His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist as the gentian eyes opened wide. For one startled moment, he looked up at her through that hazy blue like a lost child. She had another sudden vision of the little boy he must once have been.
All the while, his adult strength crushed her fragile wrist.
“Who is it?” he grated out, his gaze blind.
She doubted he was actually awake. The dream still dug its claws into him.
“Kylemore, it’s me.” She tried to break away, cursing herself for her stupidity in venturing so close. Did she never learn?
He didn’t seem to hear her as he inexorably dragged her toward him. When he forced her to bend over him, her unbound hair tumbled forward to pool on his naked chest.
“Who is it?” he asked again.
“It’s Verity.”
The room was silent except for his ragged breathing. Hesitantly, he brought up his free hand to tangle in her hair. The gesture was almost tender.
“Black silk,” he said in husky wonder. Then more sharply, “Verity? Is that you?”
“You’re hurting my hand, Kylemore,” she said firmly, hoping to disperse the miasma in his mind.
His dazed glance fell to where he gripped her with such bruising force. “Your pardon.”
He immediately freed her. She should seize this reprieve and flee to her room, but still she didn’t go.
He pushed himself upright against the pillows and looked around as if unsure exactly where he was. “Verity,” he said in a more normal tone. “What are you doing here?”
She rubbed her sore wrist. “You called out in your sleep. I came to see if you were all right.”
“Just a bad dream,” he said with a carelessness she knew better than to believe.
It had been more than just a bad dream. His terrifying distress still echoed in her ears. And he’d cried. She wouldn’t have thought the heartless duke capable of tears, but tonight proved her wrong.
“Go back to bed.” He spoke as though dismissing a servant in his grand London house. “I promise not to disturb your rest further.”
She couldn’t ignore this reprieve. She should be relieved he was sending her away unscathed apart from a few bruises.
With every second, he returned to his usual self. And Kylemore’s usual self was dangerous, as she knew to her cost. She retrieved her candle and began to sidle out of the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried not to notice how his hand shook when he raised it to brush his hair back from his face.
He didn’t look at her. “Good night.”
“Good night, then,” she said, telling herself she imagined the bereft note in his voice.
At the door, she impulsively looked back and caught the naked desolation on his fine-boned face. He sat up as if he meant to watch out the rest of the night.
For once, the shell of his self-confidence had cracked, and she saw him more clearly than ever before. Exhaustion marked his face—she suddenly wondered if he’d slept at all since they’d arrived in the valley—and the beautiful mouth was taut with anguish.
Cursing herself for being every variety of fool, she returned to stand beside the bed. “Can I get Your Grace anything? A glass of wine? Something from the kitchen?”
He focused those bleak indigo eyes on her, and she struggled not to recognize a loneliness as strong as her own.
“No,” he said.
“Very well.”
But as she turned once more to leave, he reached out and snatched for her hand. “Yes. Yes, stay.” His voice was harsh, turning what should have been a plea into a command.
“Your Grace, I…” If she crawled between the sheets, she was all too aware what he’d do.