Page 83 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Rowan didn’t answer. His grip on his glass tightened as he watched Selina and Penderwick. They were laughing, leaning in close to exchange some private remark. Her face was lit with a kind of ease he rarely saw when she was with him—open, relaxed, smiling in a way that wasn’t forced.

“They’ve known each other for years,” Felix went on, sounding offhand. “Shared friends, shared past. If things hadn’t gone sideways with the engagement…”

He trailed off, but the suggestion hung in the air.

“Are you trying to provoke me?” Rowan growled.

Felix examined his fingernails with exaggerated interest. “Merely making conversation. Besides, if your marriage is truly the practical arrangement you claim, why should it matter who she dances with? Who she smiles at? Perhaps I should request the next dance myself.”

Rowan turned to him, eyes blazing. “Try it, and I’ll break your arm.”

“There he is,” Felix grinned triumphantly. “The Rowan I remember, rather than this cold automaton you’ve been impersonating.”

“This isn’t a game, Felix.”

“No, it’s your life,” Felix said flatly. “And you’re tearing it apart because you’re too stubborn to admit what everyone else can see.” He nodded toward the dance floor. “You’re in love with your wife. And you’re pushing her away.”

Rowan opened his mouth to argue—but nothing came out. His gaze drifted back to Selina, just as she spun beneath Penderwick’s arm. Even from across the room, he could see the graceful line of her neck, the way her hair gleamed under the chandeliers, how the blue of her gown lit up her skin like moonlight.

And the way Penderwick was looking at her.

It made something hot and possessive rise in Rowan’s chest—something he had no right to feel, not after everything he’d done to keep her at a distance. But it was there, sharp and unrelenting.

“The dance is ending,” Felix said. “If you’re planning to do something idiotic, this is your moment.”

Rowan didn’t answer. He set down his glass and walked toward the floor.

The final notes hadn’t quite faded when he reached them.

“My wife appears tired,” he said coolly. “I’ll take the next dance.”

Penderwick blanched. “Of course, Your Grace. I was just about to return her to her friends.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Rowan extended his arm.

Selina took it—reluctantly.

As Penderwick retreated, the orchestra struck up a new melody. Rowan led her into the first steps, pulling her closer than etiquette allowed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked under her breath, her tone sharp.

“Dancing with my wife.”

Her fingers bit into his shoulder. “You don’t get to act possessive when Matthew is only a friend.”

His jaw clenched. “Is that what he is to you? Just a friend?”

“Yes. You saw that at dinner, didn’t you? And the fact that you would insinuate anything else is rather offensive.”

“I…” he muttered, “I didn’t?—”

“So what is this display of jealousy, then?”

His grip on her waist tightened. “You are mine, Selina.”

She blinked, thrown for just a second. Then her chin rose, her voice icy. “Am I? That’s hard to believe, given how determined you’ve been to keep me at arm’s length.”

The music swirled around them, but Rowan barely registered it. All he could think about was the feel of her in his arms, the soft scent of lavender, the heat coiled between them, waiting to break loose.

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