Page 47 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Will you? Because I've already traumatized you once today, and I'd rather not add your death from pneumonia to my list of accomplishments."
He looked at her. She was standing there in her ruined dress, hair still dripping, holding a servant's clothes, and she was worried about him?
"There's nothing here that would fit me," he pointed out.
"No, but..." She moved to the bed, pulling off the thick coverlet. "You could wrap yourself in this while your clothes dry by the fire downstairs. It's better than getting sick."
"You want me to walk around in a blanket? Like some sort of Roman senator?"
"Would you prefer to squelch around in wet boots all evening? Because that's certainly more dignified."
She had a point, though he'd rather not admit it.
"Fine," he said curtly. "Turn around."
"Really? After this morning, we're concerned about propriety?"
"This morning was a disaster. That doesn't mean we've abandoned all civilization."
She turned, facing the window, and Alexander quickly stripped off his soaked coat and shirt. The blanket was rough wool, but it was dry and warm, which was more than could be said for anything else. He kept his waistcoat and trousers on, though they were unpleasantly damp.
"You can turn around," he said.
She did, and immediately pressed her lips together in what looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
"Something amusing?"
"You look like a very angry Caesar."
"Caesar conquered Gaul."
"You conquered a Coleridge. That's probably harder."
Despite himself, he almost smiled. "Are you always this irreverent when disaster strikes?"
"Would you prefer I cry? I could, if it would make you feel better. I'm actually quite good at crying on command."
"A useful skill in a duchess."
"I thought so. I can also faint dramatically and flutter a fan to express complex emotions."
"You said you couldn't use a fan."
"I lied. I'm excellent with fans. I just choose not to use them because they're ridiculous."
She was standing there, dripping and muddy, having what appeared to be an actual conversation with him. Not simmering, not calculating, just... talking. It was oddly disconcerting.
"I'll go downstairs," he said. "Give you privacy to change."
"Alexander?" She used his name hesitantly. "Thank you. For the coat earlier, and for catching me all those times, and... for not being cruel about all this."
"That's that low bar again."
"It's still a bar you're clearing."
He left before the conversation could become any more uncomfortable, wrapping the blanket more securely around himself and trying to pretend he wasn't about to walk through a common room dressed like a particularly disheveled Roman.
Chapter Twelve
