Page 23 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

“I am not a doe!” she snapped.

“That is what you think, Lady Marianne. Yet, you are cornered like one, and you tremble like one.”

“Ah, so is this what it’s about? You enjoy cornering lone women in gardens?”

His grin was immediately gone. A flash of anger sparked in his eyes. “Only the ones who run like they want to be chased.”

“Oh, is that so?” Marianne managed to ask, even though her throat felt tight.

He stood so close now, wrapped in the warm, heady scent of spice and leather. She’d caught the scent of a man before, but never like this. Never one that made her pulse flutter and her breath catch in her throat.

“If you don’t want me to go, then you should leave,” she whispered, but the fight was still in here.

She’d claw at him if she needed to, but some unhinged part of her believed that he would not hurt her.

“Are you afraid of me, Lady Marianne? Where is the woman who jumped in front of my rifle?”

“You know that I am not afraid of you, Your Grace,” she said honestly. Her fears had already been spent in Grisham Manor.

“I don’t think you are afraid of me, little doe,” the Duke said, his smirk returning. “I think you’re afraid that a part of you wants me to come closer.”

It was a tug of war—wordless, breathless. For a moment, they dueled with only their eyes, stubborn and steady, but something deeper shimmered beneath the surface.

Desire, barely understood, stirred low in Marianne’s belly, curling warm and strange.

She was too aware of him—of the heat radiating from his body, the space he didn’t quite close.

Then, a flicker of light appeared in one of the distant windows, snapping the moment in two.

“Someone’s awake,” she whispered, her voice tight with alarm.

She stumbled back, her heart hammering, and shoved her damp feet into her slippers. The cold silk clung to her skin, making her all the more flustered.

“Wait—” the Duke breathed.

But Marianne was already running.

Chapter Twelve

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Lady Elizabeth greeted softly, but Dominic could swear there was a little more fire there.

She was getting angry.

Yet Dominic’s mind was still on Marianne, who had run again.

Most women wouldn’t flee from Dominic Carlyle, the Duke of Oakmere—wealthy, titled, and one of London’s most eligible bachelors at thirty-two. But Marianne wasn’t like most women.

His desire to chase after her had been strong the night before, but he’d seen the fear in her eyes and stayed rooted in place.

The rest of the night had passed in restless wakefulness, leaving him bleary-eyed and with a pounding headache by morning. Breakfast only slightly eased his discomfort, though the clatter of plates and glasses did little to help.

He’d scanned the room, nodding absentmindedly at greetings, his focus entirely on one person—Marianne. No curly brown hair, no freckled face, no hazel eyes that shifted like the sea.

Lord Grisham had just entered, with Lady Elizabeth in tow.

Dominic had watched, irritated, as their host had dragged his second-eldest daughter toward him. She stumbled to keep up, forcing a smile that barely hid her discomfort.

“Good morning. Lady Elizabeth,” Dominic finally responded.