Page 65 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

Oh, he is enjoying this.

His fingers pressed more firmly against her thigh, slow and deliberate. Marianne tried to focus on the stage, on the music, on anything but the heat crawling across her skin.

Don’t look this way. Please, no one looks this way.

Thank God the audience’s attention remained focused on the performance, the seating dimmed by design. But sheknew—if she so much as twitched, he would push further.

And he did.

His hand slid higher, caressing her through the layers of her gown. The silk felt impossibly thin under his touch. Her breathhitched as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs—bold, maddeningly slow, and achingly precise.

“Stop,” she hissed, though even speaking felt like a betrayal of her crumbling composure.

Her body betrayed her faster—her muscles tensed, her pulse quickened, and warmth gathered where he touched. She caught his wrist and squeezed hard, silently asking him to stop.

But not before it happened.

She throbbed beneath his fingers, her body alive and alight.

He leaned in again, his voice like silk over steel. “Do not provoke me again, little doe. Next time, I’ll have you on your knees.”

Is it a threat? A promise?

Marianne sat still, her shallow breaths betraying her. Her cheeks burned not just from shame or fury, but from the way arousal still curled low in her belly. She forced her thighs apart, refusing to press them together and savor the lingering ache.

The play ended. She remembered none of it. Not a single line. All she could recall was the heat of his hand, the smugness of his smile, and the humiliating way her body had responded to him.

Guests began to rise, chattering eagerly about the performance. A small group gathered around them.

“Your Grace,” one guest asked Dominic, “what did you make of the final monologue?”

Marianne’s stomach sank.Didhe even listen?

Dominic’s gaze slid to her, that mischievous glint breaking through the usual shadows. “It was rather rousing, I must say. Though I would have liked to see a climax. I’m afraid there was none.”

The scoundrel.

Marianne smiled tightly, her nails biting into her gloves to keep her fury—and mortification—from showing.

“Oh? Well, yes, Your Grace,” the guest mumbled, stumbling for words, clearing stumbling to agree with the Duke even if he didn’t know what he was talking about, “It did seem lacking in that aspect, I suppose.”

Dominic glanced at her, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Although she tried schooling her face into a neutral expression, the heat in her cheeks would simply not subside. Nor did the memory of the way he’d caressed her thighs.

The hidden depths of her flesh quivered, lamenting, aching to feel him once again.

As though he could read her thoughts, Dominic’s smirk became evident, more smug than ever.

Before he could torture her further, their host approached, leading the cast of the performance. Swiftly, he introduced the lead actor, Mr. Laurence Godwin.

Mr. Godwin moved like someone entirely too aware of being watched, every step perfectly measured, every smile dashed off like a signature. As he stepped forward, Marianne took a better look at him. She supposed he was handsome in the way certain statues were: cold, symmetrical, and likely to tip over at the faintest breeze.

“My lords, my ladies, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank you so much for bestowing your attention on us,” Godwin said, before his gaze landed squarely on Marianne. “And this vision beside the Duke of Oakmere must be his Duchess if I am not mistaken.”

“How did you—?” she began, startled.

“Lord Cheswick mentioned that a lovely duchess was in attendance. I see he did not exaggerate. You’re even more mesmerizing up close, Your Grace.”

Marianne’s cheeks burned. She wasn’t used to such flattery, and it felt very odd to her.