Page 8

CHAPTER SIX

G oodness…

Teresa could not speak, her breath stuck somewhere between her mouth and her lungs, blocking any words from escaping. All she could do was stare, though every instinct of her upbringing told her it was the rudest thing she could have done.

But how could she not stare, when he looked like that ?

He was Captain Frostheart made real. He was the hero of all her daydreams, standing right there, framed by the study windows, silhouetted by the gauzy light that spilled in from the overcast sky.

He was the reason her eyes glazed over and her mouth quirked into a smile whenever she had reached a particularly delicious part of her latest chapter.

The captain is a fiction, you dolt! Her mind shoved her out of her dreamy thoughts. Of course, the Duke of Darnley was not Captain Frostheart. Instead, he was her fate, staring back at her, tossing an imaginary coin between an unwelcome marriage or complete ruination.

Blushing furiously, she lowered her gaze, though the image of him continued to burn in her mind: he was as tall as she remembered, and as broad and powerfully built as a warrior of old, his waistcoat straining at the buttons as if they, too, knew he was supposed to be wearing chainmail, or a flowing shirt instead.

His wavy hair fell to his shoulders, longer than the fashion of the day, and was so black it appeared to have an almost blue hue when it caught the light.

And his eyes…

She had not seen their color last night, but she saw it now: eyes of the darkest blue, with a lighter ring around the iris, almost like a star with a core of black, surrounded by the night.

What happened to him? She envisioned the scarring that covered the upper quarter of his right side, from the top of his cheek to his hairline, curving around his eye as if the injury had intended to leave it untouched.

It had taken the tail of his eyebrow, nothing more; the skin patchworked red and pink and brown, rippling as if it did not quite fit the bone structure anymore.

Yet, it did nothing to detract from his handsomeness.

If anything, he looked even more like she had imagined her beloved captain.

“I need to hear you speak, one way or the other,” Cyrus pressed, his voice a low rumble.

“Go on, Teresa—answer him,” Vincent replied urgently, giving Teresa a nudge in the arm.

“Do not speak again, Lord Grayling. Hers is the only voice I care to hear,” Cyrus growled, his words catching Teresa off-guard.

Vincent’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.

Instead, the furious red of his face spoke for him, a muscle twitching in the corner of his eye, his posture rigid with the grip of his anger.

He had never been spoken to like that in his own home.

Teresa could not think of anyone, aside from maybe Prudence, who would have dared.

Why does he care what my opinion is? She scrunched her eyes shut, hoping it might push back the bewilderment that swarmed in her mind. She had assumed that her fate was a foregone conclusion, so why was he offering her a choice at all?

“No,” she said quietly.

“Speak louder,” Cyrus replied.

Clearing her throat, Teresa opened her eyes, though she did not return her gaze to his face; it was too distracting, too confusing.

“I will not marry you, Your Grace.” She felt her brother bristle at her side.

“As this unpleasantness was all my fault, you should not have to involve yourself in the remedy of it. I cannot, in good conscience, condemn you to a forced marriage. So… I am refusing you; it is the only fair thing to do.”

Vincent promptly exploded. “Are you mad, Tessie? Have you taken leave of your senses? You will condemn yourself if you do this!” He grasped her by the arms, shaking her a little.

“Tell him you accept. I do not care who is at fault, I do not care if you are solely to blame, but I do care about your future. I care about your safety and security and… Tessie, it will break my heart if you do this. It will break my heart if I have to watch society’s cruelty toward you and, sweet sister, they will be cruel. ”

His voice hitched and a wave of guilt crashed into Teresa’s chest, knocking the breath out of her.

She knew her brother cared deeply for all of his sisters, but she had never seen him lose his composure like this before.

She had seen his anger and his protectiveness, but not in this way, not with such sincere emotion bubbling to the surface.

“Take your hands off her, Vincent.” Cyrus’ voice was like a bolt through the swirling tide of guilt and regret. “You cannot shake a woman into obedience.”

