Page 29 of Matters of a Duke's Heart
In a moment, the duke’s hands clasped her wrists, his thumb brushing down the pulse point, and her heart took off like a hummingbird. She blinked at him, startled by the sudden contact. Did he feel her pulse racing? His hands were warm against her skin, distractingly so.
A blush settled on her face, and she could only gaze into those eyes, less sharp and icy at her scolding, but still hard with irritation.
“Perhaps then,” she continued, her voice quieter, “he would not be such a hellion. Although, for what it is worth, that is not an opinion I share at all.”
And then she tore from his grasp and stalked away, trying to ignore the fact that she could still feel his fingers on her skin. To her further horror, she found that wished she had not pulled back so soon.
Chapter 10
The remainder of their first week as a married couple passed in the same way it had at the start.
Breakfast was silent as they both chased the grogginess of sleep away, and dinners were full of Felicity attempting to make conversation, while Spencer often gave her stilted answers.
He did not know, really, why she kept on trying. Her expression was ever so amused when she tried that he began to realize that it was because she knew it riled him up.
Every moment around her was an effort in not lashing out with harsher words than she would be prepared for.
The time he had caught her wrist in the hallway had not been the only time he had done such a thing, and Spencer found himself doing it whenever his wife drew near in teasing.
Every time, he felt how her heartbeat fluttered, racing beneath his fingers. One morning at breakfast, he had poured her a cup of tea, a peace offering, after confronting her regarding Alexander, and he had moved so close that when she had turned her face to him, her breath had fanned over his neck.
He had suppressed a shiver before returning to his own side of the table, avoiding her gaze.
But the week passed, and they had both survived one another. According to Mrs. Avery, even Alexander was warming to her.
Felicity had compromised with him: she would not pull Alexander from his lessons, but she wished to take him on walks afterwards to see how his progress was coming along.
“I ask him about his progress,” Spencer insisted, indicating it was his role, one night over dinner.
“I understand, but I do not just speak about his lessons with him,” Felicity pushed. “I speak about other things. I find out his favorite tree, his favorite color, I ask him if he would like to learn them in French, or another language. There is a difference between engaging with your son and simply having him report something.”
“And you know best?” His challenge had been a sniping comment, only come from his own defensiveness and hostility at knowing Felicity had been at Bluebell for one week and already made more progress with his son than he felt he had in seven years.
“No!” Felicity had insisted. “No, but I know how to treat a child patiently.”
That had silenced Spencer enough that he had left the dining hall. Afterwards, he had looked at the painting he’d had commissioned of his late wife and son upon Alexander’s first birthday.
How had he never noticed just how dull his wife’s eyes had looked? How had he never noticed her smile fading? What had caused it?
Spencer had been a devoted husband, only a changed, jaded man since her death and betrayal before that, but it had been clear something had already pulled the life from Sophia.
Now, he focused on his new wife as they rode toward another country estate.
“Most of the ton will be there,” she said in the carriage ride through the country lanes. She leaned toward the window, as always, and Spencer was still trying to work out of it was to be as far away from him as possible, or a yearning to flee the carriage in favor of running through the fields. “And it is our first public appearance since being wed. We must make a good impression.”
“I believe you already are,” Spencer told her, surprising himself with his compliment. Felicity’s head whipped around, her eyes widening to find his attention on her dress. Neither of them had expected his comment, so he cleared his throat, attempting to backtrack. “I—I only mean that you are the new Duchess of Langdon. Your name has already swept through the ton in that regard, and people think highly of you. Your impression is already good.”
Felicity didn’t look away from him, and Spencer couldn’t help gazing right back at her. He felt the urge to shift, to fidget, but fought it down.
He had to remain composed, collected, controlled. But she… she was disarming him. With those intelligent, green eyes, and the way she could outsmart him in a moment, her wit quick with responses.
He felt as though being around Felicity was like standing on a glass floor—he thought he was safe, thinking he could see through into predictable footing, only to realize the cracks were already splintering the glass.
Finally, their gazes broke, and Spencer turned away from her.
He told himself that he didn’t need to notice her beautiful gown, or how charming she looked in a dress of the deepest, royal blue color that matched his waistcoat.
Their tailoring had been executed specifically to show their union, and even though Spencer knew it was only a marriage of convenience he still liked it. There was something strangely… companionable about it.
