'THIS WAS GETTING OUT OF HAND.'
Clara murmured the words under her breath as she stood before the tall, arched window of her chamber, her trembling fingers clutching the silk folds of her wedding dress. Her heart had not stopped pounding since the maid delivered the dreadful message that Lord Percival had given orders for her belongings to be moved to the Duke's bedchamber.
Her things. To his room.
She had thought herself prepared for anything when she agreed to this bargain, but now she knew just how mistaken she had been. Marrying a duke under false pretenses was one thing, but sharing his bed, breathing the same air through the night, was quite another.
Her throat tightened. What had she done?
The candlelight flickered faintly as she bathed and dressed in one of Lady Evelina's nightgowns—soft, sheer, and far too revealing for her comfort. The fabric clung to her like the memory of her deceit. When the maid returned and curtsied, waiting to escort her, Clara followed in silence, her steps light but unsteady upon the carpeted corridor.
Every step toward that room felt like a descent toward discovery.
Her palms were slick with sweat, and her breath caught in her chest as they neared the door at the far end of the hall. The maid paused, bowed politely, and retreated with quiet haste, leaving Clara alone before the heavy oak door. For several heartbeats, she stood still, her pulse thudding in her ears. She tried to summon courage, to breathe, to appear composed, but her hands trembled as she reached for the handle.
The door creaked softly open.
To her immense relief, the chamber was empty. She nearly sagged against the doorframe, the weight of her fear briefly giving way.
It was a magnificent room—spacious, richly adorned, and almost intimidating in its elegance. The canopy bed alone looked grand enough to belong in a palace, the velvet drapes falling like a royal curtain. Gold trimmings glimmered along the furniture, and the faint scent of cedar and cologne filled the air. Everything here spoke of wealth, of power, of a man accustomed to command.
She felt painfully small standing amidst it all.
Her awe still held her captive when the door burst open behind her.
Clara spun around sharply, her breath catching.
Adrian stood framed in the doorway, tall and impossibly poised, his dark hair slightly tousled, his expression unreadable. He was still dressed in his wedding attire—a black tuxedo that fitted him with effortless grace. His gaze fell upon her, and for one terrifying heartbeat, she thought he could see straight through her lie.
"Lady Evelina," he greeted, his tone courteous but questioning.
Clara's knees nearly buckled. Somehow, she managed to curtsey, her voice trembling. "Your Grace."
She noticed him study her from across the room for a moment. His gaze was steady but not unkind like the last time. Then he cleared his throat softly and shut the door behind him with a gentle click. "I did not expect you to be here so soon," he said, his voice calm, measured.
She lowered her head, shyly. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she murmured. "I... thought it proper to arrive early."
Her voice sounded small even to her own ears. She could not tell what he was thinking, and that uncertainty terrified her more than anger ever could.
"You did not attend the ball," he said after a moment, his voice calm. "I was told you were unwell."
"Yes," she said quickly, her fingers twisting together. "I was… exhausted. A slight headache, that was all." The lie slipped out before she could think. The truth, that she had been hiding for fear of being recognized, was far too dangerous to speak aloud.
He said nothing in return, and the silence pressed down on her until her nerves began to fray. She could feel his gaze upon her, steady, and unrelenting.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost curious. "You seem very tense and uneasy around me. Do I frighten you?"
Her head shot up, startled. She hadn't expected him to ask that. "No, Your Grace," she said too quickly, her heart hammering. Why was her heart racing so wildly?
The faintest hint of amusement flickered across his features, though she could not be certain.
Then, without another word, he moved toward a side door adjoining the chamber.
"I will take a bath before retiring," he said calmly. "You may make yourself comfortable."
Comfortable? Her heart nearly stopped at the word, but she nodded faintly, though he was already turning away.
The adjoining door closed behind him. Moments later, the distant sound of water began to flow.
Clara stood motionless for several seconds before her legs weakened beneath her. Gently, she staggered toward the bed, and sat upon the mattress, clutching the thin fabric of her nightgown as her breathing turned uneven.
The sound of water splashing echoed faintly from beyond the wall. This made her thoughts run wild. He was bathing. Somehow, that knowledge made everything feel more uneasy.
She was in his room. On his bed. Waiting for him.
Her pulse pounded so violently she feared it might burst from her chest. She pressed her trembling hands into the bedding as if grounding herself might calm the storm inside her.
What would happen when he returned? Would he expect her to—
Her thoughts halted abruptly, cheeks burning.
No. She must not think such things.
Still, the panic refused to leave. Minutes passed. Too many minutes. The steady sound of water became unbearable, each splash tightening the knot in her chest. She stared at the floor, barely breathing, as dread curled tightly around her ribs.
Then—
The sound of water stopped and her breath caught. And then, the door opened.
Adrian stepped back into the room, his dark hair damp, a loose robe draped casually around his shoulders. The faint scent of soap followed him, warm and clean, filling the air around her. Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
He paused upon seeing her sitting rigidly at the edge of the bed, her posture stiff as stone.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.
Heat rushed to her face.
"I—yes," she whispered weakly, her cheeks flushed.
He studied her silently for a moment before walking toward the bed.
Every step he took made her breath shallower.
When he reached the bed, he did not loom over her as she expected. Instead, he sat down beside her. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight.
Clara froze.
Her hands tightened into the fabric of her nightgown as she expected him to reach for her. But to her surprise, after sitting like that for a few minute, he lay back slowly upon the bed.
She blinked in confusion.
He turned his head slightly toward her.
"You may lie down," he said gently. "You look exhausted."
She hesitated, her heart pounding. But slowly, very slowly, she shifted, lowering herself onto the mattress beside him. Her body remained stiff, her hands clasped tightly together over her stomach as though bracing for something dreadful.
The space between them felt impossibly small. Yet he made no move toward her.
This made her breathing slowly began to steady.
After several moments, a sharp knock sounded at the door, making Adrian rise smoothly from the bed.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Your Grace," Butler Blake's voice called. "Mr. Hendrix requests to see you at once."
Clara exhaled quietly in relief.
Adrian frowned before saying, "Tell him I will join him shortly."
"Yes, Your Grace."
When the footsteps faded, he turned briefly toward her.
"If you will excuse me," he said calmly.
She nodded faintly.
"Of course… Adrian."
He inclined his head once and left the room. Clara's body collapsed instantly after the door closed.
She rolled onto her side, clutching the bedding as her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, her heart still pounded wildly.
What had just happened?
She had lain beside him.
Formed so many thoughts in her head.
She couldn't help pressing her face into the pillow, and groaning softly in embarrassment.