Page 9 of His Stolen Duchess (Stolen by the Duke #7)

Chapter Seven

“ G ood evening, Your Grace,” Georgina said as a footman showed her into the dining hall. “Oh, I do hope that doesn’t qualify as small talk. Would it be better if I entered without a word?”

She hadn’t expected to find the Duke there. After dining alone or with her lady’s maid for the past three days, she’d rather assumed she would continue to eat in solitude. Yet there he was, seated at the head of the table, impeccably dressed as though he had never once missed a formal supper.

Which, of course, was exactly what one would expect of him. But she had stopped expecting it.

Without looking up from his soup, he remarked, “You’re not wearing your parrot this evening?”

Georgina smiled faintly as she took her seat. “He doesn’t match my gown.”

She let the footman settle her chair before fixing her gaze firmly on the far wall, pretending she hadn’t noticed how easily he could unsettle her.

That maddening pull between them had begun in the carriage, and it had only deepened since.

Each time she saw him, she would recall the closeness of their near-kiss, and the sensation of it would never quite leave her.

She hated how it lingered and how she, in turn, responded by trying to provoke him into feeling the same. Judging by the way he had looked at her two days prior, right before leaving her in the company of her parrot, she suspected it was nearly working.

Out of the corner of her eye, she stole a glance at him.

He sat composed at the head of the table, every inch the Duke, his broad shoulders filling out the severe lines of his evening coat.

The cut of it, sharp and tailored, only seemed to emphasize the strength beneath—strong arms, a firm chest, the unmistakable build of a man shaped by years of exercise, not idle society.

She wasn’t quite sure why she kept noticing such things… only that it was difficult not to.

The footmen entered and set bowls of soup before them, then withdrew, leaving the room in near silence.

Georgina waited for the Duke to begin before picking up her spoon. She kept her gaze carefully averted, but the quiet pressed down on her with every passing second. She very nearly considered fetching Mr. Squawksby simply to fill the air.

At last, she broke the silence. “Thank you again for allowing me to keep my parrot.”

“You are markedly more agreeable when we’re alone,” he observed, his tone dry. “In company, however, you seem determined to provoke me.”

She blinked. “I thought we were merely conversing.”

“Ah.” He lifted his spoon, still not glancing in her direction. “So that’s what you call it? A pleasant conversation?”

“I never said it was pleasant,” she muttered, the words escaping before she could stop herself.

Heat prickled her cheeks. She needed to regain her composure. She forced herself to focus on the soup in front of her, determined to eat with dignity. But no matter how carefully she moved, her spoon scraped against the porcelain, each stroke louder than the last.

She inwardly cursed both the soup and the impossible man seated across from her.

“Why did you run away from your first wedding?” Lysander asked.

The question caught Georgina off guard, and she almost dropped her spoon into her soup.

She finally raised her head and looked at the Duke properly, only to see that he wasn’t looking back at her.

He was still silently eating his soup, as if he’d practiced since the day he was born to be able to eat soup without making a noise.

She pondered the question, knowing that the longer she went before answering, the more suspicious he would become of her.

“I… I didn’t know my betrothed very well,” she answered.

“And you knew me well before you accepted my proposal?”

“In a way.” Georgina placed her spoon down beside her bowl. “I knew more about you from what you did for me than I knew about Lord Abbington.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” the Duke pressed.

Georgina knew it didn’t, but she also didn’t know what she wanted to tell him. When she dared to look at him out of the corner of her eye, she saw him staring back at her and decided that the truth had to come out sometime.

“On the morning of my wedding, I found one of the maids, Dottie, in the kitchens. She was crying and inconsolable. I pleaded with her to tell me what was wrong. It took some time, but she finally admitted that she was with child. Then, she revealed that Lord Abbington was the father, and that he claimed the child was not his and that he wanted nothing to do with her. I couldn’t face marrying a man who would disregard his own child like that, or the woman who was to be the mother of his child. ”

“It’s not uncommon for lords to have children out of wedlock,” the Duke commented nonchalantly.

The comment took Georgina aback. She didn’t know what she wanted to ask first—whether he had children she should know about, or if he was dismissing Lord Abbington’s actions.

“It wasn’t only that,” Georgina retorted. “When I confronted him… the way he spoke about Dottie, and…” she hesitated as she remembered how he’d suggested she offer herself to him before their wedding.

“And?” the Duke motioned for her to continue.

“And several other things. He never cared about me either. He only wanted me to give him an heir, after which he intended to send me off to the Mediterranean to live.”

Lysander watched her carefully, his gaze sharp and assessing.

“And what of the maid?” he asked, his voice quiet but cutting. “Did it ever occur to you that fleeing in such dramatic fashion might have only worsened her fate?”

Georgina’s breath caught. “She wasn’t safe!” she fired back. “I had to do something. He—he treated her like she was nothing.”

His expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened. “And you think running blindly into the streets solved that?” He set his spoon down, calm but cold. “You acted on impulse. Recklessly. Childishly.”

Her spine stiffened at his words.

“Patience wouldn’t have saved Dottie,” she snapped, her voice tight. “And it certainly never saved me. You sound as if you’ve never once cared about anyone’s suffering.”

His gaze darkened. “Feelings don’t erase consequences,” he said evenly. “The world isn’t ruled by sentiment, Duchess. You would do well to learn that.”

Georgina’s temper flared, but she kept her voice low, aware of the staff nearby.

“You speak of consequences and reality as though you’ve never let yourself actually live,” she said, meeting his eyes boldly. “You seem more concerned with rules and control than anything resembling life.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed, but otherwise he remained utterly still. His silence unsettled her more than his words.

“Rules,” he said, his voice quiet but threaded with something dangerous as he continued, “are what keep a person prepared.”

She let out a humorless breath, her eyes still locked on his.

“You cannot prepare for everything,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Life rarely lets you follow a neat plan, no matter how tightly you cling to it.” She tilted her head slightly. “Or perhaps it’s not preparation you care about, but control.”

That struck deeper than she expected. His gaze sharpened, cold fire flickering in its depths. Slowly, he stood, the movement deliberate, each inch he rose seeming to fill the room with his looming presence.

Before she could react, he was beside her chair, leaning in. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“You have no idea what real control means, wife,” he murmured, the low scrape of his voice curling down her spine.

His hand came up, fingers firm yet careful as he took her chin between them, tilting her face toward his. She froze, her heart hammering wildly beneath her ribs.

“You’ve been running wild far too long,” he went on, his quiet words a threat, or perhaps a promise. “But here… here, you’ll learn something else entirely.”

His thumb traced lightly over her lower lip, barely a touch, but enough to ignite a rush of warmth through her body.

“Rules,” he said, his voice like velvet-encased steel, “aren’t just restrictions. They can become pleasures you’ve never dared imagine.”

Her breath caught. She couldn’t look away from him. Trapped in the intensity of his gaze, her skin burned where his thumb lingered.

She didn’t even hear the staff approach until the clink of plates shattered the moment.

Dessert was being set on their table.

Lysander straightened at once, and his face returned to that cool, detached mask, as if nothing had happened at all. He didn’t spare her another glance as he resumed his seat.

Georgina’s hands trembled slightly as she pushed her chair back, her pulse still unsteady.

“I… I must excuse myself,” she said, her voice wavering despite herself.

Without waiting for permission, she rose and left the dining hall, her skirts sweeping behind her as she fled upstairs, her heart still racing, and her lips still tingling from his touch.