My Heart's Desire

by Andrea Kane

  “You are looking a bit pale, Alexandria.” Stephen’s voice held genuine concern. “Are you feeling well?”

  Alex smiled up into his kind face. “Yes, of course, Stephen. I suppose I am still shaken by Drake’s accident today.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I understand. Thank heaven he seems to be none the worse for it, though.”

  Alex followed his gaze to where Drake remained in animated conversation with Eric Ravensley. Only now a flushed and simpering Arabella stood beside Eric, staring up at Drake as she hung on to his every word.

  A surge of anger shot through Alex like a bolt of lightning. Was Eric blind? His wife was openly ogling his friend right beside him! As she watched and fumed, Alex saw Arabella inch closer to Drake until her half-naked bosom was almost touching his arm. That did it. If Eric had no pride, Alex did.

  She turned back to Stephen. “I agree. Drake seems to be quite himself tonight. Would the two of you excuse me, please?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but walked purposefully across the room as the musicians began the first notes of a waltz. Alex was certain that neither Stephen nor Alicia would harm anyone, least of all, Drake. It was time to investigate the Ravensleys … and to stake her claim on her husband at the same time.

  She reached Drake in time to hear Arabella say, “Oh, how I love to waltz. But Eric does not succumb to decadence quite so readily as I.” She licked her lower lip suggestively, then giggled. “So it seems I am in need of a partner for this dance.”

  “Then we will not hold you from your search, Arabella,” Alex broke in, positioning herself possessively by Drake’s side. “Since Drake has promised this waltz to me, we’ll be out of your way at once.” She smiled innocently at Drake’s startled but amused expression. “Darling?”

  He recovered immediately. “Of course, princess. I am all yours.” He nodded their excuses, then, smoothly guided Alex onto the dance floor, chuckling as he took his wife’s hand. “Darling?” he teased, looking down into her flushed face. They both knew she had never used that particular endearment in the past. “Funny,” he mused aloud, “I do not remember discussing this particular waltz, though it is a pleasure to dance with my wife,” he assured her. In truth he was touched by her obvious display of jealousy, for it was a further indication that she cared.

  Alex hastily changed the subject. “Is your arm causing you any pain?” The anger had waned, her real concern for Drake warming her eyes to a deep smoky gray.

  “My arm is fine.” His smile abruptly faded. When she looked up at him that way he felt everything inside him melt. Hell, she reduced him to a callow schoolboy, a burning mass of raw emotions. All evening he had struggled unsuccessfully to bring himself under control. Every time one of the men ogled her, Drake felt irrational and raging jealousy pump through his blood. He wanted to kill the offending bastard, to shout to the world that Alex was his. She looked so damned beautiful tonight, like an enchanted fairy-tale princess. His burning emerald gaze caressed her face and shoulders, then settled on the deeply cut neckline that seemed to expose far too much of her throat and breasts.

  He frowned, desire warring with jealousy, pride, anger, tenderness—all heightened to a fever pitch. “Your gown is rather revealing, is it not?” he inquired in a tight voice.

  Alex blushed at his meaning, then lifted her chin defiantly. “I happen to adore this gown,” she retorted.

  “So do I,” he agreed, his jaw set. “What little of it there is.”

  Her eyes flashed, more so because he was right. “I am sorry that my attire displeases you, your grace.”

  He stroked her thumb with his, though his mood was as fiery as hers. “Careful, princess,” he warned softly. “We are newly married and supposedly very happy. So smile and look totally besotted with me; hang on to my every word. All of our guests are watching us.”

  Alex controlled her fury with great effort, aware that he was goading her. Apparently he was angry about something, perhaps her gown. But whatever the reason, his earlier good humor had vanished. She forced a smile to her lips and endured the remainder of the dance in tense silence.

  The waltz ended, and Alex stepped away from her brooding husband.

