How to Love a Duke in Ten Days Page 16

  “Exceedingly scandalous.” He nibbled at her ear with questing lips, and she forgot her name for a moment.

  “It’ll take longer to undo, as it’s wrapped several times,” she explained in a husky voice she didn’t recognize as her own. “I suppose you don’t have to take that part off.”

  “Oh, but I do.” He slid her bodice down a little, exposing her shoulders to his lips.

  Panic flared, but she forced herself to focus on keeping her quivering knees intact. She gripped him as he dragged his lips over her shoulder.

  The beard helped. It swept over untouched skin eliciting an eruption of delicious shivers, chasing away the ones caused by her fear.

  She could do this. The mantra had grown stronger this time.

  Emboldened, she drew her hands down the vast expanse of his chest. His skin pulsed hot beneath his shirt, enticing her to explore.

  The sounds he made fascinated her, little hitches of breath and moans released as soft vibrations. She wanted to—

  “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it for myself.” A snide female voice permeated the clamor of her thoughts and the rush of blood in her ears. “The beast and the bluestocking.”

  Alexandra stiffened as his fingers curled around her arms, stopping just short of painful.

  His breath quickened, but when he pulled away from her, his eyes had become remote again. Frigid. His features, once melted to tender, fond warmth, now hardened to cold steel.

  “Rose,” he growled before turning around to face the dark beauty standing in the shadows of a bookcase swung wide on well-oiled, invisible hinges.

  Alexandra clutched her bodice to her as the Viscountess Carlisle raked her with a calculating estimation and quickly dismissed her in favor of Redmayne. Her newfound confidence drained from her as quickly as the blood drained from her extremities.

  What had the woman seen? What had she heard?

  Why was she here?

  The heat leached from her limbs, scalded her cheeks with a vicious blush when she realized the woman stood in front of a secret passage from, presumably, her rooms to Redmayne’s.

  Passages she’d quite obviously used before to gain entrance to his bedchamber.

  “He’s changed since his return, I assure you,” Rose purred, touching her hair with the tip of a gloved finger. “More than just his features, I imagine. We should compare him sometime, the body I’m intimately familiar with, compared to the one he has now.” She raked him with a lascivious glare that lit a fire of antipathy in Alexandra’s belly. “I’m certain you’re getting the better bargain.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Piers had never been violent with a woman. Had never before been so utterly tempted. The inferno in his blood, ignited by the innocent ardor of his lovely intended, flared to a volcanic temper at the appearance of his former betrothed.

  How dare she? How dare she invoke the pall of suspicion into Alexandra’s eyes. How dare she make use of the passages he’d made available to her when their relationship had been definite and their passion had been new.

  Containing the rage seething beneath his skin, Piers slid Alexandra’s bodice back in place and pulled her in against him to reach around and adjust the laces he’d loosened.

  Alexandra’s breaths lifted her shoulders against his chest in small, rapid bursts, as she fought a valiant battle to retain her poise. He’d thought he hated Rose before, but now the bitter emotion that welled within him was amplified a thousandfold.

  Damn her scheming hide.

  “I need you to go,” he managed through clenched teeth.

  A grim determination compressed Alexandra’s soft mouth into a hard line as she seemed to gather courage from him. “Yes, it’s best you leave,” she addressed Rose stiffly.

  Piers was proud of her, shy little bird that she was, but she’d mistaken his meaning.

  He cupped her face in both his palms, her skin hot with mortification. “No, darling, I need you to go.”

  Her neck tensed, and her amber gaze sharpened. “Me?”

  “Yes.” He kissed lips now stiff with distress before he could bring himself to look at Rose, who glared at them with raptorlike interest. “I don’t want you to have to see this.”

  Her chin moved against his hand in a short nod, and when he looked at her, the uncertainty in her eyes nearly broke his heart. Christ, but she was beautiful, her peach lips glowing red from his kisses, the skin around her mouth lightly abraded by his beard.

  Her lashes swept down, and she worried her lip, as appeared to be her habit when she had a question she didn’t want to ask.

