“What kind of man do you think I am, Duchess?”
“A man who refuses to call me by my name,” Cecilia said before she could stop herself. “Except when he is overcome by illness and muttering in his sleep.”
Valentine’s shoulders stilled, the shift in his breathing barely perceptible, but she noticed it. He said nothing, not yet.
She didn’t look away. “You always called Lucy by her name. Every time you speak of her, you use it plainly and easily. But me? Never.”
She took a breath and stepped forward, her hands folding before her, composed. “You always speak of my cousin Lucy as thoughyou knew her intimately. You called her by her name without hesitation. It slips off your tongue with familiarity and ease. But me?” Her smile was faint, not amused, not bitter, only bewildered. “You have not once said Cecilia to me. Not while you were awake.”
She paused. “Why is that?”
For a moment, it was as though the house itself held its breath. Valentine’s eyes remained fixed on hers, unreadable. Then, slowly...maddeningly, they dipped. Lower. To her mouth. The weight of his gaze sent a spark down her spine, quick and sharp like the flick of a match. His eyes stayed on her lips, a little longer than necessary, almost as if he were contemplating something.
She stepped back without thinking. It was the smallest retreat. No more than a few inches, but it was enough. She saw the flicker in his eyes as he noticed. Then, just as carefully, his gaze rose again to meet hers.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Perhaps because I do not feel we are close enough for such familiarity.”
Cecilia blinked. Her chest tightened, though she held herself still.
“I am your wife.”
“Yes,” he said. “But still.”
Cecilia drew in a slow breath, hoping it would temper the burn rising behind her ribs. She had known, hadn’t she? Their union had never promised tenderness. It had not begun in affection or even true acquaintance. She was the answer to a scandal. The solution to his inconvenience.
But something about the entire situation caught like a splinter beneath her skin.
“I see,” she said softly.
But she didn’t see, not truly because she didn’t understand why the mere sound of her name, unspoken, seemed to carve a canyon between them.
Then she sighed, gathering her skirts, every inch of her determined to leave with what remained of her dignity. But she had taken no more than two steps past him when his hand caught her arm. Not harshly. Not to restrain. But enough to stop her.
His touch was warm, far too warm and instant. It startled her. Not because he held her back, but because of the rush of sensation it brought with it, fast and unwelcome. Her breath faltered, and she wondered if he would see how much of an effect his touch had on her in that moment.
He did not release her.
Instead, she felt the gentle pressure of his fingers closing around her arm...tentative, careful. The kind of touch one might give to a fragile thing. She turned to look at him, slowly, standing by her side, uncertain whether it was defiance or hope that pulled her gaze back to his.
Valentine turned his head to her too, his eyes searching hers.
“Did I upset you?”
Cecilia stared at him, unable to pull her hand away, though every nerve in her fingers felt aflame beneath his. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Perhaps.”
Her eyes dropped to where he held her hand, and she felt, quite absurdly, that if he let go now, she might come undone. They were standing too close. She could feel the shape of his fingers through the fine muslin of her sleeve, the warmth of his palm seeping into her skin.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered, peering into her eyes.
“I am not,” she whispered, though the words felt unconvincing even to her own ears.
His gaze searched hers. “You are. Do I scare you?”
Before she could gather a reply, before she could summon any words at all, he released her.
The warmth of his hand vanished from her arm, leaving the fabric cool where his touch had been. He stepped back, putting just enough space between them to restore propriety but not quite enough to steady the thunder in her chest.
Cecilia drew in a breath that tasted hollow. She wanted to tell him that he was mistaken. That she hadn’t trembled out of fear. That it wasn’t alarm that had crept into her limbs but the echo of something far more treacherous. That his nearness had undone her in a way she could not explain. That she had never trembled until he stood close enough to matter.
