Agatha
Air became steel that grated tension into a sort of awkwardness. Though she felt the awkwardness, she doubted it was the same case for him. Languidly did he observe her, as if she were the little fish he had caught and placed in a jar.
The Duke retracted his hand from behind him and exposed a cigar. Casually, he flickered the red flakes and placed the tip into his mouth. She imagined his sharp nose contracting as he inhaled the fumes into his lungs.
He allowed the fragrant smoke to permeate his senses, and a blaze of white emerged from his lips that barely parted. Agatha did not realize they were close enough until she felt the warmth of his breath stroke her face.
His eyes drifted closed in response to the rapture of that initial inhalation. Perhaps a low involuntary groan of pleasure escaped him, or maybe she imagined it.
Two things she hated, smoking and drinking, and her Mama had taught her to. Not because she was raised being told not to do it so as to be a proper lady, no, it was because she saw her Mama indulge and get drowned in it.
The Duke blew smoke onto her face twice, and she did not flinch. She made sure of it. Before him would she not be an open book he could read and scrutinize, because with every drag of the cigar was a chapter of her own written story, one she wished not to remember on that very night.
Instead of continuing to indulge in pleasure on his own, he decided to share. Until now, the Duke poked at her, yet they still had not exchanged words.
He lifted the cigar to her.
She hesitated, not sure if he was really offering it to her, so she would also smoke. But when ticks on the clock passed without him moving, she relented and took it from him.
Agatha had never smoked before. It was no surprise that she coughed the moment she inhaled. She bent over and patted her chest as she wretched. Although she wanted her display to be ladylike, she doubted she managed the part.
When she finally rose, she was met by a smirk planted on his face, eyebrow raised. He did not say anything as he took the cigar from her.
What a virgin impression she had given him.
Over the next few minutes, he did not offer it to her anymore and went on to smoke on his own. He withdrew to himself and turned from her, going back to observe the sky. She stayed by his side, confused as she could not figure out what he found so captivating about the sky.
She might as well leave. Surely, there was another man she could find that would bask in her presence and find pleasure in her company. The Duke was not God's gift to women, after all.
"Your Grace," a man said from behind, "we are ready for you."
The Duke turned to the intruder and passed a nonchalant, "Hmm."
How interesting. Her first interaction with the Duke had gone without an exchange of words. She could make it so that "woe is me" and accuse herself of being not good enough to rouse words from him. But no, the fault was not of her own. The Duke was plain boring, finding the sky more interesting than her.
His long legs took a few steps, and she was ready to go on her way and seek another's company. Yet he stopped and turned to her, asking the unexpected. "Are you not coming?"
She frowned in confusion, quite taken back. His first words to her. His voice was hoarse, heavy, and even authoritative and sure. She almost mindlessly followed before reason took over. "To where?"
His eyes again perused all of her body, "To endeavor further experiences." His stare was intentional and communicated something she would easily know if she had done this so many times.
She did not want their time to end as of yet, either. They had just begun conversing.
"Of course," she replied.
The man who intruded on them led the way to another entrance on the side of the building. It was not where she had exited from. He knocked for the door to be opened for them.
The place was not noisy at all, just harshed chatting. Two serving ladies, wearing masks like everyone in the room, approached and gave them a parchment each. Browsing over it did Agatha realize they were names of wine.
"Your Grace, please." One lady took them from the gentleman and ushered them to a table at the back. Candles lit the green room with cushioned red settees and chaise.
Seated opposite each other, the Duke concentrated on the listing of the drinks. Agatha pretended to do the same, yet all she could do was smell him. He reminded her of the freshness of the sea, the rained upon forest, and musky cinnamon. It was quite masculine.
A man introduced himself to the Duke, and they had a short conversation on trading and the London market. For the most part, the Duke seemed bored, but he skillfully partook in conversation. Asking, commenting, and listening were needed of him.
Agatha found herself thoroughly captivated by his hand, unable to avert her gaze. Her thoughts were consumed with the sensations it might provide—its formidable girth, strength, and the comforting warmth it exuded. And just then, the Duke adjusted his position upon the chaise, deftly tucking his hand into his pocket. His attention returned to the parchment before him as their conversation was dropped, and the man excused himself.
"I harbor no great affection for spirits or strong drink," she told the Duke.
His gaze ascended towards her, lingering for an extended moment. He placed the parchment aside and adjusted his posture, turning his shoulder in her direction.
