The Iron Duke’s Ruin

As a Man

The ladder made a noise; it was like it was saying something as Elara moved around on it trying to get to the shelf. She could smell the dust.

There was something else too, something that smelled nice and clean like the soap that he used when he shaved. She remembered smelling it the day before. It was always around him this smell of citrus and olive oil. It felt like it was just for him something that was really personal.

Elara was very aware of him standing. He had not said a word since she came in just standing by the fire being quiet and still. She had to go see him every evening.

This was her first night doing it. Her hands were shaking as she took a book of farm records off the shelf.

And the sunlight was coming through the big windows making the tiny dust particles in the air look like they were dancing.

“The folio to the left.” The book on the left was what he wanted. His voice was really calm. It made her jump. He said "The one with the cover bring it down to me."

She found the book, her fingers feeling the leather. But when she turned around the ladder made a creaking sound, that was when she realised he was not by the fireplace anymore but was actually now standing at the bottom of the ladder with one hand on the rail looking up at her. He was really close to her now and if she let the book go it would hit his shoulder.

“Your hair is down,” he was not saying it was nice he was just saying it was what he told her to do.

Elara felt weird with her hair down; it was over her shoulders and back and it made her feel exposed. “As you instructed, Your Grace.”

“I know I did.” His eyes were looking at her. They were like a cold winter sky. "Now give me the book."

She went down the ladder one step at a time holding the book tight to her chest. The ladder was really narrow but Alistair did not move back either. She had to go by him to get to the floor. Her foot found the next step and the old wood felt smooth and cool.

Then his hand touched her a little bit. It was like a whisper on the back of her neck. It made her heart beat fast.

Elara closed her eyes. She felt like she could not breathe. He had broken all the rules with one touch. The ladder was all she could think about. He had just made it feel like it was, on fire.

He touched her for a second but it felt like his touch was burning her skin and to make it worse, he just stood there staring at her face.

Elara she had no idea what was going on in his mind.

She was breathing hard like someone had punched her in the stomach and all the air was gone.

Her pulse beat rapidly against the spot where he had touched.

"You are scared, " he whispered. He still hadn't moved his hand away. It hovered near her collarbone, a threat and a promise all once.

She forced her eyes open and met his gaze.

“You are my employer.”

"That does not answer my question."

"It is the only answer that is important." Her voice was barely audible, a thin thread of sound.

“Is it?” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Your pulse says otherwise. It’s singing.”

She felt laid bare. The book in her arms was useless. Her position, her mother’s illness, the fragile roof over their heads—none of it was a shield against this. Against him. He saw through it all. He saw the heat she tried to deny.

“Please,” she whispered. She didn’t know what she was asking for. For him to stop. For him to continue. For the world to make sense again.

“Please what, Elara?” He said her name, Elara like it was a word that could open a secret door. His hand went up again. This time he did not touch her. He just held it there like he was trying to figure her out. It was like he thought she was a machine and he wanted to take her apart to see how she worked. "Do you want me to move away Elara? To pretend this isn’t happening? To be the proper duke with his proper maid?”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat was sealed shut.

“You took this position knowing I would look,” he said, his voice low, for her alone. The library walls seemed to lean in. “You walk into this room knowing I will watch. You wear your hair down because I commanded it. You are building this ladder between us, rung by rung. Don’t pretend you’re an innocent stranded at the top.”

“That’s not true.” The protest was weak, drowned out by the roar of her own blood.

“Isn’t it?” Finally, he moved. Not away, but closer. His body brushed the ladder. The heat from his body came through his shirt and felt like it was burning her through her maid uniform.

He put his arm around her to get something. This made her feel trapped against the chair. Then he took a book from her hands, which had gone numb. He was really close to her when he did this. The green book was the thing he wanted. He took it from her hands that could not feel anything.

“You could have refused. Your mother is ill, not dead. There are other houses, other positions. You came here.”

He said it with absolute certainty. It was as if the secret she was hiding was there on her face for everyone to see.

But what the Duke doesn’t know is that, when she had come to this place. That day, Elara had seen him from a distance, a dark figure on horseback, and felt a pull she didn’t understand. And since she had taken the job with a frantic heart telling herself she was doing it for the money for her mother. Lies.

“I needed the work,” she insisted, but the fight had left her.