  “I will mingle with our guests now, Drake,” she told him, glancing about the room. Already her mind had returned to the problem at hand—uncovering the identity of the person who had attempted to take Drake’s life. “There is no need for you to dance with me, since I have obviously annoyed you. I will find other partners.” She lifted her skirts and moved off.

  Drake caught her arm. “You will dance with me whenever I deem it necessary.”

  Alex looked up at him, startled at the bitterness of his tone and the blazing light in his eyes. “I am your wife, not your chattel,” she answered softly. “Please refrain from treating me as such.”

  She shook her arm free and stalked off, then slowed her steps so as not to arouse curiosity among the guests. Her battles with Drake, his battles within himself, were no one’s business but theirs.

  “Alexandria?”

  She turned to find Randall Scarborough by her side. He stared appreciatively at her bare shoulders, then continued downward as if he could see right through her clothes. Alex shivered in distaste.

  Randall interpreted the shiver to be one of desire, and his smile deepened. “We have not had a chance to get to know each other,” he informed her smoothly, taking her arm and leading her to a secluded corner of the ballroom. “And since my wife and your husband are old friends,” he said with a meaningful emphasis, “I think we should become the same. Do you not agree?”

  Alex bit back a scathing reply. If she was going to gain any information, she had to ingratiate herself, to play along with their sickening innuendos … to a point.

  She gave Randall a winning smile, her expression friendly and innocent. “I would love to get to know you better, Randall. After all, I am still new to Allonshire, and I know very few of Drake’s friends.” She paused after the word “friends,” allowing the implication to take hold. “Also, I did not get to enjoy my first Season, as I was compelled to travel to York in March. So,” she concluded with a dainty shrug, “I really have had little opportunity to meet the right people.”

  Randall nodded sympathetically, still concentrating on Alex’s breasts. “I certainly understand how difficult it must be for you. Anything I can do to help—”

  “Oh, you are so kind,” Alex broke in. “But then, I knew you would be.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I must confess that tonight is not the first time I have seen you.”

  Her statement actually caused him enough surprise to make him return his attention to her face. “Really?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “I cannot believe that we have met before now. I would never forget so exquisite a creature as you.”

  “Oh, we didn’t actually meet,” she assured him, studying his face for a reaction. “And it was just this morning. I was a trifle nervous waiting for the guests to appear, so I took a short walk about the grounds. I suppose you arrived early and had the same idea. When I saw you, you were strolling … let’s see … I believe it was near the stables!” she lied.

  Randall looked crestfallen. “Ah, your grace, I wish that it were so. How I would love to be the man you saw and admired earlier today. Unfortunately”—he cast an annoyed glance across the room to where his wife was chattering with a group of women—“we were delayed in our arrival due to a small family spat.” He sighed deeply, dramatically. “Not all men are so fortunate as Drake in their spouses.”

  Alex feigned surprise. “I was so certain that it was you.”

  He shook his head regretfully. “No, we were quite late. Perhaps it was Lawrence Dragmere you spotted. He and Elizabeth reached Allonshire well ahead of the rest of us, and he does resemble me in height and build, although,” he added, with a suggestive look, “our similarities end there. I am far more proficient than he in the proper way to treat a lady like you.”

  “Oh, of th
at I have no doubt,” Alex assured him, already searching the room for Lawrence Dragmere. Her fishing had paid off handsomely. Perhaps she would soon have her answer.

  Four hours later she knew otherwise.

  Her feet ached from dancing, her head throbbed from idle conversation, and the lace on her bodice was shredded where she had been tugging at it all night. She was half convinced that she was lacking a head and neck, since all the men had seemed to be speaking directly to her bosom.

  She was also no closer to the truth than she had been at the onset of the evening. Either she was a very poor investigator or none of their guests was guilty of anything other than flagrant adultery, shameless flirtation, falsely inflated feelings of self-worth, and shallow, boring conversation. She had batted her lashes, simpered and laughed, flattered and marveled, and endured countless scandalous offers until she could barely contain her disdain.

