Rosamund
"Happy birthday, Lady Rosamund," the rest of the room chanted.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
The Duke walked towards me, extending his hand to me, which I took gracefully, still noting, much to my dismay, that it was as cold as ice.
He escorted me into the room, and when we'd reached the centre, he stopped and turned to face me. Reaching into his coat, he produced a small velvet box which he opened and turned toward me.
Inside, resting on a bed of ivory silk, was a brooch. It was oval-shaped, set in aged silver filigree, with a deep blue stone at its centre that seemed to shift colour in the light— sapphire one moment, midnight the next.
"This belonged to my mother," he said. "She wore it on her wedding day, and her mother before her. It has been in my family for four generations." He paused, and for the first time since I'd met him, I noticed he was nervous.
His shoulders were tensed, and there was even a slight unevenness in his breathing that was not difficult to miss.
"I know I never officially proposed to you." He continued. "And I know none of this has happened the way it should have. But I wish you would accept this as my proposal and not as an arrangement or a contract." His voice dropped. "I'm asking you, Rosamund. Will you accept me?"
The room went still.
I stared at the brooch, then at him. The mask concealed everything above his jaw, but his mouth, which was soft now. The hard line I had grown used to had loosened, and in its place was a shy vulnerability. Even his fingers holding the box shook slightly.
I remembered my father's words and how this man could never be refused. I also remembered the debts he had settled, both mine and my father's. Now that he was giving me a choice, could I reject it and promise to repay him?
"Rosamund," my father's voice chimed into my thoughts, filled with warning. "Don't keep his Grace waiting."
It was also a way to remind me of the huge risk I'd be taking if I refused now.
"Your Grace, I…I don't know what to say." I finally spoke up. "We've only just met. I don't even know you."
"Rosamund!" my father called out with shock, rushing to my side, but the Duke stopped him.
"Lord Fletcher, please, let me handle this."
My father stepped back, and the Duke turned back to me.
"I know, my lady," he said quietly. "And I'm not asking you to pretend to like me. I want a wife, and you're the most suitable woman I can find."
What about the other women? I screamed in my mind.
In the end, it didn't matter what my opinions were. My father had made it clear that my marriage to the Duke was unopposed. Still, accepting his proposal didn't mean I would marry him.
This would only be temporary before I find a permanent solution.
Composing my face in what I hoped was my best smile, I slowly reached for the velvet box, giving a small nod.
"I accept."
The Duke's lips curved into a smile as he closed the box and gently placed it in my palms.
Clyde cleared his throat from behind me, and I turned to find him wearing a pleased grin.
"If I may, my lady," he said, "there is a tradition in His Grace's family. When a man of the Wilder household gives his mother's brooch to the woman he intends to marry, it is a declaration of his commitment. And traditionally, the way the woman accepts — the way she confirms that she receives his intention —" he paused, clearly enjoying himself, "is with a kiss."
Heat rushed to my face. "A kiss?"
"Just a small one," Clyde said innocently. "A formality, really."
"I — no." I stepped back, shaking my head. "This isn't — we barely know each other. I can't just kiss a man I met last night in front of an entire room of people. That's not —"
"It doesn't have to mean anything more than what it is," the Duke said gently. "An acceptance. Nothing more."
"I already gave my consent and accepted the brooch. Is that not more than enough?"
"No!" My father's voice filled the room again; this time, it was filled with warning. "Do what is expected of you, Rosamund. Show the Duke you will be a good wife by honouring his tradition."
I nearly rolled my eyes at the last sentence. My father had no shred of shame, truly.
Sighing, I looked down at the velvet box in my hands, wondering if he had given the other women the same box.
Was he purposely being nice to hide his true intent and make me fall for him?
That has to be it.
Because it didn't make sense that three women had agreed to marry him despite the rumours and the unexplained disappearances of his former fiancées.
Still, he was a dangerous man and refusing him might make me meet my death sooner. Sometimes, the best survival required playing the game.
I stepped closer. My heart was beating so hard I was certain the entire room could hear it.
He waited, perfectly still and perfectly patient, and let me come to him.
I rose onto my toes, placed one hand lightly against his chest for balance, and pressed my lips to his.
The kiss was supposed to be brief. A peck. A formality.
It wasn't.
His lips were warm.
Startlingly, impossibly warm for a man whose hands were always cold. They pressed against mine, soft at first, tentative, as though he was giving me every chance to pull away.
When I didn't, his hand came to rest at the small of my back, fingers spreading wide, drawing me closer with a pressure that was firm but unhurried. I felt the coldness of his palm through the fabric of my dress, and a tremor ran through me.
My fingers curled into the lapel of his coat, anchoring me. His other hand rose to the side of my neck, achingly cold, and the contrast between the warmth of his mouth and the ice of his touch sent something electric cascading down my spine.
He kissed me slowly, like a man who had been waiting a very long time and intended to remember every second of it. His lips parted against mine, and I felt the soft graze of his breath, the slight pressure of his jaw tilting to deepen the angle.
I should have pulled away. Every rational thought in my head was screaming at me to stop—this was a stranger, a man I'd been warned about, a man whose fiancées had died or gone mad.
But my body loved it and was clinging desperately to him.
I felt his tongue slip into me, and a small, involuntary sound escaped me. It was something between a gasp at the deliciousness of the kiss and a sigh, regretting why I didn't kiss him sooner.
I felt his grip tighten at my back in response. My other hand found his chest, not to push him away but to feel the heavy beat of his heart beneath my palm. It was racing. As fast as mine.
The room disappeared. The servants, the cake, the morning light, all of it dissolved until there was nothing but the press of his mouth, the cold of his fingers against my skin, and the terrifying, undeniable truth that I didn't want him to stop.
A throat cleared, followed by my father's voice. "Your Grace?"
My sanity returned instantly. I shoved against the Duke's chest with both hands, stumbling backwards until I felt the edge of the table press into my hip. My breathing was ragged, my face on fire, and I couldn't bring myself to look at anyone in the room.
The Duke stood where I'd left him. He hadn't flinched when I'd pushed him. His hands hung at his sides now, and the only sign that anything had happened was the uneven rise and fall of his chest.
An awkward silence had settled in the room. My father's face was flushed, and he was looking everywhere except at us. Even though the servants had their faces lowered, they all looked uncomfortable.
I pressed my fingers to my lips without thinking. They were tingling, still carrying the ghost of his warmth.
What just happened to me?
Suddenly, the room erupted into applause, and murmurs of well-wishes filled the silence, stuffing out the awkwardness, but I barely heard any of it. My body was still humming with need. My skin burned where his hand had been, and my thoughts were scattered.
At that moment, a footman entered the drawing room and crossed quickly to Mr Gerard. He leaned close and whispered something, pressing a folded letter into the butler's hand.
Mr Gerard frowned. He glanced at the footman, then turned and walked toward me.
"My lady," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "A letter has arrived for you. The footman says it was delivered by a rider who would not give his name."
He placed the letter in my hands.
The paper was heavy and sealed with dark wax. There was no crest pressed into the seal. No name on the front. Just two words written in a hand I didn't recognise:
Open alone.