Page 33 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

She looked lost in thought, distant, like something fragile caught between dreams and waking.

“Your Grace! Again!” she gasped as she took notice of him.

“Indeed, little doe. You know I tend to find good company easily,” he said.

He was not too happy about how glib he sounded, but that was how he talked around her. He liked teasing her until she blushed, as she was doing now.

“I never thought the mighty Duke of Oakmere would need to escape a countryside ball,” she said, her lips curving as she tilted her head in mock surprise.

“I was not escaping, my lady. I merely withdrew. Strategically.”

“Strategically?” she repeated, huffing a laugh.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the space next to her.

To his surprise, she nodded. He sat beside her, and though the silence stretched, it was anything but awkward. On the contrary, it felt oddly welcome. Something seemed to hum between them—subtle yet unmistakable, like the quiet resonance of a string drawn tight between kindred souls.

“Did any of your admirers manage to trap you into a dance?” she asked.

“No. I danced with Lady Elizabeth,” he said.

“Oh.”

There was silence again. Her hand dipped into the water once more.

“How was your dance with Elizabeth?”

“Pleasant.”

“Pleasant?” she repeated, incredulous. “That sounds suspiciously like a word chosen to avoid offense.”

“It was,” he admitted plainly. “I was being polite. She’s your sister.”

“You are impossible.” She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. But then her posture stiffened slightly. “You should not be here,” she added, her voice lower, more serious now. “If someone sees us?—”

“Let them,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Let them think what they wish.”

“I’d rather not be the subject of speculation if it’s all the same to you,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. She didn’t move away.

“Is that the only reason?” he asked, leaning slightly closer. “The threat of gossip?”

Marianne drew in a breath. “I came out for air, not for… this.”

“But here we are,” he said softly. “You, always slipping away like mist—and me, always finding where you’ve gone.”

“I don’t mean to run from you,” she admitted, looking away. “Only… when you are near, I forget myself.”

He paused, the weight of her words settling between them. “And is that such a terrible thing?”

“I’m not sure,” she whispered.

There was silence for a beat—an almost unbearable silence. He reached for her hand slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat. She didn’t. Her fingers trembled slightly beneath his.

“You ought not to look at me that way,” she said, very softly.

“I can’t seem to help it, little doe,” he murmured.

Their faces were close now, her breath brushing his jaw. He leaned in carefully, giving her time to turn away. But she didn’t.