Page 13 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

ANNA STOOD BEFORE the looking glass as Josie fastened the last pearl button on her evening gown. Her gaze drifted past her reflection, settling instead on the neatly made bed behind her. She had awoken during the night to find herself wrapped in Hugh's arms, held tightly like some precious treasure.

When morning had arrived, she had woken to find he was gone—not even leaving an impression on the bedsheets, to let her know that she had not dreamed his presence.

Her new husband was a mystery to her; consumed by fiery passion one moment, gentle as a lamb the next. She sensed there were secrets beneath his carefully constructed, haughty veneer. Secrets he would never share. Would he forever remain an enigma that could kiss her with passion one moment and retreat behind cold formality the next?

“You’ll mark it," Josie fretted, batting Anna’s hands away from worrying the material of the gown that had arrived that morning from Madame Devearaux’s.

“Nobody will note a mark or two,” Anna replied with a shrug, “Unless they examine my skirts with a magnifying glass.”

For a moment, Josie looked as though she was going to suggest that this was not beyond the realm of possibilities. Despite her own anxiety, Anna offered her lady’s maid an affectionate smile.

“Nobody would dare attempt such a thing with Falconbridge by my side,” she reassured her.

“True, he’s quite fearsome,” Josie agreed, flittering about brushing imaginary lint from the gown’s full skirts. “But one never knows who is watching, so try not to fidget and ruin my good work.”

She paused then, as though considering her words, before adding a rather reluctant; “Your Grace.”

“I promise I will try,” Anna swore.

“Try?” Josie raised a skeptical brow. “Well then, I can expect to have the flat-iron ready when you return. Still, your fidgeting keeps me in gainful employment so I won’t grouse too much. Now, turn and show me.”

Anna turned from the mirror to present herself to Josie—an act that seemed a tad ridiculous, for she could already see her in the looking glass. Josie rewarded her efforts with a happy sigh, her brown eyes misty.

“If your mama could see you now,” she declared, fishing a handkerchief from her pocket to blow her nose loudly. “She always wanted the best for you and now, here you are, decked out in silks like a princess.”

“A mere duchess, I’m afraid,” Anna smiled, though she did agree with Josie that the dress was exquisite. The emerald silk gown draped gracefully over her figure, its empire waistline embellished with delicate gold beading that caught the candlelight with each breath she took. The neckline dipped lower than Anna was used to, framed by delicate Venetian lace.

“Are you certain I don’t need a fichu?” Anna questioned, turning to frown at her appearance one last time.

“A fichu?” Josie snorted, “You’re going to a ball, not visiting a convent. You’re the picture of grace and elegance—at least you will be, if you can keep from fidgeting.”

Josie affectionately batted Anna’s hand away from her neckline before marching her out the door with a mixture of well-wishes and muttered warnings about the dire misfortunes that might befall a duchess who rumpled new silk.

Falconbridge was waiting for her at the bottom of the grand staircase, impatiently pacing the marble tiles of the entrance hall.

He turned, as he heard her step on the stair..

"You look magnificent," he said, his eyes travelling slowly from the top of her head to the tips of her satin slippers—before returning, Anna noted with amusement, to her cleavage for a second glance.

She should have worn the fichu.

"As do you," she replied primly. He did cut a dashing figure, dressed all in black, save the white of his precisely tied cravat.

“Tonight, I exist only as the man standing beside the Duchess of Falconbridge,” he informed her with a wicked smile. “I shall have to stand two steps behind you at all times, or people will shout at me to stop blocking their view.”

She smiled at his playfulness, though inside his words—and the admiration in his eyes—made her giddy.

“Allow me,” he continued, taking an emerald green cloak from the footman and wrapping it around her shoulders. He then donned his own coat of black merino before signalling to the waiting staff that they were ready.

Outside a carriage and four awaited them. The duke offered Anna his hand to assist her inside and even though they both wore gloves, she felt a frisson of connection.

She glanced back at him, somewhat startled. His eyes met hers, his grin lupine.

“Don’t worry, I shan’t rip your dress on the way there,” he promised, climbing in after her.

