Page 26 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

S omething was happening.

Something Valentine was dreadfully worried about.

Cecilia stood at the top of the staircase, her hand lightly resting on the banister. He paused for the briefest of seconds, but it was long enough. He could sense it before he understood it. Like the change in the air before a storm, subtle but charged.

He swallowed once.

The dress, that scandalous shade of red, clung to her far too well.

It was elegant but bold in a way he wasn’t certain he was comfortable with other men noticing.

Against the soft brown of her hair, the color brought out a kind of glow in her skin he had not remembered noticing before.

Or perhaps he had simply refused to notice it.

Without thinking, his hand lifted. Just slightly, only a small movement as she began to descend the staircase. He hadn’t even realized he meant to offer her his hand until it was already there, hovering mid-air between them like something treasonous.

He stilled. His fingers curled into a fist as he lowered his arm, carefully. He had made a promise to himself that he would not touch her. That he would keep boundaries clear, respectable, and untouched.

Yet,That promise had been breaking into pieces for weeks now. He was the one who kept forgetting the rules.

He looked up just in time to see her step off the final stair. Her eyes flicked to his once more with a smile on her face.

Valentine inclined his head, hands firmly behind his back now, tightly clasped, as if holding himself still took effort.

“Why do you look so nervous?” he asked as he led her out of the hall, noting the faint tension in her posture, the way her fingers clutched her reticule just a bit too tightly.

Cecilia hesitated before answering. “If you are not bothered about the rumors, then I suppose I must carry the full weight of them alone.”

He slowed his stride, glancing down at her.

She met his gaze then, her chin lifting just slightly. “Tonight, people will stare and they’ll talk. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to enjoy any of it.”

Valentine’s jaw tensed, just barely, but enough that he felt the ache settle behind his teeth. It wasn’t the gossip that bothered him. He had endured whispers his entire life, some earned, many not. It was her worry that stirred something sharp in him.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked ahead as the carriage came into view, the footman already opening the door. He offered his hand to help her in, but didn’t speak until she was seated.

“Do not concern yourself with the rumors, Duchess,” he said to her. “That is what they are, rumors.”

She didn’t answer him.

Instead, she turned her face slightly toward the carriage window, her fingers loosening around her gloves as she exhaled a quiet sigh. It wasn’t pointed, not exactly, it was the kind of sigh that came from weariness one hadn’t meant to show.

Valentine said nothing more.

He sat back, his gaze settling not on her, but on the glass of the opposite window, where the blurred lanterns of streetlamps passed in slow procession. The carriage rolled steadily forward, the silence between them no longer strained, only quiet.

By the time they reached the Wentworths’ residence, the streets were already lined with carriages. The sounds of laughter and music drifted faintly into the warm night air.

Their arrival was announced with typical grandeur, and as Valentine stepped down first and turned to offer his hand, Cecilia placed hers lightly into his. She didn’t look at him. But he felt the tremor in her fingers nonetheless, small, fleeting.

Inside, the foyer was all marble and polished wood, with footmen scurrying past and ladies preening as they shed their cloaks. As soon as they moved into the ballroom, a voice broke through the din.

“Cecilia!”

“Emma!” Cecilia answered.

Valentine smiled faintly on seeing Emma, Cecilia’s sister. She swept across the room, her gown a soft blue, with her curls pinned artfully back. Behind her trailed a tall man, the same height as him, watching the interaction. Valentine took a guess, figuring the man was Emma’s husband.

Emma gathered Cecilia into a warm embrace before stepping back to properly inspect her.

“Oh heavens, you look beautiful. That color is positively ravishing on you.”

Cecilia laughed, truly laughed, and something in Valentine’s chest shifted at the sound.

“Solomon Miller, Duke of Montclaire,” Emma’s husband stepped forward and greeted. “I believe we have not had the pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Valentine Price,” he returned as they shook hands.

“Ashbourne, right?” Solomon said thoughtfully. “You hold land south of Derby, too, do you not?”

“I do,” Valentine replied, his interest sharpening as he squinted his eyes. “I hear Montclaire’s holdings flank the eastern ridge.”

Solomon gave a short nod. “A fair portion of the river trade filters through our docks.”

