Page 27 of Unraveled by the Duke (Scandalous Duchesses #1)

T hey danced.

Alexander seemed reticent and reserved at first. Celia felt at ease among these ordinary people, safe among folks who would not judge or gossip. Folks who simply accepted her.

The sailor's approach provoked a response from Alexander that sent a warm thrill through Celia.

He is jealous. Possessive. I do not think anyone has ever been possessive of me before.

That seemed to break through the ice, and Alexander let go of his reservations. She had thought he would fit into this street theater, this world of loose morality, free-flowing ale, and lack of inhibitions.

She saw the sailor who had offered to dance with her swaggering down the road with a woman on his arm, while another couple used a shadowed doorway to hide their kiss.

Surely an environment that would suit a rake. Even a recently reformed one. But he seemed reluctant. Perhaps the reputation I have been allowed to believe is not all it seems.

Finally, they walked through the streets of London, away from the sluggish Thames. Alexander’s cravat dangled from his coat pocket, and Celia walked on stockinged feet.

There were still a few hours before dawn, and the streets were lonely and dark, but Celia felt safe in the company of her Duke.

Is this what every wife experiences in the company of her husband? A feeling of safety and warmth? Or is this only experienced when the husband is Alexander Warren?

“Should we make ourselves more presentable before we reach more salubrious areas?” Celia wondered aloud.

“There will be no one to see at this time of the morning. It is too late for the nightsoil men and too early for the bakers,” Alexander replied.

“The city is very different at this time of day. More romantic and mysterious.”

“It is a city. Dirty and smelly. Filled with cutpurses and rogues.”

“And carousers like us,” Celia added.

“Yes, I think we would fit the definition of rogue.”

“Speak for yourself, I am a duchess. I do not know what my husband would say, were he here.”

Alexander looked at her, his face barely visible in the dark. “I should say that he would compliment you on your footwork. For a respectable woman, you know how to dance a jig.”

“As do you, for a respectable man.”

“But then I never claimed respectability. Only a title. The two do not necessarily go together.”

“So, I have been duped into marrying a rogue?” Celia injected mock horror in her voice.

“Most assuredly.”

They turned into a wider thoroughfare.

Celia looked around, recognizing Fleet Street. Ludgate and St Paul’s were to the right. The carriage that had brought them to the dockside had been sent back to Finsbury. It would be a long walk.

“Let us head towards Oxford Street; we may find a cab despite the hour,” she suggested.

“You know your way around the city,” Alexander observed.

“I do, thanks to a youth spent sneaking out of my father’s house. If I had not, you and I would not be here. Or perhaps you would, while I observed you from the shadows, sketching you as you walked past.”

Alexander was quiet for a moment. “I think I would have noticed you,” he said.

“But I was very good at being discreet. I often went as unnoticed as a mouse in church.”

He looked at her, and this time the shadows were less dense. His eyes were shrouded in darkness, but she was able to make out the strange expression on his face.

“I still would have noticed you.”

“We will never know.”

She wondered at his comment as they walked westward. Was it the arrogance of a man who did not like to admit to any failing? Or was he suggesting that he could not be in her company and not be aware of her, even in a scenario where they had never met?

That thought sent a thrill through her. The notion that they might be bound together by some kind of fate.

Nonsense. We are bound together by circumstance and necessity. And bound with the weakest of ropes, liable to break under pressure. I will only make myself unhappy if I keep hoping for something that is not there. Attraction and desire are not love. Nor have I ever sought it.

“I would prefer to undertake a march like this in the country,” Alexander said after a moment’s silence. “I never could stomach London for more than a few weeks at a time. Sometimes just a few days.”

“Yet your homes are in London. We are both children of London families.”

“When I was a boy, Cheverton was a country estate. London was a distant presence that crept closer to our walls with each passing year. I could ride or run in the woods without coming across another house. Now, Finsbury House is in the clutches of the metropolis. So is Kensington. Everything has changed.”

A piece of paper was skipping along the pavement towards them, plucked from a bundle left outside a printer’s shop. It moved in the breeze, then lay still, sporadically picking itself up to resume its brief dance.

“I have never experienced the country. Not as a girl. My mother’s sister lives in Essex. I stayed with them for a few months recently…” she trailed off, not wanting to delve into the subject with Alexander.

How much does he know?

It was obvious that he knew about the events at the Larchers’ ball. Those events could hardly have been missed.

But does he know I was sent into the country for a few months after being caught sneaking out?

It did not matter if he did know. There was nothing scandalous about that. Merely an over-protective father seeking to remove his daughter from temptation.

“You know how to ride, though,” Alexander said.

