Married at 17 to a Cold Husband Who Moved His Mistress In — The Duke Said “Mine”

Chapter 3

“It already has,” Gideon replied calmly. His posture was relaxed, but the intensity in his gaze had not softened. “Does that trouble you?”

She hesitated. “Everything troubles me,” she said quietly. “That is the nature of my position.”

Something dark crossed his expression. “Yes,” he said softly. “I am aware.”

Silence lingered between them. Then he stood.

“Dance with me.”

Her breath caught. “I cannot.”

“You can.”

“I am married.”

“And yet your husband dances with another woman.”

Rosalind’s gaze dropped to the floor. Across the room, Reginald had taken Vivienne’s hand and stepped onto the dance floor without a single glance toward his wife. The humiliation was so familiar it almost felt like routine, like weather, like the way one knew it would rain.

Gideon followed her gaze. Something cold settled behind his eyes. “Then tonight,” he said quietly, extending his hand, “you will dance with me.”

Rosalind stared at the offered hand. A duke’s hand. If she accepted, every whisper in London would ignite into wildfire. If she refused, she would return to the ferns, to the shadows, to the quiet erasure she had endured for six years.

Her heart pounded.

Slowly, carefully, she placed her hand in his.

The reaction was immediate. Fans stilled. Voices hushed. Because the Duke of Ravensmere, who never danced, who had not danced in the memory of a single person in that room, was leading Lady Blackmoor onto the floor.

The orchestra faltered for half a breath before recovering.

His hand rested lightly at her waist. Even through layers of silk, she felt the heat of his touch. “You are trembling,” he murmured.

“I am dancing with the most powerful man in England while my husband watches,” she said under her breath. “That would make anyone tremble.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I suspect,” he said quietly, “that you are far braver than anyone in this room realizes.”

The music carried them into the waltz. Rosalind had practiced alone for years in the empty east wing of Blackmoor Hall, counting steps beneath her breath while Meg hummed the melody from the doorway. Now those lonely rehearsals guided her feet across polished marble. She moved gracefully, naturally, her hand light on his shoulder, her skirts sweeping in perfect arcs, and when she lifted her eyes to his, he was not watching the dance.

He was watching her, as though every movement mattered.

Across the room, Reginald’s face darkened with something dangerously close to rage. Vivienne noticed, and her smile sharpened. “Well,” she whispered beside him. “Your wife appears to be enjoying herself.”

Reginald crushed his glass between his fingers. The splinters drew blood, and he did not seem to notice.

Meanwhile, Rosalind felt something unfamiliar stirring in her chest. Not fear. Not humiliation. Something warmer, something dangerous — because for the first time since she was seventeen, someone in that room looked at her as though she were the most important person there.

When the music ended, the applause was polite but stunned. Gideon did not release her hand immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice meant only for her.

“This will become difficult for you.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I am not stopping.”

Her pulse skipped. “Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Because I have waited six years.”

Across the ballroom, the Earl of Blackmoor began pushing through the crowd toward them. His expression promised trouble. Gideon saw it. The Duke’s gaze shifted over Rosalind’s shoulder, and his voice dropped to something colder.

“Ah. Your husband has decided to join us.”