Page 8 of A Duke Of Her Own
“You trust me,” he said, his voice tinged with a bold assurance. “You rely on me. You consider me a friend—perhaps even more. When you were worn out and emotionally drained, you asked Mrs. Benton to summon me. The moment you saw me, your eyes sparkled with a sense of relief, and when I held you, you immediately fell asleep. The chocolate cake you baked for your birthday told me more about your selflessness than words ever could. And when Mrs. Portman was in labor, you stayed by her side for three sleepless days and nights. Even though you were emotionally overwhelmed—you broke down more than she did—you stayed because she needed you. We may never discuss our pasts or articulate our hopes for the future, Francie, but we know each other. We understand one another.”
Alexander’s words hung in the air, letting her realize their attachment went beyond mere acquaintance or friendship—they truly had a bond built on trust and a deep understanding of each other. As if she could not bear his stare, Francie lurched to her feet and rushed to the large windows. The sky had darkened, and the winds and rains raged outside. Even if she felt the urge to run away from this encounter, the storm would not allow it. And by God, nor would Alexander allow it.
A fine tremor cascaded down her back, and she leaned her forehead against the cool windows. Alexander rose and walked over, standing a mere breath behind her.
“Would you take a lover with no cares for your reputation?”
“What reputation?” she murmured wretchedly.
“What do you mean by that?”
Instead of answering she said, “I am not a fool, Alexander. I planned to be discreet.” Her slender shoulders trembled under the weight of her emotions.
“Do you have someone in mind?”
This time her entire body shook with her shaky inhalation. “I … I thought about Sir Hanley. He called upon me a few times, and I have detected his interest. I must return to London in a few days, and I … I wanted this moment before I departed because once I am there … I can never think of doing something so reckless again.”
Something cold and savage moved through Alexander's heart. He closed his eyes, shuddering inside, holding back the tide of feeling. “Look at me.” The world leaped from him like a snarl.
“No,” she said softly.
“Why not?”
“I am afraid of what I will see in your eyes.”
He peered at her nape, leaning so close he was certain she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. Her elusive fragrance of lavender filled his lungs. “I would not judge you for wanting to take a lover, Francie.”
A shaky laugh that ended in a hiccup left her. “Most would think me a wanton, ungovernable tart for admitting it.”
How vulnerable she sounded. Her delicate body was still trembling faintly.
“I am not most,” he said, just as softly. “Nor do I ascribe to the hypocritical notions many hold. You confided in me your desire for a lover, knowing full well I would never betray your trust or think you an ungovernable tart.”How silly you are, the thought, almost fondly, the savage feeling dampening the humor in him. “Now, look at me.”
She lifted her forehead from the window and turned to face him. Francie leaned her back against the windows, tilting her face upward to meet his stare. Her mouth quivered, and her green gaze seemed uncertain. Her eyes searched his face for long moments, and whatever she saw eased the tension from her shoulders and the wounded look in her eyes.
The arch of her eyebrows, the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, and the gentle curve of her cheeks—each detail of her had been imprinted in his mind and heart this past year. Unable to resist, Alexander reached out to touch her. His thumb gently traced the delicate curve of her lower lip, and as if responding to his caress, a captivating blush spread across her face, reaching down to her neck.
“I have never realized how pretty a blush could be.”
Her throat worked on a swallow.
“I wonder, do you blush all over?” “Alexander?” Her voice was husky with nerves.
He moved his thumb up to rest against the tender curve of her throat, where he could feel the frenzied rhythm of her heartbeat pulsing beneath his touch.
“Do not ever mention to me about taking Sir Hanley or any man as your lover again.”
Shocked at the evident throb of menace in his tone, her eyes widened, but she nodded. Alexander pressed a kiss to her brow, and her lashes fluttered close for a long moment. Slightly lowering his lips to the corner of her mouth, he said, “If you are to have a lover, that man will only be me.”
CHAPTER5
If you are to have a lover, that man will only be me.
Those shocking words settled between them, and Francie dazedly wondered ifthiswas the outcome she had secretly hoped. When she read the letter from her mother urging her to marry a gentleman willing to overlook her scandal and ruined reputation, Francie felt a keen sense of loss, even though she would gain from her mother’s machination.
Marrying the Earl of Beresford, a gentleman who was thirty-five years her senior, would help Francie reclaim her position in society and grant her the comfort of children. But she would lose this attachment with Mr. Crawford. A singularly improper yet wonderful connection. The delightful walks in the woodlands, rowing on the lake, playing with Samson and birdwatching would be no more. Such a friendship would not be tolerated by her new husband. That sense of loss had driven Francie here while thoughts of a passionate night before submitting to duty had whirled in her thoughts.
If you are to have a lover, that man will only be me.