  “I’ll come find you, once my business here is finished,” he promised, pressing his lips against her forehead.

  Mutely, she nodded, trailing her skirt of moonbeams as she glided out of his chamber with her spine held perfectly erect.

  “Alexandra Lane?” the viscountess scoffed, relieving herself of her black gloves by pulling at her fingers one by one. “Really, Piers, how utterly you’ve shocked us all. If you’re marrying to make me jealous, you might have picked someone younger. Or at least wealthier.”

  Piers’s fury struck him momentarily speechless. Were she a man, he’d have thrashed her soundly and thrown her out. “You will keep her name off your venomous tongue. Do I make myself clear?”

  He took distinct relish when she hesitated, a spark of fear igniting at the bite in his words. She masked it instantly, wandering into his chamber.

  Revulsion slithered through him. How had he ever thought her beautiful? The most desirable woman the ton had to offer? Her dark, exotic almond eyes had held him in their thrall. She’d enticed him with long, insolent gazes and silent, sensual promises.

  She’d a fine-tipped elfin prettiness, coy and mysterious, all bashful lashes and sharp features.

  Now, all he could find were her flaws. Her imperfect teeth. The beauty mark below her eye that would become an unsightly mole with age.

  Her faithless soul.

  She had the temerity to perch on the edge of one of the chairs across from the fireplace, her every motion posed and calculated.

  She wanted to remind him that he’d fucked her on that chair.

  He wished to God he hadn’t.

  She’d always loved to goad him. To push him beyond his limits of patience and control. To find his dark places and banked fires and fuel them with her subtle manipulations. Oh, he remembered how she liked him feral. Like an animal. She wanted bruises and marks, and fast, hard fucking.

  She wanted him angry.

  The purple skin stretched tight over his bruised knuckles as he reined in his temper and addressed her with a chilly calm belying the inferno raging within him. “I’d be tempted to brick over that passage,” he said casually. “But since you’ll not receive further invitations to Castle Redmayne, such action won’t be deemed necessary.”

  “I’ve come to make peace, Piers,” she said as though he’d not spoken.

  He silenced her with a sharp gesture. “You will address me as Your Grace, or not at all.”

  The jut of her chin was the only indication his imperious command had affected her.

  What a perfect little actress she still was.

  “Surely what the peasants and patricians in this part of the world have taken to whispering about you isn’t true.” She smoothed her hands down her skirts, molding them to her thin legs as she flicked a glance at the door Alexandra had vacated. “That you’ve developed a taste for virgins?”

  “I’ve a taste for the woman I’d make my duchess.”

  Another hit. She’d been unable to conceal her wince.

  “It’s almost cruel to thrust that mantle upon her. That woman is a mouse. She may be the daughter of an earl, but it was plain tonight that she’d neither the wish nor the proficiency to fill such a responsibility.”

  “And that is one of the many things my intended and I have in common.” Somehow, discussing Alexandra with Rose already felt like a betrayal.

  Standing, Ro
se swayed toward him with careful, measured steps. Her pale shoulders thrust back, her breasts clad in barely there black proudly displayed. “I know you’re angry with me, but I’ve never had the chance to defend myself. Don’t you think I’m owed that? Don’t you wonder why I did what I did?”

  “You married the heir to my title little more than a month after you received my letter informing you I would likely die,” he said drolly. “Your reasons would be obvious to a blind man.”

  “That isn’t fair.” She pouted. “Patrick and I both loved you—love you—it was our grief that drove us into each other’s arms.”

  He speared her with his most imperious glare. “A shame it didn’t keep you there.”

  “You’ve always been beastly.” She lifted her hand to shape it to his scarred jaw, but he jerked his neck away, capturing her wrist. “And now you look like one.” Her tone became acerbic. “You’re many things, Your Grace, but you’re not stupid. Everyone knows the Lane family is destitute. She’s marrying your fortune. How does that make her any different than what you accuse me of being?”

