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Page 2 of Courting the Duchess (Spy Society #1)

Eight Years Later

“I have neither the will to live nor the strength to battle my demons any longer. This cruel world has handed me too many misfortunes; this poison shall be a kindness!” Alaina raced around the blue drawing room of Morton House as she continued her stirring reenactment of Lady Blye’s death scene from a popular, preposterously dramatic new novel written by one M. Alice Lowe and lately adapted to the stage by one of the leading London acting troupes at The Mask she also became the friend she’d always wished she’d had. Part of this mission of self-exploration entailed the creation of her Reading Society. Initially, she longed for a place where women would be free to read and discuss literature without their families’ censure. When she discovered more women than she also sought a refuge from the ton ’s judgmental gaze and the freedom to be themselves, the Reading Society evolved into a haven for anyone who felt out of place or longed to find true companionship and camaraderie in a world often filled with duplicitousness. Alaina, the mother hen of the group, took women of all ages and possessing a broad variety of interests beneath her wings, sheltering them with her name and power and opening her home to each and every one of them who needed it. This, of course, was not always embraced by the rest of Society.

Much to the shock of matrons of the ton , the past several years bore witness to a dramatic change in Alaina’s personality and role. Gone was the soft-spoken young debutant and, gradually, in her place blossomed a woman who knew her mind and was unafraid of voicing it—often to the dismay (and secret admiration) of many. She came to be known as the perfect example of how a woman might change after discovering the freedom of marriage (causing the simultaneous chagrin of titled husbands and great envy of unwed chits everywhere).

Of course, as some papers so boldly outlined, said freedom was directly correlated to the length of time one’s husband has been absent.

In Alaina’s case, that was precisely eight years, nine months, and thirteen days.

She hadn’t seen or heard directly from her wayward husband since she’d retired to her bedchamber the evening of their wedding and fallen asleep waiting for him to come to her. Even after all these years, the memory still needled a raw part of her heart, though she’d taught herself to view it differently: There was something to be said for how a woman might discover her mind, hobbies, and passions when her husband hadn’t made his face known since their wedding day. As she saw it, she could either wallow or she could make her own way, and she’d chosen the latter (after allowing her battered and bruised heart some time to indulge itself in some sorrow, of course).

Alaina made a little excited bounce on her toes as the other woman finished her rousing monologue. It was a job well done and she couldn’t have been more proud of her friend for her bravery and poise. Now, it was Alaina’s turn to finish the play.

Collective gasps and titters rose from her audience as Alaina hiked up the skirts of her terribly fashionable lavender gown and leaped up onto an unoccupied cushion of a sofa, baring trim, stocking-clad calves. She faced the room as bold and passionate as a Roman senator during a stirring campaign, pressing her rolled manuscript to her bosom. A couple of artful golden curls escaped her coiffure and teased the skin of her pink, passion-tinted cheeks. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with glee as she finished her dramatic reading, pantomimed tossing back a draught of poison, pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, and finished it all with a dramatic backward dive to the sofa in a glorious flurry of skirts and petticoats.

Though her eyes were closed, there was no mistaking the rustle of a dozen skirts as her friends rose to their feet and clapped, enthusiastically cheering on her performance. The grin on her face bloomed unbidden as she enjoyed their accolades. She rose to make a humble curtsy and begin the discussion of the scene when the applause was abruptly strangled, leaving only a single loud, slow clap. One glance at the confused faces of her friends told Alaina something was certainly amiss. Their various eyes were fixed over her shoulder and furtive whispers shot back and forth. Alaina frowned and turned to locate the disturbance.

A very tall, very handsome, very well-dressed man had entered the drawing room and leaned one insolent shoulder against the doorframe. He caught her eye and wrapped up his mocking applause.

His chestnut hair was brushed back from his face, though more wild and windblown than artfully designed, indicating he’d arrived on horseback. There was something familiar about the fullness of his mouth, the breadth of his shoulders, but the hardness of his stubbled jaw and the coolness of his gaze made her feel as if she surely would not have forgotten this man had they been introduced.

She dropped her manuscript to the sofa and straightened her posture. “And who, may I ask, are you, sir, to enter my home unannounced and unwelcome? Where is Maxwell?” she asked, frustrated that her elderly butler would have allowed a visitor to enter without at least calling upon the footmen to prevent such a thing from happening. Unless he had been unable to do so… Her pulse quickened as she hoped fervently the butler hadn’t been harmed.

The newcomer’s mouth tilted in an approximation of a smile; indeed, it might have been closer, but there was no mirth there in the slightest. He righted himself and crossed his arms over his broad chest, further accentuating the narrowness of his waist and the strength of his legs in their immaculately fitted tan buckskin breeches.

