Alexandra had expected to suffer through the following day, to spend each moment dreading her midnight reckoning. Likewise, she’d feared a heavy and melancholy change in the dynamic between her and her husband after the overwrought, if emotionally intimate, night they’d spent in each other’s arms.
However, as she and Redmayne trundled along the scenic cliff road from Le Havre to Seasons-sur-Mer in a coach burdened by a veritable treasure trove, she felt lighter than she had in years.
A smile broke over her as she enjoyed the brilliant sunset and laughed at her husband’s own brand of wry humor. Was this what joy felt like? A cluster of hours nearly free of care, every moment filled to the brim with delight, each one a distinct flavor and all of them sweet.
Their first stop in Le Havre had been the bank, where Redmayne withdrew a mind-boggling amount of money and relinquished it to her as though he’d given her a mere trinket.
On the subject of trinkets, she’d never realized that a man could have the emotional and financial fortitude to shop like a Redmayne. Pillaging coastal villages and such was a trait handed down to him by his ancestors, and evidently, her husband awoke hell-bent on honoring his lineage to the fullest. The notable difference being, of course, he paid rather than plundered.
Paid handsomely, in fact.
Never mind hacking through foreign jungles and forging lethal rivers. Redmayne conquered the entire market street and beyond with a singular focus, spoiling her as though it was a mission given him by the queen.
He plied her with costly gifts, insisting on a garnet set of jewelry he claimed matched her hair and eyes. The earrings, brooch, bracelet, and watch cost more than she thought it should, but he’d not even bothered to barter with the jeweler.
After a few disconcerting extravagances, Alexandra had begun to contain her appreciation of anything, worried they’d end up going home with it. If she exclaimed over an intricate telescope, he bought it and the matching sextant and compass. If a scarf caught her eye, he commissioned it in every color. He didn’t restrain his purchases to those she admired, but procured her French and foreign things he thought she might like, such as a jewel-encrusted Moroccan lantern, or a book written by Sir Grégoire-Pierre Leveaux, the famous sixteenth-century explorer. It charmed and delighted her how easily he matched her tastes without needing to ask.
He insisted she pick several ready-made skirts and blouses from a shop window, and he obtained a few new articles of clothing, himself, mentioning something vague about an incident in the laundry room.
It embarrassed her a little, how many times he vowed to take her to the dress shop in Rouen Julia went on and on about.
“These will do just fine,” she said, hoping the shopkeeper didn’t speak English, for fear he’d offended her. “I have no need for Rouen.”
Alexandra had never considered herself a materialistic woman, as a frequent traveler must select her things with economy, but she couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy herself immensely.
She could barely contain her gratitude when he recommended she select a gift or two for Cecelia and Francesca. She found a vastly expensive decorative abacus for Cecil, and agonized over Frank until he suggested a new riding crop with a lovely and intricate but eminently practical handle.
He whipped his own thigh with it, testing its merit.
Alexandra knew she’d forever keep that moment locked in her memory, the most precious acquisition of the entire day. The Terror of Torcliff, a bearded menace with the reputation of a demon, lost in a distracted, boyish fantasy, swiping at the air with a riding crop as though it were a fencing sword.
“I’ll thank you to school the ridicule from your regard, Doctor,” he bade with a lopsided smile upon noticing her intent gaze. “I was merely conducting a thorough scientific analysis.”
“And what has your analysis concluded?” she inquired, suspecting she was unable to school much of anything from her features, not even the strange, aching profusion of luminescence in her heart.
He held the crop before him with as much fanfare as Arthur’s Excalibur. “I proclaim this item an excellent offering for even the most discerning outdoorsman, or outdoorswoman, as is the case.”
She plucked it from his hand, tapping him on the arm with it. “We scientists do not proclaim, we deduce.”
He merely laughed. “Now that you’re a duchess, you should indulge in the odd proclamation. Much less work than a deduction, and yet often just as startingly effective.”
She wondered if the world would ever recognize that the Terror of Torcliff had never been a terror at all. But a man. A man possessed of so much wit, skill, charm, intellect, and humor, he was forever surprising her. Often delighting her.
Enchanting her, even.
If she did anything for her husband, she vowed, it would be to make certain everyone else accepted that, as well.
Finally exhausted after hours of shopping, they strolled along the waterfront, where he’d drawn her into idle conversation about her family. They’d wandered into a café offering the most delectable pastries filled with delicacies both savory and sweet. As their nibble became a gorge, they spoke of her antics with the Red Rogues as an impetuous girl.
