Claude was aware Amelia was many things—fierce, stubborn, and guarded. But tonight, when she walked into the grand dining hall, she was something else altogether.
Unbreakable.
Her chin was up, her eyes as keen as sharpened steel. She was dressed in a deep blue gown, the color striking against her pale skin, her hair beautifully coiffed up in a style that showed off the delicate curve of her throat. But it was the fire in her eyes that most arrested him—the quiet, smoldering anger that threatened war.
And for the first time in a long time, something moved deep within Claude. Not only admiration. Not only desire. But something perilously near *pride*.
Lord Wyndall was already seated at the head of the table, sipping his wine leisurely, as though he were the master of Everthorne Manor instead of an unwanted guest. His calculating gaze flickered between Claude and Amelia, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
"You're late," Wyndall remarked, setting his glass down.
"My apologies, Uncle," Amelia replied smoothly, her voice full of forced courtesy. "I had to make sure everything was perfect for our *guest*."
Claude could hardly suppress a smirk. *She's playing the game now.*
He pulled out Amelia's chair for her, something he'd gotten into the habit of doing over the last few days. She settled into it smoothly, her posture perfect, before placing her hands in her lap.
Wyndall let out a small chuckle, as if amused by the performance. "I must say, you've certainly adjusted well to your *duties*, Amelia. A proper Duchess at last."
Claude felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. *Bastard.*
Amelia, to her credit, didn't so much as flinch. "I do what is expected of me," she replied, reaching for her goblet of wine.
The meal commenced, servants flowing unobtrusively around them, offering wine, serving courses, maintaining the veneer of polite behavior.
But Claude could sense the anxiety lying just beneath.
Wyndall wasn't done.
"So, Claude," Wyndall declared abruptly, stirring the wine in his goblet, "tell me—how does it feel to be *trapped*?"
Claude raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
"Under marriage," Wyndall explained, inclining his head. "Certainly, a man of your *appetites* must have trouble being tied to one woman."
Amelia's hand froze on her fork.
Claude willed himself to be tranquil. "I find it no trouble at all," he said smoothly, locking eyes with Wyndall. "A smart man learns to enjoy what he has instead of pursuing what he does not."
Wyndall's lips curled. "A romantic, then?"
Claude sipped slowly from his wine, never once breaking eye contact. "Only when it concerns my wife."
Wyndall's smirk faltered for the first time. It was fleeting—almost imperceptible—but Claude caught it.
And he savored it.
But then Wyndall leaned forward, his face becoming amused again. "And yet, not so long ago I heard quite the opposite."
Claude's grip on his goblet tightened.
"I heard rumors, you see," Wyndall went on, speaking in a light voice, as if he were talking about the weather. "That the Duke of Everthorne had taken a liking to another woman. A certain Isolde, was it?"
The air in the room grew heavy.
Amelia froze beside him.
Claude's blood raged. "You talk of things you do not know."
"Oh, but I *do*," Wyndall replied, settling back with a look of complacency. "I know more than you realize. And I wonder—does Amelia know as well?"
Claude's temper flashed.
His chair scraped against the floor as he stood, his gaze dark and murderous. "Watch your tongue, *Lord Wyndall*."
Silence fell over the hall. The servants froze mid-motion, eyes darting between the Duke and his unwelcome guest.
Wyndall merely chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.
"My, my," he mused. "I *do* believe I've struck a nerve."
Claude balled his fists. He could feel the anger rising, ready to boil over. He wanted nothing better than to erase that smug look from the man's face—preferably with his fist.
But before he could open his mouth, Amelia stood.
The whole room seemed to catch its breath.
She slowly set her napkin on the table and turned to address Wyndall.
"You do have a fondness for the sound of your own voice, Uncle," she replied graciously.
Wyndall's eyebrow went up. "I simply wish to know the truth."
Amelia smiled. "Then let me give it to you."
She moved towards Claude.
And then, to his complete surprise—she closed in.
So close that he could catch a whiff of the light lavender in her hair. So close that their arms touched.
Claude didn't even have time to react before Amelia slipped her hand into his—his *hand*—and intertwined her fingers around his.
He froze.
She glared up at him, her face a mask. And then—before he could even blink—she leaned forward and bussed his cheek.
The touch was brief, a momentary brushing of her lips on his flesh.
But it produced a *shockwave* in him.
She spun around again to Wyndall, defiance blazing in her eyes.
"My husband and I are well pleased," she said curtly. "But if you concern yourself so greatly with our union, Uncle, perhaps you'd better attend to your own matters instead of inserting yourself into mine."
Wyndall's smirk was erased.
Claude was filled with a raw, gut-deep sense of satisfaction at seeing it.
"Now," Amelia went on, dropping Claude's hand as if she hadn't just totally *destroyed* his entire demeanor, "if you don't mind, my *husband* and I are going to bed."
Claude didn't have time to do more than blink before Amelia spun on her heel and *exited*.
He blinked.
Then, noticing she had left him standing there like a fool, he moved swiftly after.
---
### **A Game of Pretend**
Claude closed the door behind them as soon as they arrived at Amelia's quarters.
She strode over to the vanity, removing her earrings with an air of nonchalance as if she hadn't just played the most treacherous game at dinner.
"What the hell was that?" he bellowed.
She shifted ever so slightly, her gaze glinting. "A performance."
Claude breathed rapidly. "You—" He raked a hand through his hair. "You kissed me."
She raised a dainty brow. "On the *cheek*."
His jaw hardened. "It was still a kiss."
She turned her head to one side, as if weighing. "Would you have liked it if I had done something more?"
Claude *choked*.
Amelia smirked. "Relax, Your Grace. It was only an act."
Claude's eyes narrowed. "You liked it."
She gasped teasingly. "Are you saying I flirted with my own husband?"
His eyes flashed darkly. "You wouldn't dare."
She kept his gaze level, unyielding. "Wouldn't I?"
Stolen moments clung between them.
The atmosphere hung heavy in the air as thick as knives.
Claude made a slow step forward.
Amelia's breath caught.
Then—suddenly—she turned her back on him. "Goodnight, Claude."
Claude stood rooted as she got into bed, pulling the covers over herself as if nothing at all had occurred.
As if he wasn't standing there, his heart racing, his body aflame.
He let out a harsh breath.
This woman will be the death of me.