Page 31 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

In Abigail’s chamber, Valentine laid her gently in the bed, pulling the sheets up around her and tucking them in at the sides.

The child stirred only once, mumbling something inaudible before curling onto her side with a sigh.

He brushed a lock of hair from her face and stood there a moment, just looking down at her.

Cecilia stood at the door, watching.

She had never seen him like this. So tender, so entirely unguarded. There was no trace of the cold Duke there, no sharp lines or barbed words. Just a father and his daughter, in a moment of quiet peace. Her hand tightened around the edge of her shawl.

He was a good father. The sort that made his child feel safe.

The sort that knew how to be soft without letting go of strength.

Suddenly, she hated that she had never thought about having that kind of softness with a child of her own.

In that moment, she started to hate that Valentine had chosen so firmly not to have another child. Not with her.

The thought pierced her heart with a sharpness that surprised her. Perhaps it was because Abigail was such an easy child that Cecilia was starting to think that having one of her own wouldn’t be bad. Abigail could use a sibling.

She swallowed, turning her gaze from the bed to the man beside it. He leaned down, kissed Abigail’s forehead, and straightened.

As they stepped quietly out of Abigail’s room, the gentle click of the door behind them seemed louder than necessary. Valentine turned to walk ahead, but Cecilia reached out, her fingers brushing his hand before curling around it, causing him to stop.

He glanced at their joined hands, then at her.

She meant to say something else entirely. Perhaps a soft thank you, perhaps an apology for the rumors. But what came out of her mouth was different. “What happened to her?” She asked quietly. “Your late wife. You never speak of her.”

Valentine’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t frown, didn’t blink. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he said, calmly but firmly.

She didn’t let go of his hand, even as her heart sank a little. “But why? Wouldn’t it be better if I knew?”

Valentine gently pried his hand away, and he began to walk down the corridor. Cecilia followed him, trying to keep up with his pace.

“Did you love her? How did she pass away? Why do you look so hurt when the topic of her arises? What did she do to you?”

He stopped again and turned to face her. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight, Cecilia,” he said. “We haven’t exchanged words in a long time. I would like to keep it that way. So please, drop it.”

She studied him closely, searching his face. There it was again. That same look he wore when he thought no one noticed. A shadow of pain behind his eyes. It was the kind of sorrow that made a man older than his years, and it was eating at her that she had no idea why he looked so…pained.

Slowly, she nodded. “Fine,” she murmured. “I’ll drop it for now.”

They walked on in silence, the weight of the moment between them softening into something quieter, something unspoken. Just as they reached the foot of the stairs, Valentine paused.

Without a word, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of green twine. He held it out to her.

Cecilia blinked. “What is this?”

He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “A trinket,” he said simply. “From one of the stalls. I saw it and I thought of you. Thought it might please you.”

She took it slowly, her fingers brushing his as she did, and untied the twine with deliberate care.

Nestled inside was a small trinket box, polished to a soft gleam.

The lid was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, forming the delicate shape of a lily.

It looked far too lovely to have come from the fair.

Her breath caught as she turned it over in her hands, the smooth wood warm against her palm.

Of all the things he could have chosen..

. this felt thoughtful. Personal. Almost intimate.

More than the fact that Valentine had chosen a beautiful gift for her, what made her even more excited was that he had thought of her. He had chosen it for her.

Valentine shifted beside her. “Cecilia…”

She glanced up at him, the gift still cradled in her hands.

“I know I haven’t said much. About Helena,” he began. “Perhaps I never will in the way you want me to. But that doesn’t mean I intend to shut you out entirely.”

She didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

“I’m trying. I just need you to trust that when I can, when I’m able, I will speak of it. But for now…” He paused, exhaling as though each word cost him something. “For now, I would like to carry it alone.”

Cecilia looked at him, at the flicker of vulnerability so rarely permitted to surface in his expression. He had bared a piece of himself, and somehow, he had done it with more honesty than she had expected.

