Page 44 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

Finally, when he reached for her, his arms wrapping around her waist, he pulled her up with him. She was limp, coughing weakly, choking on water. He pulled her with desperate strength, kicking furiously until his feet scraped the muddy bottom.

Valentine staggered to the shore, half-dragging, half-carrying her. She gasped, clinging to him, soaked and trembling. He fell to his knees with her in his arms, pushing her hair away from her face with frantic hands.

“Cecilia,” he said hoarsely, shaking. “Look at me. Breathe. What is it? What hurts?”

She was locked in his arms before he could think, wet and shaking, cold as stone.

He crushed her to his chest, pressing his forehead against hers as though he could fuse her breath with his own.

The terror in his veins hadn't faded; it only coiled tighter as he felt the slender tremor of her body, the fragility of her bones beneath soaked muslin.

But then she pulled away quickly. “Thank you,” she mumbled without even looking at him.

Then she turned her attention to Abigail, who was crying by her side. Cecilia propped her body up to her knees in front of the child and wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly. “Oh, Abigail,” she murmured softly, rocking her gently. “See? Now we’re both wet. We match.”

The little girl let out a hiccup between tears and clung to her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she whispered back.

Valentine rose to his feet, chest heaving, watching the two of them, his daughter and his wife, curled together in a sopping heap of worry and exhaustion.

Slowly, he moved forward and offered Cecilia his hand to help her to her feet.

She glanced at it...but didn’t take it. Instead, she rose on her own, cradling Abigail to her side.

Something in him cracked. She wouldn’t let him touch her. Of course she wouldn’t. She had every right to be angry. He had temporarily forgotten what he did to her, too. Slowly, he lowered his hand, clenched it briefly, and stepped back.

Abigail sniffled into Cecilia’s neck, her little fingers clinging tightly to the damp fabric of her gown. But after a moment, she turned her head and looked over at Valentine. Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes, red and swollen from crying, searched his face.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to punish you. I wanted to see Cecilia. I thought if I left, maybe you’d bring her back.”

Valentine’s throat worked, but no sound came out for a moment. “Abigail, I was terrified. Not angry,” he added quickly, shaking his head. “Afraid. I thought…I thought I had lost you, and I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had. Just...don’t do that to me again.”

As they made their way towards the garden, Valentine scanned the grass until he spotted where he had flung his coat in his mad dash toward the lake.

It lay rumpled and damp, forgotten in the rush of fear.

He picked it up without thought, shook off the worst of the moisture, and crossed the short distance to Cecilia.

He draped the coat over her shoulders to keep her warm until they got inside.

Her shoulders stiffened at first, but she did not shrug it off.

Without a word, they turned and began walking back to the house, one on each side of Abigail, her small hands tucked into theirs.

Inside, the light and warmth of the house felt jarring after the cold breath of the night air.

Miss Flaxman met them at the stairs with a startled cry, her face paling as she took in Abigail’s bedraggled state.

“Oh, child! What–” she cut herself off, ushering them quickly toward Abigail’s bedchamber.

Cecilia loosened her hold only when Abigail was safely in the arms of her governess. She protested faintly, arms still half-reaching, but Miss Flaxman soothed her and began the gentle work of getting her clean and dry and into bed.

Valentine remained at the doorway, watching his daughter. Watching Cecilia, too. Once Cecilia had said good night to Abigail, she made her way out of the room, joining him in the hallway.

“How long was she gone before anyone noticed, Your Grace?” she asked him, low and trembling. “Hours? She said she’s been there since morning.”

He straightened but said nothing.

“What if something had happened?” she pressed, stepping toward him now, the wet hem of her gown trailing across the rug. “What if she had fallen? What if she had taken ill from the cold? She was alone all day, by that large body of water.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have paid better attention to her.”

She was furious, he could tell. Rightly so. She stood before him, wrapped in his coat, damp hair clinging to her temples, her eyes alight with fury. Her words came sharp and fast, each syllable edged with panic and frustration, as though the terror of the night was only now catching up to her.

But as she spoke, chastising him, accusing him of negligence, of failing to see what had been in front of him, Valentine could only stand there, silent, awed.

Because she was talking to him.

In that moment, he realized something terrifyingly foolish.

He was grateful for her anger. Grateful for every word flung at his chest like arrows.

Grateful that she cared enough to yell. Grateful that she hadn’t shut him out entirely.

God help him, he wanted to be the kind of man she could scold like this for the rest of his life.

Valentine watched her with quiet resolve, the tail end of her scolding still hanging heavy in the air between them. Her cheeks were flushed, her lashes wet, and he suspected it wasn’t just the water or the cold.

He kept his voice low, careful not to spook what little peace had settled. “Cecilia,” he said gently. “Can we talk?”

She stiffened. “I have nothing to say to you. My carriage awaits. I shall return to my sister’s home as I came.” Her tone was clipped, firm. She turned as though to leave.

Valentine took a step forward, his eyes dropping to her lips. “Do you truly think I will let you leave this late at night?”

She made a sound of frustration under her breath, a disbelieving scoff. “You cannot stop me,” she said flatly.

But then he stepped forward, only half a pace, and he caught it. The subtle shift in her body, the instant retreat, as though even his nearness was a threat. Still, when he reached for her wrist, she didn’t flinch. Her arm was cold and damp beneath his fingers, but she did not pull away.

He took that fragile permission and said nothing more, only guided her gently, slowly, down the corridor. Step by step. At her chamber door, she hesitated. Then she stepped inside without a word.

Valentine paused, his fingers lingering on the doorframe. “I’ll wait here,” he said softly, not daring to follow. “Take your time. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”

Then he shut the door and remained outside. Waiting. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing, breath slow and shallow. In the stillness, Norman’s words came back to him, and he pondered them.

He had love to give to her.

That was the thought that came, clear as spring water and just as startling. Of all the things he lacked, this one thing, this one truth remained.

He had love to give to her.

He didn’t know if it would be enough. He didn’t know if it would fix what he had broken or soften the anger in her eyes. He didn’t know if it could make her happy, or whole, or even willing to try. But it was all he had left that was real. It was the one thing that made the rest of him make sense.

He could not give her happiness, how could he, when he had not known it himself in so long? Not truly. Not until her. She was the only thing that had stirred joy in him in years, the only one who made the silence inside him feel like something warm instead of something hollow.

But love? That, he had in him in terrible, overflowing measure.

He wanted to give it to her in quiet hours and chaotic ones. It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t perfect. But it was his, this love, and it belonged to her. Entirely. He could no longer imagine life without her. His heart had already chosen its ruin, and the ruin was Cecilia.

She was the one who had undone his heart. She was the one who had undone his soul.