But his kiss wasn’t torturous at all. Merely a brush at first. With no more pressure than a hummingbird used to land on a lilac bush.
A confusion of sensations paralyzed her. How could she feel both panicked and protected? Both delicate and desirable? His shoulder beneath her palm was tense. Unyielding. But he didn’t grasp at her, or draw her in, or press her close.
He didn’t touch her with any part of his body but his lips.
His mouth was infinitely gentle as it did little better than hover above hers in the merest caress of a kiss. A soft warmth suffused her, one she expected had nothing to do with the whisky. It drove the cold fingers of dread to release her lungs and rescued her heart from its panicked stampede.
Only when she allowed herself to exhale did he press his mouth fully to hers, coaxing it to soften in sweet, aching drags. She felt the impression of his scar. Sensed his hesitation as it caught against her lower lip. And in that moment, she felt the need to encourage him more urgently than she required reassurance.
She lifted her hand from his shoulder to shape it over his jaw. The hair there was wondrously soft, and she tested it with questing fingers as she turned her mouth to press against the tight stratum where his scar interrupted his lip.
At this, he went impossibly still. His own breath catching as he awaited her next move.
She didn’t have one to make. She enjoyed the feel of the bristles above the fullness of his lips. The square rigidity of his jaw and the angle at which it filled her palm. His profile was so male. So abstractly dissimilar to her own oval features.
His breath faintly smelled of whisky, and she thought she might taste it as she breathed it in. Just as her insides melted into a liquid puddle, his tongue slid along the seam of her mouth.
Alexandra reared away from him, breaking their kiss. She pressed her fingers to her lips, as if she could keep the sensation trapped there. Attempting to reject the bile rising in her throat. Pushing away the memory of another man’s tongue.
Running along her face as he pinned her down …
“Forgive me.” Redmayne’s voice was colored with an indulgent fondness she’d not expected to exist among the darker shades of desire. “You’re so fascinating. So intelligent and straightforward, I forget that you’re also—untried.”
“I’m—”
“Until midnight, Lady Alexandra.” He pressed his lips once more to her knuckles before releasing her. “I’ll leave you here to consult with your friends and make your decisions.” He cast a pointed glance at his mother’s room before collecting his mask. He only paused for the space of a breath in front of his mother’s chamber before donning the mask and disappearing around the corner.
Alexandra gaped after him in sheer amazement, her fingers still pressed to her mouth.
He’d known. He’d known they were there the entire time.
Alexandra lurched over to the door and placed her hand on the latch. Her arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as Francesca yanked it open and barreled into her.
“Alexander, no!” Francesca gasped, shaking her none too gently. “What could you be thinking? Have you gone mad?” She pressed her hand to Alexandra’s cheek, then her forehead, shifting the mask out of place as she checked for a fever.
Cecelia swatted at her hands, the peacock feathers in her mask glinting vibrantly in the moonlight.
They reminded Alexandra of his dramatic eyes.
He’d kissed her. Only once. He’d taken no more, even when she’d pulled away.
“Let me do this,” Alexandra said resolutely. “My mind is made up, Frank. Marriage to Redmayne solves nearly all our problems.”
“Oh, horseshit,” Francesca cursed. “This is tantamount to you falling on your sword for the sake of—”
“I can’t have any more attempts on your lives because of me!” Alexandra wailed. “If I lose one of you because of what I’ve done—”
Cecelia stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I thought we were under the impression that yesterday was an attempt on Francesca’s life.”
“Are we? Whoever is blackmailing me has made it painfully clear that if I couldn’t pay in funds, and soon, they’d take everything else from me. Including those I love.” A familiar ache tightened her throat, and fear unsettled her stomach, replacing the warmth left by a singular kiss. “Even if the shot was aimed at Francesca yesterday morning, it could have been a warning to me. We simply don’t know.”
“Alexander.” Francesca struggled to retain her composure. “I know we’re both in a great deal of trouble at the moment, but that is no reason to marry a man.” She said the word as though it tasted foul. “When has the addition of anyone of the opposite sex ever improved one of our situations?”
“Now wait a moment,” Cecelia said defensively. “Jean-Yves has been a great help to me for several years. I take him with me everywhere.”
“He doesn’t count. He’s too old to be any trouble,” Francesca snarked.
Cecelia ceded the point, redirecting her regard. “One of you needs to climb those stairs tonight and accept the duke’s proposal…” She rubbed at the back of her neck, breaking away to pace a little. “I can’t think of an outcome where marriage to Redmayne would be anything but a disaster for either of you.”
“It’s half ten,” Francesca said. “We could run. We could catch a midnight train in Torquay or Exeter, and be back to London before dawn.”
“You know that’s impossible, Frank.” Alexandra emphatically shook her head. “Tell me now, though I know the answer, are you desperate to become the next Duchess of Redmayne?”
“You would ask that of me? When you very well know I am not.”
Alexandra stiffened her spine, gathering her strength. “Then I shall meet him at the foot of the stairs tonight. Redmayne seems to me an honorable man. The idea of his strength and skill used in my defense is more than a little appealing, should assassins beset us in the future.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell him everything?” Cecelia’s features twisted with doubt. “It appears that he and Ramsay are on good terms and the Scotsman might just be grim and ruthless enough to enjoy a good hanging … or three.”
