Page 18 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Eighteen

“W ill you do it, Papa?” begged Isabella, gazing up at her father, with an endearing, puppy-dog look upon her face. “I know you can do it!”

Edwin’s expression didn’t shift.

“Perhaps,” he said evenly. “But confidence is no guarantee, Isabella.”

Isabella was a natural born leader—she enjoyed giving orders and managing things. She was the one who had suggested Christine do apple bobbing. And now, his oldest daughter by five minutes was entreating him to enter a knife-throwing contest, of all things.

“You should,” Christine challenged, her blue green eyes flashing with mirth.

“Yes, do!” Beatrice exclaimed, smiling with delight.

He hesitated. It had been a long time since he had entered such a competition. A long time since he had thrown a knife, for that matter.

“Is it because you do not want us to see you lose?” Christine asked, her tone mocking as she tilted her head, studying him with deliberate amusement. “Is that why you’re hesitating?”

Edwin exhaled slowly, the sound low and strained, as if her words had struck deeper than she knew. He gave her a long, pained look—one that lingered, unreadable.

Their eyes locked.

And in the quiet that followed, something unspoken stirred between them—hot, electric, undeniable.

“Are you issuing me a challenge?” he said, in a deceptively light voice.

“Maybe I am,” she declared, raising her chin.

“Very well,” he said and without another word, he walked towards the game.

His heart was thumping hard and his body tingling from the encounter. But then, that had been happening for the entire outing at the fair. He had been acutely conscious of her to the point of pain.

Firmly, he pushed the thought of his wife out of his mind.

He turned his eyes to the prizes, before gazing back at the girls. “I am going to win you that golden-haired doll.”

He picked up three knives, resting them in his hand for a moment, before turning to the board, which was a plain archery board, covered with numbers. He narrowed his eyes, throwing one. It ricocheted through the air, almost whistling, before landing with deft precision, piercing the board with a loud thump.

Bullseye.

“Bravo, Papa!” Isabella cried.

Edwin grinned at her, before raising the second knife. It whistled through the air, landing only an inch from the first, within the bullseye again. The next knife was equally successful, completing the trifecta.

Flushed with success, he accepted the congratulations from his family, before choosing the doll, which Beatrice held, hugging it tightly. Isabella was holding the odd-looking stuffed bear that Christine had won at the apple bobbing. They kept walking.

“You were good at that game,” Christine said, her voice amused. “Though you look like a rooster strutting around the farmyard.”

He gave a quiet huff of laughter, barely glancing at her.

“I wasn’t aware I was meant to be modest about winning,” he said dryly.

It was early evening now and the moon had risen, shining like a pearlescent orb in the sky. Its white light seemed to illuminate her features. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to run his hand over her beautiful profile.

Instead, he stopped walking, turning to her.

“Now, it is my turn to challenge you .”

She frowned. “Whatever do you mean? Wasn’t plunging my face into an icy barrel of water enough?”

“No,” he declared, his eyes narrowing. “It was not.” He spotted a ring-tossing game. “Have you played ring toss before?”

She arched her eyebrows. “Do you mean the child’s game of catching a ring on a stick?”

He bowed slightly. “The very same.” He pointed to the game in the near distance. “It is a similar concept. They have fashioned horseshoes into circles, and you must toss them at an iron peg. If your toss secures the iron peg, then you win.” He paused, gazing at her intently. “The best of three. Do you accept the challenge?”

The girls had stopped, now, staring at them both. Miss Mayhew, who had wandered away to fetch herself a mug of cider, returned, looking delighted.

“You must accept the challenge, Your Grace,” declared the governess. “You should show a good example to the young ladies about being a good sport.”

“Go on!” urged the girls, joining the fray.

Christine squirmed for a moment, before nodding.

“Very well,” she muttered, striding toward the game. Edwin suppressed a grin, following her, trying not to notice her derriere beneath the fabric of her gown, which swayed delectably as she walked. The girls and their governess trailed behind him.

He watched, with narrowed eyes, as she picked up the first ring, tossing it at the iron peg. But clearly it was heavier than she expected and fell far short of it. She bit her lip, picking up the next ring, staring at it intently.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was behind her, reaching an arm around to take her own, guiding her.

“You must throw slightly upwards,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “With force, and intention.”

She wriggled slightly, causing him to draw in a sharp breath. Her proximity stirred something deep inside him, and he was acutely aware of every inch of her body against his.

“I’ll guide you,” he murmured, his lips brushing just behind her ear. “Trust me, and follow my lead.”

For a moment, she stiffened, as though resisting, but then relaxed, her body leaning into his, sending a tremor through him that he couldn’t ignore. He lifted her arm with a firm yet gentle motion, guiding it upwards.

“Now, throw it,” he commanded, in a fierce whisper.

She let the ring fly, a perfect arc, with more power than before, landing on the iron peg with a satisfying clatter. The moment hung between them, electric, charged.

“Good shot, Duchess!” Isabella exclaimed, clapping.

