Page 26 of A Duchess in Ten Days (Icy Dukes #2)

It was enough that she could admit to herself how deep her feelings for Andrew were.

I shouldn't have said that. I should not have said that.

Andrew watched Lavinia as she sat there, silent but visibly affected by his words. The faint glisten in her eyes and the way her lips trembled just slightly made something twist in his chest. He had said too much and it scared him.

Andrew leaned back in his chair, his fingers resting against his temple as the silence stretched between them.

He watched Lavinia from the corner of his eye, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture stiff.

She hadn't left, though he had half-expected her to make some polite excuse and retreat judging from how awkward he had made the situation.

He reckoned he should say something. Break the quiet. Redirect the moment before it unraveled further. Yet his mind was blank, and the only thing he could concentrate on the echo of his own words and the lingering unease of her reaction.

He hadn't meant to charm her with his words.

Why had he let himself tread into territory so precarious, so uncharted?

He wasn't supposed to charm her...not Lavinia.

Once, he had been a man who could control the narrative of every interaction.

He had been deliberate, calculated, a rake with an arsenal of words and gestures that could bend any situation or any woman to his will.

But Lavinia wasn't just any woman.

And he wasn't that man anymore.

Yet, here he was, sitting in the aftermath of his own carelessness, wondering if he had unconsciously drawn from that same playbook.

It had been instinct. But what terrified him was the fact that he had not rehearsed his words.

Deep down, he knew all that he said to Lavinia was true.

It was how he felt, and he hated keeping the truth from Lavinia.

But the one truth that mattered most was the one thing he could never tell her. She couldn't fall in love with him.

His secret, heavy and immutable, was his cross to bear. Lavinia didn't deserve to be charmed, to be pulled into the web of a man who couldn't give her everything.

"What are you drinking?" he heard Lavinia say as she pulled him out of his thoughts.

Andrew glanced at the tumbler on the table.

He cleared his throat and sat up, thankful for the change in subject.

"Whiskey," he replied in a casual tone. Picking up the glass, he swirled the liquid idly, watching it catch the light before lifting his gaze to her.

"I'm not particularly fond of the drink, but at the same time, it has its moments.

Sometimes, I like it, sometimes I don't. It's...grounding. "

"Grounding?" Lavinia echoed, her brows drawing together in curiosity.

Andrew responded with a nod. "Sometimes. It used to be the late duke's favorite drink. He would often say it reminded him of his roots, of the strength it takes to carry the weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders."

The words felt sour in his mouth, but he spoke them anyway, as though repeating a line from a play he had grown weary of performing.

"He said a lot of things like that," Andrew continued, his tone neutral...almost detached. "At the time, I thought he was just trying to sound wise." His lips twitched. "Anyway, I think this is one of the very few habits I picked up from him. Drinking whiskey."

"Do you miss him?" Lavinia asked and leaned forward.

Andrew stilled, the question striking a chord he wasn't prepared to face. His fingers brushed over the rim of the tumbler, and for a brief moment, he felt the emotions he had long buried start to crawl up to the surface.

But then, he smiled faintly. A practiced, polite curve of his lips that he wore to mask the rage that was starting to affect him. "Should I pour you a glass? It's good whiskey," he said instead, smoothly diverting the conversation.

She hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly. "I've never tried whiskey before."

Andrew raised his eyebrows, puzzled. "Never? Not even a sip?"

She shook her head, a hint of amusement softening her expression. "Wine, sherry, and the occasional champagne. But whiskey? No. My father isn't fond of whiskey, nor is my brother, so it was never a staple in our household."

Andrew leaned back, rapping his fingers on the table. "So, what does your father drink?"

Lavinia paused for a moment. "Brandy...ale," she answered. "He loves his brandy."

Andrew chuckled. "Typical."

"I would like to try some," Lavinia said, gesturing at the decanter on the table.

Andrew leaned back in his chair, an easy smile tugging at his lips. "You do realize I was joking when I suggested you try it, don't you?" he said, his tone light and teasing.

Lavinia raised an eyebrow. "I still would like to try some," she said with a shrug.

