How to Love a Duke in Ten Days Page 23

  It was as though her gloves were insubstantial. The warmth of his lips suffused her instantly, sending a swarm of hummingbirds alight in her belly.

  Her restless eyes lit on Julia by the unlit fireplace, clad in a dress of vibrant violet. Julia frowned up at Dr. Forsythe who, in turn, stared at Alexandra in a manner almost wolfish. Beyond them, she found Jean-Yves lingering at the bar nursing a white wine and watching the spectacle closely. She smiled fondly at him, the almost paterlike pride in his eyes setting her cheeks aglow.

  To her chagrin, Redmayne followed the direction of her smile and, having never met Jean-Yves, misinterpreted the object of her delight.

  His hand tightened on hers. Not painfully, but, she dared to think, possessively, as he conducted her down the stairs.

  Alexandra looked up at him sharply, finding his wintry eyes glaring shards of ice toward Forsythe. He leaned down to her, scandalously close, his breath warm on her ear. “You’ll have to tell me, wife, from whom you acquired that dress … and for whom you are wearing it.”

  If only he knew how wrong his suspicions were. If only she knew how to tell him.

  I wore it for you.

  “My friend Lady Julia Throckmorton lent it me, as I only own the one silvery ballgown and didn’t think to pack it for an archeological dig.” She slid her arm through his, trying not to note the tense muscles contained beneath the jacket. “I thought it nice, to commemorate the occasion.”

  “Consider it commemorated,” he muttered, steering them toward the quaint dining room.

  “Am I to take it that you approve?” A trill of pleasure warmed her breast.

  “You are to take it that every man in this room approves, a bit too much for my liking. I thought it was your practice to hide those away.” He glanced down at her bosoms, his eyes darkening before he dragged his gaze elsewhere.

  His frown deepened to a scowl as he caught a young waiter gaping at her with a slack jaw. The maître d’ whipped him in the back of the head with a towel and sent him back to the kitchen with some harsh words in blistering French. That accomplished, he floated toward them on lean legs made for dancing, and flashed a smile made for seduction beneath his precise mustache.

  Alexandra liked him immediately.

  “Monsieur le duc, madame la duchesse, I have prepared your table as instructed, if you would please follow me.” He bowed one too many times and led them to an intimate corner table on a dais that could very easily have fit a party of four, but boasted two elegant settings beside which a silver five-pointed candelabra glowed.

  The corner was constructed of more windows than walls, and even in the darkness of the evening, whitecaps of raucous waves and golden beaches were illuminated by a waxing moon.

  “I shall direct you tonight to consider the superb duck confit, coq au vin, or swordfish à la niçoise.” The maître d’ filled glasses of wine to the perfect line without even looking, never breaking solicitous eye contact with Redmayne. If he was affected by the scars, one would never know. “I will allow you to peruse the menu and will return at your convenience.” He bowed and slipped away with little fuss, hovering nearby like a pleasant summer cloud.

  “I’m considering pilfering him for our household,” Redmayne remarked. “It is a skilled servant who knows when he is needed, and a masterful one who knows when to disappear.”

  Their household? Alexandra bit back a pleased smile.

  “It surprises me, my lord, that you requested a table alone,” she observed. “This fete is technically in your honor, and that of your ancestor. I should think a long table would have been more appropriate, so you could converse with others.”

  He made a face. “I’ve spent all day conversing with other people, and when those musicians over there start to play, no doubt we’ll be expected to grant dances as we are a duke and duchess. However, I wanted to have—” He looked at her, started to say something, and then changed his mind. “A meal, at least, all to myself.”

  For some ridiculous reason, his surliness evoked a soft, teasing laugh from her chest. “How magnanimous you were with your august person, Your Grace,” she teased, enjoying the flicker of shadow cast in his scars by the candles. “It never before seemed to tax you so, to walk amongst the common plebeians.”

