Page 8 of The Wayward Duke
Only two strangers drifting alone in the wreckage left by time.
Sometime later, the door opened and closed again, stirring eddies in the silence. She held her breath as soft sounds marked his preparation for bed – the rustle of clothing, the silhouette of his frame in the darkness. He stood over her, silent. She listened to his breathing and waited for him to speak, wondering what she would say in return. Their hearts pounded together. They breathed together.
But no words came.
After a moment, he turned away, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he slid beneath the sheets. Not touching, the yawning chasm between them wider than any ocean. Too many years, too much left unsaid to bridge with one tentative hand.
So they lay side by side in silence, strangers bound by vows turned brittle with neglect.
*
Caroline woke slowly, blinking against the morning light. Without looking, she knew the other side of the massive four-poster would be empty. Cool and untouched. Julian had slipped into her bed and slithered out again before the sun could catch him there beside her.
Of course.
Downstairs, the sounds of the house stirring to life filtered through the floorboards – the muffled clink of china as the maids readied tea, the soft susurration of servants speaking. Caroline threw back the covers and rose. After washing and dressing for the day, she lingered over breakfast.
She wasn’t avoiding anything, she told herself. Certainly not him. But the moments alone settled her nerves. Fortified her.
Eventually, her procrastinating ran its course. As she passed the open study door, the silhouette of Julian’s dark head bent over his desk arrested her steps. Morning light slanted through the windows, limning him in gold. He looked like something from a portrait – shirt collar undone, black hair falling across his forehead.
“Admiring the view or contemplating murder?” He didn’t bother lifting his gaze from his writing.
A flush scalded her cheeks at being caught staring. “I reserve my murderous impulses for mornings when I awake to cold tea and burnt toast. I was just beginning to doubt whether you still had a voice at all, as you couldn’t be troubled to offer a greeting.”
At that, Julian cut his pale eyes towards her, ice blue and assessing. “And here I thought you were the one making impressions, looming in doorways. Do come in if you mean to stare at me all morning.”
Caroline felt a reluctant smile threaten. “There it is. That infamous Hastings arrogance.”
“Just giving you ample opportunity to admire.” Julian held out his hand. “Come here.” His voice was like silk. Smooth. Lethal.
Caroline’s breath snagged in her throat, nerves and anticipation tangling together. She approached cautiously, hesitant to get too close. To let her guard down. He’d already flayed her open with his music, and she’d just managed to don armour again.
He caught her fingers in his and drew her to his side. “There now. You keep looking at me as though you expect I might bite, and I regret my promise if it makes you so uneasy in your own home.”
Promise. The word was a knife sliding bloodlessly between her ribs.
“Your promise to behave as a proper husband?”
“Yes,” he said, very softly. “That promise.”
Silence stretched between them – not the easy quiet of the past, but a tense, thorny thing. Just like his music, comprised of sharp edges that she suspected he wanted her to feel.
She cleared her throat. “Are you going out today?”
Julian’s shoulders tensed beneath his shirt and then he withdrew his hand. “No. I’ve business to finish while I’m still in town.”
Dismissal. It rankled even as unwanted heat curled low in her core at his nearness, the clean scent of soap and skin. Once, she might have perched on the edge of his desk, stealing kisses until he laughed and pulled her into his lap.
Now, an ocean of loss separated them.
“Of course.” She struggled to keep her tone light. Her gaze drifted to the papers on his desk, desperate for neutral ground. “Cryptography? That’s your business?”
“A private project for an acquaintance.”
Another dismissal, sharper than the first. Caroline bit her lip, fighting the urge to goad him. To pierce his poise and provoke a response beyond indifference. Better fury than silence. Better broken glass than distance.
She couldn’t bring herself to anger him. Not when the ghost of his touch still whispered along her skin.
