Page 19 of Unraveled by the Duke (Scandalous Duchesses #1)

A lexander alighted from the carriage and strode towards the entrance of Finsbury House.

Celia had returned two days ago, what with her clothes and the rest of her affairs being there.

The sky to one side of the house was pink and molten gold with the setting sun.

It enveloped the house in a cloak of nostalgia, making the windows gleam and casting shadows that hid the worst of the neglect.

“Sorry, Mama, but I could not bear coming back here,” he whispered fervently.

A movement in a window on the third floor drew his eye.

Celia’s rooms were on the south side of the building, facing away from the main door. It was probably Peggy, dusting a room long given over to time. But just for a moment, he thought he had seen a tall, dark-haired, pale-faced woman.

He shook his head, dismissing the fanciful notion. The sunset made odd shadows and shapes on the glass. Alexander didn’t believe in ghosts.

The door opened as he lifted his hand to turn the knob. Celia stepped out into the golden light. Alexander stood there, staring. He could not move, could not speak. His hand was frozen in mid-air.

Her brown curls were pinned atop her head, revealing her swan-like neck. Her eyes seemed large, pools of soft darkness that drew him in, denying him the freedom to look away.

She was clad in a bronze and deep russet gown that perfectly complemented her hair and eyes. No jewelry adorned the pale skin of her chest or her gloved hands. As she moved her head, he caught the delicate gleam of emerald, a teardrop at each lobe of her ears.

“You need no adornment,” he said, unconsciously voicing his thought.

Celia put a hand to one ear, then let it fall to her side. She lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. Her nostrils flared, and her lips parted with the quickening of her breath.

Alexander tried to imagine what it would feel like to press his palm to her chest and feel her racing heart.

I must take care. I must keep up my walls. I am the rake she will not wish to stay married to. Once the scandal is buried and Hyacinth has had the perfect debut, I will have no further need for a wife.

“Thank you. I must say that neither do you,” Celia said with a mischievous smile.

Somehow, that smile was more erotic and alluring than even the sight of her naked.

Not that he had seen her naked. He had stripped her two nights ago, but with his eyes closed. His hands had felt her body, if only in fleeting touches.

The memory of her softness against the back of his hands rose in his mind. The feel of her thighs brushing his fingertips. And the moment of supreme eroticism when, accidentally, he had touched her bare breast.

A matter of a heartbeat, but it had felt like an eternity.

Take care. You stand in jeopardy now.

“It is not my habit to wear tiaras or necklaces.”

“A pity. A sapphire would bring out the color of your eyes,” Celia remarked.

“Perhaps if I were a Persian sultan rather than an English duke,” Alexander said, offering his arm.

“But you are named after a famous Greek who ruled Persia,” Celia pointed out.

“A Macedonian,” Alexander corrected. “To the Greeks, they were barbarians.”

“I understand that Persian men outline their eyes in ash to make them stand out. A technique English women understand well,” Celia said.

“Indeed? I thought the effect nothing short of witchcraft,” Alexander replied, opening the carriage door.

“A kind of witchcraft,” Celia murmured with the smallest of secretive smiles.

Whether by accident or design, her nose twitched, a rabbit-like wrinkle.

Her eyes reflected the light of the setting sun, and Alexander felt himself wavering on the edge of an abyss.

A void into which part of him wanted to fall and fall forever .

His heart thrummed like the string of a longbow.

His stomach clenched, and he had never wanted to kiss a woman more.

Celia climbed into the carriage, and he followed, before closing the door and thumping the roof to signal their departure.

He cleared his throat. “A fine night. Almack’s will probably open the gardens. I always prefer moonlit walks in the gardens to the mucky air inside.”

He tried to roughen his voice, attempting to cool the thrumming tension between them.

“I remember,” Celia said.

“I was somewhat drunk that night.”

“Why?”

The question took him aback. It was either too obvious or too clever.

He narrowed his eyes. He was sitting opposite her, but found himself wishing he had sat next to her. Not only would it mean being closer to her physically, but he also would not have to look into her eyes.

She gazed back at him innocently, her hands folded in her lap.

“That is the favored pastime of a rogue,” he replied.

“Is that what you are? Maxwell seemed to think that your respectability made the perfect foil for his… knavery,” Celia said.

