Page 33 of The Big Bad Duke

As he opened the door, he found another couple already occupying the space—giddy and flirtatious, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.

Gideon fixed them with a gaze that needed no words, one brow arching in silent command.

The couple looked up and jumped aside like guilty adolescents. Their romantic bubble thoroughly burst, they hastily departed with curtsies and bows, yielding easily to Gideon’s authority.

Gideon had that effect on people. He could often get what he wanted with a single glance.

What did he want now that he was alone with Leila, having closed the door behind them and locked themselves away from the rest of the ballroom?

What were his intentions tonight?

His mind struggled to form coherent thoughts while his body seemed to lead the charge, drawing him closer to her.

“I apologize for the way we parted the last time we saw each other,” he said finally, his voice low and his throat dry.

“No need to apologize,” she replied softly, smoothing her hands over her skirts in a nervous gesture. “Your housekeeper was most accommodating. Besides, you gave me a roof over my head for the night, took care of my coachman and footman, and provided me with a carriage in the morning—that’s more than I would have expected. More than I would expect from any gentleman.”

“Then perhaps you should expect more from men,” he said, his voice rough.

She looked at him with startled eyes, then cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t tend to expect much from men.” Her laugh was bitter and barely audible. “When I do, they tend to disappoint.”

“I will strive not to disappoint next time,” he said earnestly, taking a step closer.

“Next time?” she asked, her voice laced with a slight breathlessness.

“Next time we meet.”

“What about this time?” The question slipped from her lips like a challenge, and he felt his pulse thunder in response.

“I hope to surpass your expectations every time we meet,” he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling in a way that made his mouth go dry—but she didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken tension, before he finally asked, “Was your husband worried about your absence?”

“He wasn’t,” she replied, shrugging in a manner that felt too casual.

“Does he ever worry about you?” The question was sharp, colored by an emotion he didn’t want to examine too closely.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned to look out over the garden, her profile etched in moonlight.

“How long have you been married?” he pressed, though part of him dreaded the answer.

Why was he asking her these questions? To remind himself that she was married? That she was out of his reach? That what he was doing—what he was thinking—was wrong?

Or was he hoping to find an excuse to claim that his thoughts and actions weren’t wrong at all?

She cleared her throat, her knuckles white where she gripped the balcony railing. “Since I was fourteen.”

Well, he got his excuse…

He stared at her in shock, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Not that he should have been surprised—arranged marriages for political or financial gain occurred in England too. But he couldn’t imagine this vibrant, intelligent woman as a child, forced to wed a man she most likely didn’t even know. The thought twisted something violently in his gut.

“And your parents allowed it?” His voice was rough with emotion, a surge of protective rage rising on behalf of her younger self.

“No, they didn’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper now. “They were dead.”