Page 32 of Her Beast of a Duke

Her husband’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening. “Watch yourself, Duchess.”

“Oh, I am, because nobody else is watching me. You do not even care to be in the same room with me for longer than necessary. In fact, you hardly attend any room at all, so why does a bit of light bother you? Are your shadows so deeply comforting to you that you are afraid of some brightness?”

She eyed his scarred face, dropping her attention to his scarred hands. The Duke followed her gaze and clenched his fingers.

“No,” he said, but it did not sound true. “But when you are looked at the way I have been, light is sometimes not a friendly thing.”

“And who is looking at you right now? You are in the light, Your Grace, and I am looking right at you. I am not flinching away, am I?”

Her question caught him off guard; she could sense it. His shoulders tensed, and he turned his face away from her as if suddenly self-conscious of her bringing attention to his face and how she regarded him.

“I require privacy, Duchess,” he growled. “I like order. I like having thingsmyway.”

“Well, whether you like it or not, you invited me into this castle through marriage. That wasyouroffer, and you cannot expect me to live in the shadows. I crave light and warmth, and I cannot change that.”

“As I cannot change my own needs.”

“Yours are borne from fear,” she confronted. “My needs are born from life. Can you not simply open up to the possibility of light? Try living in it—just one day, if that is all you can give me. But please… let me have this.”

A torn sort of expression split his face, curling his mouth, tightening his eyes as he inhaled deeply. He moved closer, so close she could feel the brush of his breath on her temple.

“Repeat what you said just now,” he murmured, voice low enough to vibrate through her chest.

“I asked you to try for one?—”

“Before that.”

Her lips parted, a breath escaping before she could stop it. “Please.”

His eyes darkened, heat and something far sharper flickering there. “Mm. I knew pleading would suit those lips of yours, wife,” he whispered, the rumble of it grazing her skin like a touch.

Her heart lurched, her throat tightening as words tangled uselessly on her tongue. She wanted to deny him, to scoff, to retreat—but his nearness stole her reason.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering just shy of hers, so close she could feel the warmth radiating off him, a tormenting ghost of contact.

“Perhaps I should reward you,” he said, softer now, “for being so very good and polite.”

Her pulse thundered, her body betraying her with the smallest tilt forward, as if she were the one seeking the kiss.

And then, his mouth pressed to hers.

Her gasp was lost in the heat of his lips, the gentle sweep of his tongue along her lower lip. But he kept the kiss closed, letting only his lips find a rhythm with hers. For a second, there was a slight graze of teeth on her lip, and she shivered at the sting.

Her hands lifted to his face, feeling the bumps and ridges of his scars. His own fell to her waist, and she found herself falling into him.

The stumble she gave, her chest meeting his body, had her staggering back, her gasp ragged as she pulled away. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes fixed wildly on her husband, shocked.

The Duke’s gaze rested on hers, heavy and confused. There was a slight pull to his dark brows.

“I…” He began, stepping back.

Isabella realized too late that her shock must have looked different to him. Disgusted or horrified, perhaps.

“Wait!” she called out, but the Duke was already shaking his head, walking away.

Isabella stood in the hallway alone. The light suddenly felt colder than she thought it would.

Chapter Seven