sensitive spot that made her gasp and arch beneath him. She responded with equal fervor, her touch bold and certain as she explored the man who had become everything to her.

By the time they came together, they were both trembling with need, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as moonlight streamed through the windows.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden patterns across the bed where they lay entwined. Rowan woke first, his body still weighted with pleasant exhaustion. Selina slept against his chest, her breath warm against his skin, her hair a tangle of gold across the pillow they shared.

He watched her sleep, cataloging every detail—the fan of her lashes against her cheek, the slight curve of her lips, the faint freckles across her nose that only appeared in summer. Something tightened in his chest, a feeling so overwhelming it bordered on pain.

This was love, he realized. Not the polite affection he had expected from marriage, but something fierce and protective that threatened to consume him entirely.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, he couldn’t resist kissing her. She responded instantly, her body curving into his, her hands sliding into his hair.

“Good morning,” she whispered against his lips.

“Indeed it is,” he agreed, pulling her closer.

They traded lazy kisses, hands wandering with the familiar ease of lovers who had learned each other’s bodies well. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet pleasure of touch and connection.

Eventually, Selina pulled away with a reluctant sigh. “I need water.”

She slipped from the bed, wrapping a robe around her nakedness as she moved to the table where a pitcher and glasses stood ready. The morning light caught in her hair, turning it to molten gold.

She poured a glass, her movements graceful and unhurried. When she raised it to her lips, something changed. Her brow furrowed, and she lowered the glass without drinking.

“What is it?” Rowan asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Nothing, I just—” She swayed suddenly, one hand shooting out to steady herself against the table. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor.

Rowan was already moving, throwing back the covers and crossing the room in three strides. He reached her just as her knees buckled, catching her before she could hit the floor.

“Selina!” Her name tore from his throat as he gathered her into his arms. Her skin felt clammy, her pulse racing beneath his fingers. “Selina, can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding their hazel depths. “I don’t feel right,” she whispered.

Terror clawed at Rowan’s chest. He carried her to the bed, laying her down gently before shouting for help. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, Simmons appearing at the door with wide eyes.

“Get the physician,” Rowan ordered, his voice harsh with fear. “Now.”

As Simmons rushed to obey, Rowan turned back to Selina. She had fallen into a restless sleep, her breathing shallow, her skin now burning with fever where minutes before it had been cool to the touch.

He held her hand, willing strength into her, while servants hurried in with cool cloths and Agnes hovered tearfully nearby. The wait for the physician seemed endless, each minute stretching into hours as Selina’s condition worsened.

Mr. Morris arrived with his bag clutched tightly in gnarled hands, his lined face serious as he bent over Selina. He examined her with methodical thoroughness, checking her pulse, her eyes, her breathing.

“What is it?” Rowan demanded when the silence became unbearable. “What’s wrong with my wife?”

The physician straightened, his expression grave. “Your Grace, I believe the Duchess has been poisoned.”

The words hit Rowan like a physical blow. “Poisoned? How?”

“I cannot say with certainty what substance was used,” Mr. Morris admitted. “But the symptoms suggest something powerful. How long has she been ill?”

“She was fine when we woke,” Rowan said, his mind racing back over the morning. “She got up for water and then collapsed.”

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