Georgina’s breath caught. “She wasn’t safe!” she fired back. “I had to do something. He—he treated her like she was nothing.”
His expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened. “And you think running blindly into the streets solved that?” He set his spoon down, calm but cold. “You acted on impulse. Recklessly. Childishly.”
Her spine stiffened at his words.
“Patience wouldn’t have saved Dottie,” she snapped, her voice tight. “And it certainly never saved me. You sound as if you’ve never once cared about anyone’s suffering.”
His gaze darkened. “Feelings don’t erase consequences,” he said evenly. “The world isn’t ruled by sentiment, Duchess. You would do well to learn that.”
Georgina’s temper flared, but she kept her voice low, aware of the staff nearby.
“You speak of consequences and reality as though you’ve never let yourself actually live,” she said, meeting his eyes boldly. “You seem more concerned with rules and control than anything resembling life.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed, but otherwise he remained utterly still. His silence unsettled her more than his words.
“Rules,” he said, his voice quiet but threaded with something dangerous as he continued, “are what keep a person prepared.”
She let out a humorless breath, her eyes still locked on his.
“You cannot prepare for everything,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Life rarely lets you follow a neat plan, no matter how tightly you cling to it.” She tilted her head slightly. “Or perhaps it’s not preparation you care about, but control.”
That struck deeper than she expected. His gaze sharpened, cold fire flickering in its depths. Slowly, he stood, the movement deliberate, each inch he rose seeming to fill the room with his looming presence.
Before she could react, he was beside her chair, leaning in. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You have no idea what real control means, wife,” he murmured, the low scrape of his voice curling down her spine.
His hand came up, fingers firm yet careful as he took her chin between them, tilting her face toward his. She froze, her heart hammering wildly beneath her ribs.
“You’ve been running wild far too long,” he went on, his quiet words a threat, or perhaps a promise. “But here… here, you’ll learn something else entirely.”
His thumb traced lightly over her lower lip, barely a touch, but enough to ignite a rush of warmth through her body.
“Rules,” he said, his voice like velvet-encased steel, “aren’t just restrictions. They can become pleasures you’ve never dared imagine.”
Her breath caught. She couldn’t look away from him. Trapped in the intensity of his gaze, her skin burned where his thumb lingered.
She didn’t even hear the staff approach until the clink of plates shattered the moment.
Dessert was being set on their table.
Lysander straightened at once, and his face returned to that cool, detached mask, as if nothing had happened at all. He didn’t spare her another glance as he resumed his seat.
Georgina’s hands trembled slightly as she pushed her chair back, her pulse still unsteady.
“I… I must excuse myself,” she said, her voice wavering despite herself.
Without waiting for permission, she rose and left the dining hall, her skirts sweeping behind her as she fled upstairs, her heart still racing, and her lips still tingling from his touch.
Chapter Eight
It had been two days since they had dined together, and Lysander couldn’t stop thinking about his wife.
They had spent most of the meal arguing and at each other’s throats, but all he could think about from the dinner was the moment when they had nearly kissed.
Heavens, I’ve never been so rattled by a woman before. What is coming over me?
The Duke stopped in his tracks when he heard Georgina’s voice around the corner.