  He flung her hand away, hating the truth. Detesting that she knew it.

  Rose’s eyes narrowed, her fingers turned to claws. “Has she convinced you that she wants you? That timid wench? Do you really think she can look past what you’ve become and desire who you are? You didn’t see her face, as you kissed her shoulders. You didn’t mark the revulsion. The fear. She doesn’t want you, she’ll suffer beneath you so she can spend your money.”

  In desperation, she threw her arms about him, pressing her body against his as she breathed a husky whisper into his ear. “I’ve never stopped loving you. Desiring you. Your scars make me want you more. They show what you’ve always been to me. A magnificent beast. You’re the Terror of Torcliff, you deserve a lover who can slake every monstrous desire.”

  She was all prickly jewels and tight, corseted posture, and as she crushed her curves to his body, the last of the heat Alexandra had ignited was doused by ice.

  His hands had long forgotten the shape of her.

  And now longed for the shape of another.

  Was there any truth to what Rose claimed? Was Alexandra’s reticence less timidity and more revulsion? Were her ridiculous conditions so she could stand to be touched by him?

  “You’re here to seduce me, Rose?” He said her name like it was a curse. “Is it my monstrous body you want?”

  Her eyes watered. “I’m here because I saw you tonight and I died from wanting. I’m here because all I ever wanted was to stand on the tiered balustrade with you. My place was beside you. Is beside you. That is what you promised me, don’t you remember?”

  His lip curled into a sneer, his face tightening into something he was certain was as ugly as the feelings she evoked. “I promised you my heart, you fell in love with the rest.”

  “Your promise was empty!” she cried. “Your mother made certain your heart was as cold as hers. You chased me like one of your animals. And once ensnared, I became another pretty thing to mount on your wall. You pledged your love to me but fled your duty again and again. For two years, I waited for you to return from every corner of the earth, happy with your trinkets and your passion. But don’t ever think for one second I caught a glimpse of your heart, because you never let me see it. I’m not convinced you have one.”

  Piers thrust her away. “Had you loved me, you’d have mourned me. Had you mourned me, I’d have returned to you. I’d have been your beast. Your animal. I thank that jaguar every night for the monster he made me, because it revealed what a monster you are.”

  “You can’t mean that.” She stumbled back, her hands out in supplication. “We’re family now, Piers, at least let us—”

  “Get. Out.” She’d drained what little he’d left of his self-possession.

  Reluctantly, she turned to leave, her ebony train dragging like an inky trail behind her. She paused at the bookcase, looked back at him. “You’ll tire of her,” she predicted. “And when you do, I’ll welcome back the beast.”

  The bookcase slid shut behind her, and Piers wrenched at the lever, rendering it useless.

  He never intended to have a clandestine lover.

  He was not his mother. He was not like Rose.

  Once he’d married, he’d never stray.

  Alexandra Lane would be his one and only lover.

  He was her beast now.

  May God have mercy on her soul.

  * * *

  It had taken no little doing to calm Francesca and Cecelia down. They’d returned from the ball to find Alexandra missing and had worked themselves into a frenzy of worry by the time she’d slipped through the door.

  She should have thought to leave them a note, but in her hurry, she’d taken her pad with her and quite forgot.

  Three fingers of whisky had eased Alexandra’s shaking hands and released the coil of tension from her chest enough to recount the evening’s events. As she did so, her friends’ eyes widened in identical, almost comical increments until they resembled two redheaded owls staring at her in disbelief.

  “You’re so brave.” Cecelia sighed rather dreamily. She had divested herself of her gown and corset the moment Alexandra had been confirmed safe and stood in the middle of her discarded attire donning her nightgown. “I would have been terrified of him.”

  Alexandra frowned at the defensive knot in her stomach. “Why would you have been?”

  “He’s just so big, isn’t he? And ever so fearsome.” She paused, her brows knitted with concern. “What was kissing him like? Was he … gentle with you? Considerate?”

