Page 3 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

CHAPTER TWO

I t felt like the earth itself stilled.

Cecilia’s breath lodged somewhere between her throat and her lungs as she turned, slowly, towards the voice. Standing at the far end of the room was a man. Tall. Broad shoulders. Slicked back dark hair and a glare that thinned the air around her.

“What?” was the only thing Cecila could utter.

It felt as though she wasn’t seeing things clearly. A strange fog seemed to cloud her thoughts, blurring the line between what had happened and what surely couldn’t have.

A man. In her room?

It didn’t feel possible. It couldn’t be possible.

“Again, I ask. What are you doing?”

Cecilia jumped at the sound of his deep voice, pulling her down to the reality of that moment.

She had only her shift and stays on, and her gown lay on the ground, surrounding her.

Every instinct screamed at her to move, to cover herself, to speak.

But she could do none of it. Even though a part of her knew that her eyes were not deceiving her, she could not, in that moment, fully comprehend the situation.

The man’s gaze did not drop, did not waver. It was not lecherous, but it was studying her asif she were a puzzle, a portrait, a thing entirely unfamiliar and faintly inconvenient.

Then, he stepped forward.

Just one pace. Perhaps two. But it was enough.

The space between them began to shrink, and with it, Cecilia’s breath. Her lungs tightened as though bound with ribbon. The closer he drew, the harder it became to hold herself still beneath his gaze. It pressed against her, an invisible tension that made the fine hairs on her neck rise.

He said nothing. But his presence, cold, commanding, and far too compelling, seemed to fill the room. He was young from what she could see. If she had to judge from how he carried himself, he was probably titled too.

Do something, Cecilia. Anything! You are half-bare!

“I…” She cleared her throat. “I believe there has been a mistake,” she managed, her voice shaking as she took a small step back. Her skin burned beneath his gaze. “This room is meant for me. I was told my bags would be in here, brought in by the–”

“You’re in the wrong chambers,” he said coldly, cutting her off. His voice was deep and even, carrying no hint of alarm or embarrassment. “This is mine.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. “Yours?” she echoed, heart still thudding. “But I counted three doors,” she mumbled, almost to herself. “Or did I? Was it two?”

“You may find it easier to think,” he said coolly, “once you have put your gown back on.”

Cecilia blinked.

For one dreadful moment, she had been so stunned by the sight of him that she’d entirely forgotten that she was still standing there in nothing but her shift and stays.

Her face flamed.

“Oh,” she gasped, turning her back to him at once and all but diving for the discarded gown. “Oh goodness, yes, of course. I’m so—this is—please forgive me, I thought—” Her fingers fumbled at the fabric, gathering it in shaking hands. “I thought this was the room Lucy said was mine.”

There was no reply.

Whether he was still standing behind her or had mercifully turned away, she didn’t dare to check.

The silk was suddenly slippery, her hands were clumsy, and her pride was in tatters.

She pulled the gown on as fast as dignity would allow, but one foot caught in the folds of silk, and before she could steady herself, her ankle twisted.

A startled cry escaped her lips as she tumbled forward, landing hard on the wooden floor with a graceless thud. Her elbow struck first, followed by her shoulder, and the gown she’d so desperately tried to wear became a crumpled mess beneath her.

Mortification rose like a tide inside her. She lay there, winded and utterly horrified, as a soft groan slipped from her lips, half pain, half disbelief.

For a moment, there was nothing but the silence that followed her fall. Then she heard footsteps approaching and soon, his shadow stretched across the floor, practically swallowing the space around her.

“Are you…crying?” he asked quietly.

Cecilia’s eyes blinked rapidly, unsure whether she was about to laugh or sob at the absurdity of the entire day.

“No, I’m not crying,” she answered, flustered.

“It’s just this blasted dress! I have no idea why it ripped in the first place.

It cost us so much money to get it made by one of the best seamstresses in all of London. Why would it rip?”

Cecilia groaned. “I practically tore it off my body because I didn’t think I was going to wear it again, and now it’s impossible to put it back on! The buttons won’t fasten, and I’m all tangled up in the fabric.” Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “What is going on today?”

“Miss–”

“Sir, are you certain that this is your room?” she blurted, panting.

“Yes,” he answered plainly. “I am in fact certain.”