Much like Josie, Anna was not at all reassured by his half-promise.

After all, he’d only promised not to rip her dress on the way there. The return journey, she suspected, was fair game—and somehow, she doubted even Josie’s flat-iron could undo his handiwork.

The Lavery's ballroom was a crush; the air a thick roar of conversation and laughter as hundreds of society’s finest glittered beneath the bright chandeliers.

The announcement of their arrival seemed to pierce the general hum of conversation, and Anna’s grip tightened on Hugh’s arm. Every eye in the place turned to look at them—some were so bold as to point quizzing glasses in their direction.

“You’re doing splendidly,” Hugh assured her, sensing her mounting discomfort.

“I’ve only taken one step inside,” she replied, batting away his Spanish Coin. She did not need to be mollycoddled—though she was enormously grateful for his steady presence beside her.

“You’re a duchess now,” Falconbridge reminded her, turning his head to offer her a conspiratorial wink. “All that is required of you to impress people is to merely show up.”

She gave a laugh at the idea, but as their hosts descended on them—all effusive smiles and enthusiasm—she realised he was entirely correct.

"Your Graces, such an honor.” Lady Lavery trilled, fluttering around them like an excited sparrow, as her husband bobbed behind her, attempting to be seen. “How fortunate we are to have you both grace our humble gathering."

Hugh inclined his head with practised precision. "Lady Lavery. A fine assembly."

“Finer now you have arrived,” Lord Lavery trumpeted, earning himself a pained glance from his wife for his eagerness.

They moved past their hosts toward the fray, which parted like The Red Sea for them. No wonder her husband had such self-confidence, Anna thought wryly, the whole world rearranged itself around him.

“I think a glass of ratafia is called for,” Hugh said, once they had arrived at a quiet corner, away from the noise of the six-piece orchestra. He gave a nod to someone Anna could not see and, within seconds, a footman was by their side bearing a tray filled with glasses.

“My lady,” Hugh said, taking a glass and offering it to her.

Anna accepted it quickly, taking a grateful gulp. She coughed a little, startled by the strength of the punch.

“Lord Lavery’s balls are always well attended by the husbands of the ton, as he’s known for being liberal with the eau de vie ,” Hugh explained, raising his own glass in an amused toast.

“I will keep that in mind.” Anna took another—smaller—sip from her glass, allowing her gaze to wander the room. She recognised a few faces from her brief sojourn into society, thought most were strangers to her.

Across the room, she spotted Lady Limehouse, holding court with a few other society doyennes, and in the far distance, she sighted Lord Beaufort.

“There’s Bartie,” she cried cheerfully.

“I don’t think I can match your enthusiasm on that score,” Falconbridge was dry, though his eyes showed amusement at her excitement.

As though sensing he was being discussed, Lord Beaufort looked up, caught Anna’s gaze and gave an eager wave—which she immediately matched.

“I’ll need another glass of ratafia for this,” the duke sighed, as Lord Beaufort began to make his way toward them.

“Hush,” Anna chided, “Balls are supposed to be fun.”

“Our definitions of fun may differ.”

Anna ignored his dark mutterings, turning her gaze instead toward Lord Beaufort. He was by their side in seconds, a conspiratorial smile upon his face.

“Thank goodness you are here, your Grace,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips, “Your shining beauty quite distracts from the malevolent spirit that followed you inside.”

“Good evening to you, too, Beaufort,” Falconbridge reluctantly grinned.

“It speaks,” Bartie turned to Anna, who was thoroughly delighted, in mock surprise. “What do you think the spirit would say if I were to ask you to allow me to be the first name on your dance card?”

“It would say that it may be your last dance, Beaufort,” the duke answered, his eyes not quite matching his jesting tone.

“If it is to be my last dance, then I am glad it will be with the most beautiful woman in the room,” Bartie continued, unabashed. “What say you, your Grace?”

He offered Anna a flourishing bow, then held out his hand to her.

“Just one dance,” she agreed, shrugging helplessly at her smouldering husband.

