Page 13 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

That was the only word for her. The curve of her mouth, the grace in her neck, the way her bodice hinted at softness he achedto touch—every inch of her seemed designed to torment him. To tempt.

He wanted to unpin her golden hair and watch it fall. He wanted to taste that defiance right off her lips.

No demure debutante. No simpering miss. Selina was fire wrapped in silk—and she was his to claim.

A soft knock interrupted his wicked thoughts. Rowan glanced at the connecting door between his chambers and the Duchess’s suite. He had not expected her to use it so soon.

“Enter,” he called, rising from his chair.

The door opened slowly, and Selina stepped inside.

Her golden hair tumbled loose around her shoulders in soft waves, unbound and intimate in a way that made something deep in Rowan tighten. She wore only a sheer nightgown—diaphanous fabric that clung to her curves and revealed the shadowed outline of her body beneath.

Rowan froze.

Desire surged through him like a spark to dry tinder. He had known his wife would be beautiful. But nothing had prepared him for this. The firelight flickered over her, painting her skin in amber and gold, and all the blood in his body seemed to rush downward.

She was vision and temptation made flesh.

“Good evening, Your Grace. May I join you?” she asked, her voice a little too bright, a little too high.

Rowan nodded, but he couldn’t speak. His mouth had gone dry. Words were beyond him.

He wanted—God help him, he wanted her with a ferocity that bordered on savage. To touch, to taste, to learn every inch of the body now barely veiled before him. To strip away the last barrier between them and make her his in truth.

But she was watching him, uncertain, and so he remained still—barely. His control hung by a thread, stretched taut and fraying with every breath she took.

Selina crossed to the table where the brandy decanter stood. She poured a generous measure into a glass and drank it in one swallow, just as he had done. She coughed slightly, clearly unused to the strong spirit.

“Are your chambers satisfactory?” Rowan asked, desperate to shun the heat within him.

The Duchess set the glass down and turned toward him. Her eyes didn’t meet his but fixed on a point somewhere beyond his shoulder.

“They are quite comfortable,” she replied, her voice hollow.

Without warning, she moved toward his bed, her steps small, uncertain. Her hands trembled visibly as she reached for the ribbon at the neck of her nightgown.

Rowan watched, transfixed, as she loosened it. Her face had gone white, her lips pressed into a thin line.

This was not desire. This was duty. Sacrifice.

She reached the bedside and slowly, with shaking fingers, began to slip the nightgown from her shoulders. Her eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the reality of what she was doing.

This woman, who had already experienced a wedding night, dreaded the mere thought of touching him.

“Stop,” Rowan commanded.

Selina froze, the nightgown slipping partially down one shoulder.

“Your Grace?” she whispered.

“Cover yourself and return to your chambers.”

Her eyes flew open, confusion replacing the dread. “But it’s our wedding night. I thought you would expect?—”

“I expect nothing from an unwilling wife,” Rowan cut in. “Go back to your room.”

She stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

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