For once, her girlhood memories weren’t tainted with what came after. She could look at the joy and the innocence she’d shared with her dearest friends and appreciate it for the treasure the relationships had been.
That they still were.
He’d been appropriately charmed and chagrined at her account of the time Cecelia had been caught reading a lurid novel in a deportment class. The mistress had forced her to read a passage aloud, and then almost expired from the vapors as poor Cecelia read a particularly salacious scene between two star-crossed lovers.
They’d savored sumptuous custards as they spoke of Francesca’s dark wit, inflexible will, and impetuous temper, painting horrific alternate futures wherein he’d actually married her.
He’d wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, and held patiently still as she picked a spot of cream from his beard with her handkerchief.
It was almost as though they had no secrets from each other.
And they almost didn’t.
On the carriage ride home, the currency in her purse was heavy at her side as she tucked her arm into Redmayne’s and rested her temple against his shoulder.
He pressed a short, temperate kiss to her forehead and patted her gloved hand indulgently.
It was the first time he’d touched her all day.
The thought drew the corners of Alexandra’s mouth into a pensive frown. He treated her as though she was a precious antique, already chipped and on the verge of breaking. Though she enjoyed his more relaxed and charming company, and was grateful for his tender care of her, she wasn’t certain she liked this new dynamic between them.
The restrained, almost virtuous edge to his need.
It very much resembled distance.
She missed the Terror of Torcliff. Rougish, wicked, assertive barbarian that he was.
They required a veritable train of porters as they swept into the hotel, and the concierge met them at the bottom of the stairs with a message.
The laborers had tirelessly dug out the entry of the catacombs, enough for the engineer to safely go in and investigate it in the daylight on the morrow if Redmayne desired to be present.
The reminder of the danger smothered their good humor.
They didn’t speak of it through their tense dinner, as a mighty wind curled the whitecapped waves high against the beach. Nor did they mention anything of import as they mounted the three flights of stairs to find their suites at the end of the evening.
They didn’t speak about much of anything, in fact, as there was too much to say, and nowhere to begin.
He kissed her at the door, and bade her a solemn, tender good night. “Come to me,” he invited. “If you need anything.”
Alexandra stood in her doorway, an invitation perched on her tongue as she watched his broad, straight back until it disappeared into his rooms.
She’d so much to ponder and to dread. The meeting. The money. The murder. All the possible outcomes of a confrontation.
It settled her mind, somewhat, to learn the catacombs were now open. Though she battled nerves about ever setting foot in there again, she also hadn’t received any new notes about an alternate meeting place.
Now that she had the money, she was anxious to get on with it.
She obsessed over the identity of who would reveal themselves to her as Constance dressed her for bed with an extra attention that both bemused and moved her.
Once they’d bade each other good night, she selected a skirt, wide belt, and simple blouse from her purchases she could hide beneath her dark cloak.
That accomplished, Alexandra perched on her bed and glanced at the clock. Quarter to ten. She still had over three hours. Three hours to allow the howl of the wind to slowly drive her mad.
Drifting to her husband’s door, she heard the murmur of voices and the faint rustles of footsteps over the din of the night. She pressed her ear to the cool wood, listening to the masculine percussions of his friendly but perfunctory conversation with his valet.
Though it made her feel pathetic, she stayed like that, letting his voice and proximity create a welcome distraction. The steps faded, and the light was doused, but for the faint glow of what she assumed was a bedside lamp.
Alexandra heard the protestations of the bed as he settled his heavy frame into it. Finally, she drifted to her own bed, collapsing onto her back.
His presence thrummed through the wall with an almost palpable vibration, and Alexandra occupied herself by picturing him beneath the enormous canopy, his brawny limbs stretched long and splayed in indolent repose.
Her body came alive at the image that invoked, tingling with a restless, anticipatory sensation she summarily rejected.
What did he do before sleep claimed him? Did he read? Or ponder the view of the hectic sea? He didn’t strike her as a man who would keep a journal, though often explorers such as they were known to do so.
Did he think about her? Or write about her? What would he say?
Did he still want her?
Tomorrow, he’d offered. Or whenever you’re ready.
Tomorrow was never guaranteed, for anyone, especially them. The threat to her life hadn’t passed, and she faced a possible enemy tonight with obscure but obviously nefarious intentions. What if the money wasn’t enough anymore? What if the entire world discovered her crime?
Could Redmayne protect her then? Would he? It was one thing to keep the secret of a victim, but another thing, entirely, to perjure oneself for a murderess. One who’d put your life in danger on multiple occasions.