She took Bartie’s hand and allowed him to lead her to the dancefloor, where a dozen couples were awaiting the orchestra to play. They soon struck up the first chord of The Country Dance, and Anna joined the line of women, facing the men in the opposite line.

The dance began with light, skipping steps, and Anna found herself laughing as Bartie spun her neatly through the figures with surprising skill. As the couples wove and parted, her gaze drifted down the line to her next partner—and caught sight of a tall, elegant figure she hadn’t seen earlier: Lord Gravesend.

He slipped into place opposite her with smooth ease, his expression warm. Their hands met in the center and he gave a broad smile, which she couldn’t help but match.

“Your Grace,” he greeted, his words formal but his tone familiar.

“Lord Gravesend,” she replied, glad to see another friendly face amongst the fray.

“I trust you’ve remained unmolested by footpads of late?” he queried lightly, as they moved through the steps.

“Entirely unmolested,” she agreed, with a self-conscious laugh. “I have learned my lesson about venturing out alone in London.”

“A wise decision for a woman of your beauty,” Gravesend observed, the compliment causing Anna to blush.

“I really do wish to thank you for the kindness you showed me,” she stammered, wishing to deflect any flirtation, then scolding herself for believing him flirting at all. Gravesend was a young buck; he probably dropped compliments at the feet of every lady he danced with.

“As I said, I seek no reward,” Gravesend answered, interrupting her internal anxieties. “Though perhaps—another night—you will promise to share another dance with me?”

Before she could respond, the music drew them apart again. Another partner took the place of Gravesend, and the dance continued until Anna was at last reunited with Bartie. Lord Beaufort kept up a steady stream of conversation as he escorted Anna back to her waiting husband, though as they neared, he gave a giddy laugh.

“I fear I have awoken the beast,” Bartie whispered, as he handed Anna over to Falconbridge.

Hugh’s bearing was rigid and haughty, his dark brow drawn into a frown of vague annoyance—he looked every inch the forbidding duke he was rumoured to be.

“I have returned her in one piece,” Bartie called, convivially, as he handed Anna over to her husband.

“My wife is not a vase, Beaufort,” Hugh drawled, taking Anna’s hand in his. “Though I thank you for treating her with the appropriate delicacy.”

Bartie gave Anna smile, bowed with exaggerated flair to Falconbridge, then melted back into the throng, leaving them alone once more.

Anna glanced at her husband; his posture had eased fractionally, the fearsome frown now vanished, and the tight set of his jaw had relaxed somewhat. He looked almost approachable—almost.

Sensing her eyes upon him, Hugh gave her a sidelong glance.

“Tell me,” he said, in a casual tone that sounded a little forced to Anna’s ear; “How do you know Gravesend?”

“We were introduced at one of the balls I attended with Lady Limehouse,” Anna lied, wondering if her new husband was omnipotent. She had conversed lightly with all her partners during the set; how strange it was that he had honed in on Gravesend, of all people.

Perhaps he can read lips, she thought wildly for a moment, before giving herself a shake. She did not need to ascribe any unbelievable powers to her husband; she found him intimidating enough as he was.

Falconbridge’s expression shifted—not quite scowling, but dark and serious.

“You should not associate with him,” he said, his tone firm.

Anna blinked. “Why ever not?”

“I have my reasons,” he replied, with the finality of a locked door.

Anna’s spine stiffened with annoyance; he could not dictate to her as though she were a member of his household staff, expected to follow his word without explanation.

“You forbid me to walk alone, you forbid me to speak with certain people; am I permitted to breathe without your say-so?”

He did not rise to the bait.

“I expect to be obeyed on this matter,” he said, his tone making it clear that he would brook no argument.

Anna stared at him, stunned into silence. Finally, he had decided to claim his first marital right as a husband, yet the one he had settled for was obedience. It felt somewhat humiliating.

“My, don’t you both look the picture of wedded bliss?”

Edwina arrived before them with a rustle of silk and bombazine. She wore a feathered turban upon her head, which bobbed with a cheeriness that Anna felt almost mocking.

“Mother,” Falconbridge said stiffly in response.