Cecilia stepped forward. She hadn’t meant to.

It simply happened, like breathing. The trinket box remained cradled in one hand, but her other rose of its own accord, drawn not by logic, but by something older, something instinctive.

Her fingers brushed the fine fabric of his lapel, pausing there for only a moment before venturing upward.

She didn’t stop to think.

Her thumb found the base of his throat, just at the hollow where his breath caught.

Slowly, almost reverently, she traced upward, feeling the soft give of his skin over the strong column of his neck, the slight rasp of stubble brushing the pad of her finger.

When she reached the sharp edge of his jaw, her touch lingered there for a split second, then continued.

Valentine didn’t move. He watched her, unmoving, breath shallow.

Her hand slid along the line of his jaw, up to the corner of his mouth. Then her thumb pressed, softly, deliberately against his lips. She could feel the heat of his breath and could even taste the kiss before it even happened.

It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t even brave.

It simply was.

She rose to her toes once more, closed the remaining distance, and kissed him, not with the soft uncertainty of earlier, but with a subtle hunger that had long been waiting its turn.

Valentine inhaled sharply against her mouth, startled, but he didn’t pull away.

His hands rose, one to her lower back, drawing her in, the other sliding up her spine with a slow, open-palmed possessiveness that made her knees tremble. He kissed her back with a kind of stunned reverence, as though trying to map each breath, each tilt of her lips against his.

The kiss deepened, grew warmer.

His mouth parted under hers. His hand cradled her jaw as his thumb grazed her cheekbone. His body leaned into hers just enough for her to feel the tension caged inside him. Yet he was careful. Always careful. As if he didn’t want to take too much, even now.

But then, without breaking the kiss, he shifted, gently guiding her backward with slow, deliberate steps.

Her back brushed the wall, just as his body settled in, shielding her.

One of his hands braced beside her head, the other still firm at her waist, and the weight of him, his warmth, his presence, pressed against her like a promise he hadn’t yet made.

Cecilia’s fingers curled into the fabric at his chest, holding on. Her breath came faster now, not from fear but from the way he kissed her. He had taken control away from her.

His chest rose and fell against hers, and in that space between them, she could feel the storm gathering inside him. Still, he kissed her, and although she wasn’t sure how long she could keep matching his energy before she ran out of breath, she kissed him back.

Then he moaned. Low. Deep. Probably unintended.

The sound reverberated through her like a tremor, as if it had reached into her very bones and stirred something loose. Her pulse rioted in her throat. Her knees buckled. Every nerve in her body sparked to life at once like she’d touched lightning.

It stole her breath. All of it. She was unraveling.

She gripped his coat as her body pressed closer, desperate for something to tether her, and yet it wasn’t enough, not with the way he kept touching her, not with the way his hand had curved around the back of her neck like he wanted her closer still.

Her skin tingled. Her heart pounded so wildly it felt like her ribs might crack from the force. The heat between them grew unbearable, swarming through her in wild, dizzying waves until her chest ached and her lips trembled against his.

She needed air. She needed space.

With a soft, strangled gasp, Cecilia tore herself away, panting. Her palms came up to press against his chest, just enough to put distance between them, though the heat of him still radiated through her hands.

“I...” she began, but the words wouldn’t come. Only a shallow, ragged breath.

He stood there, eyes dark, lips parted, dazed.

“I’m sorry. Good night, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together. Then she turned, nearly stumbling as she fled down the corridor, her heartbeat pounding louder than her footsteps.

Valentine didn’t follow. He remained rooted where she’d left him, as if stunned by the force of what had just passed between them.

Cecilia reached her room and closed the door behind her with trembling fingers.

She didn’t bother with the lamp. She just let the darkness settle as her back slid down the door, and she sank to the floor.

She sat there in silence, her chest still heaving, her head spinning, one hand resting over the place in her ribcage that still felt the thunder of his nearness.

It was only a kiss. But heavens, deep down, she knew it had unlatched something wild, something impossible to contain now that it had tasted the light.