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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“ A ny sign of him?” Teresa asked, readjusting the forks and knives and spoons, hopelessly attempting to keep her hands and mind busy.

Belinda, who had just entered with fresh candles to replace the ones that had already melted halfway down, shook her head in apology. “None, Your Grace. I sent Mr. Kingsley to fetch him, but he hasn’t returned yet.”

“No matter,” Teresa said too brightly. “I am certain he will arrive soon.”

Mr. Kingsley was Cyrus’ valet, and the only man who had a good idea of where Teresa’s husband was at any given time, but he was also governed by the rules of being a trusted manservant: he did not tell Teresa where her husband was, probably assuming that if Cyrus wanted to be found, he would tell his wife himself.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Belinda said, her smile tight.

It was already seven o’clock in the evening, and Cyrus had sent word that he would partake in dinner at six. Teresa had been waiting an hour, with no message about the delay, and no indication that he meant to keep his promise to her.

To make matters worse, she had foolishly dressed in her nicest gown, and had her lady’s maid fashion her hair into a new style: a looser bun studded with wildflowers, wavy pieces of hair framing her face, finished off with a pretty slide adorned with a jeweled butterfly, that had been a gift from Isolde.

By the time the clock on the mantelpiece read half-past-seven, Teresa was entirely out of generosity, that prickly sensation of feeling silly transforming into a pulsing rush of embarrassment that became a seething tide of white-hot anger.

He was the one who had asked her what she wanted, and he was the one who had agreed, and now he thought he could leave her at the dining table in a beautiful dress, feeling like an utter fool? Well, she would show him.

“Excuse me, Belinda,” she said icily. “It seems Mr. Kingsley must have gotten lost. I think I shall fetch my husband myself.”

The housekeeper bowed her head, not quite able to hide the pleased smile on her face. “Certainly, Your Grace. Do you know the way to his study?”

“Would you be so kind as to escort me?” Teresa asked, holding out her arm to the housekeeper.

Belinda took it, leading her out of the dining room. “With pleasure, Your Grace.”

Fifteen minutes later, the housekeeper brought Teresa to a halt outside the door to the mysterious study where her husband seemed to spend most of his time.

Teresa had not even entered yet, and already her temper was rising to scorching heights, for through the door, she could hear the sound of masculine laughter.

While she had been waiting for her husband, he had been having a grand old time here, no doubt amused by the idea of his wife sitting alone in the dining room.

Perhaps, he had a wager upon how long she would actually wait.

Without bothering to knock, she turned the handle and stormed inside… pulling to an abrupt halt as she saw that Cyrus was not alone. Nor was he the one laughing.

Cyrus stared at his wife, astonished by her beauty.

Even with the scowl upon her face, she was extraordinary, attired as if she were attending a royal ball, her hair—the color of dark honey—gleaming in the low light, the loose locks around her face making his fingertips long to touch, to see if they were as silky as they looked.

“It is half-past-seven,” she said crisply, her scowl softening as she glanced at Cyrus’ companion, like she did not want to be rude in front of a guest.

“I apologize, Teresa,” Cyrus said without hesitation, looking down at his fob watch to be sure. He had not realized it was so late. “I had a visitor, as you can see. I will join you in a minute.”

Opposite him, Silas erupted into laughter, gaining a sharp look from Cyrus, who could not see what was so amusing.

“Goodness, I am sorry!” Silas said, his laughter fading to a chuckle. “You must think me terribly rude, Duchess, but I have never heard Darnley apologize to anyone before. It took me quite by surprise, and I am afraid I laugh when I am astonished.”

Teresa laughed awkwardly, tucking one of the locks of hair behind her ear. “I should think that would be very startling if you were to receive bad news,” she said, her lips softening into a smile. “Someone might think you were half mad.”

Silas burst out laughing again, glancing at Cyrus as he gestured to the new Duchess. “I had no idea she was funny, Darnley. You did not tell me, you rascal!”

“I suspect it would be very difficult for him to tell you anything about me,” Teresa interjected, flashing a colder look at Cyrus. “He does not know me very well.”

Holding her gaze, Cyrus wanted to tell her that it was for her benefit, that she would eventually be grateful for his distance, but that was not a conversation he wished to have with Silas there.

Nor was it one he was ready to have with Teresa, not after the incident in the library.