  He gave a derisive snort before lifting his wineglass and drinking deeply. “I find it no burden to be among stone workers, academics, and groundskeepers. However, it taxed me greatly to interact with the intrepid Dr. Forsythe and not grind his face into the nearest lodestone.”

  An unexpected laugh burst from her just as she’d taken a hearty sip of her own burgundy, and she had to press her glove to her lips in order to force a swallow.

  “I don’t at all see how that’s funny,” he grumped.

  Alexandra returned her wine to the table, and pressed her lips together to stifle her mirth. “It’s only that I find your jealousy of Thom—Dr. Forsythe—unnecessary.”

  “You think me jealous?” He gaped at her with incredulity. “Of some noodle-armed nancy you met in a library somewhere? Don’t make me laugh.”

  He didn’t appear anywhere close to laughter, but Alexandra thought it imprudent to mention.

  “You’re being unkind,” she reprimanded around a smile she was helpless but to convey. “You’ve noticed Dr. Forsythe is no weakling, my lord. Furthermore, many women find intelligence every bit as diverting as Vitruvian musculature and rampant, virile masculinity.”

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows in such a way that his biceps and shoulders strained against his jacket in a most distracting manner. “Rampant, virile masculinity?” The ghost of amusement haunted his lips, warming his husky baritone. “Are you referring to anyone in particular?”

  Alexandra’s cheeks heated. “I wasn’t necessarily referring to you,” she lied. “Though I’ll tell you what isn’t attractive—arrogance.”

  He made a dark sound of derision in his throat. “There are many forms of intelligence, as I’m sure you’re aware. Some can be found in books, others are more … elemental. Environmental. Observational, even.”

  “Tracking panthers through a jungle, for example?” she suggested around another sip of wine. “Or keeping beasts, bending them to your will?”

  “Well, it would have been immodest for me to say.” He gestured to the maître d’. “Arrogant even, but since you brought it up I’ll mention that I also received high marks at Oxford in my day.”

  “Forsythe is a Cambridge man.”

  “Bloody figures,” he muttered.

  “I confess I’ve never understood the rivalry between the two institutions.” She sighed. “Not when everyone accepts the Sorbonne as the superior establishment.”

  He gaped in mock outrage. “You consider yourself so clever, do you?”

  “We Sorbonne alumni don’t have to consider anything. We already know,” she challenged.

  “Who’s arrogant now?” He smirked. “Although you ended up with me as a husband,” he added wryly. “Some would call not only your intelligence into question, but your sanity, as well.”

  Alexandra noted a shadow beneath the levity in his tone, and momentarily wondered if he’d ever shared her feelings of unworthiness.

  “Others would ascribe my marriage to you as my greatest achievement, despite the fact that I’m only one of a handful of female archeologists in history.”

  “What is your assessment of the predicament you find yourself in, Doctor?” An ebony brow rose over his abruptly alert regard.

  Now there was a dangerous question. One she was unprepared to answer. “Would you like to know what I think?” She idly drew light circles around the rim of her wineglass, not realizing what she was doing until his eyes drifted to the pad of her finger.

  “My breath is bated,” he replied.

  “I think…” She thought that this conversation in this setting with this man was perhaps the most exciting masculine interaction she’d had in some time. She’d thought she’d never be able to flirt with a man
, let alone her husband. She thought that in the candlelight Redmayne was perhaps the most compelling, handsomest man she’d had the pleasure of knowing. Indeed, she thought about kissing him again. And more. She thought all manner of things she dared not say as her heart trilled against her ribs at the prospect of vocalizing any of her unruly speculations.

  “I think … you dislike Dr. Forsythe so heartily because the two of you are so alike, and that tends to rankle a person,” she deflected.

  His eyes narrowed. “Do tell.”

