Neville whispered, catching Fiona by surprise as she hid in the darkened library. He’d spent the entire day about estate business, never once seeking her out, but now that she had reason not to face him, he located her faster than any vulture with its prey. Fiona tried shrugging him off, but the duke merely shifted his hands on her shoulders. Embarrassment stifled the desire his presence usually stirred. She had to tell him sometime. She wished she’d had a mother to tell her how one went about these things. But she’d grown up in a household of men and knew only their language, not a woman’s. “We can’t,” she whispered. His fingers tightened, biting into her shoulders. “Can’t what?” he asked. “We can’t do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow was their wedding day, the day they’d waited for all week. Her Uncle William and Seamus had arrived just hours ago. She and Neville would speak their vows in the morning, and then the duke would think he had every right to take her up to his bed and do what they’d done before.
