Page 14 of Unraveled by the Duke (Scandalous Duchesses #1)

C elia lay beside a mere in long, fragrant grass.

Trees circled the lake, sighing in the night breeze.

Alexander stood over her. He wore shirtsleeves and breeches, barefoot in the long grass.

She caught her breath as she felt him kneel beside her and tear the flimsy nightdress that was her only protection against the cool night air.

The garment fell from her shoulders to her elbows. Then, he tore it further, the sound of its destruction loud in the quiet night. Celia squeaked as the tear reached her buttocks, exposing them to the moonlight. Then, it was gone, pulled away from her and cast aside violently.

Alexander mounted her, turning her onto her front as though they were animals. She felt his legs straddle her hips, his manhood pressing against her derriere. His body flattened against hers, his lips fastening on her neck. His hips moved, pressing down, grinding her womanhood against the ground.

He sucked on her neck harder, and she knew a mark would be left behind. She felt pride in it. It was a mark of ownership, and she was proud to be his toy.

She moaned in anticipation, knowing what came next in this primitive dance. She held her breath, waiting.

Celia woke up but did not understand why. Befuddled, she stared at the patterns of moonlight on the ceiling of her bedroom.

This is not my room. Not Banfield. Where…?

Then, she remembered her situation. Her loneliness.

For three days, she had not heard from Alexander. Did not know even whether he was alive and well. There had been no contact with him, and she felt as though she had been locked away and forgotten.

The dream had been wicked, lustful, and wanton. But waking up to find it nothing but a fantasy left a void inside her. That yawning void radiated despair like a black miasma. It enveloped her.

How can I bear another day like this? Wanting him but rejected by him, held at arm’s length. But do I want him? Really? He is handsome; of that, there is no doubt. But he is cruel and cold. He is a rake and a wastrel. I would be better off alone.

The thoughts were hollow and did nothing to fill that void. She could feel the ghost of his touch. The taste of his lips and the press of his hips.

A knock suddenly sounded at the door to her suite, startling her. In the quiet of the night, it seemed very loud.

For a moment, she thought she had imagined it, perhaps still clinging to some vestige of sleep. She lay still, her heart pounding, her mind still full of the passionate intensity of her dream.

The knock did not come again. The outer door did not open; she had not locked it, so there was no barrier to whoever was outside. They had simply given up and gone away. Or she had dreamed it.

No, that is the sound of the creaking floorboard just outside the door! Someone is out there. Someone large, judging by the sound.

Before she knew what she was doing or could think better of it, Celia bolted from the bed and grabbed a dressing gown from the wardrobe, belting it over her nightdress.

It must be him. None of the servants would be awake at this hour. What brings him to my door?

She could still remember the dream. It colored her thoughts now, making her cheeks flush and her pulse quicken. What else could a husband want from his wife in the middle of the night?

Even a husband who denies that he is one.

By the time she reached the door, there was no sign of Alexander or anyone else. She stood in the hallway, candle in hand. It valiantly tried to hold back the darkness, but only marginally succeeded.

A sharp creak in the distance told her the direction he had gone. She hurried after the sound on quiet bare feet.

Finally, she reached the library. She had found it on her first day, but had not ventured inside much due to the sparsely populated shelves, the dust, and the air of neglect.

Now, Alexander stood before the cold fireplace at the other end of the room.

A bottle of wine stood on the mantelpiece beside his left hand.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Celia greeted from the doorway.

Alexander looked over his shoulder at her. His dark hair fell over his face, casting his eyes in shadow. He grabbed the bottle and tilted it to check how much he had already consumed.

“Good evening,” he returned. “Are we back to honorifics again?” He sounded weary.

“Alexander,” Celia said.

Speaking his name in the middle of the night felt like an intimacy that brought heat to her cheeks and reminded her of her state of undress.

She felt his eyes on her like a physical touch. Instinctively, she wanted to hide herself from his gaze, but she forced herself to stand where she was. Her dressing gown was thick enough to hide her figure.

“Did you knock on my door?” she asked.

“I did,” Alexander replied.

“I was asleep. But I am here now.”

“Yes, you are here. I apologize for waking you. It was unfair of me to inflict my wakefulness on you.”

He took another long draught from the bottle, studying the label as he lowered it.