“You needed something,” he agreed, his eyes holding hers. He placed the folio on a shelf beside them. The action was slow, deliberate, freeing his hands. “And so do I.”

His knuckles touched her throat again. This time it was no an accident. He did it on purpose, moving his hand slowly along her skin. Her head leaned back by itself like she was giving in. She felt a sob well up inside her. It was scary but also kind of okay.

“This…” he whispered, his breath warm on her skin. “This is what you need. To be seen. Not as a maid. Not as a replacement. As this. A woman who trembles.” His thumb pressed gently against the frantic beat in her throat. “Who burns.”

Her eyes were open, fixed on the ornate ceiling rose above. She was drowning in sensation. The hard rungs against her back. The overwhelming nearness of him. The exquisite torment of his thumb resting on her pulse point, measuring the wreckage he caused.

"And you?" she whispered, her question bursting out. "What is it that you need?"

He froze. The fierce energy in him turned into something tougher and more fragile. For a moment the duke's mask slipped and she glimpsed the raw longing beneath so vast that it almost took her breath away.

"To forget " he said, the words rough like they were scraped over stone. "For one moment forget the agreement, the title, the future waiting for me. To be a man, not a duke."

His confession was really personal even more than any touch. He needed her to be the one he could run to, the one who could help him break free the one to know him.

He jerked his hand back like it was on fire, taking the warmth away from her throat and leaving it cold. The desire, in his eyes, disappeared . Instead he looked really distant like the Duke of Alvanova again not like himself.

He stepped down the ladder putting space and propriety between them.

Elara gasped, missing his touch much as she had felt it. Her hand went to her throat covering the spot his thumb had pressed like she was trying to keep the feeling. She gazed down at him her chest rising and falling fast. The room came back, into view. The shelves, the books and tiny specks of dust floating in the evening light.

The ordinary was a blasphemy now.

"That was not part of your duties " he said, his voice flat, without the emotion of a moment before. He turned away walking to his desk, his back stiff. "You may go."

The dismissal was like a splash of water on her face. She felt shame over her. It was hot and it came really fast. She had given in. Offered her throat to him. Then she climbed down the ladder. She did it really clumsily and her stocking got caught on one of the rungs. The sound of her stocking tearing was really loud.

She stood on the rug feeling small and exposed. Her uniform was rumpled, her hair worn down like he had told her. A mess over her shoulders. She looked disheveled. He was the picture of noble calm looking at a paper on his desk like she was already gone.

"The folio, Your Grace " she whispered, her voice barely working. "You only put it on the shelf. It should be catalogued."

He didn't look up. "It can wait."

It felt like the blow. Her purpose here the thin cover of legitimacy was gone. She was a girl he had touched and then forgotten. She dipped into a curtsey, the motion automatic. Turned to leave.

"Elara."

Her name, spoken in that steady tone stopped her at the door. Her hand froze on the brass handle.

"You will come back tomorrow evening. As instructed."

It wasn't a request, it was a command. She nodded stiffly, trusting herself to not speak or turn around and slipped out of the room.

Alistair listened to the quick pad of her footsteps fading away. Then did he look up from the meaningless paper. His hand, the one that had touched her clenched into a fist on the wood. He could still feel her pulse racing against his skin and the warmth of her body and her scent clunging to the air around the ladder.

"To forget " he said again to the room the words tasting bitter. He had not forgotten. He had remembered, vividly what it was to want something with a purity that had nothing to do with numbers or alliances. He had shown her his vulnerability and in his world being vulnerable was a weakness.

He walked to the sideboard. Poured a measure of whiskey drinking it in one swallow. The engagement portrait of Lady Seraphina sat in a frame nearby. Her smile was perfect, her family background flawless, her eyes as cold as his. A joining of estates. A combining of power. A transaction.

His gaze went back to the ladder. It was as if the ghost of her was still there, head tilted back, throat bared. A woman who trembled. Who burned. His fist tightened around the glass. He had retreated because the confession had made it real. For one moment he needed her to see him, not the duke. and that was a more dangerous game than any seduction.

In the servants quarters Elara leaned against her door and slid down to the floor. She put her hands on her hot cheeks. She thought, about every second that happened. His words. His touch. The empty feeling when he stopped. The shame was still there. Under it she felt a new and scary understanding.

He needed to forget. She had to be seen. In the library for a few heartbeats they gave each other exactly what they needed. It was the honest thing that had ever happened to her.