If she had fallen, he had no doubt that she would have been terribly hurt, yet holding her in his arms had overwhelmed him, bringing them closer than he had ever desired to be.

I cannot be there at every moment. I shall drive myself to madness if I begin to care.

A gasp escaped Silas’ throat, and he pounded a fist on the desk.

“Well, we must remedy that at once. Come, why not join us for a drink. It appears that I have intruded on something, so it is only fair that I should invite you to intrude on us in return.” He leaned closer to Cyrus, whispering out of the corner of his mouth.

“You did not say you were supposed to be elsewhere.”

“I think not,” Cyrus replied, ignoring the last remark. “It would not be appropriate.”

Teresa smiled slyly. “You have many notions of what is ‘appropriate,’ but you have given me no specifics.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Perhaps, that could be discussed while I join you for a drink.”

“Exemplary!” Silas cheered, vacating his chair. “Please, sit here. Be comfortable. What, pray tell, is your beverage of choice?”

Teresa hesitated. “I… do not have one.”

“Excellent, then I shall choose for you.” Silas went off to the liquor table, busying himself with carafes and glasses.

Meanwhile, Cyrus stared at his wife. “I really do not think this is suitable. If you return to the dining room, I will be with you soon.”

“Apologies, I do not believe we have been introduced,” Teresa said to Silas, turning away from Cyrus and his disapproval. “I remember seeing you at the wedding, but I do not know you.”

Silas glanced back over his shoulder, deftly pouring a considerable measure of something without looking. “There I go, being rude again.” He grinned. “I am Silas Rowland, the Duke of Merrowfield.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Teresa replied.

“None of that,” Silas insisted. “We are all Dukes and Duchesses here. Let us be comfortable. Please, refer to me as Rowland or Silas—everyone does. And I shall refer to you however you like.”

Teresa’s face flushed with pink, awakening something in the pit of Cyrus’ stomach: a deep, burning feeling, as if he had downed a glass of brandy in one go. Yet, he had taken his last sip of his drink at least five minutes ago.

“You will be formal with my wife,” he interjected sharply, glowering at Silas.

“Teresa or ‘Duchess’ will suffice,” Teresa replied regardless, her tone oddly shy, her expression coy, her beautiful eyes peering at Silas from beneath her long lashes.

Witnessing her softness had an increasingly peculiar effect on Cyrus, his skin tingling as if he were too close to a fire, and beneath his skin, the sensation of something creeping along, beetling through his veins.

It made it uncomfortable to sit in his chair, though no adjustment helped the feeling.

“I think ‘Duchess’ would maintain some semblance of propriety,” he grumbled, willing her to turn that gentle gaze on him instead. She was his wife, after all.

Silas chuckled. “Tell me what you think of this , Duchess.”

He brought over the hearty measure, dark amber liquid swirling in a crystal glass, leaving a residue around the inside the told of its potency.

But he did not set the drink on the table, as Cyrus had expected; rather, Silas went ahead and put the glass directly in Teresa’s hand, their fingertips accidentally brushing.

I ought to send him from this room at once! Cyrus’ eye twitched, his grip on his own glass threatening to shatter it.

“There is a tray, Silas,” he snarled. “Use it.”

To add insult to injury, Teresa thanked Silas with a friendly smile, and brought the glass to her lips. She sniffed the liquor, pulled a face, and sipped.

Never in his life had Cyrus thought he would be envious of a glass, but seeing her lips pressed to the crystal, he could not help thinking about the night he first met her. How certain he was that she would have kissed him if they had not been interrupted.

I would have come to my senses in time, he told himself, unable to tear his eyes away. I would have stopped her; I am sure of it.

“Oh!” Teresa cried, her face contorting in a mask of disgust, eyes scrunched and nose wrinkled as though she had sucked a lemon, her throat bobbing as she struggled to swallow the drink. “Oh… that is… that is vile! What did you pour for me? Poison?”

Silas clapped his hands together, chuckling. “Apologies, Duchess. I am usually adept at pairing a person with a beverage, but it seems I misjudged.” He took the glass from her. “It is whiskey. Strong, earthy, with a taste of fire.”

“My tongue is certainly burning,” she muttered, her face cracking into a smile. “Awful stuff. Truly awful. For a moment, I thought you were trying to rid your acquaintance here of his wife.”