“My father tried to teach me the palette needed for wine, but I was a poor student. I do not have the taste for it to drink it for pleasure.”

Celia chuckled. She crossed to him and held out her hand for the bottle. In the light of the candle, which she placed on the mantelpiece, she thought she could see a bemused look on his face.

He passed her the bottle, and she took a mouthful, wincing as she swallowed.

“Neither do I,” she admitted, returning the bottle. “Papa talks about flavors and aromas, but it is beyond me. I prefer tea, I must say.”

“A shame that our society insists on the consumption of wine as a sign of gentility,” Alexander said.

“A great shame,” Celia agreed. “I have at least learned to master my expression while drinking it. A wince or a grimace at the wrong moment would destroy the illusion.”

Alexander laughed and took a seat in a chaise longue that had been positioned where it would catch the warmth of the fire. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and one arm indolently laid across the back of the chaise.

Celia sat at the other end, tucking her bare feet beneath her. His laughter was free and sounded heartfelt. It put her somewhat at her ease. He may have been driven to her by drink, but if he was amenable, perhaps this would not turn into another argument.

“Do you master your expression at other times to hide your disgust? I can think of another circumstance where such mastery would be useful.”

Celia blushed, immediately catching the innuendo. “I have not, in my limited experience, had to resort to such subterfuge yet.”

She felt breathless, her heart hammering in her chest. Sensations from her dream hammered at her awareness. The feel of his body. The scent of him. The warmth of his arms. She felt something of that now.

“I am glad to hear it,” Alexander said wryly, his smile widening when she looked away. “Are you blushing now? In this light, I cannot see. Perhaps there is another way to tell.”

Without warning, he moved closer and pressed a hand to her cheek. Celia closed her eyes and involuntarily breathed him in, filling her senses with him.

I must not give too much away. It does no good to completely submit to a man with his reputation.

She opened her eyes, hoping that he had not noticed.

“Yes, quite warm, as I thought,” Alexander murmured, not removing his hand.

“May I sample more of that unpleasant beverage?” Celia asked.

Alexander laughed and handed her the bottle.

She shuddered as she swallowed the acidic, bitter concoction. Alexander took a swallow and mimicked her reaction.

“There is a curious freedom in being able to express one’s true feelings for something, is there not?” he commented.

“It is most enjoyable,” Celia agreed, taking her turn with the wine. “Was this why you came to my door this evening?”

“I came because I was drunk, which is a rare occurrence. I wanted to share it with someone, and could think of no one else whose company I wanted,” Alexander admitted.

“Surely drunkenness is a common occurrence for a rake?” Celia asked.

“Ah, but I am an uncommon sort of rake.”

“What kind of rake would that be?”

Alexander didn’t reply, but instead looked around the dark room. “I hate it in here. It has been decimated, and I cannot bear to see the gaps where priceless volumes once stood. It is like seeing empty places at the table, such as where my father used to sit. Or my mother.”

A darkness seemed to have descended upon him. He was withdrawing from her, retreating into his melancholy. Celia felt the urge to follow him, to coax him out.

She put a hand on his arm. “Then why are we sitting here? Is there not somewhere you would be more comfortable?”

She pressed her lips tightly together. In her mind, the words ‘my bedchamber’ had been loud, and she was suddenly afraid that she would speak them aloud.

“There is,” Alexander replied. “Come, I will take you there.”

He jumped to his feet and offered her his hand, holding the wine bottle in the other.

Once she took his hand, he dragged her after him. They ran through the house, Celia unable to stop the fits of laughter that the ludicrous situation drew from her.

Through the house and out of a side door they ran, then onto the grounds and beyond.

“I am barefoot!” Celia protested.

“Of course, how remiss of me,” Alexander drawled, stopping long enough to take off his boots and toss them aside, before resuming his dash across the grounds.

“That wasn’t what I meant!” Celia laughed as she followed.

They entered a copse of trees, slowing down to navigate the slim boles and thickening undergrowth. Then, they emerged into a clearing. A stream ran through it, collecting into a pool ringed with willows, except where a wooden structure stood.

“This was my castle when I was young. My impenetrable fortress that I could deny even to my parents,” Alexander revealed, trying the wooden door. “I would dive from the window into the pool.”