“I must compliment your performance even if I don’t necessarily find the gruesome violence to be appropriate for well-bred women.” His voice set off a bell in the cobwebbed halls of her memory, shaking loose something she’d long locked away. Though he referred to all the women in the room, his eyes never left hers.

Those hazel eyes.

Alaina refused to be unnerved. The bellpull was to the left of the doorway and there was no doubt the intruder would, if he so wished, be able to stop her before she could get near enough to use it. She could scream, but there were a dozen other women behind her, waiting nervously and mostly silently for her lead. She refused to show weakness—not even in front of her friends.

She crossed her arms over her chest and adopted the same strong stance as the uninvited guest. It immediately bolstered her nerves with a strange sort of power, drawing steel into her spine and cold fire into her veins.

“I shall ask you one more time,” Alaina began, secretly proud that the strength of her voice did not waver. “Who are you and what are you doing in my home?”

After another second of unnatural immobility, the man’s face split into a wicked half-grin. One of his powerful brows rose imperiously as he uttered words Alaina’s mind at first refused to process: “Aren’t you the least bit excited to welcome your husband home, darling? I’d take greater offense at your lack of recognition, but it has been a spell.”

The world paused around her…her heart halted its rhythm. Her eyes frantically searched the man’s face for any sign of falsehood. But…

Those eyes.

It was at that moment that she realized what had seemed so familiar about him. The dust was swiftly wiped away from the looking glass of her memory. She had been living beneath those intense hazel eyes for the last eight years. They were the eyes of the Morton Dukedom. Piercing. Intelligent. Hawklike in their ability to make one feel as if he were laying bare her soul.

Generations of men in that family had possessed those eyes, and the London Townhouse’s soaring portrait gallery filled with several centuries-worth of paintings to prove it. After she’d first stumbled upon the gallery sometime following her husband’s secretive and hasty departure, Alaina had done everything she could to avoid the room. She couldn’t bear to be judged by those ancestors as the one duchess who couldn’t seem to even entice her husband stay long enough to consummate the marriage, let alone produce a legitimate heir. She recalled once wistfully thinking how she never would have married Sterling had his own hazel eyes been as cold as theirs; he’d only ever looked upon her with a fondness that had warmed the intensity of his mercurial gaze. But now…

Sterling?

The sounds of the world crashed over her all at once as her guests frantically gathered their papers and belongings—some taking longer than others as their morbid curiosity won out, and they none-too-subtly glanced between Alaina and this man who claimed to be the long-lost Duke of Morton.

Alaina silently cursed the situation ten times over and donned a well-practiced mask of impassivity to hide her humiliation, her panicking heart and roiling stomach. Not only had she not immediately recognized her wayward husband, but she had demonstrated said fact in one of the most mortifying ways possible: in front of a room of Society women. She loved them all dearly, but she didn’t doubt that at least a few might innocently let the incident slip.

Even more embarrassing, his first glimpse of her in nearly a decade had been her flopping around like a beached whale…

What an impression to make upon one’s spouse after an eight-year absence.

This man who claimed to be her husband didn’t watch the guests leave. Instead, he simply stepped to the side to allow her guests to pass with hasty curtsies, and those intense eyes of his bore into her from across the room. Alaina fought the childish urge to fidget under his scrutiny.

So much for his eyes being warmer and more inviting than his ancestors’.

Time had changed her husband in unexpected ways. Even at five-and-twenty, he’d been tall and self-assured. His features had been well-carved and unquestionably patrician with a strong, expressive brow and angular jaw. During his absence from England, his frame had since filled out in a pleasingly masculine way and sharpened his features like a whetstone from handsome to devastating. The boy she’d married had been undeniably attractive; the man standing before her was…ravishing. There was no other word for it in her rather extensive vocabulary.

Alaina swallowed hard through her tight throat and prayed he could not detect how unnerved she was.

Especially now that they were finally well and truly alone as the door clicked shut behind the final guest.

It was without a little trepidation that Alaina realized she’d never actually been alone with her husband before…and then how truly absurd it was that she was a married woman of six-and-twenty and that was a pathetic fact of her life.

Sterling took several steps toward her until he was close enough to make her tilt her head back so she might look up into his face. Her memory hadn’t failed her in this aspect; despite her best efforts, she’d never forgotten how tall he was and how much she’d had to tip her head to accept his kiss.

Alaina gave herself a rough mental shake, steeling her resolve.

This was the man who had abandoned me , she reminded herself.

Humiliated me.

Deserted the life we were supposed to create together and left me to pick up the pieces and weather the consequences alone.

She should slap him, kick him in the groin, spit on his boots, but she was far too well-bred for such behavior. That did not stop the malicious thoughts from playing out in her mind to a satisfactory degree.

Sterling’s mouth propped up into another half-smile that might have been charming had it reached his eyes.

“What? No welcome-home kiss for your husband?”