Page 50 of A Duke Reformed
"No, Your Grace," she said quickly. "You cannot do that."
He paused, his hand still hovering near her wrist. She saw the flicker of confusion in his gaze right before she looked away, flustered.
"It's not proper," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Solomon's eyebrows furrowed. "Nothing about our arrangement is proper, Emma," he replied.
Before she could protest, he gently took her wrist, sliding her glove off.
"Solomon," she tried again, but this time her words were softer, less forceful.
As soon as his name slipped from her lips, Emma felt the air between them shift. His entire body stilled, his eyes widening just for a moment before quickly schooling his features into something unreadable. It was the first time she had ever called him by his name. The first time the formality of his title wasn't between them, and in that small, quiet moment, she could see the shock flicker across his face. He had not been prepared for it.
She couldn't look at him, couldn't fully process the tension in her own chest. His gaze seemed to linger on her a second longer, before he finally looked away. He lowered his head slightly, clearing his throat in an almost imperceptible gesture.
"I used to get hurt all the time," he said. "I might be no expert in medicine, but the least I can do is check if it's serious or not."
Solomon gently took her wrist, his touch surprisingly tender, and inspected it closely. His brow furrowed slightly as he tested the flexibility. His fingers felt warm against her skin...almost soothing.
Emma stole the opportunity to watch him as he concentrated on her wrist, and a wave of unfamiliar admiration washed over her. She couldn't help but notice the fine texture of his skin, less smooth than the polished skin of the gentlemen she had met, but compelling in its own way. His eyebrows were thick and perfectly arched, framing his sharp eyes in a way that made them appear even more striking. His lashes, long and dark, flicked downward as he examined her wrist, and she couldn't stop the pang of envy that rose within her just seeing how long and luscious they were.
His lips were full and firm, set in a focused line, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered what it might feel like to have those lips press against her skin. She quickly shook the thought away, but it lingered, taunting her with its softness.
Solomon's face, so ethereal, so meticulously sculpted, was so calming. He was impossibly perfect.
Her breath hitched as she realized she was staring too long, and she quickly averted her gaze, focusing on his fingers instead. She winced when he applied just the slightest pressure on her hand but it wasn't unbearable.
After a moment, he released her wrist and straightened up. "It's nothing serious," he said with a soft exhale. "I reckon it'll hurt for a few more days, but it's nothing to worry about."
"Thank you," she whispered, almost too quietly... still not meeting his eyes.
"You are welcome," he answered and rose to his feet, walking over to the wooden chair by the side to sit. "We don't have to do the lesson today if you aren't up for it."
"No, I want to," she said.
Solomon slowly nodded. "All right."
Emma let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She slipped her glove back on, thinking of what to say to fill the silence.
"I'm guessing your mama used to treat your many injuries when you were younger?" she asked, smiling at him. "You said you got hurt a lot."
Solomon slowly smiled and sat back. "Yes," he answered. "She was always the one to tend to my scrapes and bruises. Always patient with me, even when I was being... reckless."
Emma blinked, a little surprised at how easily he opened up. "Reckless?" she asked, the smile playing at her lips. She leaned back slightly in the chair, her eyes studying him. "What kind of trouble did you get into as a child?"
Solomon's grin deepened. "A great deal, I'm afraid. Too much to count. I suppose I was always testing my limits, seeing how far I could push before the inevitable consequence. Now that I think about it, I wonder how my mother was able to put up with me."
Emma giggled. "If you were that reckless as a child, how would you handle a son of your own who was just as careless, or as wild?"
Solomon shrugged his shoulders. "Well, thankfully, I never have to experience that."
Emma's eyebrows twitched as she tilted her head to the side. "What do you mean?"
Solomon's expression faltered for a fraction of a second. He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze shifting away from her to the space beyond. It was as though he was calculating how much he should share.
"I told you I wasn't interested in the idea of marriage," he said to her. "I'm never having children of my own. The last thing I would wish on any child is a life like mine."
Emma instinctively rose to her feet in shock, unable to believe her ears. "You are fibbing."