“Then that means my bags are not here,” she mumbled. “So, I really have to put on this dress again and walk back outside to look for my chambers.”

He reached down and gently helped her to her feet before she could protest. Cecilia’s hands trembled as she fumbled with the dress again, hoping that this time, she could put it together well enough to leave the room.

Flustered, she bit her lip and muttered curses under her breath as she struggled to fasten the buttons.

“Do you need help?” his deep voice cut through the silence.

Cecilia snapped her head up. “Of course not,” she replied quickly. “This is already a highly inappropriate situation. I would, however, appreciate it if you turn away.”

“I quite agree,” he said evenly. “I am only offering my help so you can leave quickly.”

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

“I’m not going to harm you,” he said quietly, reaching out a hand toward the laces.

Before he could touch them, Cecilia’s hand shot out and smacked his fingers away. “Don’t!” she snapped. “I can do it. I just need a moment.”

He blinked in surprise, stepping back slightly. “Did you really just smack my hand?”

“I did tell you quite nicely that I can manage on my own.” She paused, then softened her tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. This is all rather overwhelming.”

“This would go a lot quicker if you just let me do a few buttons and lace it up properly,” he said. “I have somewhere to be, and you’re making this unnecessarily difficult.”

Cecilia pulled back. “What exactly do you know about ladies’ dresses, pray tell? You’re not a seamstress.”

“Perhaps not. But since you don’t have eyes in the back of your head, how do you expect to fix that dress all by yourself?”

“I’m perfectly capable, thank you very much. I just prefer not to have a man fussing over me.”

“Fussing?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it? I was merely trying to be helpful; not coddle you like a child.”

Cecilia shot back, “Well, it certainly feels like coddling. Now, turn away!”

He folded his arms, eyes narrowing with disbelief. “The gown is already on you. Why on earth do you need me to turn away?”

“Because it’s torn, and I feel exposed,” she said, glancing at him as she continued to struggle with the buttons. Deep down, Cecilia knew she needed help, but there was no way she was going to allow this stranger to give it to her.

He stepped closer. “What is your name?”

Her fingers froze mid-struggle, and she shot him a cool, guarded look. “I don’t see why that matters.”

“Is obstinacy your only form of communication?”

Before she could respond, a sharp knock struck the door, once, briskly, but the courtesy ended there. The door creaked open a heartbeat later, and Aunt Marianne swept into the room.

“Your Grace, is everything all right? Everyone is expect–”

Marianne began as she stepped into the room, but her words faltered.

Her gaze landed on Cecilia, and at that moment, Cecilia forgot how to breathe. Her dress was half-fastened, hair slightly askew, cheeks flushed. Then Marianne shifted to the duke, standing far too near for decency.

Marianne's mouth parted, but no sound emerged.

Cecilia half expected a shriek to have filled the room already.

It was miraculous. For once in her life, Marianne had been rendered utterly speechless.

Cecilia might have savored the moment, had she not been half-undressed and on the verge of social ruin.

Please, heavens, open the floor beneath me now.

Cecilia lowered her gaze to the ground, begging it to split open and swallow her whole. She stared at the wooden floor, as though it might show her mercy and grant her swift escape from the chaos that was surely about to erupt. Surely there was no–

Wait…

“Your Grace?” she echoed, the words leaving her lips before she could think. Her gaze snapped to the man she had just smacked, bickered with, practically undressed in front of.

There was only one duke attending this gathering. Only one man in the entire house who bore that title.

Lucy’s intended.

Lucy’s duke.

“Oh no,” she breathed, eyes widening as she staggered back a step. The torn dress clung miserably to her frame.

Aunt Marianne gasped sharply, one gloved hand flying to her chest. “Heavens above!”

Cecilia winced and immediately opened her mouth to speak, but only a squeak came out. Her mind raced, trying to string together words that made sense, but all she could manage were fragments. “Aunt Marianne, this isn’t…I assure you, whatever it is that you think or – He just – We just–”

“Tell me that my eyes are deceiving me!” Her voice rose with each syllable, eyes wild and brimming with horror as she turned on Cecilia. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

“I did nothing!” Cecilia burst out, finally finding her voice. “I promise, I didn’t know this was his chambers! I thought this was my room, I must have miscounted the doors...my dress ripped, and Lucy sent me to–”