Page 133 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

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 amighty 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, listeningto 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 responsiblefor 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?