Page 34 of The Duke's Auctioned Virgin
She had looked at him when she said it. Looked him right in the eye. And the look was not a plea. It was a warning. She was telling him what she had survived, and in the same breath, that if he did to her what Gordon had, she would survive him too.
He thought about the charity work Valeria had planned in under an hour. Three columns: names, needs, actions. A school. A harvest. Housing for families.
She had built the blueprint for a better world while sitting behind a desk in a dead man’s study, and she had done it with the same calm efficiency that she had used to survive the worst years of her life.
She was not fragile. She was not damaged. She was the strongest person he had ever met, and he had met people who killed for a living.
He put the broken quill down and went up to his room. He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about a woman who had convinced a duke that she was barren so he would never touch her and who planned an auction for her own hand and who kissed a killer in the rain and who wanted to feed orphans.
I will not be the one to put that look in her eyes.Whatever it costs me, I will not.
But even as he thought it, he could still feel the weight of her in his arms when he carried her through the rain. And he knew, with the certainty of a man who had spent his life reading people, that keeping that promise was going to be the hardest mission he had ever undertaken.
Because she was not afraid of him. And a woman who was not afraid of the Hound was the most dangerous thing in the world.
CHAPTER 12
The following morning, during breakfast, the wedding was officially announced.
Valeria stood at the head of the table. She had chosen the blue dress again. Not the one Gordon had taken from her, the one she wore to the ball and never took out of her wardrobe again. This one was a different blue. A new blue. She wanted color. She wanted to walk into a room and be seen.
The breakfast room was full. The gentlemen had sorted themselves into the same clusters they had formed since the first night, territories staked and defended with the passive aggression of men who could not openly fight each other. Sir Marcus sat near the head of the table, where he clearly felt he belonged, cutting his eggs with surgical precision.
Lord Barton sat at the far end with his wine, which at nine in the morning was a choice that Valeria had decided not to comment on. Mr. Ashworth sat in the middle, notebook open, writing between bites of toast. The young Viscount, whose name she stillcould not remember, was eating porridge with the careful focus of a man who was trying very hard not to spill it for the fourth time.
Edward was standing by the window. Of course, he was. He did not sit at tables. He stood near the exits and watched the rooms, drank water, and waited for threats that were not coming.
Old habits.
He had a piece of bread in one hand and a glass of water in the other, and was leaning against the window frame in a way that managed to look both casual and alert, like a man who could leave in any direction and was deciding which one.
He saw her before anyone else did. His eyes roved over her dress, and his jaw shifted, barely, a movement so small that nobody else would have caught it.
But she caught it. She caught everything now.
She took her place at the head of the table. Caroline was already seated, working through a plate of eggs and bacon and toast and what appeared to be a second plate of eggs that she had commandeered from Richard, who sat beside her looking thin and resigned. John appeared in the doorway with a piece of toast and a grin.
Valeria stood up, and the room quieted.
“Gentlemen,” she began, her voice carrying. She was getting better at that. “Thank you for your patience and for your good humor yesterday. I was told the maze was quite difficult.”
Polite laughter rose. Sir Marcus looked smug. He had not gone into the maze at all.
“I have an announcement.” She folded her hands. “The Duke of Welford and I are to be married. The banns will be read this Sunday, and the wedding will take place in three weeks, at the end of the house party.”
Silence ensued, followed by murmurs.
Lord Barton put down his wineglass. Sir Marcus’s eyebrows knitted together, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. Mr. Ashworth looked up from his notebook with the expression of a man who had just lost his muse but was already composing a poem about the loss. The young Viscount turned an unnatural color.
“You are all welcome to stay as my guests,” Valeria continued. “The games will continue, and you are welcome to partake in them for entertainment. Everyone is welcome to attend the wedding, or you may leave in peace knowing you have fostered strong connections by just participating.”
Sir Humphrey Dalton raised his glass. “To the Duchess and the Duke. May they terrify each other less than they terrify the rest of us.”
Genuine laughter ensued. Even Edward’s mouth twitched.
John caught Valeria’s eye from the doorway. “About time,” he mouthed, then took a bite of his toast.
“Three weeks?” Sir Marcus asked, rising from his chair. “That is rather soon, Your Grace. Perhaps a longer engagement would allow the gentlemen to?—”