Redmayne suspected his own enemies to be responsible for the recent attempts on their lives, but he’d also noted that it was her appearance that started the happenings in the first place.
It didn’t make sense that a blackmailer would want their target dead.
But she wasn’t, was she? She’d never truly been harmed.
Could he be so insidious, so ingenious, that he’d meant for her to survive everything?
Could it be that his aim was to terrorize her, to illustrate just how easily he could take everyone she cared about from her if she failed to pay?
Which now included her husband. A man she’d only known for nine days.
Ten, at the stroke of midnight.
She tossed and turned, wresting herself into a sitting position as a memory of something he’d said tore through her.
The idea that I could have died without making love to you is untenable. Impossible.
She made a sound of pure disbelief as a not altogether foreign ache settled low in her belly. Lower. Intimate muscles clenched around a slick sort of emptiness the moment before she sprang from the bed.
No time for contemplation, not when there was still a chance she could change her mind.
The idea that de Marchand might be the only man to completely have her. That her husband might learn the truth. Or worse.
That she might die before making love to him … was untenable.
Impossible.
Especially now, when her desire surged with more intensity than her fear.
She padded across the floor and pressed her ear to the door once again. The dim light of a lantern still glowed beneath the seam, but all sound was smothered by the blustery night.
Drawing in a deep breath, she gripped the door latch and inched it open with the flat of her hand.
She heard her name before she peeked her head around, an answer—an invitation—poised on her lips.
At the sight of him, all her wits deserted her, the powerful tableau stealing what breath she had in her lungs and what words her mind could form. She gripped the latch of the door tighter, steadying herself as a dizzying rush of blood invaded her head.
Redmayne was, indeed, recumbent upon the edge of the bed, eyes closed, head tossed back, throat exposed. A strapping leg stretched along the snowy linens of his mattress, the other foot anchored on the floor. One hand curled into the sheets, gripping rhythmically.
The other around his sex.
Her heart leaped into her throat, and she had to swallow several times, gaping as he dragged his fist down the thick, sleek shaft, pausing at the thatch of onyx hair, before pulling the opposite way.
His features twisted into a grimace of something akin to pain, but not quite. The grooves at the edges of his eyes deepened with strain, as though his lids would never part again.
The wind, welcomed in by his open window, noisily tossed that one recalcitrant forelock over those sealed lids as his breath hitched and released.
For a second, or maybe an eternity, Alexandra stared at the organ he stroked between his legs. Duskier in hue than the hand around it, it jutted proud and thick and … long enough to make each fall of his fist quite the journey.
It would never fit inside of her, there was simply no possible way—
Her core tightened, almost insistently, releasing an alarming rush of moisture.
A dark pleasure sound dragged from his chest, a perfectly timed rejoinder to her body’s invitation.
The sculpted contours of his torso bunched and released, knotting with slow thrusts that could have hypnotized her if he’d not growled her name.
Then groaned it.
She glanced back up his body to find his eyes still closed.
He didn’t know she stood there.
And still he said her name.
Was this how he wanted her? She marveled, mesmerized by the play of the lantern light, gilding the roped crests and valleys of his abdomen as he slowly rolled his hips in long, torpid motions, pausing with a labored breath before he pulled back.
Above him, perhaps? Not pinned beneath. Not from behind.
Unbidden, she remembered the pistoning slams of her attacker’s hips. Short, quick, dry, tearing. That was how she’d assessed men must be inside a woman. How they moved in order to—to finish.
But this …
She took an unbidden step toward him, then another. This gentle glide of his hips was like some magnificent, primal dance, his every muscle perfectly controlled. No violence or frenzy.
This won’t take long.
Alexandra blinked several times, blocking the words.
What if it did with her husband? Come to think of it, none of her previous encounters with Redmayne had been abbreviated. And, so far as she could tell, he’d already pleasured himself for longer than her entire ordeal with de Marchand had taken.
He seemed in no great hurry to finish. As if he’d learned to become patient with the agony gripping his expression.
Almost … as if he enjoyed it.
The breeze brushed her nightgown against her body, abrading nipples so puckered and sensitive, she could bear it no longer.
She peeled it away with a humbled sense that she might be the only creature ever to creep so close to the Duke of Redmayne without him knowing it. He was always so ready. So aware. But in the throes of this wicked, beautiful act, he was utterly vulnerable and yet preternaturally male.
“God,” he breathed, his hand sliding faster, his fingers tightening. “Alexandra.”
“Piers.”