  She shrugged, strangely enjoying the glint of danger in his eyes. He was like a caged panther, daring her to provoke him, and something about this wild night by the sea stirred a recklessness inside of her. She reveled in the feeling of this audacious part of her called forth by the wicked, boyish twinkle in his eye contrasting with his ever-sinister features. “In truth,” she said, “and I’ll thank you not to quote me on this, Dr. Forsythe is little better than an adequate scientist. But because of his other skill sets, he is often much sought after, especially in the more exotic camps in unstable locales.”

  “What skills is he perceived to possess?” Redmayne asked with droll insouciance.

  “He’s rather adept at keeping camps secure and protected,” she recounted. “And fed, as he is an accomplished hunter in his own right and skilled with all manner of firearms, languages, and even certain exotic combat techniques.”

  “Is that so?” His eyes slid past her, as the musicians began to tune their instruments.

  Alexandra thanked the maître d’ when their plates arrived. Redmayne’s glower was fixed on some point behind her.

  “I would have predicted the two of you to get along splendidly, as you’re both such avid outdoorsmen,” she said as she tucked into her divine dish.

  “We might have done.” He picked up his own utensils, holding his knife like a weapon as he speared her with a speaking look. “Were he not trying to seduce you from beneath my nose.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, my lord, there is absolutely nothing between Forsythe and me but a fond friendship.”

  “As many times as I have to tell you you’re either blind, obtuse, or lying.”

  A spurt of irritation chased away any flirtatious feelings. “That doesn’t cast me in a particularly pleasant light, does it?”

  “You mean to tell me a handsome, accomplished, and, by your own assessment, masculine doctor has never once caught your notice as a desirable romantic entanglement?” he asked.

  “I mean to say that until now, no man alive caught my notice as a desirable entanglement, romantic or otherwise. Full stop.”

  He stared at her with a sort of aghast incomprehension, and Alexandra felt compelled to continue, rather than go back over what she’d just said to dissect what he might not understand.

  “The only thing Forsythe has over you in my estimation, my lord, other than an avid intellectual curiosity, is the propensity to listen to me when I speak.”

  He leaned forward, grinding at the succulent duck with distracting flexes of his jaw. His eyes glinted dangerously. “Do you mean to say, wife, that you or Forsythe are more intelligent than I am?”

  “Not at all.” She took another bite, making him wait for her explanation. “As you said, there are many forms of intellects. You’ve certainly mastered a great deal of them, but you have to consider that Dr. Forsythe and I might be a bit more well read.”

  “Well read!” he blustered. “What do you imagine one does in the wilds after the sun goes down? I’ve read every sort of thing.”

  Alexandra smiled at the confounded offense collected on his features. Though she hadn’t meant any, she felt as though he might need a thorough humbling. “Oh come, Dr. Forsythe and I have dedicated our lives to academia; you can’t possibly be asserting that you’re as well educated.”

  “As you say, I couldn’t possibly.” He regarded her for another long and mercurial moment wherein she couldn’t tell if he were angry or amused. “All right, Doctor. I propose a game. A battle of wits, as it were.”

  “Between you and Forsythe?” she puzzled.

  “Hang Forsythe. Between you and me.”

  Alexandra’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “What are the terms of this battle?” she asked skeptically

  “Three quotes.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and drank deeply from a bloodred Bordeaux. “Scour your learned mind of all the books you read at the Sorbonne. If I guess the first one, I get to name the place and time of our interlude tonight.”

  “Interlude?” she breathed.

  “You did say we were to continue to trade favors, did you not?”

  “Well, yes but—”

  His expression was all wickedness and heat. “I’m merely making things interesting. Upping the stakes, as it were.”

  Alexandra’s own eyes narrowed, apprehension twisting with anticipation in her core. “What if you guess the second?”

  “Then I get to choose what I do to you.” His voice deepened. Darkened. Along with his unmistakable intent.

  “Did you change your mind? Do you mean to consummate—”

  “I mean to show you, wife, just how much two people can do to each other without consummation.”

  The wine Alexandra gulped did nothing to moisten her dry mouth. She hadn’t forgotten what he’d said on the ship earlier before the accident.

  You let me use my tongue.

