Page 9 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
“You will make the time to answer me.”
Eleanor’s heart pounded in her chest, sweat trickling down her back and making her wounds sting.
But she also felt something else: athrill. A thrill at him being so close. A thrill when his eyes dropped to her mouth and his head inched closer.
“Perhaps there is something in the anonymity,” he murmured. “Perhaps that is why I did not tell you who I was. And why I did not catch you out of your story.”
He leaned in closer, and she met his honey-brown eyes, her breath catching. A strange disappointment pooled in her stomach as he paused an inch away from her lips.
“Tell me who you are,” he said, a subtle command in his tone.
My time is up.
She could only hope that giving her name would spark some sort of recognition. That Charlotte had mentioned their friendship. That revealing her identity would have her thrown before Charlotte for confirmation.
So she steeled herself, and in a tight voice, she spoke, “I am Lady Eleanor Barnes. My parents are the Earl and Countess of Quinley.”
The Duke immediately stepped back, blinking a few times as if deep in thought. When her name finally registered, his eyes widened.
“I know of you,” he muttered.
Eleanor had long since learned how to detect an accusation. How voices turned sharp with judgment. How eyes narrowed in disgust.
“I will not let your reputation ruin hers. You will have no association with her.” The Duke paused, his hands settling on his hips. “If you are indeed Lady Eleanor, then?—”
Her heart lurched when he suddenly lunged toward her.
Instinct overtook her. She flinched, her arms flying up to shield her face, breath catching in her throat.
But instead of pain, a firm hand caught her by the elbow—steady, but not cruel.
She winced anyway, her body bracing for something that didn’t come.
The duke stilled. “What the—” He looked down at her, brows furrowed, his grip loosening instantly. “You thought I meant to strike you?”
Eleanor didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Shame burned her throat.
A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, quietly, he said, “I don’t raise my hands to women.”
His voice had lost some of its edge. Still stern, still sharp, but something flickered beneath it—confusion, maybe even regret.
“I am not going to harm you, Lady Eleanor,” he said as he led her from the library.
His grip on her elbow was firm, but not rough.
And the flicker of emotion in his eyes from earlier still lingered in Eleanor’s mind.
Chapter Three
“You have to believe me,” Eleanor tried yet again for the umpteenth time in the last hour of riding. Her breath burned in her throat. “I was not honest at first, but IamLady Eleanor, and anything you have been told about me is not true! Please, I must see Charlotte. We are friends. She needs to hear what I have to say.”
The Duke’s arms were clamped around her, and for most of that dark, cold ride, it was all she could think about.
Powerful thighs bracketed her backside, but she could hardly think about the press of his body against hers, not when anger held him so rigidly at her back, pressing her close to the horse’s neck. He urged his horse to ride faster, as if he could not get her away from Everdawn Hall quickly enough.
She tried to move to the side as much as she could, but he yanked her back to him with a low, warning snarl.
“Neither my sister nor I need anything from a woman who breaks into estates,” he told her, his breath barely labored from riding.