  And what had she gained? Nothing, except that now four more men were sniffing at her skirts like ravenous hounds after a slab of meat. Only Stephen Lyndale and Reginald Kensgate had been polite and kind, rather than lecherous— although Lord Kensgate had seemed very uneasy throughout their conversation, mopping at his brow and giving terse, disjointed answers to her probing questions. But she attributed it to his age and his distress about Grayson’s death. After all, they had been very close friends.

  The ball was drawing to a close, and Alex felt only relief. She longed for her loose-fitting night rail and her comfortable bed. Politely she bade each of the guests good night, until at last all was quiet, and she could escape to her sanctuary.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she had not spoken to Drake in hours. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen him chatting with their guests throughout the evening, and from time to time she had heard his deep baritone permeate the room. But now there was no sign of him in the still, empty ballroom.

  Alex’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the polished floor, nodding at the few servants who were hurriedly gathering glasses and straightening furniture. It was just as well that she and Drake had avoided being together, she mused, winding her way up the stairs. He was impossible when he was in one of his foul, dark moods, and she lacked the energy to cope with it tonight. She had too much on her mind, and her body was crying out for sleep.

  Instinctively she placed a gentle hand on her abdomen and smiled. There had been no time to revel in her discovery that she carried Drake’s child. Tonight, alone in her bedchamber, she would savor the knowledge. And then perhaps Drake would come to her, in better spirits, and she could share the wondrous news with him.

  Her smile grew soft. Perhaps this was just what they needed to solidify their bond—a baby. Despite her unresolved worry for Drake’s safety, renewed hope stirred within Alex. She was suddenly most eager to see her husband.

  Drake was totally, utterly foxed.

  He stared broodingly down at the richly colored brandy in his glass, then flung himself into one of the high-backed chairs that stood against the wall of his bedchamber. He wondered fleetingly how many drinks he had had, then dismissed the concern. What difference did it make? Hell, he could order a dozen bottles to be brought to him, no matter how late the hour, and it would be done immediately. He was a damned duke, now, wasn’t he?

  He put the glass to his lips and swallowed deeply. He could drink until he passed out, but he wouldn’t be able to erase her from his mind. The way she had looked tonight, an apparition of loveliness, a flowing-haired goddess of innocent, regal beauty.

  A practiced courtesan who had all but seduced an entire houseful of men before his very eyes.

  From the moment Alex had stormed from his side after their waltz, the evening had progressed from bad to worse. He had gone from unreasonable jealousy and possessiveness to infuriated amazement and painful shock to blind, trembling rage as his worst nightmare had unfolded before him.

  Alex. His guileless, straightforward, unconventional Alex, scorner of the upper crust, had utilized every feminine wile and resorted to every flagrant flirtation of the most skilled adulteress. Flitting gaily from man to man, she had tantalized with her half-naked body and encouraged with her purring responses, until every male at the party was openly lusting after her.

  For months his mind had warned him again and again that she was a woman, no more or less, and women were treacherous by nature. But his heart had refused to listen. He had steeled himself for this, frantically clung to his wall of self-protection, remained immune by holding part of himself back. And the damned thing was that it had done no good.

  All his efforts had been for naught. He was in love with his wife.

  A riot of feelings and emotions stormed Drake’s senses, and he closed his eyes to the excruciating pain, which far surpassed the anger. He leaned back, drained the contents of his glass in one gulp, knowing that no amount of the burning liquid could dull the hurt and sense of betrayal.

  So it was true. She was like all the others, only lacking the opportunity to show her true colors. Until now. Now, amid the glitter of the ton, she was everything he had feared she was, and prayed she was not.

  And he was just as vulnerable as if he were a young boy all over again.

  But he wasn’t a young boy, damn it. He was a grown man. A duke, no less. And he would not allow his wife to make a spineless fool out of him.

  He shot to his feet, his eyes blazing, and sent his glass crashing against the marble fireplace. She wanted a nobleman? He would give her one.

