Page 28 of Her Beast of a Duke
Isabella’s mouth turned dry.
Sweat slicked through his white shirt. For a man she had only ever seen in all-black clothing, she could not stop gazing at him in the paler color that bared so much skin and toned muscle, thanks to the perspiration. The material clung to him like a second skin, showcasing every divot and ripple that went through his back as he strained to push up.
His upper arm muscles were thick, and she truly realized the full size of her husband.
His thighs tensed, and she quickly averted her gaze from his backside.
She went to leave, to slip away as though she had never even been there, but as she moved, a twig rolled beneath her shoe, snapping.
“Blast,” she hissed to herself.
Immediately, the Duke stopped. Slowly, still braced up on his forearms, he turned to look at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Duchess?”
The tone was enough,and what are you doing here?
“I…”
“What are you doing?”
“N-nothing,” she stammered. “I… I wanted to see the flowers in the garden.”
His arms did not even strain as he held himself up. “Which are not here, so why are you?”
“I was just leaving,” she muttered in the end, her face burning at being caught ogling him. “Enjoy… enjoy your exercise.”
He said nothing more, just gave a grunt of effort as he lowered himself so close to the ground that his chin almost brushed it.
Hurriedly, Isabella left, trying as much as she could not to think about the ripples of muscle, the way he moved like it was nothing to his body, the sweat that displayed every ridge of his form.
As soon as she rushed back into the house, she gulped down the first glass of water she had brought for her, trying to calm the burning in her cheeks.
Once composed, she did not dare rush back to the garden, but her eyes strayed to the corridors, looking out for the Duke’s return.
Chapter Six
“Heavens, one would think I have dragged you out here against your will.”
Rigby Village was home to a lot of poets, writers, and other creative villagers, who crowded the Theater Stage Inn a day later.
Oscar looked around with disinterest, trying to ignore the jostle of a bard to his right and the wailing of a poet who wanted attention for his most recent works.
Oscar turned to Edmund, who smirked at him.
“I am glad my discomfort amuses you, Harcross.”
“You are surrounded by the arts, Oscar. What is there to be uncomfortable about?”
Oscar said nothing, only nursed his drink pointedly.
The lighting around them was bright, not at all like the cozy, dim ambiance of his favorite tavern in Rochdale. That one was quiet, rarely frequented by anybody who did not want to be left alone, and it was the perfect place for Oscar to occasionally hide away from everything.
“Then again,” Edmund continued, “you are surrounded by art in your own home now, are you not? Your wife is a masterpiece in herself, a sculpture borne from Venus’s shell. So of course, you must appreciate the arts.”
Oscar gave a warning snarl, looking at him witheringly. “If you’ve always regarded her so highly, you should have saved her at your ball.”
“Perhaps you are the one who should regard her more highly,” Edmund countered. “I believe she deserves that.”
