Page 55 of Married to the Icy Duke
He could still see the outline of her curves in his mind’s eye, tantalizingly hidden first beneath the bathwater, and then beneath the clinging white drying sheet.
Clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth squeaked, Isaac aimed another punch.
Bang!
The punching bag jerked backwards, juddering on the chain that suspended it from the ceiling. His breathing came hard, and he was obliged to take a step back for a moment, breathing deeply. He tilted back his head, closing his eyes.
I shouldn’t have touched her. When will I learn?
Never, apparently. He wasn’t sure what demon had prompted him to take her in his arms and touch her in that manner, but it had been a great mistake. He had let his own selfish desires take over, and he hadn’t even gained anything. In fact, he’d walked out of that washroom painfully hard, his heart thumping in his chest, with the feeling of having put himself further away from Charlotte’s affections than ever before.
No, no, no,he thought, horrified.I do notwantto receive her affections, any more than she cares to bestow them! You are going mad, Isaac.
Baring his teeth, he aimed another punch at the bag. Too soon, however, he hadn’t quite caught his breath and threw the punch oddly. A flare of pain shot through his hand.
Groaning aloud at his own stupidity, Isaac stepped away from the punching bag, shaking out his injured hand. He flexed it, gauging the damage.
Aside from a bruised and throbbing hand, he had done no serious damage, however. He was lucky.
Not lucky,he thought grimly.Foolish, more like.
Only a matter of hours afterwards, Charlotte had come down to eat dinner with the rest of them. She was entirely demure and calm, dressed in a new, paint-free gown, with her hair dried and no hint of moisture clinging to her.
She’d made polite conversation with Sybella while she ate her dinner, and entertained Tommy—who had ventured the word ‘no’, over dinner when he was urged to eat a Brussels sprout—all without glancing at Isaac’s way, even once.
He found, to his absolute horror, that hewantedher to look at him. He craved it more than anything else. It mattered.Shemattered. And try as he might, he could not seem to return to his haven of cool indifference.
“You’re up early.”
He flinched at Tristan’s familiar voice. Glancing down, he saw his friend standing in the middle of the clubhouse, far below the mezzanine.
Itwasearly, hours before breakfast. Outside, pink-tinged dawn flooded the world, inching in through the windows and casting window-pane-shaped squares of light across the ground. Nobody else was in the Devil’s clubhouse this early. Generally, the place opened shortly before breakfast, but some important members, such as Isaac, were granted early entrance.
He didn’t respond to the underlying question in Tristan’s voice, which was clearlyWhy are you here?
“I am early,” he responded shortly. “I wanted to get a little practice in.”
The pain in his hand had receded a little. He would probably not risk punching the bag much more, but perhaps a proper sparring session …
Tristan narrowed his eyes at his friend.
“There’s something you aren’t telling me,” he stated. He’d brought a bag of things—something to change into, no doubt, after the well-worn clothes he was currently wearing got too sweaty and grubby to wear out in the world—and dropped the bag on a nearby armchair. “And I demand to know what it is.”
He began to climb the mezzanine steps towards Isaac. Isaac rolled his eyes, propping up his elbows on the railing, and stared out at the quiet, entirely empty club floor.
“It’s odd, being in a place which is meant to be so busy and full of people,” he remarked thoughtfully, half to himself and half to Tristan, who was approaching. “There’s something unsettling about it, I think.”
“I come here most mornings,” Tristan responded with a shrug. “I find it peaceful.”
“Hmph. How different we are.”
Tristan reached his friend and set his elbows on the railing, too. For a moment, the two men stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and stared out at nothing.
“I do not believe that it is the clubhouse which is unsettling you,” Tristan said at last, with the air of a man choosing his words with great care. “I think perhaps it is something else.”
“Tell me what you mean, Tristan.”
“To put it another way, how is your dear bride-to-be? Still at your house? Still causing trouble?”
