Page 21 of Her Beast of a Duke

With Isabella’s lips pressed together, her pulse quickened; the carriage suddenly too small for the heat and weight of him.

His hard counter had silenced her, and only then did she realize how hard she breathed. Her eyes fell to the sharp rise and fall of his chest, as riled up as she. Her words suddenly left her tongue, and she knew she had nothing left to snipe at him with.

All that was left were his eyes—those infernal eyes that kept on catching her. She had looked at that Chinese dynasty book only last night, unable to stop thinking of the Duke who had saved her, emerging from the darkness.

She turned away from him, watching the countryside. She was vaguely reminded of the journey her family made to Wickleby Hall the day her parents took Hermia there after she’d been branded a spinster.

The silence grew too thick, and when Isabella turned to face the Duke once more, she found his eyes piercing hers, and her stomach turned over itself in something that she did not like nor understand.

“Do you always glower like that?” she asked, letting her eyes roam over him, careful to keep her tone light.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze sharpened, dark and deliberate. “I do not glower. I assess.”

“And what exactly are you assessing?” she asked, a sly note in her voice.

“You,” he said simply.

“Should I feel honored by your assessment, Your Grace?”

“No, Duchess. You should feel warned.”

Her pulse raced, heat spread all over her chest, her neck, her face.

“What is your warning, then?” she asked, trying her best to maintain composure.

“Behave,” he said, leaning ever so slightly closer, “that is my warning.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And if I behave poorly?”

“Then,” he said, voice dropping, low and dangerous, “youwilllearn how to.”

Isabella arched a brow, voice lightly mocking. “I do hope you are merciful, then.”

“Only if you beg, wife,” he said, low and deliberate, the edge in his tone sending a shiver down her spine.

“I do not beg, Your Grace,” she shot back, lifting her chin with practiced defiance, though a heat bloomed across her chest at the way his gaze lingered.

He studied her, dark eyes sharp, tracing the line of her jaw and the curve of her lips, his presence pressing close enough to make the air between them electric. “We shall see about that.”

She shifted slightly, almost unconsciously closer, a tremor of anticipation threading through her. “I am not so easily intimidated, Your Grace,” she said, voice steadier than her pulse, which fluttered like a caged bird.

“Best not to wake the beast, wife,” he murmured, low and dangerous, so close that she could feel the heat of him against her arm. “You don’t want to know what he’s capable of.”

Once again, she felt the heat of their conversation linger, each sharp word leaving them both slightly breathless.

Her mind went blank, entirely consumed by the space between them. Her legs ached from the long journey, but that discomfort was nothing compared to the awareness of how close she had moved, how deliberately, almost unconsciously, she had closed the gap between them.

His eyes flicked to her lips, and hers immediately followed his. She remembered the dry, chaste kiss at the altar, and a shiver ran down her spine.

A man who had secluded himself so completely—had he kissed another woman before?

And… had he done more?

Her cheeks flushed, betraying her pulse, and she sensed his attention on it, felt the weight of it. The carriage seemed to shrink, the air thickening with unspoken promise. She dared a subtle lean toward him, and she was certain he leaned closer in response, as well.

Then, with a jolt, the carriage screeched to a stop. Isabella gasped, heart hammering, realizing just how dangerously near they had been. She stumbled back instinctively as the door swung open, the crisp evening air slicing through the tension and leaving her flustered and breathless.

“Your Graces, we have arrived,” the driver called out.