“I would never dream of it,” Alexandra vowed. “But until the three of us figure out what to do next, the duchess stipend will buy us as much time as we need. It would be of some comfort to rely upon Redmayne to protect me both physically and financially.”
Francesca shoved her mask of raven feathers and rubies aside to spear her with a dumbfounded stare. “But … but … you’ll have to trade your body, your life, for that protection. It’s not worth it, Alexander. We’ll find another way.”
“Is it not the way of woman to lie beneath her husband in exchange for his protection and sustenance? How would I be different than any other wife for thousands of years?”
“Alexander, we all know why you’re different. Why this is a greater sacrifice than anyone could expect you to make.” Cecelia placed a staying hand on her arm. “We’ve already promised to help with what money we have. To marry would be madness. You don’t know what he’ll expect of you. What it’ll be like to—”
“I know more than any of us what it’ll be like. What to expect in the marriage bed.” Alexandra silenced her friends with a direct gaze, fiercely keeping the fear from stealing her conviction. “It can’t be any worse than what has already happened.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Cecelia whispered, a singular dread tinging her words.
“Nevertheless, I won’t allow Frank to take his hand.” Alexander pulled away from them, needing a breath. “Francesca, you found the proof you needed to exonerate his family from the crimes against yours. If I marry Redmayne, then you remain free to seek your justice.”
A shadow of doubt darkened Francesca’s features before she visibly shoved it away. “No. We’ll find another way. If we have to suss out this blackmailer and put him in the ground like we did de Marchand, we’ll do it rather than sacrificing you on the altar
of—”
“It’s crushing me, Frank.” Alexander rushed her friend, gripping her tightly as a wave of emotion threatened to wash her away into the void. “The guilt, the shame, the memories, the fear. I lose inches from my height because of this weight on my shoulders. I lose bits of my soul each time I’m contacted. Each time I pay with my father’s money. I can’t bear it anymore.”
Tears sullied the inside of her mask, and she ripped it free. “When I received that razor in the post, I could have ended my own life with it. Did you know that? The only thing that stopped me was that once I was gone, there was no one to protect you. I can barely leave the house for fear someone’s watching me. Or that my family or my freedom will be taken from me. Not to mention the danger to the two of you. I do not dread Piers Gedrick Atherton’s bed so much as I do swinging beside you and Cecelia on a rope. Do I make myself clear?”
Cecelia and Francesca both held her, bearing her weight.
“Besides the razor, what other evidence of our involvement could anyone possibly have?” Cecelia asked reasonably.
“The carpet? What’s left of the body? Who knows what sort of correspondence de Marchand made about me. Or us. What if he kept a diary, chronicling what he wanted to do to girls? Or made stock of what we pilfered from him? Who knows what kind of evidence damns us? We were so young, there’s no way we could have considered all the ways in which we could have been caught. I lie awake at night and think of every possibility, and if I lose any more sleep over this, I’ll go well and truly mad.”
She pulled her head back from Francesca’s shoulders, doing what she could to compose herself. “And so … to spare me this, I’ll submit to whatever indignity Redmayne can devise upon my person.”
Her friends said nothing in the dark for a very long time.
Cecelia shook her head, worrying at her lip.
Francesca’s shallow breaths heaved against hers as her sharp mind aggressively sought another way.
“Besides,” Alexandra amended. “I think … I think I want children.”
“You think?” Francesca released her.
“I do. I do want children. I always have. And we all know there’s only one way to go about getting them.” The idea lent her watery smile a genuine tilt. “As it turns out, Redmayne has a need for an heir and a spare. Our ends, at least, are not at odds with each other. Whereas yours, Francesca…” She let the end of the sentence die away.
Francesca’s expression was a paradox of elation and misgiving. “What sort of friend would I be if I allowed you to do this?”
Alexandra took Francesca’s scarlet-clad hands in her silver ones, enjoying the rasp of silk against silk. “The best sort. The sort who trusts me when I say I need this.”
“The sort who would bury him in his own gardens if he hurts you,” Cecelia offered.
“Yes, and this time”—Francesca’s voice hardened to cold marble—“there would be no witnesses.”
CHAPTER NINE
“My lords and ladies, it is my extreme pleasure to present to you the future Duchess of Redmayne.”
Piers stood at the top of the grand ballroom staircase. Or rather, staircases, as two of them split from the platform of the opulent second-floor tier to deposit descenders on opposite sides of the ballroom, leaving the revelers in the middle undisturbed.
He extended his hand toward the crimson carpets of that staircase, at the bottom of which the Countess of Mont Claire and Lady Alexandra Lane gripped each other’s hands like sailors about to walk the plank.
They’d come to an agreement, but neither of them readily moved.
Piers allowed the glittering guests to assume the pause was for dramatic effect. Hundreds of the haute ton stood below him, miraculously silent as they held their collective breath. It was as though, with his declaration, he’d frozen time.
A gasp ripped through the room.
Someone had begun her climb. Someone would take his hand, and with it, his freedom.