“Maxwell has an over-large mouth,” Alexander scoffed.

“He was insistent that I think well of you.”

“Because he wants my plan to succeed. Which it has. We are married.”

“True. But if you continue talking to me of rakishness and roguishness, you will only succeed in driving me away. I think my father would storm into your house to rescue me if he thought I was married to a rake.”

Alexander felt as if he was in a duel, words being the weapons and the uncovering of secret motivations the method of scoring points.

He settled into his seat, letting the motion of the carriage rock him, and watched Celia from beneath half-lidded eyes.

He allowed a sly smile to creep across his face.

The smile of a rake. A rogue. A man not to be trusted.

Celia looked away, her face coloring, and she reached for the leather strap that secured the carriage window, letting the pane drop.

“It is warm this evening,” she said, fanning herself with one hand.

She glanced at him, her eyes darting to his face and then away. Her lips pressed together.

“I cannot fathom you, Alexander. I cannot decide what kind of man you are.”

A hit. A palpable hit.

Alexander felt no satisfaction in the point scored in their verbal duel. He did not appreciate causing the disappearance of that secret smile, the smile that made him feel privy to her innermost thoughts and desires.

Yet, I do not want to be privy to them. I want to be secure in my fortress, protected against love and the weakness it brings.

They spent the rest of the journey from Finsbury to St James’s and King Street in silence.

They were fashionably late, as befitted a duke and duchess.

By the time the carriage drew to a halt before the doors of Almack’s, a host of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen already inside could be seen through the tall windows.

A footman crossed the pavement and opened the carriage door.

Alexander disembarked first, striding up to the door without waiting for his wife.

He walked with his head held high and an arrogant swagger to his steps.

He did not stop until he was at the door, which was opened by another footman.

He waited for Celia to catch up, offering his arm without looking.

Her slender hand slid beneath his arm and rested on his forearm. Alexander swallowed. Her delicate, floral perfume had preceded her, and now it wove its heady strands around him. He was intoxicated, bewitched.

His eyes screamed to look upon her. His lips beat at his will to be allowed to touch the back of her gloved hand. He wanted to hold her close and breathe her in. If it were his last breath on earth, he would consider it the finest he had ever drawn and a worthy end.

Stop it! She is a woman, not an angel. And she will draw you down into a weakness that will consume you. You do not need it.

And what plans had Celia and her father made concerning the dukedom Alexander had made his life’s work to restore?

Be strong.

He stepped through the entrance hall and then into the grand hall that was the heart of Almack’s without looking at her. They were announced by the master of ceremonies, whose booming voice carried over the assembled guests.

Eyes turned in their direction. Conversations stopped or quietened. Alexander smiled grandly, gritting his teeth behind his clamped lips. He felt every eye like a knife. Heard the whispers and wanted to demand what was being said. What gossip they shared, what rumors they spread.

But a rake would not care. A rogue would bask in the attention, revel in it. So, Alexander played the rogue.

“We are five days out of seven,” Celia whispered after the seventh introduction and interminable and inane conversation.

“What?” Alexander said, forgetting himself enough to look down at her. He saw her bright smile and the effort it cost her to maintain it.

She dislikes it as much as I do. But she admitted to craving Society and company. So, if these people are not the company she craves, then who? Unless that was a lie. Unless this act is a lie.

“Your promise to… in seven days. Seven nights,” Celia explained, blushing and fanning herself so that it looked like the result of the warm air in the crowded room.

“To what?” Alexander pressed, playing with her demureness, wanting to hear her say it.

“You know full well,” Celia gritted out, a note of annoyance creeping into her voice.

“I cannot imagine,” Alexander said smugly, and he heard her click her tongue in irritation.

Another point to me, I think.

“Ah, I hear music. Almost as if they waited for us to arrive. Shall we take our place?” Alexander asked courteously.

Celia nodded, and he instantly regretted his decision.

She turned to face him, and he took her hand in his and wrapped his arm around her waist to create the frame for the dance. They stood there, silently watching each other as the other guests took their places.

In that moment, Alexander knew he was lost. The effort was too much. She had breached his walls, stormed them. For the moment, at least.

Perhaps they could be fixed. They must be fixed.

The music began, and Alexander led.