If Edwina noticed her son’s bad mood, she did not let on. Instead, she looped her arm through Anna’s and declared that she wished to spirit her away to mingle.

“I’d ask you to join us, dear, but you appear to have found new employment as a brooding sentry, and I would hate to interrupt your post.”

With a wink, she whisked Anna into the crowd, leaving Falconbridge to glower alone in peace.

“He can be difficult at times,” Edwina confided to Anna in a whisper, as she led her through the crowd. “But his heart is in the right place.”

Anna bit her lip to stop herself from retorting that as far as she could see, the duke had no heart. Instead, she nodded silently in agreement, her expression passive.

“He does have one,” Edwina smiled, interpreting Anna’s silence with the same startling gift of omnipotence her son possessed. “He is a curmudgeon, I’ll admit, but a lovable one. He wasn’t always this imperious and bossy. That came after Jack.”

“Jack?” Anna asked, caught off guard.

Edwina blinked. “He hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

The dowager duchess hesitated for a beat, long enough for Anna to note her discomfiture.

“Jack was Hugh’s brother,” Edwina said quietly. “My firstborn son, my angel. He died over a decade ago. A hunting accident…”

Edwina trailed off, silent for a moment, her fine-boned face a picture of pain.

“It was all very sudden. He had inherited the title at nineteen when my husband died. He was dead by twenty-two.”

Anna’s breath caught as she recalled the portrait that had seemed like a poor likeness of Hugh. Of course, it hadn’t resembled him—because it wasn’t him. It had been Jack. But why hadn’t Hugh told her?

“I am so sorry for your loss. I did not know—Hugh never told me,” she stammered.

Edwina sighed and took a glass of ratafia from a passing tray.

“Yes, well. Hugh doesn’t speak of it. Not to anyone. I think he decided that grieving was an indulgence unbefitting of a duke. He seems to believe that if he can just control everything and everyone, then the worst will never happen again. Very annoying, but as I said, his heart is in the right place. Ah! There is Lady Limehouse. Come, she has been seeking to speak with you all evening.”

Anna allowed Edwina draw her away, into the chattering tide of the ballroom toward Lady Limehouse, but her thoughts remained elsewhere. The man she had married—that highhanded, mysterious creature—was suddenly more complicated than she’d imagined. Was he motivated by a grief so deeply buried that he could not even acknowledge it when asked by his wife? The wife he had decided he wished to save, without being asked, without consideration of the consequences.

Anna could see the wound now, raw beneath the hard exterior, and she could even pity the boy he must have been—stripped of a brother, thrust into a title, believing he should endure. But she had not asked to be another fixture in his world of rigid order and command. She might understand his hurt, but she would not be ruled by it.

If the Duke of Falconbridge wished to have her for his wife, then he would have to reckon with the fact that she was not a fragile thing to guard, but a woman with her own mind, her own demands. Because if he thought love was obedience, he was in for a very long marriage indeed.

Anna endured the rest of the evening wearing a smile so false it made her jaw ache. At midnight, when Hugh suggested they might leave, she agreed easily.

They rode home in silence, both tense and coiled, but refusing to acknowledge it. Once inside Falconbridge House, Anna bid him a cool goodnight. Though her body hummed with need for him, she could not bear to lose control again in front of a man who refused to let his guard down before her.

It was all give and no take, she mused, as Josie assisted her with the many ties and stays of the elaborate gown she wore.

“I can manage from here, Josie,” Anna smiled, once she had been freed from the garment.

“I’ll take this back to my room, sponge it and hang it down there,” Josie agreed with a half-yawn, too tired to even attempt to pretend that she wanted to stay. Anna felt a stab of pity for her; Josie had not had to contend with many late-nights in Whitby.

Once alone, Anna removed the last of her clothes and donned one of her old night-rails. She took herself to the cosy chair by the fire to brush out her hair, still fuming at the inequality she was expected to accept from the man who had insisted she marry him.

Would he come to her tonight?

She stilled as she realised that she did not have to passively wait for him to appear. The door between their room opened both ways.

