Page 6 of Tantalizing the Duke (Wayward Dukes Alliance #22)
CHAPTER SIX
D ainsfield’s study was a testament to his unsettled mind, littered with the debris of half-formed intentions and discarded obligations. He prowled the room like a caged beast, his powerful strides echoing off the paneled walls, as if to exorcise the memory of Milly from his body. Yet there she lingered, four days since he’d taken her home, her essence woven into his thoughts with the tenacity of a lover’s scent on an abandoned pillow. The passion they’d shared was an unruly guest in his ordered life, and he found himself a stranger to his own desires, desires that had lain dormant until she’d awakened them with her scandalous, irresistible touch.
He could scarcely bring himself to focus on the tenant disputes and crop yields that lay forgotten on his desk. The matters he once commanded with ruthless efficiency now seemed trivial, paper dragons against the fierce blaze of Milly’s memory. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his brow furrowed with frustration and something alarmingly like longing. Three days had passed, and still, the taste of her lingered. It haunted him like a fever he could not shake, igniting a heat that coursed through him with merciless persistence.
He sank into the leather chair, a sigh escaping him, heavy with the weight of desire. He thought of Milly’s expressive features, the uninhibited passion that had driven him to the edge of madness. How had he allowed himself to become so entangled? It was unlike him, unthinkable. Yet even now, he felt the pull of her—a force that defied reason and propriety. Dainsfield knew the rules of the game he played. He was a man accustomed to control, not this bewildering chaos that Milly seemed to command.
His mind turned reluctantly to Mrs. Summercourt, his mistress whose company had become a comfortable but passionless affair even before he’d sampled Milly. What had once sufficed now seemed pallid and bland, a poor imitation of desire in light of Milly’s brilliance. The memory of his most recent evening with Mrs. Summercourt left him cold, her practiced seduction paling against the raw honesty of Milly’s abandon. A cruel truth dawned upon him: Milly had rendered him incapable of feigning interest in anyone else.
With a determination that masked his unease, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began drafting a letter to Mrs. Summercourt. His quill moved in bold, sweeping strokes, an outward show of confidence that belied his inner turmoil. “Madam,” it began, the formal salutation standing as an icy prelude to the passionate reason behind his dismissal. He wrote with the detachment of a man severing a lifeline, offering her a generous settlement as recompense for the abruptness of his congé.
It was done. He stared at the inked words, a sense of liberation clashing with the disquiet of unacknowledged feelings. The idea of life without Mrs. Summercourt should have been daunting, but it left room—alarming, exhilarating room—for thoughts of Milly to flourish unchecked. Dainsfield realized, with a jolt of something akin to panic, that Milly’s presence had not merely unsettled him, it had consumed him.
Trying to regain control, he turned to a task he hoped would steady him. He must do the honorable thing, the right thing. He must find Milly a suitable husband, someone who could provide her with the stability his reckless desires threatened to undermine. A dinner party, then, with the guests chosen carefully, strategically.
His quill scratched furiously over the invitations, as if speed might mask his reluctance. Lady Statham, a respectable widow with whom he shared a long-standing acquaintance, would serve as hostess. He needed the distance her presence would afford him, knowing full well he could not face Milly alone.
He worked methodically listing the names of those whose company would lend legitimacy to the evening. Lord and Lady St. Ervan, Lord and Lady Abingdon, every couple selected with precision, each name a reminder of his obligation to act with propriety. His hand stilled when he reached the most important name—Lord Parham.
Dainsfield’s resolve faltered, his quill poised over the paper like a man standing at a precipice. Parham was perfect in every way, titled, amiable. Most importantly, when he’d approached the man about an introduction to Milly for obvious intent, he was willing to overlook the scandal of Milly’s birth. Dainsfield knew he must include him since the introduction was the sole purpose of the evening, but the very act felt like betrayal. Betrayal of his feelings, his desires, and perhaps most painfully, of the possibility that Milly might share them.
Finally, with a clench of his jaw, he wrote Parham’s name. The letters were slightly uneven, a tiny betrayal of the turmoil roiling beneath his composed exterior. He finished the remaining invitations with ruthless efficiency, each one sealing his resolve as it fell upon the pile.
By the time the letters were dispatched, Dainsfield was a man resigned to his own inescapable truth. He could offer Milly nothing but the freedom to choose a life less fraught with the complications he now embodied. Now that he’d taken steps toward helping her as promised, his thoughts were as full of Milly as ever, a torment and a comfort that left him exhausted and resigned to an uneasy wait.
* * *
An impressive crystal chandelier hung over Dainsfield’s dining table, casting a warm light that spoke of his handsome income. Below, the table held a dazzling display of delicate china and shining silver. None of that caught Milly’s attention, for she was caught in Dainsfield’s gaze. It was an invisible thread, pulling her focus relentlessly toward him, despite the polished conversation and laughter that surrounded her. The low-cut gown of pale blue silk clung to her figure with scandalous confidence, a daring statement that earned her more than one admiring glance, especially from Lord Parham who sat attentively at her side. She met Dainsfield’s eyes at the head of the table, the space between them crackling with a tension she both dreaded and desired. It was a challenge and a promise, his stare a lover’s vow wrapped in ducal restraint.
Yet she knew she must behave. She was there to impress Parham, to seduce his heart into marriage.
The other guests were absorbed in lively chatter, bantering over the merits of the latest acts of Parliament, or exchanging playful gossip about recent engagements and rumored duels. Milly listened with a practiced ear, contributing a well-timed laugh here, a clever remark there. Yet always she was drawn back to the man at the head of the table, to the inscrutable Dainsfield, who watched her as if she were the most compelling drama of them all.