"You did not like smoking, either." His gaze held an intense and somewhat tumultuous quality. Oh heavens, it sent chills coursing down her arms, through her legs, and all the way to her feet.
The serving ladies were back at the table with eight glasses on their trays. They were neatly placed before them, four for each.
"What you have ordered, Your Grace."
Agatha wearily eyed the drinks. She did not reach for any and watched the Duke taste the first. The ball on his throat danced, and he did not even flinch. That suggested to her it was not a strong drink and had her relax.
He stretched his arm to the drink opposite her and raised it to her lips. He watched her with an enigmatic gleam in his eyes, a gleam she could not fathom, nor did she harbor any desire to unravel its secrets. She preferred to let it remain a mystery, for mysteries, she believed, held no capacity to inflict harm upon her.
Agatha also took the glass in her hand, hoping he would release it when he was sure she was holding it. He did not.
"When wine enters, modesty departs." His voice cascaded gently down her spine as she smelt the glass he still hadn't released. The aroma of soap lingering on his hand wafted close to her face, and her skin tingled. She focused on drawing in the scent of alcohol, savoring it to the point where it almost felt tangible upon her tongue.
"Smelling is not enough. You have more than one sense to satisfy." He pushed the glass, tipping it on her lips. "Taste."
She complied, providing him with the satisfaction of taking a sip. Her head began to spin as the potent libation coursed directly to her senses. In the past, she had rarely been permitted more than a single glass of champagne, as her Mama had always been vigilant in preventing overindulgence.
"How does it fare?" He whispered.
"Dry." She barely registered the taste with him breathing down her neck. "Fruity as well."
She moistened her lips, and a hushed silence prevailed between them. Warmth enveloped her stomach under the weight of his gaze fixed upon her mouth, particularly as she ran her tongue over her lips once more. He observed her with the intensity of a lion watching a gazelle.
"Did it take your fancy?"
"Sort of."
Gentle fingers were on her hand as he gave her another glass. He long abandoned tasting the drinks himself.
"Smell it again," he instructed. The tone bore a measure of both warmth and authority, coupled with a palpable sense of curiosity.
At that point, she was no longer trying to hold the glass anymore. He lifted it to her nose, and she sniffed, the aroma opening her lungs somehow.
"Now taste."
Good gracious, his voice embodied sheer masculinity, an allure that was undeniably sensual. It was precisely the kind of voice that stirred her deepest desires. His command was delivered with such a coaxing quality that the thought of not obeying never even crossed her mind.
"Do you find it to your liking?" He asked when she was done.
"I love it," she breathed.
He looked above her and stated, "I will buy two cases of these two."
They smiled at each other, but their moment was short-lived as a man maneuvered his chaise closer to his.
She reclined against the back of her chaise, feeling a sense of ease and contentment wash over her, even as certain parts of her remained keenly attuned and taut with awareness. In his presence, true relaxation eluded her.
"Business is business," one of the men said. Three more had joined them.
She observed the Duke, a mysterious figure to her due to their limited acquaintance. Her gaze remained fixed on his mouth as he quietly conversed in their company, and likewise, she couldn't help but study his lips as he took a sip from his glass. It was the mouth she had resolved not to kiss, no matter what circumstances might unfold.
Bored by their business talk, she decided to try the rest of the drinks to keep herself entertained, though that did no favors for her judgment. She found herself daydreaming, wondering if she could become that wine, that glass he cradled so tenderly.
With a knowing smirk, he reached out, raising the glass to his lips, all the while casting a quizzical glance in her direction.
The lights from above hit his face, the quiet melody providing the ambiance. But no soothing background playing instruments could detract from the pulsing energy of the man in front of her. He was a complicated man.
His companions reveled in discussing their own exploits and boasting—never him. He assumed the role of a silent listener, subtly prodding and testing them with his inquiries. The Duke remained composed, akin to a dormant weapon, steadily gathering its formidable charge.
"Enough talk about business, gentlemen." He cut their chatter. "Scarlet, would you like to go outside?" His gaze pinned her.
She was not Scarlet. But her dress was, so he was talking to her.
In a sudden epiphany, she discerned that he had been playing a subtle game of engagement in the company of those men, biding his time. It was at that very moment that he fortified his voice and decisively closed the door on their inquisitiveness. He had entertained their banter for a time, and being the most potent force in the room, he would no longer indulge them.
When he stood and instructed the serving ladies to send his order to his address, Agatha stood and excused herself from the men as well, letting him escort her away.
S.V