The corridor to his bedchamber was silent. The ballroom’s laughter had faded into distant echoes, the music now only a faint hum in the night. The household slept. Only the Duke didn’t.
She stood in front of the massive carved doors, her fingers twisting nervously in the silk of her gown. He hadn’t spoken to her after the corridor. He hadn’t needed to. He had looked at her once across the ballroom, a look that commanded her to follow when the night was over.
And she obeyed.
The door opened on its own, as if the house itself recognized her steps. Candlelight filled the room, soft but dangerous, flames dancing across heavy velvet curtains and dark wood. His bed stood in the center, tall and wide, covered in black sheets.
He was sitting at the edge of it, coat gone, waistcoat open, shirt
