Page 3 of His Grace, the Duke
He sighed, letting himself break just enough to slide his hand across the velvet of the bench seat, seeking out her gloved hand. She was waiting for him, her fingers lacing with his. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes.
“James,” she whispered. “Do you ever dream of me?”
This carriage was to be his confessional. He would say the words aloud, her touch would absolve him, and then they would begin the essential business of forgetting. They would both forget, for nothing had changed.
Duty over love. Family.
Title. “James . . .”
The words were on his lips. She deserved to know. Hewantedher to know... but that would be cruel to them both. He gave her hand a squeeze and dropped it back to the seat. “To dream implies sleep,” he muttered, his eyes locked on the outline of the looming city, framed in softest lavender by the rising sun. “And that is a luxury I cannot afford.”
2
Rosalie
“We’re here.” Thegentleness of James’ voice clashed with the stiffness of his resolve. It had been almost an hour since their last conversation, and he was still looking out the carriage window.
Rosalie watched with a heavy heart as his Corbin mask slipped firmly into place. His shoulders squared, his beautiful green eyes hardened, and that imperious chin lifted. James, the man who kissed her with a passion verging on obsession, was firmly locked away. In his place sat Lord James, Viscount Finchley.
Heavens, but it was an impressive transformation. This was the man she met on her first night at Alcott Hall. The lord who challenged her and sneered and treated her like an inconvenience. Her weary Atlas, carrying all the world’s troubles on his shoulders.
The carriage rattled into the courtyard of Corbin House and Rosalie peered out the window, taking in the handsome grey stone walls that stretched three stories high. It was still quite early. Morning light tinged the stone a hazy blue.
“Let me do the talking,” James said, voice low.
She shrugged out of his evening coat and tried to hand it back to him.
“Keep it.”
“I can’t,” she replied. “You know how it will look.”
He huffed. “It will look like a gentleman offered a lady a coat to keep her warm. Anyone who says otherwise will answer to me.”
“James—”
“Keep the damn coat,” he growled, leaning into her space until his face was mere inches from hers.
Her breath caught in her throat.
His gaze softened slightly, those green eyes rooting her to the spot, as he raised a hand and brushed his thumb over her parted lips. “I can’t wear it if it smells like you,” he whispered, his voice pained. “I cannot think. Rosalie... I can’t breathe.”
For the briefest of moments, he touched his forehead to hers. Did he know? Did he see the way she was holding her face in the crook of her elbow all night, using his scent to calm her to sleep? The coat smelled so wonderfully of him—wool and leather oil and faint notes of spiced cologne. But now it smelled like her too, so it was tainted.
No, not tainted. Tempting.Tootempting.
“Just... put it back on,” he said, dropping his hand away from her. “And leave the talking to me.”
He scooted away just as the carriage door swung open. He stepped out in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, taking all Rosalie’s air with him. She shrugged herself back into the coat, grateful for its warmth.
“Good heavens,” came a high, female voice. “We didn’t know to expect you, my lord. Gracious, you must be exhausted.What were you thinking, driving through the night? Dangerous—downrightreckless—oh, I do hope nothing serious has happened at the great house.” By the way the woman fretted, equal parts servile and maternal, Rosalie felt sure she must be the housekeeper.
“Good morning, Mrs. Robbins,” James replied. “I know this is highly irregular, but I bring good tidings. His Grace is newly engaged.”
“Well—that is—” The lady blustered, and Rosalie could well imagine why. “That is simply wonderful news, my lord! May we know who is to be the new duchess?”
“Miss Piety Nash,” James replied. “I arrive express from Alcott where it was just announced. I’m on strict orders to prepare an engagement party. His Grace wants no expense spared,” he added. “George was explicit that it be held in a fortnight. I came ahead of the rest of the group with Miss Harrow, for there is much to plan and I require a feminine eye.”
Rosalie smirked. It was masterfully done—shifting the blame of their expedition onto the duke. George Corbin was surely eccentric enough that his staff would easily believe he sent his brother to London in the dead of night to plan a party for him.
