Page 45 of The Iron Duke's Flaming Christmas
The duke’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. He turned abruptly, pacing the floor, in front of the grand fireplace.
“I see,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “It seems I must have words with the lady.”
Selene watched him, transfixed by his strong hands, noticing how the veins were slightly raised. She wanted to trace them with a finger, to feel them pulse beneath her touch.
Stop it. I must not think this way about him any longer. He does not wish it. And he will never marry me. He cannot marry me.
Her eyes flickered to his face. “If you could discuss it with the lady that would be most agreeable,” she replied eventually, swallowing a lump in her throat. “But that is not the only reason for Lady Lenore’s inattention and her continuing restlessness. I have discussed with you before that she has conflicted feelings about her late mother.”
“Stop, Miss Bomind,” he growled, taking a step closer to her. “I have already warned you that the topic of my late wife is out of bounds, and yet, here you are, deliberately bringing it up again.”
Selene felt her breath catch in her throat as he advanced toward her, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury. She knew she shouldn’t have brought it up again, but her concern over Lenore had momentarily overshadowed her caution.
He had told her he wanted to know about his daughter’s progress, and it was her duty to tell him what she thought hampered Lenore’s progress, even if he didn’t want to hear it.
The duke stopped mere inches from her, his imposing figure looming over her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to him. Her heart thundered in her chest. Hastily, she dropped her eyes, feeling overwhelmed.
“Look at me, Miss Bomind,” he commanded, his voice low and rough.
Slowly, Selene raised her eyes, gazing into his own, feeling like she was drowning in the depths.
His eyes softened almost imperceptibly, and he let out a long sigh.
“Your devotion to my daughter is admirable,” he conceded, his voice gruff. “But you must learn your place, Miss Bomind.”
“I know my place,” she whispered, desperately trying not to lose her train of thought. “But I would be remiss in my duty if I did not mention this, and I must reiterate that you should speak to Lady Lenore about her late mother, so that she canunderstand that the lady did not choose to leave her, and that what happened was no one’s fault…”
“Stop!” he said again, in a low, ominous growl. He was so close to her that she could see the faint black stubble beneath his chin. “You are skating on very thin ice!”
Abruptly, he turned away from her, resuming his pacing of the room. She heard him swear beneath his breath. She knew that it would be safer to apologize, to back down, but she just couldn’t do it, even if it finally cost her position here.
He stopped, turning to face her. His face was deathly pale.
“You truly want to know how my daughter lost her mother?” His dark eyes looked so haunted that she had to resist rushing to him. He gave a bitter laugh. “Well, they do say that confession eases the soul. And perhaps, if I tell you the truth of it, you will finally know why I cannot speak to my daughter about the day she was born… and the day she lost her mother.”
Selene watched him, her heart skipping a beat, seeing the enormous struggle within him, the push and pull of it, He didn’t want to speak about that day, but she knew that he needed to do it. She waited, filled with tension.
The duke’s shoulders sagged, the weight of his unspoken burden visibly crushing him. He turned to face the window, his silhouette stark against the fading light of the day. For a longmoment, only the soft ticking of the ornate clock on the mantle broke the silence.
“As you know, it was Christmas Day,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “My wife was heavy with child. I…I insisted that we travel to her family for the traditional luncheon.” His hands clenched into fists at his side. “She begged me to let her rest, telling me that she was tired, but all I could think about was that we were expected. I was a fool. A damned fool.”
Selene stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe as his words washed over her. She watched as he pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his breath fogging the pane.
“The carriage set out early in the morning on roads that were treacherous with snow and ice,” he continued, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window. “It was on the way home that it all started to go so terribly wrong.”
He fell silent for a moment, looking like he was lapsing into a trance, still staring numbly out the window.
“What happened?” Selene’s voice felt like an intrusion into the silence. Mrs. Kittles had told her the story, but she knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Or, at least, it was only one version of it, and he was the only one who could tell it how he had experienced it.
The duke’s shoulders tensed, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the windowsill.
“We were halfway home when Mary began to moan,” he whispered, his voice filled with remembered anguish. “At first, I thought it was merely discomfort from the rough road, but then I saw the fear within her eyes.”
He turned to face Selene, his eyes filled with pain. “She clutched at her belly; her face contorted with agony. ‘The baby,’ she gasped. ‘It is coming.’”
Selene’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.
“I ordered the driver to stop,” the duke continued, his words coming faster now, as if a floodgate had opened. “I recall that the snow was falling thick and fast. I helped Mary from the carriage, thinking that it might help her to walk, that the pains might stop.” He closed his eyes. “I can still hear that bitter wind snatching her cries.”
