Page 11

Chapter Eleven

M arianne should feel settled. The house had gone still, with guests in their rooms and servants dismissed. Even the lamps had been dimmed.

Of course, anyone could tell you that she had the right to feel restless. The day had been harder than most, but again, she had expected it. Nothing good could have come out of a stag hunt.

It wasn’t the hunt or the insults that troubled her, though. It was that man—the hunter who had lost his prey because of her.

The guests were still in the manor. Because she was tossing and turning, she was afraid that her mind would not be clear enough for tomorrow’s challenges. And with her father trying his best to please his guests, there would be many.

Still, sleep wouldn’t come.

So, she threw the blankets off her and donned a robe over her nightgown. It was not wise, but perhaps necessary for her mental state. She crept down the stairs and managed to slip out the side door—the same one she and Victoria used to escape earlier.

It was chilly. Still, it was worth it with the sight of moonlight casting a hypnotic glow over the gardens. The pond was especially magical, calling her to sit by its edge.

She removed her slippers and dipped her feet into the water. She sighed. The water was cold, but the biting effect slowly dissipated into something more comforting.

“Oh, wait until I tell Wilhelmina about this,” she murmured.

Marianne tilted her head and gazed at the moon and the generous sprinkling of stars around it.

Beautiful.

“Lady Moon, I have not gone mad yet. Soon, perhaps, but not tonight,” she said.

Then, she heard it. It was subtle but certainly there. Earlier, there was no sound save for her voice. Even the animals were silent in the peaceful night.

There it was again. A door creaked open and was now being closed. She turned slightly to her right, but there was nobody there.

Is it a restless servant?

“Haven’t you learned that predators lurk where it’s quiet, little doe?”

The deep, slightly teasing voice was unmistakable. It was him . And because it was him, Marianne knew that his words carried more than just amusement—they held a barely veiled warning.

When she twisted around, she found him standing there, stepping into the moonlight, his shirt only half-buttoned. The sight of him was enough to make her breath catch.

Her gaze involuntarily traced the hard lines of his chest and stomach, following the curve of his waist down to where his breeches hung low on his hips. She should not be looking at him like this—it was entirely inappropriate. But her mind had no power over her eyes, which refused to look away.

His hair was tousled, as if he’d been in bed, only to change his mind and come out for a walk. It was an image that felt oddly familiar, even strangely intimate.

Marianne tried to focus on the cold water swirling around her ankles, but the effort to distract herself only made the heat spreading through her cheeks more apparent.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Your Grace?” she asked as coolly as possible. She swallowed hard as she rose to her feet.

He didn’t answer then. Instead, he walked toward her with a sense of purpose, his muscles rippling as he moved. He reminded her of a predator stalking its prey, of a panther about to attack. She could feel her pulse throbbing in her neck as he stopped mere inches away from her.

“I could say the same about you,” he murmured. “You must have a good reason if you’re willing to endanger your reputation for a walk without a chaperone.”

He was right. So, she needed to return to bed before anyone noticed that she wasn’t there at all.

But he blocked her path.

“Let me pass. I need to go back to my room,” she told him.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “What bothers you? Is it the business with your cat?”

“That is none of your business, Your Grace,” she replied, folding her arms over her chest.

“It must be the cat then. Or the stag,” he said with a smirk.

“Let me pass,” she repeated, losing her patience.

He didn’t seem ready to let her go. With a deliberate step forward, he blocked her path again, his tall, broad frame effortlessly filling the space between them. The proximity of him, the warmth radiating from him in the cool night air, made it difficult for her to think clearly.

“Do you enjoy being this infuriating?” she groaned.

“Think about what I felt when you threw yourself in front of my target, little doe,” he murmured.

“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.