  “A-and the third?” she stuttered around lips going numb.

  “Well, you’d best make that a very obscure quote, indeed.” He leaned back, a deep breath filling his deeper chest. “Because if I guess that one, then I’ll get to choose what you do to me.”

  Alexandra might have choked if she hadn’t just swallowed hard. Setting the empty glass down, she lamented how improper it would be to ask for another. As if she’d summoned him with the thought, the maître d’ was there with a decanter and an obliging smile.

  Bless him.

  If she were lucky, the wine would lend her bravado.

  She searched her thoughts for excerpts both apropos and somewhat obscure, while remaining fair.

  “‘O, beware, my lord, of jealousy,’” she warned, “‘it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock. The meat it feeds on…’”

  He made a wry sound, his eyes shifting as though searching through his memory. “While uncommonly wise, Shakespeare didn’t have my faithless mother, nor did he have Rose in his past. Though he had a Rosaline…” The uninjured side of his lip lifted rather triumphantly.

  Drat. She’d gone too easy. Everyone knew Shakespeare.

  Something he’d said tugged at her. “You don’t speak of your parents often,” she observed. “And when you do mention your mother, it’s most unfavorably.” She didn’t follow her observation with a question, but he replied as though she had.

  “My mother was cruel and my father was weak. They made each other miserable. My mother chipped away at his heart—his soul—with broken vows, frivolous flirtations, and callous dalliances until there was nothing left. Until he’d become such an empty husk of a man, he ended his own life.”

  “I’m sorry. How awful.” Alexandra fought to school the pity from her gaze, sensing it had no place in this conversation. But her heart ached for him. For his distraught father.

  “It was a long time ago.” His tone remained impassive. Lighthearted, even. But he sawed at his food, stabbing at it as though it’d disrespected him most egregiously.

  “They say time heals all wounds, don’t they?” She expelled a caustic breath, her own fork idly scraping across the plate. “And I suppose that’s true to a point. But there is no mistaking the scars…”

  She searched his face, his sinister, scarred face, thinking that perhaps his own heart bore the remnants of unseen wounds just as grievous.

  Was it any wonder he was so cynical? So distrustful of women. He’d watched his mother destroy a kind and beloved father, and subsequently fell in love with a woman just as faithless as she had b
een.

  “I’d rather not speak of parents and the past.” He waved his hand, brushing the distasteful subject aside.

  “Now let me see…” He considered her for a moment. “I must ponder when and where it pleases me most to kiss you next, as I’ve won the first prize of three.”

  “Kiss me where on my person … or where geographically?” she asked, pressing her hands to cheeks that were flushed and hot even through the silk of her gloves.

  “An excellent question,” he purred.

  Alexandra glared at him, taking extra time with her next bite as she contemplated her next quote.

  “Consider that you might want me to win this, wife.” Sin colored the timbre of his voice in decadent, velvet notes, seeming to even darken the candles flickering over their feast.

  Did she?

  It was a dangerous thing, she was beginning to realize, to underestimate the Terror of Torcliff in any arena, physical or otherwise.

  “Tell me,” he continued, covering the hand she’d rested on the table. “Does the thought of being at my mercy entice you?”

  Alexandra froze. How could she say yes? The thought of being at his mercy terrified her, as he was a man most famously without mercy.

  And yet. How could she say no?

  Because she’d be that much more a liar.

  Locking eyes with his, she said, “‘Teach me to feel another’s woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me.’”

  His eyes narrowed, darted this way and that, as though grappling with his own memory behind them.

  She had him, she thought triumphantly. She’d bested him.

  “You are confounded, my lord?” she teased.

  “A bit,” he confessed, almost sheepishly. “It bemuses me that a scientist should have quoted such a religious poet as Alexander Pope.”

  Alexandra gaped at her husband. Not sheepish at all! Rather, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She should have known.

  And now … she would answer for her hubris by allowing him unrestricted access to her body.

  To do with as he wished.