Page 20 of Tantalizing the Duke
Dainsfield stood with the rigid grace of a soldier called to unwelcome duty. His athletic frame seemed out of place among the fragile chairs and embroidered cushions, and the air around him felt charged, as if the very atmosphere were attuned to his presence.
She inclined her head, her voice sweet and sincere. “Thank you for calling, Dainsfield. I owe much to your assistance in arranging the match with Parham. You were more help than you know.”
His expression remained as unyielding as the rest of him, though a flicker of something indefinable—was it remorse?—passed over his features. “I am pleased you think so.”
“Will you sit?” She gestured toward a chair. “Some tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” His refusal was polite but final, as if refreshments and comfortable seating were at odds with his intentions. He did not move, and she was reminded of a statue, handsome and imposing but strangely devoid of warmth.
“Then how may I help you?” She met his gaze, striving to keep her curiosity from turning into a demand.
His posture remained rigid, yet there was an underlying tension, a crack in the marble. “I’ve heard something about Parham,” he said, the words landing heavily between them. “Something… concerning.”
Milly’s eyes widened, but she resisted the urge to react with more than polite interest. “And what is it you’ve heard?”
Dainsfield hesitated, a sure sign of the weight he placed on his information. She could see the struggle within him, a clash between loyalty and truth. “That he already has… an attachment. His secretary.”
The silence that followed was palpable, a living thing that pressed in on all sides. “I know about Peter,” she said at last, her tone light and unaffected.
His reaction was almost comical, the shift from self-assured savior to flustered confusion. “You… know?”
She nodded, a soft smile playing at her lips. “I do. And I’m quite pleased with the arrangement.”
“But how?” The question was not just of how she knew, but how she could possibly find satisfaction in such a marriage.
“It’s an old attachment,” she explained, the conviction in her voice a testament to her resolution. “And one that requires a wife in name only. We understand each other, Parham and I.”
Dainsfield’s composure wavered, the mask slipping as surprise gave way to something closer to desperation. He paced the room, his agitation clear. “This is madness, Milly. A woman as passionate and sensual as you deserves a husband who will embrace that part of you, nurture it, and treat you as the treasure you are.”
She took a breath, the words resonating within her in ways she both longed for and feared. “Dainsfield?—”
“You must see reason,” he interrupted, the controlled demeanor all but gone. He stepped toward her, closing the distance with a suddenness that stole the air from the room. “I can see it in your eyes, Milly. You don’t want this. Not truly.”
His nearness made her heart race, yet it was more than physical closeness that affected her. She felt the depth of his longing, the heat of his sincerity, and it was nearly her undoing. But she would not let it be. Not this time.
“You had the chance to treasure me,” she said, her voice steady though her heart trembled, “but you didn’t want it.”
The finality of her words was a wall, one she raised with painful precision. She stepped back, creating a distance both physical and emotional, and looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and resolve. “Please leave, Dainsfield. I’ve said all there is to say.”
He stood, momentarily frozen, the full impact of her refusal sinking into him. His jaw set, the only betrayal of his inner tumult, and then he turned. The door closed with a heavy click behind him, the sound echoing through her.
Milly’s composure held only a moment longer, crumbling like sand in the wake of a tide. She collapsed onto the nearest chair, the tears falling hot and unchecked. Her shoulders shook with the sobs she had withheld, her defenses gone as she admitted the truth that lay buried in her heart.
“I wish you could love me,” she whispered to the empty room, her words a plea and a lament all at once.
The storm of emotions subsided slowly, the tears drying against her skin as she breathed in the air of her new resolve. She straightened her posture, the remnants of the past shaken loose as she looked toward a future she would make her own. She would find happiness with Parham. She had to.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The door to Dainsfield’s office in Sutcliffe’s crashed open with such force that the candles in the wall sconces flickered in protest. Somehow, the act of kicking open the door didn’t have the satisfaction Dainsfield needed to purge his anger.
The Duke of Abingdon’s head appeared in the doorway of the neighboring office, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline at the sight before him. “Good Lord, man. You look as though you’ve been dragged backward through a hedgerow. Did you sleep at all, or have you come straight from some debauchery I wasn’t invited to?”
Dainsfield attempted to straighten his disheveled appearance, tugging ineffectually at his cravat and smoothing his wild hair with a trembling hand. “It’s nothing. Just some business that required early attention.”
Abingdon crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with the casual grace of a man who knew when his friend was hiding something. “At eight in the morning? In yesterday’s clothes?”
Dainsfield stepped into his office, avoiding his friend’s perceptive gaze. The room was immaculate—leather-bound ledgers arranged by size on polished shelves, a sterling silver inkwell gleaming in the morning light, crystal decanters of amber liquid standing in orderly formation on a sideboard. Everything in precise order, unlike the man who owned it.