“And again,” he whispered, guiding her hand to the third ring.

Once again, the ring landed on the peg. Amid clapping from his daughters and the governess, she accepted the prize—a red ribbon.

Her face was almost the same color as the ribbon as they wandered away.

“I will keep it for you,” he whispered, holding out his hand. “I promise to keep it safe.”

She shivered, hesitating for a moment, before handing him the ribbon, which he placed in the pocket of his jacket.

* * *

“There is dancing,” Beatrice cried, pointing toward a makeshift dance floor, where several couples were swaying beneath swinging lanterns. She turned to her father. “You should ask the Duchess to dance, Papa!”

Christine froze. The duke looked askance. There was a tense silence. She looked away, blinking rapidly.

After the way her body responded to him during that ring tossing game, she didn’t know if she could bear to dance with him.

He will refuse. He will make an excuse. He does not wish to dance with me any more than I do with him.

But, to her chagrin, he nodded.

“Dance with me, wife,” he said, holding out his hand to her, with a daring look in his dark eyes.

Was this another challenge he was laying at her feet?

She raised her chin, her heart thumping hard. “Very well.”

She took his hand. Without a word, they walked toward the dance floor, where village musicians played. It was folk music, not of their world, but charming, nonetheless.

The crowd parted, making room for them, watching them openly. She supposed it was a rare sight for the duke of Ironstone to be so gregarious with the villagers.

Did he ever take his first wife dancing here? Did he stand with her beneath the moonlight at another fair many years ago?

She shook away the intrusive thought. She didn’t want to think about Rose. Not now. Not here.

The music slowed, changing to a folk ballad, with a haunting fiddle. A young woman, dressed in a woolen gown with flowers in her hair, started singing a lament of lost love. Her voice was pure and sweet and rang out into the night air.

The duke pulled her toward him, placing a hand on her waist, and another on her shoulder. They started moving together, as if on the crest of the music, the lanterns bobbing and blurring in her vision as he swung her around.

Instinctively, she raised her face to him, watching the light from the lanterns play on his features. He was gazing at her intently, with a tight, hungry look upon his face. It felt like they were melting into one another, becoming one with the shadows.

I have danced a thousand times, but I have never danced like this.

She felt a frisson of desire spike her blood, running down the length of her body, and a warm, heavy feeling—that same yearning sensation she recognized now. A yearning for him to touch her, to really touch her, skin to skin, with no clothing.

Her breath came thick and fast as she grappled with the shocking thought.

She wasn’t supposed to want this.

Ladies weren’t supposed to crave such things, were they?

The guilt rose swiftly, mingling with the confusion. She had never imagined such a feeling could consume her so wholly, and the realization terrified her.

He pulled her closer, taking a deep breath, as if he were inhaling her. She felt something hard and insistent pressing against her belly. Her stomach lurched with desire and fear. She was in danger, in some way—hovering on the edge of some delicious madness. If she wasn’t careful, she would step over that precipice—and who knew where she would land.

“You are trembling,” he said, in a teasing whisper, into her ear. “Anyone would think you are Little Red Riding Hood, and I am the big bad wolf…coming to eat you, little mouse.”

She shivered in his arms. “Aren’t you?”

“Perhaps I would like to eat you,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. “To devour you. Slowly. Taste every part of you until I lose myself in you entirely.”

Their eyes met and held for the longest moment. Everything seemed to recede. The music wobbled, sounding as if it were coming from far, far away?—

“I am so sorry to interrupt, Your Graces.” Miss Mayhew’s voice was grating and loud, causing them both to jump, as if waking from a trance. “But Lady Beatrice says she is feeling sick. I believe she has eaten too many sweets…”

The duke rubbed his chin, then nodded. “Of course, Miss Mayhew. It is getting late. The girls should be home and taken to bed.”

In the carriage home, she tried not to look at him or feel that stinging regret that their dance beneath the moonlight had been cut short.

* * *

The girls fell asleep before they reached Ironstone. The duke carried them to their beds himself. Christine followed, tucking them in, smiling down at them tenderly.

When they were asleep, they looked like two little angels. When they were awake… well, she had hopes for them, at least.

After they’d left the girls’ quarters, he turned to her, his gaze enigmatic.

“I must thank you,” he said, in a low voice. “For how well you handled the twins today.”

Christine gulped. “It was my pleasure,” she stammered. “It- it was a wonderful day. I am very glad that we went to the fair and spent that time together.”

He looked like he was going to say something else, or perhaps, reach out to her.

Hastily, Christine took a step back, her heart thumping. As much as she wanted him to do it, she couldn’t stand the thought of him pushing her away again, as he always did.

He does not want to be close to you. He is fighting it. Make it easy for him.

“I am afraid I am very tired,” she said, in a falsely sweet voice. “I must bid you goodnight.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “It truly was a wonderful day. Thank you.”

Before he could say anything, or waylay her further, she turned, walking quickly down the hallway to her chambers. No matter the desire she felt.