“Convenient,” Valentine said, already calculating numbers. “I’ve long been considering an expansion into timber and refined coal transport. I understand you’re involved in negotiations with Walford?”

Solomon’s brow arched, just a fraction. “I am. Though I’ll admit it’s slow going. Magnus Fitzgerald isn’t exactly the most accessible man.”

Valentine gave a short laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “No, he’s not. I’ve written to him twice in the last year. There is so much we can do with combined resources in that aspect.”

“He hardly ever leaves his estate,” Solomon said. “Keeps to his land in the north like it’s a fortress.”

“Still, you’ve made headway with him,” Valentine noted.

“We’ve spoken through an intermediary. Nothing signed yet, but the foundation is there.” Solomon glanced toward Cecilia and Emma, who were still deep in cheerful conversation. “If you’re interested, perhaps we might meet after the ball. I wouldn’t mind speaking in more detail.”

Valentine inclined his head. “I’d welcome it.”

A brief pause followed, just long enough for the hum of voices to give way to the gentle stir of strings. The orchestra had begun again, this time slower, smoother. A waltz.

Across the ballroom, couples lifted their heads, exchanged glances, and began to move toward the center of the floor.

Solomon turned slightly. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with an easy smile. “I intend to claim the first one.”

Valentine gave a short nod. “Of course. I intend to do the same.”

Without further delay, Solomon crossed the floor and practically pried Emma away from Cecilia.

They melted into the forming circle of dancers.

Valentine watched how careful Solomon was with Emma, making sure not to rush her as she was pregnant.

He smiled to himself...but it felt too bitter, so he stopped.

Valentine’s gaze shifted naturally from them, not wanting to relive any depressing memories. He made his way to Cecilia, who was standing a few paces away from him as she watched Emma and Solomon.

“Shall we?” he asked, giving her his hand.

She turned toward him, startled. “Pardon?”

Valentine raised one brow. “That was a perfectly ordinary question, Duchess. Or do you need me to repeat it?”

As she stared at his outstretched hand, hesitating, Valentine kept his expression neutral.

But behind it, his mind ticked steadily.

There were, of course, dozens of ways to handle the gossip.

Letters could be sent. Allies could be summoned.

He could even...if he felt particularly vindictive, start a counter-rumor or threaten a solicitor’s involvement.

But all of that would take time, and this was simpler. If people were determined to whisper unfounded rumors, then he would give them something else to whisper about. Something they couldn’t ignore. It was the safest way to stop Cecilia from worrying so much.

She placed her hand in his, tentative and cool against his glove.

But the contact was real. Willing. He curled his fingers gently around hers, his hold firm, and led her out onto the floor.

Heads turned as they passed. Conversation thinned, curiosity thickening in its place.

He ignored it. He always did. When they reached the center, she dipped into a graceful curtsy.

He bowed in answer, and then he stepped forward, guiding her into the first turn of the waltz.

Her hand rested on his shoulder. His hand settled at the small of her back. It was a familiar position, at least in theory. But the instant he pulled her close, it was no longer just a formality. She fit.

The memory came unbidden. Of her tucked beneath the crook of his arm in the stillness of his bedchamber.

Of her warmth beside him in sleep, her breath against his skin.

He had been unable to forget that night and how good it felt to have someone sleep by his side.

Holding her like this, almost identically, he felt something stir in him.

Something inconvenient. Something he thought he had buried.

He cleared his throat softly, tightening his hold just slightly to keep her steady as they turned. The room spun gently around them, but his focus narrowed only to her. It’s only a dance, he reminded himself. One dance.

She tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her lips parting just slightly as she caught her breath.

Of late, he couldn’t stop looking at it.

Her lips. No matter how he disciplined his thoughts, no matter how he told himself to focus on something else, his gaze would always return to that soft, traitorous curve of her lips.

He didn’t know what it meant, and he hated that he didn’t know.

It wasn’t lust exactly, though God knew he wasn’t immune to her beauty.

No, this was something else. Something subtler.

More maddening. She would smile, just barely, and it would sit with him for hours.

She would speak, and all he could think about was the shape her mouth made around the words, and when she bit her lip, out of nerves or hesitation or sheer mischief, it undid him.