  He collided with Smitty in the doorway of his room.

  “Get out of my way, Smitty,” he warned.

  Smitty sized up Drake’s drunken state immediately, then looked past him at the shattered glass against the wall.

  “I think you should rest, your grace,” he began.

  “I don’t give a damn what you think, Smitty, nor do I want any sage advice.” He moved past him.

  Smitty caught his arm. “You’ve had too much to drink,” he said quietly. “Don’t go to her like this.”

  Drake stared down at Smitty’s restraining hand and gave a harsh laugh. “Do not dare to speak kindly of my wife to me tonight. Why, at this moment there is probably a line of eager men outside her door.” He raised burning, pained eyes to Smitty’s. “Don’t interfere, Smitty. I mean it. Not this time.” He shook his arm free.

  “Do not do anything that you will regret, your grace,” Smitty cautioned him softly.

  Drake tightened the belt of his robe. “It’s too late, my friend. Far too late to avoid regrets.”

  He crossed the hall to Alex’s chambers and flung open the door.

  Alex started. Having just dismissed Molly, she had been sitting at her dressing table, staring dreamily off into space. Her thoughts had been tender and happy, of Drake, of the baby. And into this peaceful haze came the crash of her door as it flew open.

  She stood up hesitantly as he slammed the door closed behind him. “Drake?”

  Why did she have to be so damned beautiful? The moonlight filtered in through the window, weaving golden highlights in her hair and making her ivory night rail seem transparent. He felt his loins tighten, and he despised himself for the weakness of his flesh. She was treacherous and hypocritical, everything he loathed.

  And he wanted her so much that he throbbed with it.

  “Hello, princess.” His voice was slurred, but she heard the sarcasm immediately.

  “You’re foxed.” An observation rather than an accusation.

  His bitter laugh sent prickles of fear up her spine. Something was different this time, something that frightened her.

  He approached her slowly, like a sleek wild animal stalking its prey.

  “Yes, I am,” he agreed, reaching for the belt of his robe. “I am also your husband, till death do us part, remember?” He didn’t wait for her response. “I’ll tell you who else I am, just to reassure you that your marriage to me is an advantageous one.” He towered over her, his eyes blazing with green fire, his features taut with anger. �
��I am Drake Robert Barrett, the Duke of Allonshire, the Marquis of Cairnham, the Earl of Laneswood, Earl of Ravleton, Viscount Manvell, and Baron Winsborough. Surely that must be enough titles to satisfy you, your grace.” He caught her trembling chin in his hand. “Enough to convince you to give to me what you’ve promised a roomful of men all night long.”

  “I d-don’t know wh-what you mean.” Alex was terrified. She had never seen Drake like this.

  “No?” he asked softly. “Then I’ll spell it out for you. I want my marital rights, princess. Right now. I want you to submit to me, to lie down on your beautiful little back and open your luscious thighs for me. I want to spend myself in your willing body, the body that you’ve flaunted so prettily before the world.” He paused, lowering his mouth until his breath touched her lips. “The body that belongs to me. Only me. Do you understand? You are mine … mine. And I will never let you forget it.”

  Alex pressed her hands against his massive chest, frantically trying to make some sense out of his drunken ramblings. His arms were like steel manacles around her, not allowing her to escape. There was not a doubt in her mind that in his present condition he was capable of anything. Nor was there any doubt that she was the cause of his blind rage. Apparently he had interpreted her actions tonight as a betrayal of their vows. And he intended to punish her for it.

  Alex shoved ineffectually at Drake’s chest, twisting her head away from him, struggling to free herself from his relentless hold. He caught her face in his hand, forcing her lips to meet his seeking mouth. It was a brutal kiss, an assertion of power, and Alex whimpered softly in protest.

  Drake lifted his mouth from hers only slightly, staring down into her frightened face. “You can skip the performance, princess. It won’t work. I intend to have you. And there’s not a damned thing you can do to stop me.”