Page 20 of The Wayward Duke
Caroline gave a jerky nod of agreement.
“Would you like me to come up with an excuse? We could slip away early.” His knuckle skimmed her cheek in a caress that made her pulse stutter.
Stubborn pride had her shaking her head. “No. We still need to make a good showing. Give them something new to gossip over besides whispers of estrangement.”
His expression shuttered. “Of course.”
Damn it all, that had come out wrong. She grasped for the right words. “Just… just let me catch my breath.”
Julian moved closer, rubbing his hands over her arms, the friction chasing away the chill.
“You were always good at knowing what I needed most,” she admitted softly.
“I did once possess a singular talent for being your friend before I made a mess of being your husband.” His tone took on a rueful note, though his gaze remained tender.
She turned her face up towards his. “You weren’t terrible. We just… hurt.”
Pain flashed in his eyes. “Yes. And I made terrible mistakes in how I handled that hurt.” His knuckle grazed her cheek once more, touch achingly gentle. “Are you recovered now, do you think? We could stay behind the roses and drink champagne if you’d like.”
Caroline straightened, shoring up the cracks in her armour. “I’m fine. Not blotchy, am I? Hideously splotchy and swollen?”
“Your face is lovely as ever.” His lips curved as he held out his palm. “Was that in doubt?”
“A lady must always be assured of these things before presenting herself in public,” she said, taking his hand.
Soon, a line of targets was erected along one edge of the garden for an archery competition. As Julian shed his coat and moved to take his turn, a ripple of appreciation went through the assembled ladies. The white linen of his shirt pulled taut, displaying the breadth of his shoulders. He took aim with flawless form and loosed the arrow. It struck the outermost ring with a solidthunk.
Ignoring the avid stares that clung to Julian, Caroline stepped up and selected her bow. She nocked an arrow with fingers that trembled. So many eyes on her. Too many whispers swirling.
She struggled to recall the cadence of air in her lungs, the proper stance. But her limbs had locked, every motion forgotten.
And then Julian was there, pressed against her back, his heat surrounding her. Strong hands framed her own, holding them in place. “Relax your shoulders,” he murmured low in her ear. “You’re fighting it too hard.” His free hand traced down her arm in a whisper-soft caress that skimmed along every nerve ending, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “Feel the tension here? Breathe through it.”
Caroline shivered. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be helping. I’m your competition, remember?”
“They’re all watching us.” His breath stirred her hair, warm and intimate. “And we’re meant to give them something scandalous that isn’t debauching on a dessert table, remember?”
Heat scalded her cheeks at the words. “Oh, I think they’ll be whispering about us over breakfast tomorrow.”
“Good.” Julian’s voice dropped to a rough purr. “Now, just focus on my touch. Inhale…” His fingers flexed where they covered hers on the bow. “And loose the arrow as you exhale. There’s my girl.”
His husky praise sent heat curling through her veins. As she released her breath, the arrow sprang free in a silent blur.
Dead centre.
A smile curved her lips as applause and shouts erupted from the crowd. Lady Fairfax’s voice rang out above the rest. “A perfect bullseye! Well done, duchess!”
Caroline barely heard it over the roar of her pounding pulse. For a suspended moment, Julian’s gaze held a glimmer of unguarded warmth.
“Nicely done,” he murmured.
“I’d nearly forgotten what an exceptional instructor you make.”
Everything he had taught her – waltzing across meadows, nude portraiture, archery lessons stolen away from prying eyes… it all lingered still in muscle memory.
Something strained and raw flashed in Julian’s eyes. But before Caroline could decipher it, he took the bow from her numb fingers and handed their equipment to a footman. Then he guided her back towards the gathering.
The afternoon wound down. As Julian handed her up into the waiting carriage, his fingertips seemed to linger at her waist.