  Alexandra had trouble conjuring the word for what she and Redmayne had shared. “He was … pleasant.” She realized the inadequacy of the word the moment she’d said it.

  Kissing Redmayne had been pleasant, surely, but it was too tame a word. What could she use, instead?

  Agreeable? Enjoyable?

  Pleasurable.

  That was it. Kissing Redmayne had been a pleasure. She could have kissed him all night. She could have kissed him forever.

  “He put me well at ease,” Alexandra explained. “I don’t believe we should have stopped if Rose hadn’t interrupted us.”

  “Rose Brightwell has always been a horrid bitch,” Francesca swore as she yanked ruby pins from her coiffure. “Remember when I roomed with her at de Chardonne in the early days? She made everyone so miserable. What Redmayne saw in her I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  “She’s Rose Atherton now.” Alexandra draped herself on the chaise, too exhausted by the entire ordeal to even disrobe. “And she’s really quite beautiful.” If one liked perfect, exotic women with elegant features and a figure straight from a lady’s catalogue.

  A sick suspicion curled within her. As she and Redmayne had kissed, as their intimacy progressed, he’d pulled her against him, and she’d felt his … his lust. His sex. Turgid and hard against her belly.

  He’d been about to peel away her dress. She’d been about to explore his topography. Minutes later they might have been on the bed.

  And then Rose had driven her away. No, Redmayne had sent her away.

  What were they doing now? Alexandra wondered. Were they fighting? Was Rose apologizing? Or …

  “Do you think lust is transferable?” As she was wont to do, Alexandra gave the thought voice before it had fully formed.

  Cecelia froze in the middle of cinching her robe. “You’re not wondering if Redmayne and Rose are—”

  “That’s exactly what I’m wondering.” Alexandra sighed miserably. “We’d … progressed in our intimacies enough for him to … respond physically. Now that he has another beautiful woman in his room, do you think that they might be…?” She covered her eyes with her fingers, wishing she could blind her imagination as well.

  “I don’t think that’s how it works, dear.” The cushion next to her depressed as Cecelia joined her on the couch, placing a hand on her arm to pull her hands away from her eyes. “Besides, Redm
ayne has made it obvious he’s furious with his cousin and Rose. I daresay he detests them.”

  “Certainly, but isn’t there a fine line between love and hate?” Alexandra gave voice to the devil’s advocate whispering in her ear.

  Francesca leaned forward intently. “The real question is, why does it matter so much to you?”

  Alexandra hesitated, pressing her fingertips to lips still tingling with sensation from his vital, gentle kisses. Why did it matter? She wasn’t jealous, was she? Of a woman she loathed and a man she didn’t love? Lord, she’d only known him two days. Only encountered him a handful of times.

  And now they were to be married. He would be her husband.

  Given her circumstances, her past, any woman might welcome a mistress into their situation to avoid a distasteful act.

  And yet …

  “I wouldn’t surrender a shawl I was passing fond of to Rose,” she muttered bitterly. “Let alone a husband.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Francesca agreed.

  Cecelia lifted her glass. “Hear. Hear.”

  A sharp knock surprised Alexandra into gulping her whisky rather than sipping it. She set the glass down on the table, her eyes watering at the burn.

  I’ll come find you.

  “It’s for me.” She stood, making certain her friends were out of sight of the door before she went to it. She pressed her hand to her belly as though to contain the riot of moths within.

  He’d come. And it had only been minutes.

  But, as she was well aware, the act could only take minutes, and one needn’t disrobe.

  Gathering her courage, she opened the door.

  Redmayne’s eyes touched her everywhere, absorbing her features from the dimly lit alcove.

  He’d donned his waistcoat and tamed his hair but left his necktie off. There was no way to tell whether or not he’d only just finished an interlude of a physical nature.

  “You are not alone.” His voice pulsed with the familiar fury.

  Perhaps she’d also identified its source. Rose.

  “I’m not alone,” she confirmed.

  “Might I speak to you?” He gestured to the empty bartizan alcove. It would afford them a modicum of privacy, at least.