Piers couldn’t bring himself to look. His heartbeat spiked, the sound akin to the night drums of the Liberia Jabo in his ears. It drowned out the murmurs of the crowd as ladies bent their heads behind their fans of silk and lace to discuss their snide astonishment.
And still he did not look.
Fuck. He forced a swallow past a cravat suddenly cinched as tight as a noose. He should have accepted her proposal there in the dark.
Decency be damned.
He should have swept her away with him, and stormed into the grand ballroom with her in tow, staking his claim immediately.
For, after what little intimacy she’d granted him, how could he kiss another?
Why would he want to?
Once a man tasted ambrosia, the idea of any other sustenance curbed the appetite.
Christ, she’d been sweet. Her amber gaze, accentuated by dove feathers and clouded with uncertainty, had nearly unstitched him. How had he never noticed the heat, the variation of hue, the abject brilliance and beauty of brown eyes before?
All that red hair accompanied a banked fire in her gaze. Not the spark of wit, like Miss Teague’s, or an inferno of personality, such as Lady Francesca’s.
Something warmer. Something ultimately more desirable.
How he yearned to fan the coals of heat he’d detected into a flame of desire. He longed to awaken within her something he could sense had lain dormant for so long. Perhaps her entire lifetime. Something no other man had ever stumbled upon.
Had anyone even searched? Or dared to brave the layers of her prickly intellect, her dowdy garments, and furrowed frowns to find the sensuous potential within the prim spinster?
Apparently not. All that exquisite softness had gone unnoticed.
Untouched.
Unkissed.
Until him. For a man who’d forged the most remote mountains in order to be the first to plant his flag upon its peak, he couldn’t remember an expedition that’d ended with such unmitigated pleasure.
So why had he walked away?
Because the soft, accepting press of her lips against his scar had threatened to undo him. Because passion had overcome caution, and his hunger had driven him to taste her.
Because he’d frightened her, again, and her vehement retreat from his kiss had reminded him that he was no longer merely the Duke of Redmayne.
He was also the Terror of Torcliff.
An unsightly, ungainly brute with nothing but a title and a fortune to recommend him.
She’d said as much, hadn’t she?
Rose had been after his title, and Alexandra was now in need of his fortune.
At least Lady Alexandra had been decent enough not to pretend otherwise. She’d made no overtures of affection. She’d applied no tactics of seduction.
And yet, he was in danger of becoming thoroughly seduced by her.
Perhaps it was better that Francesca climbed the stairs and took his hand. Theirs, at least, would be an uncomplicated misery. One free of the perils of longing.
The Countess of Mont Claire would never be in danger of having power over him.
Power he’d never again surrender to another woman.
Never.
A silken glove slid against his, and he knew it was her before he ever turned to verify. He’d pressed those exact dainty fingers to his lips. He’d enjoyed the feel of them against his chest.
His heart took one last jolting leap, and then, to his utter surprise, it settled into a rhythm of relief.
Her scent was becoming pleasantly familiar. A mix of orange blossoms and something earthier. Like fresh-cut grass or a spring garden. Faint, gentle, unobtrusive.
Just like her.
Alexandra Lane.
He turned to her, showing her proudly to their stunned audience. “I give you Lady Alexandra Lane, soon to be Her Grace, Alexandra Atherton, the Duchess of Redmayne.”
He lifted her glove once more, allowing the tiny diamond bracelet on her wrist to dazzle him as he pressed another slow kiss to her knuckles.
The orchestra struck up a lively Russian waltz in their honor, and over it all, Piers could hear the little explosions of her rapid breaths as she offered the room at large a tremulous smile.
“Should we take this dance?” he suggested.
He imagined she’d have given him the same look if he’d asked her to set herself on fire with any one of the thousand candles in the room. “Do—do we have to?”
Laughter washed over him with abrupt resonance, and he knew their audience would assume she’d said something witty or flirtatious. They might even assume this was a love match.
For why else would the Duke of Redmayne pick an unknown spinster daughter of an impoverished earl? With all the glitter, glamour, lace, and frippery bedecking some of the youngest, loveliest, and most eligible women in the empire. Why the educated bluestocking in an unadorned silver gown?
Had she even had a season? It was something he’d forgotten to ask. Something he’d never considered.
Why her?
If they only knew. Perhaps some of them did. Perhaps they could also identify what mesmerized him so completely. They’d be fools not to.
She was a soft, silver moonbeam in a room full of glowing golden candles.
And all the more radiant for it.
He leaned in close, his lips hovering above her ear as he breathed her in. “Forgive me, darling, but I’m afraid this waltz is in our honor. No one will be able to enjoy themselves until we open it.”
“I was afraid of that, too.”
Her odd reply drew another smile from him. He tried to remember the last time he’d smiled this much without artifice.
Had he ever?
He was pleased to note that every bit of poise and elegance she’d learned at de Chardonne was evident in the way she glided down the staircase with him. At the landing, her friends each grasped her hand in a show of excitement. Or congratulations.
But there was a desperation in their hold upon each other. A promise passed between glances that he neither liked nor understood.
How to Love a Duke in Ten Days Page 13