Emboldened by indignation, she stood and swept across the plush carpet to his chamber. The door handle pushed down easily beneath her hand.

Inside, she found Hugh in a state of half-undress; shirt loose, braces fallen to his hips. He looked up as she entered, his expression closed.

“Is something wrong?” he questioned calmly, his blue eyes tracking her approach.

“Yes,” she answered, refusing to be intimidated by his maddening restraint. He could at least have the decency to look surprised at finding her in his private chambers.

“I’m afraid that I cannot put whatever ails you to right, if you do not elaborate,” he said, his composure as rigid as his posture.

He wanted a response, something he could control and fix. She would not oblige him this time with an answer he could counter.

Hugh watched carefully as she closed the space between them. This close, she could see the evening stubble that darkened his throat and chin. He looked less like a duke and more like a man. A man caught somewhat off guard. A man she could unravel.

Anna lifted her hand to brush her fingers along the stubble-roughened line of his jaw, trailing them down his throat, to the strong beat of his pulse.

His hands moved to draw her to him, but despite the desire in her belly, she resisted his pull.

“No,” she breathed, standing on tip-toe to whisper against his ear. “I’m in charge this time.”

Before he could reply, she brought her lips to his, allowing herself for a moment to sink against his warm strength. His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her against his hardness. Anna growled in frustration and longing; it was difficult to feel in control when his touch made her feverish.

She pulled his shirt from his waistband, tugging it up with impatience. He obliged her by lifting the garment over his head, revealing a broad chest, neat waist, and lean stomach. Her hands roved his bare skin, her touch eliciting a sharp inhale of breath from him.

Emboldened, her fingers moved lower, to the row of buttons at his waistband. She looked up, momentarily uncertain of her plan.

“Dear God, don’t stop,” he groaned, the agony in his voice thrilling her.

She hesitated, both afraid and wanting to commit to memory this moment: the Duke of Falconbridge undone, desperate, utterly hers.

Her hand slipped inside his trousers, bold but tentative, fingers wrapping around his hardness.

“It feels silky,” she whispered, glancing up at him with surprise.

“Be my guest and feel away,” he replied, with a pained, breathless laugh.

He kissed the top of her head, then his hand covered hers to guide her.

“Harder,” he whispered against her hair, once she had found a rhythm.

She brought her lips to his chest as her hand pleasured him, exploring his skin with her mouth, relishing the taste of him.

An instinctive, primal part of her urged her to her knees; she wanted to taste all of him, just as he had tasted her.

“Anna—” Hugh’s voice broke, caught somewhere between protest and plea as she sank to her knees. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That stopped him. He looked down at her, eyes wild with raw and reverent desire. His polish and control had disappeared, leaving in its place pulsing, masculine need.

She leaned in, lips brushing the tip, tasting salt and skin. When she took him into her mouth, his whole body shuddered and he swore an involuntary epithet.

She explored him carefully, learning the rhythm that made him groan, the pressure that made his hips buck. She wasn’t practised, but she was determined to unravel him.

“Christ, Anna…” he called out her name like it hurt, his hips bucking, his thighs rigid with tension.

His hands gripped her hair, pulling her closer, as he spilled into her mouth.

He held her there for a second, his entire body shaking. In that moment, she felt gloriously powerful.

She pulled back slowly, lips swollen, breath unsteady. She rose, calm and quiet, smoothing her night-rail as she stood.

He pulled her toward him again, into an exhausted embrace. His head rested against hers, his mouth pressed against her hair.

“What am I to do with you?” he whispered into her ear, his tone almost anguished.

“Nothing,” she shrugged; tonight she had been the one to act.

His thumb brushed her lower lip, his eyes searching hers. "I would very much like to return the favour."

Anna felt desire stir in her belly, but she resisted.

"Not tonight," she stated, stepping back from his embrace with resolve. "Tonight was about proving a point."

He watched her retreat, desire and respect warring in his expression. "And what point was that, precisely?"

At the door, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. "That you are not the only one with power, your Grace."

She left then, cherishing the look of astonishment on his handsome face.