Celia shook her head.

“Then you haven’t experienced one of the greatest freedoms. The freedom to ride wherever you choose, unbound by roads or rules or the demands of Society. Just you and the horse. I live for those moments when I can get out of the city and into the country.”

Celia stopped, but Alexander walked on a few paces.

She was amazed. This was not a revelation she had expected, not a facet of his character she had anticipated. This was the infamous rake who had bankrupted his family and needed to marry just to ensure that his sister could have her debut?

The paper brushed her skirt, and she absently bent to pick it up, seeing that it had print on it. The words that revealed themselves as she unfolded it drove all other thoughts out of her mind.

Scandal for the Earl of Scovell. The Frid family in disgrace because of wayward daughter was printed in large letters across the top.

She hastily refolded it and stuffed it into the sleeve of her dress just as Alexander turned to her.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“Just surprised. You are something of an onion, a man of layers. Rake and country squire?”

Alexander scowled, turning away. “I talk too much when influenced by drink. One too many of that ale they were drinking.”

Celia wanted desperately to read the printed sheet.

They were walking past the pile outside the printer’s shop from which the sheet she caught had escaped.

Alexander did not glance at the pile that was bound by a string.

Had he done so, he would have certainly caught the Frid name staring at him in stark black ink.

A story about me? Or Aurelia?

“I would rather you talked more,” Celia said hurriedly. “Does that mean I must ply you with drink?”

“No, I would rather not talk.”

Her sudden worry over the scandal sheet and what Alexander might do if he discovered it soured the enjoyment she had felt from the evening.

Enjoyment that he shared despite his sudden coldness. He shares something about himself and then resents it, even seems to blame me.

She held her forearm still without making it obvious so the cheap paper would not rustle.

“There is a cab,” Alexander said, spying a vehicle in the distance.

He whistled, raising his hand and clicking his fingers.

Celia heard the jingle of a harness and the steady clip-clop of hooves as the carriage approached. She felt a surge of relief. She wanted to be back at Finsbury House urgently now so that she could read the scandal sheet and understand what was being said.

I just hope I can keep it from Alexander. Not to mention Mama and Papa.

Alexander stood on the pavement, awaiting the approach of the carriage. Celia stood beside him and tucked her hands in the crook of his arm. He looked down at her for a moment.

“I find that I did enjoy the diversion of your common dock folk better than the theater,” he admitted.

“I thought you might. Though perhaps you are not so much a rake as you would like the world to believe?” Celia joked.

She was surprised when he tensed. She felt the muscles of his arm stiffen, looked up, and saw it in the line of his jaw.

“I do not take kindly to being the subject of jest,” he said coldly.

Celia threw her hands up in exasperation, releasing her hold. “Then I do not know how to speak to you. I make jests, and sometimes they are made at the person to whom I am speaking. A foible or a mannerism. I do not mean it unkindly!”

I’ll be hanged if I am going to tread on eggshells around this prickly man. He needs to trim his spines.

“I cannot think of another way to take it,” Alexander shot back.

The cab pulled up, and the driver leaned down to unlatch the door and swing it open. Celia pulled down the retractable steps and ascended without waiting for Alexander’s help.

“Difficult one, eh, guv’nor?” the driver said with a chortle.

“Concentrate on driving,” Alexander said, hauling himself inside and slamming the door shut.

Celia kept her gaze out of the window as Alexander settled into his seat. She felt the carriage rock with the force of the impact, but she refused to flinch.

Let him be angry. It is entirely his own doing. The man does not have a sense of humor!

But then she remembered the story he had told of the ambush on the Thames at a Frost Fair. Of being assaulted by a tree and ending up in a snow drift. She glanced at him and found him watching her. She allowed the shadow of a smile on her face. Alexander reached out, placing a hand on hers.

She stroked his hand with her thumb. His skin was slightly calloused, as though he did some manual labor.

She wondered what that could be. Then, the carriage rocked, and he slid across his seat so that his body pressed against hers.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding himself steady against the carriage wall so that he did not crush her.

The paper rustled at that moment, moved by the motion of his body against hers.

“Why does your dress rustle so?” he asked.

She shifted to the seat opposite his, turning so that her arm was against the back of the seat and out of his reach. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything further.

Celia felt her face redden, but she also held her tongue.

This is not the way to make him less prickly, but I do not want him to become suspicious of me once more. I sense he is starting to trust me, though he clearly does not want me to get close to him. I would not undo that in one moment.

As they rode in silence, Celia found herself regretting the need to distance herself from Alexander. She enjoyed his touch, even yearned for it. Did he yearn for her, though?