Andrew squinted his eyes before reluctantly reaching for the decanter. "All right. But fair warning, it is a strong drink. It might not be the most...pleasant."

"I should be able to enjoy it," she insisted, leaning forward.

Shaking his head with mock exasperation, Andrew poured a small measure into a fresh tumbler and set it before her. "Enjoy."

Lavinia's eyes twitched as she watched the expression on his face. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers tightening around the tumbler. It was almost as if she was reading his expression, and her confidence was dwindling the more he studied her.

With a soft exhale, she broke their gaze and lifted the tumbler to her lips.

The effect was immediate. Her eyes widened, her nose wrinkled, and she coughed lightly as the drink traveled down her throat.

Andrew could see the heat rise to her cheeks and they turned crimson in an instant.

He swallowed a laugh, waiting for her to say something before he reacted.

Setting the glass down quickly, Lavinia pressed a hand to her chest and blinked rapidly. "Good heavens," she managed, her voice slightly raspier than before. "I believe the word strong is accurate."

Andrew threw his head back laughing. He had been holding it for a while, and when he finally let the sound out, he found it difficult to stop himself.

"No, I like it," Lavinia managed to say. "It just...it was initially overwhelming. But I like it."

"Your face says you don't, Lavinia," he teased, swirling the whiskey in his own glass. "Oh, you should see yourself. It was like you swallowed fire."

Lavinia straightened her shoulders. "I'm serious. I do like it."

"You do not," Andrew insisted, still amused by the flush of her cheeks.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't believe me?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Then pour me more," she said, motioning toward the decanter. "Come on."

"No." Andrew shook his head. "I can get the staff to fetch you a glass of sherry or wine instead."

Lavinia shook her head. "Come on, Andrew."

Andrew chuckled. "Why do you want to keep torturing yourself, Lavinia?"

"Because you like it," she answered instinctively. "Sometimes..."

Andrew's chuckle faded, replaced by a curious tilt of his head. "So?" he asked. His voice was quieter now.

Lavinia hesitated for a moment. "You like it," she repeated, softer this time, as if admitting something to herself. "I suppose I...want to understand why. I want to like what you like."

Andrew froze at her words, the glass of whiskey in his hand hovering mid-air. Her words hung in the air. His smile waned slowly, until it completely disappeared from his face. Her simple declaration had flustered him so much that he was at loss for words.

For a man who had spent years mastering his charm, wielding it like a weapon, he now found himself completely disarmed.

She made it impossible for him to stay detached, to keep the promise he had sworn to uphold.

The lines he had drawn were starting to blur, and he wasn't certain how he really felt about that.

He said nothing. Couldn't. Instead, he stared at her, his gaze lingering on the faint flush on her cheeks. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from her. She was all at once too much and not enough...too much temptation, and not enough reason to resist.

A moment passed. Then, without a word, Lavinia reached for the decanter. Without thinking, his hand moved too.

He covered her hand with his, his palm cold against her warm skin. Her movements stilled the moment his fingers wrapped around hers.

"I'll pour it for you," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him.

For a brief moment, he couldn't bring himself to let go.

It felt good. It was a comfort that he wasn't used to.

He wanted to say something more, to explain away the tension he felt, but he had no idea how to describe the feeling in the first place, let alone, explain it away.

Instead, his thumb grazed the back of her hand, slowly and in a repeated motion.

He stared at it, unable to meet her eyes.

Realizing he had lingered too long, Andrew withdrew his hand, forcing himself to break the connection. He could tell that her eyes followed his every movement, questioning but silent.

He stood from where he sat, reaching for the decanter again and taking it from underneath her grasp with a composure he did not feel within.

Pouring more than he should have into her glass, he watched as the liquid filled the tumbler.

He had wanted to pour just enough, but the motion had gone too far, and now the glass was fuller than it should have been.

When he set the decanter down, he stepped away quickly, needing distance before he said or did something he couldn't take back.

Andrew crossed the room to the fireplace, resting his arm on the mantel. The heat from the flames was nothing compared to the firestorm in his chest. He gripped the edge of the mantel tightly, his knuckles whitening.