Page 3 of Bound By the Duke

Aurelia’s mouth curved slightly, almost feeling sorry for whoever the lady was. As a hopeless romantic, she wouldn’t wish that for herself—getting married to a stranger who lacked the barest trace of empathy.

The older man sighed. “Very well. I’ll move forward with the arrangement. Though I must say, it is unusual to go through a solicitor’s list instead of?—”

“I am not interested in parading through another Season of empty-headed debutantes,” the blue-coated man stated flatly. “And I’ve no intention of marrying for romance,” he added, his voice laced with quiet disdain.

How charming.

Aurelia folded her arms.

She’d had enough of the strange brooding man and his solicitor. She needed to get her cat out of the area as quickly and quietly as she could.

Her gaze dropped to Sir Whiskerton, who hadn’t left his spot.

“Good, now stay right where you are,” she whispered.

She took a step, careful not to step on the dry leaves, before she quietly tried to grab his fur. But just as she did, he flicked his tail and darted past her ankle with the speed of a cannonball.

“Whiskerton…!”

Too late.

It was too damn late.

Aurelia watched in horror as the cat jogged boldly toward the two men. He stopped in front of the blue-coated man and flicked his tail majestically, beforehissing.

It was the kind of loud hiss that broke through the thick quiet of the area.

The blue-coated man finally turned. Despite the trouble caused by her cat, Aurelia could only focus on one fact.

The man looked far worse than she had expected.

Not in the traditional sense.

Rather, his face was simply breathtaking, with aristocratic brows, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth that looked like it had long ago forgotten how to smile. And those eyes of his, they were the most beautiful shade of blue, but so cold.

A look of utter disbelief crossed his face. Seeing that, Aurelia knew it was time to step out of the shadows.

At the sounds of her footsteps, those stern eyes of his slowly rose to her.

“My apologies,” she said as she stepped forward, before scooping Sir Whiskerton into her arms with all the grace of a guiltyservant retrieving a drunken uncle. She cleared her throat and straightened. “He’s not usually so—” the cat hissed again. “—dramatic,” she finished flatly.

The man stared at her.

His stare wasn’t admiring or assessing. It was the kind that measured her usefulness and discarded her all within the space of a single glance. The kind of stare that came with a silence so powerful that she felt a bead of sweat roll down her forehead.

“If you cannot manage your pet,” he finally spoke, his voice cool and distant, “perhaps you ought not bring it into public spaces.”

She blinked. “Oh, well, he only escaped the carriage because a dog barked at him.”

“And whose fault was that?” He raised a brow.

She blinked again. “The dog’s?”

He did not seem to find her amusing. Rather, his gaze dropped back to the cat, and his lips curled into a faint, disdainful sneer.

“That,” he scoffed, “is not a pet. That is a rat in an ill-fitting fur coat.”

Aurelia gasped, his words hitting her like a slap across the face.