Vincent let his hands fall from Teresa’s arms, defeated. “You do not understand what you are bringing down upon yourself, Tessie. This is… a terrible, terrible mistake.”

“But society is already cruel to me, brother,” she said quietly. “At least, this way, I have asked for it and am expecting it.”

A shadow fell across her, and as Vincent stepped back as if he had been instructed to do so, Cyrus filled the gap.

He offered no comfort or words of reassurance, but stood there, peering down at her with those celestial eyes.

It took a great deal of effort for her to gaze right back, their intensity difficult to bear, like staring into the sun.

“If you do not want it, you do not have to marry me,” he said, a moment later, “but, know this, nobody can ever force me to do anything. I am doing this because it is the right thing to do. I am not the beast you think I am.”

Teresa blinked, a gasp lodged in her throat. A beast? I… do not think that is what you are. I do not know you, so how could I think that?

She remembered the ‘stories’ that Vincent had mentioned, and her heart shivered, skipping an anxious beat.

Perhaps, it would have been wise to demand a few of those stories before this moment, so she was better prepared.

But she doubted it was appropriate to ask to hear them now, with their protagonist standing right there.

“I will ask you one last time,” Cyrus said. “Look at me when you answer.”

Swallowing thickly, Teresa nodded, struggling to keep her gaze fixed on him.

“Will you be my bride?” he asked, as devoid of emotion as if he were asking her to pass him the salt.

But the longer she looked into his beautiful, glittering eyes, the more the actual question faded into unimportance. Subtly, he took a half step closer, bending his head slightly, so she did not have to strain so much to keep looking up into those wondrous eyes of his.

She was transported yet again to the night before, and the compulsion that had made her step closer; the madness that had made her want to be as near to him as possible, and to discover if imagination or reality was better with his kiss.

She still wanted to believe it had been pure revenge but doubt lingered.

Seeing him cross out her name might have been the spark that brought her into the room, but it had not been the fuse nor the fuel that had made her want to kiss him.

Keeping her gaze on him, that feeling began to trickle back into her veins: a sensation like jittering nerves and anxious butterflies, but wilder somehow, making her heart race.

The powerful feeling of not caring about consequences, not caring about the next moment, just what might happen in the current one.

The breathless, intoxicating feeling of anticipation, not knowing, and being as bold as the heroines in the books she loved so much.

The feeling of being seen, after three years of being invisible.

Last night, he had seen her; he had not turned away, had not looked through her.

He was looking at her the same way now. And as she weighed up the choice between becoming obsolete and being married to someone who wanted to do the right thing, despite what he had been told about her and despite what she had done, she felt her mouth moving, not in a kiss, but in the shape of the words, “I accept.”

Cyrus continued to stare at her, searching her face as if hunting for doubt or deceit, his expression unchanged. And she gazed right back, determined not to be the first one to look away.

He took a step back, glancing at Vincent. “I will be back in a week for the wedding. Leave the arrangements to me.”

Without another word or another look at Teresa, he walked out, and as the door clicked back into the jamb, she swayed as if his presence had been the only thing holding her up.

Dizziness swelled in her head, a dull pain pounding behind her eyes, prompting her to lean on the nearest chair for support.

“What have we done, Tessie?” Vincent whispered, staring at the closed door.

Teresa shook her head, waiting for the feeling to pass. “The right thing, I hope.” She paused, catching her breath. “But now might be a good time to start telling me a few of those stories.”

“No,” Vincent replied, hastening to the door. “No, I do not think that would be wise at all. Besides, dear sister, you cannot believe everything you are told. Stories are just stories.”

He darted out, unable to escape fast enough. Evidently, what he did know was not something he wanted to tell Teresa, not now that she had sealed her fate, destined to become the Duchess of Darnley in a week’s time.

How bad could it possibly be?

She prayed that question would not come back to haunt her.