Her gown was a daring choice, the pale blue silk skimming her figure with audacious allure. She knew the effect it had, and tonight, she reveled in the attention. Lord Parham seemed particularly captivated, his glances lingering with appreciative interest. He sat beside her, engaging her in easy conversation, his gentlemanly charm apparent in every word. Milly warmed to his good humor and handsome features, yet a nagging doubt tempered her pleasure. Parham was all that a husband ought to be—respectable, kind, titled.
She recalled his evening of debauchery at Sutcliffe’s, after which she’d pleasured herself imagining Dainsfield toying with her that way. That evening should relieve all her worries about whether he’d allow her to remain a member of the club. Yet something was missing. She wasn’t foolish enough to expect him to love her, but she wanted something more.
She caught Dainsfield’s reaction to Parham’s attentions, the whitening of his knuckles around the stem of his wineglass, the momentary clench of his jaw. It was all Milly needed to confirm her suspicions—Dainsfield was not as indifferent as he wished to appear. A thrill ran through her at the thought, an intoxicating mixture of triumph and trepidation. If he was jealous, he was not yet lost to her.
The sumptuous dinner came to an end, and the guests rose from their seats to move on to their next entertainment. As they adjourned to the drawing room for cards, Betty and Verity pounced on her, their bright eyes alight with intrigue and mirth.
“Did you see how he watched you?” Verity whispered, her voice a delighted bubble. “I declare, he looked ready to come across the table at poor Lord Parham!”
Betty grinned conspiratorially. “Milly, you must tell us—did something happen between you two?”
Milly laughed, feigning innocence but feeling the blush rise to her cheeks. “Nothing at all,” she protested, knowing full well that the pretense was as thin as the lace at her décolletage. “You see for yourselves, Dainsfield is determined to find me a match.”
“Or keep you for himself,” Verity suggested, not missing the telling look that passed between Dainsfield and Milly as he orchestrated her pairing with Parham for the card game.
With Parham as her partner, Milly found herself once again the focus of his growing interest. He was attentive to the point of excess, touching her hand when there was no need, leaning close to whisper a clever observation or well-timed compliment. Milly responded with practiced flirtation, her laughter bright and inviting, though her thoughts betrayed her. She could not shake the awareness of Dainsfield’s presence, the way he watched her with a mixture of longing and frustration, the air around him charged with tension.
The games went on, and Parham’s attentiveness became increasingly bold. He played the part of the enamored suitor with admirable conviction, but there was something too artful in his manner, too knowing in his smiles. Milly matched his play, careful not to show her hand, but the knowledge of what Dainsfield wanted—needed—cut through her performance with a keen edge.
Finally, the evening drew to a close, and Milly’s bewilderment only grew as Parham took her hand with practiced grace, asking permission to call on her the next day. She heard herself agree, the words a distant echo in her racing thoughts. As Parham spoke, she caught Dainsfield watching, his expression taut with unspoken emotion, a shadow of longing darkening his features.
The guests began to depart. Dainsfield saw them out, the model of reserved courtesy, though Milly saw the way he avoided her gaze, how he seemed a man wrestling with desires at odds with his duty.
Milly left the town house with more questions than answers, uncertain of everything but the undeniable tension between them.
* * *
In the dim stillness of her bedchamber later, Milly’s maid helped her out of the pale blue gown that had transformed her into a creature of scandal and allure, leaving her breathless in its absence. She dismissed the maid with a nod and sat at her vanity, the brush gliding through her hair with a rhythm that matched the racing thoughts in her mind. Dainsfield’s presence loomed larger than the room she’d just left, eclipsing Parham’s attentions with the shadow of unfulfilled promises and an insatiable desire that refused to be ignored. Was it love he lacked, or the courage to admit it?
Milly felt the full weight of the night settle over her like the train of the elegant gown she no longer wore. Her body hummed with the residue of unspent desire, a pulse beneath her skin that matched the persistent beat of Dainsfield’s image in her mind.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, eyes bright with emotion she could scarcely name. How could a man who watched her with such intensity, who followed her every move with the relentless attention of a hunter to its prey, then distance himself with the formality of a stranger? Milly’s thoughts were tangled as she drew the brush through her hair, each stroke smoothing the chaos but not the confusion inside her.
Dainsfield’s glances across the dinner table had spoken of possession and longing, a simmering desire barely contained beneath the veneer of ducal propriety. Yet he seemed equally intent on presenting her to Lord Parham, as if determined to thrust her into another’s arms even while yearning to keep her in his own. The contradiction left her reeling, torn between the thrill of being wanted and the ache of not being enough.
Was it only her body that he craved, as society would cruelly suggest, or was there something deeper that he could not—or would not—admit? She thought of Parham, with his gentle smiles and careful attentions, a man who could offer her stability and acceptance in the eyes of the world. But it was Dainsfield’s passion she remembered, Dainsfield’s touch that haunted her waking dreams and drove her to the brink of distraction.
She recalled their night together with startling clarity. The way he’d kissed her, his mouth exploring hers with an urgency that left her breathless. His hands had been everywhere, caressing, commanding, awakening sensations she’d never known she was capable of. And the way he’d whispered her name—like a prayer and a promise as he entered her, as if she were the answer to a longing he couldn’t articulate.
Even in this private, stolen moment, he possessed her completely. Her heart clenched with the realization, a bittersweet twist of emotion that was both exhilarating and devastating. Was it love, or was she as deluded as society believed her to be? Could a man of his standing ever offer her more than a passing fancy, or was she a fool to hope for anything beyond desire?
She lay awake long into the night, the darkness a mirror to the uncertainty that enveloped her. Dainsfield may have allowed her to share his bed, but the evening’s events left her with the painful certainty that he did not, perhaps could not, share his heart.