Page 69 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

“Why tomorrow?” she asked.

His eyes were two shards of ice in his swarthy face. “There is a ship that sails for Normandy tomorrow evening. We could spend our wedding night at sea and wake up away from these people. From this castle. From the men who attacked yesterday. Away from a bedroom where I—” He broke off, but Alexandra knew the end of that sentence.

Where he’d been with Rose.

“A French university has been unearthing ruins in Normandy for the last several months; my father used to fund them years ago, trying to verify Magnus Redmayne’s connection with William the Conqueror. Patrick revived the project when he thought he’d become a duke.”

He let out an intemperate breath at the mention of his cousin. “Even upon my return, I didn’t have the heart to shut the operation down, and I recently received word that the archeology students might have discovered where Magnus Redmayne’s father is thought to be interred. They’re calling in an expert to assist with the final excavation.”

As he caught a tendril of hair at her nape, his features tightened with a yearning for something she identified instantly.

Escape.

“I don’t share my father’s obsession with the past,” he continued. “But I would hazard that you do, Dr. Lane. Would you like to see the place for our honeymoon? Poke about the dig sites?”

His enthusiasm to abscond was infectious, and Alexandra found herself on the edge of convinced. She’d rather swim the length of the Channel than walk down the aisle at Westminster Abbey or wherever one would marry a duke of his standing. And it moved her that he’d select a honeymoon spot tailored to her interests.

“What about the licenses, the banns, and the priest? My family hasn’t even been notified.”

“Would they be terribly upset if you eloped?” He touched his nose to hers in an affectionate gesture.

She gave that a good deal of thought. “Not with a duke,” she concluded.

His smile was at once wry and bitter, an admittedly unsettling sight on features as satyrlike as his. “In that case, I happen to be a duke, and related to a very influential politician.” He released her. “Leave the details to me.”

Feeling more than a little dazed, Alexandra nodded. “Do you want to… resume what we were about before Rose—erm.”

He took her face in his hands once again and pressed a searing, searching kiss to her lips. “More than anything. But I want to have you as my wife. Away from here. Away fromher.”

Alexandra found she vehemently agreed. “Tomorrow then,” she mumbled in disbelief.

“To think, I found a treasure like you on a train platform.” He kissed her swiftly and released her. “Be ready in the morning.”

She watched him go until he was nothing but a hulking shadow in the distance before turning back to her room and facing the two women pretending they hadn’t been eavesdropping.

“Tomorrow, then,” she echoed, unable to shake herself from a daze. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

CHAPTERTWELVE

Alexandra only remembered flashes of her wedding day, but she’d recall her wedding night the whole of her life.

So much of that morning had been lost in a frenzy of preparation. She, Cecelia, and Francesca had arisen early, and by some miracle had cobbled together a wedding dress from a pearlescent evening gown of Francesca’s that was so tight, she was forced to acquiesce to a corset rather than make alterations.

Cecelia sent Jean-Yves to the gardens and presented her with a breathtaking crown of white chrysanthemums in lieu of a veil an hour before the ceremony.

An announcement had been made at breakfast, of all places, that whoever desired to attend the wedding could do so in the rectory at precisely two o’clock.

At a quarter past noon, a gentle knock on the door drove Alexandra to her feet. She’d flung the door wide, expecting a visit from Redmayne, hoping for last-minute assurances.

“Oh. Hello.”

Manners dictated she school the disappointment from her expression when she found a grim-faced stranger rather than her intended. He was possessed of dark hair, a fair complexion, and a large build, but something about the eyes and the cruel set of his mouth struck Alexandra as familiar.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked politely, his presence infusing her with instant unease.

“Lady Alexandra Lane?” he inquired, his accent as clipped and starched as his collar.

“Yes.”