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“I warned you about kissing her, did I not?” William asked in a deadly whisper. “I told you I would rip off your lips, or did you forget?”

Porter’s hand flew to cover his mouth, eyes wide with shock, scarlet blood seeping between his fingers from the deep gash across his lips.

“Now, imagine what I might do if you tried anything more,” William purred. He lowered the blade, letting it hover mere inches from Porter’s crotch.

With a choked cry, Porter staggered back, terror in his eyes. A sob tore from his mouth before he whirled around and ran away as if the hounds of hell were on his tail.

* * *

Victoria sat in her favorite—her only—armchair the next morning, pretending to read while she watched her husband prepare breakfast.

She had to admit that she quite enjoyed watching him cook. She had never seen anyone cook before, at least not from start to finish. She’d never thought she would find the process fascinating, but fascinating it was.

His deft handling of breakfast ingredients was a mesmerizing spectacle that she couldn’t quite take her eyes off. With infinite gentleness, he lifted the eggs before breaking them swiftly and decisively. Then came the stirring and mixing of the ingredients in the pot, his actions sharp, his muscles flexing and rippling with every movement.

He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his tanned, muscled arms, sprinkled with golden wisps of hair for Victoria to see. It was as though he did it on purpose, to taunt her.

Watching him wield the knife was an exceptional sight. She knew—had witnessed it even—that he could inflict tremendous pain using that weapon if he wished. Yet instead, he employed it to prepare her a meal.

But it was the kneading, oh, the kneading that truly ensnared her senses.

He had often taken to baking bread in the morning, crafting a few buns for breakfast, and wrapping the rest away in the pantry. Watching him prepare the bread was one of her favorite activities, and today was no exception.

The raw strength he poured into the task, the litheness of his movements, the mastery with which he manipulated the dough, the skill with which he flipped it in his hands, and tugged on it with his strong fingers…

She swallowed. Each detail drew her in like an irresistible spell.

Why, oh, why did it feel so sensual to watch him in the kitchen?

The moment he stepped behind the work table, a subtle sensuality hung in the air. Her heart raced, and a familiar heat pooled within her, a desire stirred by the carnal artistry of his hands. Perhaps, she wished she were in the place of that raw dough in his hands, and that was why every sinuous twist and pull seemed to ripple through her skin, evoking a deep, unspoken hunger.

And not the type of hunger that came with anticipating food.

It was both exciting and unnerving.

But the most unnerving part was that this time William didn’t even acknowledge her during the process.

Usually, he was playful and flirtatious in the mornings since it was the most time they spent together all day. After breakfast, they’d go their separate ways, not reuniting again until late in the evening. But today, it was as if she wasn’t in the kitchen at all. He barely glanced her way, spoke little, and his mood was cold and detached. Gone was the lighthearted banter and affection she had come to treasure in their brief time together each morning. Today, an aloof stranger occupied her husband’s body, making her presence feel utterly inconsequential.

He skillfully flipped the dough into the bowl and covered it with a clean cloth before setting it aside. Then he washed his hands and started dressing the table for breakfast.

“Do you need help?” Victoria asked, lowering her book and putting it aside.

William threw her a strange glance. “And what exactly do you think you can help me with?”

Victoria tapped a finger against her lips. “I can carry plates,” she finally said excitedly.

William raised a brow but quickly passed her a couple of plates, and Victoria brought them to the table. She helped William set the dishes and settled into a chair.

William’s mood had turned morose since the middle of the ball last night. One moment, they’d been enjoying themselves, laughing and reveling at his stealing talents, and the next, his charm had vanished, leaving brooding silence and detachment.

It had happened after Kensington had pulled him aside. After that, William had disappeared for about half an hour, returning in foul spirits. At first, Victoria had wondered if perhaps the duke had managed to spoil William’s mood. But the longer this bitter air clung to her husband, the more she wondered if something else was afoot.

“I enjoyed the ball last night,” she finally said, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Did you?” William set his fork aside and leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “Which part did you enjoy the most?”

Victoria frowned. He was obviously alluding to something—she had no idea what—but his attitude left a lot to be desired. “I can tell you which part I enjoyed the least: your flirting with Lady Carlyle,” she snapped.