Trapping a Duchess
Page 27
“This is ridiculous,” she said, sitting up to dangle fidgety legs over the side of the bed. “Truly absurd, Alexandra. Get hold of yourself.” Standing, she moved to the chair by the window where she had draped her day dress. “If you’re so bloody concerned about it, just go down there and check.”
A few tugs and handful of minutes later, she was backing towards the door. Her gaze darted between the exit and her aunt’s sleeping form. She turned the knob and peeked out, glancing from left to right and back again. The hallway was empty. With a nervous sigh and last glance to Clara, she slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her. She made the journey down the hall slowly, descending the two flights of stairs with caution. To her surprise, the previously packed foyer was empty.
She headed towards the taproom, prepared to claim lost should anyone raise questions. As she crossed under the arched entrance, a soft, feminine chuckle caught her attention. She glanced towards the sound and stopped dead in her tracks, barely able to stifle an unladylike curse. Lord Winterley sat at the bar, a buxom blond goddess seated next to him. No, Alex noted, not next to him, but practically on top of him. The woman leaned a fraction closer, laid her hand on his arm, and murmured. The corners of his eyes crinkled and he let out a deep chuckle. The smooth, rich sound warmed Alex’s insides even as spears of icy jealousy chilled her heart.
Without another thought, she fled the doorway and headed back to her room, heart pounding as she took the stairs two at a time. She was out of breath and doubled over by the time she reached the entrance to her suite. With shaking hands, she turned the knob and slipped in, closing the door none too gently and then resting her bottom against it as she bent over to catch her breath. With each lungful of air, she cursed the obsession once again rearing its ugly head. For two years, she’d worked to put him out of her thoughts. Today, she stood in his presence and held her own without the strings of resentment tugging at her like a marionette. Sure, she’d struggled in the carriage, but that was easily attributed to exhaustion. But now, in one fell swoop, the one single moment where she thought he might have changed, or she had changed, she realized all of it had been a lie.
It was, in fact, quite possibly the Largest Lie in the History of Lies. She was no more over him than she’d been before she left. Seeing him tonight, flirting with another woman, brought enough resentment to tear open the scab of his denial and coax out more blood, more pain than a fresh wound. She removed her gown and put her nightclothes back on with jerky movements, disgusted—with him, with herself—to the point of distraction. Slumping into the gilded chair, she stared at the glowing embers of the fireplace, hands pressed against her heart as if she could stroke away the years of pain and agitation he had caused. In the months following the incident in the library, she was a foolish child holding onto the hope he would realize his mistake and come begging for forgiveness, begging for her. She’d been as dense as packed ice in the dead of winter.
Her lip curled into a sneer. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it cannot make one grow. “One must be in possession of the bleeding organ before that can happen. Clearly time has not healed him of that deformity.” Her fingers toyed with the ties of her nightgown as her eyelids drifted closed. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Why do you still care after all these years?
The door to the adjoining room opened, the sound snapping burning lids back open. Sitting bolt upright, she listened, breath held as the sound of footsteps reached her. They were followed by the deep murmur of a man’s voice, then the door closing and a distinctly feminine giggle. Feminine giggle? Her heart seemed to stop beating while her body jerked into motion. Before her brain had time to stop the movement, she was tiptoeing towards the adjacent door, head tilted to the left, her right ear perked to attention. Muffled conversation reached her, but she could not make out the words. If the timbre of the woman’s last response was any indication, they were intimate. Reaching the door, she braced her hands on the frame and set her ear against the wood. Noises drifted through, sparking her imagination. She closed her eyes, senses wholly focused on the sounds bleeding through the wood. For a moment, she heard nothing, then without warning the door thumped, wrenching a startled cry from her throat. Hand over her mouth, she took a step back, but neither her scandalized sense of propriety nor her fear of having been heard had the power to drag her feet any further. Her treacherous feet inched forward as if obsessed and before she knew it, she had her ear pressed against the door again.
“You are a naughty one, my lord,” the woman’s voice murmured in a throaty, seductive purr. Another thump, then: “Not nearly as naughty as you, my little strumpet.” The man’s deep voice sent chills over Alex’s skin. “Come to bed and let me teach you how to behave.” Alex shut her now wide eyes as all manner of vivid images leaped through her head. The sickening sound of moaning and sucking was followed by the sound of ripping material and the woman’s patently false, scandalized gasp. “Oh. My. God. That feels wonderful,” she moaned. “Oh, yes, you wicked boy, touch me there. You feel so good.” A deep rumble of laughter, then, “If you thought that felt good, wait until you feel this.”
Alex took another step away from the door and glared at it. She could not believe Lord Winterley had the audacity to bring a woman to his room. He knew Alex, and her aunt, for heaven’s sake, was staying next door. As the moans and thumps grew more intense, she inched further and further away, stopping only once the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed.
“Are you all right dear?” Clara asked, causing Alex to jump.
She kept her voice low as she moved to her side of the bed and climbed in, hoping the woman was not coherent enough to hear the goings-on in the next room. “Heavens, Auntie, you nearly frightened me to death.” At this rate, she would be lucky if she escaped the evening without having an apoplexy.
“Trouble sleeping again?” Clara asked through a yawn.
Yes, sleeping…and breathing. “A little,” Alex answered as she pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Want something to help?”
She burrowed deeper under the covers. She would need much more than a simple shot of whisky to placate the rejected youth inside her. “No, Auntie. I’m fine, really.” She did her best imitation of an exhausted yawn. “You know how travel disrupts my sleep schedule.” The excuse sounded lame to her ears, but it made no difference. Clara had already rolled over and dozed off, leaving Alex alone with resonating sounds certain to invade her dreams. Or, at least, they had the potential to, in the unlikely event she fell asleep.
* * * * *
Michele Bekemeyer’s continues the riveting Scandals of the Heart with At Journey’s End, due to be released late Fall of 2012!
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