“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.
Applause erupted from the gallery, and she gripped his hand with astonishing strength, as though he, alone, could keep her from being overrun by the raucous noise of their felicitations.
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.
What had transpired between them upstairs?
What had they been doing in his mother’s rooms? He’d initially guessed they’d been idly exploring the future duchess’s new holdings.
Had they been about something more deceptive? Something more deserving of her guilty behavior above stairs?
In the end, did it matter? Not really. In a month he’d have a bride, and she a fortune, and each of them would be satisfied.
No, he realized. No, he’d not be satisfied until he’d taken her to bed. He’d not be contented until he’d unwrapped the layers and uncovered the enigma that was Alexandra Lane. He’d determine if the sweetness he sampled from her mouth was amplified within the other recesses of her body. He’d thoroughly explore each uncharted curve of her, discover every freckle, every sensitive, secret place with his profane mouth.
He’d learn the exotic flavors belonging only to her.
And then, when he’d taught her what it meant to be an endeavor of his, and she was left spent and sweat slicked with the pleasure of it …
Only then would he claim her.
Then would he plant his flag, so to speak.
Suddenly a month felt like an eternity.
Piers didn’t miss the way she stiffened as he pulled her toward him, sliding his hand around her ribs to prepare for their dance.
She quickly dispelled his worry that she might have forgotten how as, the moment he’d given her the cue, she followed his lead with practiced elegance.
As he suspected, their synchronization was flawless. Precise. Piers had never been fond of dancing, but he’d taken to it as easily as he’d taken to all things physical. In fact, he’d often picked his lovers directly from his dance card.
He’d noticed early in life that if one found an easy rhythm with a woman whilst dancing, the same was almost always true for fucking.
At the thought of that particular pastime, he looked down at the woman who felt as though she were made to fit within the circle of his arms.
As was appropriate, she kept her head tilted away, her gaze fixed elsewhere.
Actually, her eyes seemed unable to focus on anything as he twirled her about the ballroom in flawless cadence to the orchestra.
He spotted familiar faces in the crowd as they coiled past. A few Cambridge mates. An adventurer or two, most of whom had ceased to brave the wilds with him when he’d insisted on exploring deeper than caravans, comforts, and servants would dare to venture.
Those men, those so-called friends never once called upon him during his year of recovery.
His brother, Lord Ramsay, as always a stone-faced pillar of respectable contempt.
His cousin, Lord Patrick Atherton, Viscount Carlisle, and the raven-haired Rose beside him, narrow-eyed beneath a delicate ebony mask.
How strange that Rose wore the colors of mourning.
Piers lowered his head, his lips grazing the warm shell of his intended’s ear. “Are you enjoying this, my lady?”
Because, to his continual astonishment, he was.
She turned her head sharply toward him at the touch, discovering too late that the motion brought their faces dangerously close. “I—er—which part?” she breathed, her tremulous whisper barely audible over the music.
He nudged his chin toward the extravagant ballroom as couples began to join them, though many merely watched, enthralled. “The part where you’re alternately the most envied woman in the room, and the most pitied.”
At that, she tilted her head to look up at him, a puzzled frown tilting her lush mouth. “Pitied?”
“While I am an obscenely wealthy duke, let us not forget what I look like beneath this,” he mocked. “You’re marrying a monster.”
Her lashes fluttered beneath her own mask, which concealed nothing but flawless skin kissed by the sun with adorable freckles. “You are mistaken, Your Grace, I could never bring myself to marry a monster.” She said this with such solemnity, such conviction, that a curious obstruction lodged in his throat. He had to clear it before replying.
“Either way, they’re all looking at you.”
“Don’t say that!” She would have faltered if he’d not caught her and smoothed the ruffle with an extra twirl. Piers found the misstep more than passing curious as he stared down at the soft curve of her cheek just barely visible beneath white feathers.
“Why ever not? Don’t ladies always take a rather mercenary pleasure in the jealousy of others? Don’t you yearn to be the object of admiration?”
“Not this lady,” she muttered. “I prefer isolation to admiration, truth be told.”
“Because … you are shy?”
His question caught her off guard, and she took more than a passing moment to reply. “Am I shy?” She must have been addressing the inquiry to herself, because she provided the answer. “I suppose I am. But even if I weren’t, I’d not care for this…” She nodded to the grandeur of the ballroom. “Because it’s all empty, isn’t it?”
“Empty?” he scoffed. “I find it rather overcrowded.”
“Your castle may be full of people, Your Grace, but it’s empty of authenticity.”
Without meaning to, Piers clutched her closer. Could she be real? Did he hold in his arms the rarest of creatures? A woman of substance. Of integrity? One who tended more carefully to the capacity of her heart than to her coiffure? One who thrived on intellect and honor and genuine interaction rather than the empty endorsements of her peers?
He’d begun to despair that such a person ever truly existed.
Her beauty certainly appeared effortless. Her blushes authentic. Her grace artless.
Her kisses … innocent. Untried and unpracticed.
Was it truly possible that he’d found his heart’s desire on a train platform, covered in tweed and mud?
“I wish they’d stop staring.” A fretful note touched her voice, making it almost childlike. “When is this dance going to be over?”
A protective instinct he’d not known he possessed encouraged him to press her closer into the defensive shell of his body. “Relax against me,” he urged upon sensing her hesitation.
“I don’t think I know how.” Her breath was quickening again, the pulse in her neck visibly rapid.
“Do try.” He gazed down at her, the picture of the adoring groom. Indeed, his fond smile was more genuine than he could remember in a long time as he did what he could to soothe her.
“Don’t let them see your fear,” he cautioned. “They’re like hyenas in the wild. They’ll surround you and laugh whilst they rip you apart, all the while fighting over the shreds of what’s left of you.”
At this, she quivered but relented, drawing tighter against him, deciding for the moment that he was the lesser of two evils. “I—I don’t think I’ll make a very good duchess.” She gave a forlorn sigh. “Perhaps you’ll want to change your mind.”
Never, he thought with more conviction than he’d expected.
He released her from his grip to hold his arm above her head, twirling her beneath it until their arms were stretched as far away from each other as they could.
Her eyes widened, as she realized that if he let her go, her momentum would tip her over.
Unworried, Piers enjoyed her skirt as it twirled and swayed against the floor like a fountain of liquid silver.
He demonstrated his strength, his control, as he tugged her back to fit scandalously against him, without missing one step.
Once again, the room erupted into enthusiastic applause.
He might have noticed it, if he’d not been so enthralled by the press of her body against his own. Gods but did he intend on enjoying every single one of her curves.
“I won’t let them have you,” he whispered against her ear. “You belong only to me.”