NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

5

Julian sat in his study, the faint scent of old leather and his own pipe tobacco doing little to mask the lingering fragrance that clung to his skin. Lady Livia's scent. It was a light, fresh aroma, a mix of wildflowers and something uniquely her own, something he couldn't quite place. And he couldn't get her scent off his hands, not that he truly wanted to.

He traced the rim of a crystal decanter with a thoughtful finger, his mind replaying the morning's volatile encounter. Her desperate lie, her flushed cheeks, the wide, panicked eyes that had briefly flickered with a raw vulnerability before hardening into defiance.

He remembered the feel of her beneath his hands, the surprising softness of her skin, the sharp intake of breath when he had... ascertained the truth.

A phantom sensation lingered on his fingertips, and every now and then, his fingers would move to his nose, inhaling the faint, ethereal fragrance. It was a perplexing dichotomy. Her audacious lies, her bold pronouncements, her fiery refusal—all of it vexed him.

The insolence of her to think she could lie to him, to the Duke of Blackmoor, stirred a deep, cold anger within him. Yet, beneath that anger, a new, unsettling current rippled.

His c@ck, usually quiescent throughout the demands of his meticulously ordered days, would throb, a dull, insistent ache that pulsed with an unexpected heat.

It was a reaction he hadn't anticipated, a physical response to her audacity, her vibrant, unyielding spirit. Perhaps, he mused, leaning back in his chair and allowing a rare, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, her defiance didn't just vex him. Or maybe he was intrigued by it. Intrigued by the unexpected fire in her, by the sheer audacity that dared to challenge his unshakeable calm. The little hellion.

She was proving to be far more stimulating than any society debutante, far more captivating than the placid, predictable Lady Clara.

The game, as Livia had so innocently called it, had indeed ceased to be one. But for Julian, a new, more dangerous game had just begun. And he intended to win.

********

Eleanor, despite her sadness over Livia's predicament, found a quiet comfort in having her best friend so near. Even if Livia was confined to a different wing of the vast manor, Eleanor could still be by her side. She spent hours in Livia's lavish guest chamber, offering words of comfort and trying to distract her from her despair.

She even brought Livia a collection of her favorite poetry, hoping the lyrical verses might offer a momentary escape. "It's not ideal, Liv," she'd whispered, squeezing Livia's hand, "but at least you're here, safe, and not alone."

*******

Meanwhile, Lady Clara, fueled by a potent mix of indignation and misplaced confidence, sought out the Duke. She entered his study with an air of arrogance that grated even on the unflappable Mr. Finch. She believed she held the upper hand, that Julian would surely see the error of his ways and return to the sensible, advantageous match she represented.

She faced Julian with a carefully constructed veneer of magnanimity. "Julian," she began, her voice modulated to convey both hurt and graciousness, "I have given this unfortunate matter much thought. And despite the... humiliation... I have endured, I have decided." She paused, letting the dramatic tension hang in the air, clearly expecting him to lean forward in anticipation. "I have decided to forgive you. And," she added, a triumphant smile touching her lips, "I will still wed you." She presented her case as if she were doing the Duke a monumental favor, bestowing her grace upon a man who had strayed.

Julian, seated behind his large desk, simply looked at her. His expression remained unreadable, his winter-sky eyes giving away nothing of his thoughts. He listened to her carefully, patiently, allowing her to finish her elaborate pronouncement.

When she concluded, a smug satisfaction radiating from her, he merely inclined his head slightly.

"Lady Clara," he said, his voice calm, devoid of any discernible emotion, "that will not be necessary."

Clara's triumphant smile faltered. "Not necessary?" she echoed, her brow furrowing slightly. "But, Julian, surely you understand the scandal? My family's name—"

He cut her off, his voice still perfectly even, the very picture of polite disinterest.

"My marriage to Lady Livia," he stated, his gaze unwavering, "is set for two days from now. All arrangements are in hand."

Clara stared at him, her face slowly draining of color as the reality of his words sunk in. The implications were clear: he was not asking for her forgiveness; he was not begging for her hand.

He was rejecting her, decisively and without apology. The grand gesture she had just offered, the "forgiveness" she had so dramatically extended, had been met with a calm, absolute refusal.

She felt a hot flush crawl up her neck. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled, replaced by naked disbelief and a profound sense of humiliation. She, Lady Clara, the Marquess's daughter, had been insulted by this dismissal.

Not merely rejected, but summarily dismissed as if her offer were of no consequence. The cold reality of Julian Blackmoor's implacable will had finally dawned on her, and it was far more devastating than she had ever imagined.