Page 97 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

Excellent.

“You mustn’t say such things. Not here in public.” She looked around at the couples who’d joined them in their waltz, offering many of them a shaky smile.

“No one heard me.” He chuckled darkly.

“I heard you!” she huffed.

“Yes,” he crooned. “And you owe me another quote.”

“Now?”

“When else?”

“Um.” She searched for words.

Piers sent a triumphant glance at Forsythe, who appeared to be very pointedlynotwatching them.

Her eyes followed his gaze and she frowned.

“I’ve one for you,” she clipped. “‘Those wars are unjust which are undertaken without provocation. For only a war waged for revenge or defense can be just.’”

Before he could summon a rejoinder, a dapper middle-aged gentleman tapped him on the shoulder. “Pardon, monsieur,but I have never had the opportunity to dance with aduchesse.”

“Of course.” Piers bowed to the gentleman, and bent to his wife. “You’ll meet me on the west veranda at half past the hour.”

He placed her hand in the older man’s as she sputtered. “But—outside?—you didn’t guess—”

“Cicero,” he said over his departing shoulder, searching for a dance partner among the local countrywomen.

The next time he touched his wife, it would be in places she wouldn’t soon forget.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

He couldn’t really mean to share intimacies out of doors, could he?

Alexandra crept through a small entry from a back corridor out onto the west veranda.

She hadn’t understood the size and scope of the structure until this vantage. Not only did it wrap around the edifice of the hotel, it boasted several dozen potted trees, ferns, flowers, intricate screens, and furniture from which to enjoy sumptuous sunsets over the ocean.

The sun had set hours ago, and a cold, silvery moon illuminated white waves across which England awaited.

The night breeze feathered over flesh unused to exposure to the elements. Her bare shoulders, the swells of her breasts pressed unnaturally high by the corset, indeed all her skin welcomed the cool kiss of the night.

For the past hour her husband’s gaze, heavy with illicit promises, had turned her entire body into a furnace.

She’d barely been able to concentrate on her waltz with Jean-Yves, let alone a civilized, pleasant conversation. Bynow, half of France likely assumed her the most bumble-headed ninny alive.

But how was one supposed to think clearly with the weight of his gaze teasing little shivers from the fine hairs at the back of her neck?

How was it that a man, not just any man,her husband,could affect her in such a manner?

Her slippers barely made a sound as she navigated artful arrangements of furniture in search of him.

She found Redmayne leaning forward against the railing, his face lifted to the moon. Eyes closed and nose flaring as though he enjoyed the fragrance of wisteria, posies, and night-blooming jasmine shamelessly baring themselves beneath a tall wych elm.

He didn’t seem to mark her approach, even as she joined him at the railing not more than an arm’s length away. She could only make out the scarred side of his face. Even in the dim light, the silver moon drew such savage lines through his beard.

For a protracted moment, Alexandra could do nothing but stare.