Page 33 of Unraveled by the Duke (Scandalous Duchesses #1)

C elia would have had that rainy afternoon stretch into infinity. The downpour lasted for a couple of hours, but she wanted it to never stop, even if it was the start of another Great Flood.

If so, then it would be Alexander and I, adrift together on an unending sea. With no one to interfere and no one to spread rumors or gossip.

They talked little, but Celia found the silence companionable. Given the sodden state of their clothes, they sat close together for warmth, embedded in the straw. She found the heat of his body comforting, as well as his physical presence. This was a man who would always make her feel safe.

Had we met under normal circumstances, perhaps we would have become man and wife, but without any of the problems that beset us now. Without the scandal or threat of scandal. Perhaps it would have been a real marriage.

As they half lay in the shepherd’s shelter, surrounded by shifting and bleating sheep, she came to a realization.

I regret my impulsive and reckless behavior. I never have before. I see the harm it has done to me and someone I have come to care for.

There was regret in her heart now. A wish that she could go back and change her actions. But there was no point in wishing for the impossible. She could not go back in time, could not take back the mistakes of the past. And she could not force a man to love her.

I will take the time I have and enjoy it. At least I will enter my spinsterhood knowing that I have experienced the pinnacle of what a woman can experience in the arms of a man. That memory will keep me warm through many nights.

When the rain eased, she helped Alexander to his feet, and they began the long trek back up the hill. At the summit, the sound of a rapid trot reached them, and Alexander’s mount appeared through the trees, ears twitching and tail swishing.

“I knew you would come back when you recovered your senses, girl.” Alexander grinned and ran a hand down the horse’s neck.

Celia experienced an irrational frisson of jealousy. He used his good foot to vault into the saddle and then reached down for her. She took his hand and yelped when he hauled her into the air. He seated her across the saddle in front of him, his arms wrapped around her waist.

“Do not worry, you will not fall,” he assured.

“I do not worry,” Celia stated.

“Do you have any thoughts about our first activity together?” he asked.

“Yes, actually. I should like you to take me to the new National Art Collection on Pall Mall. The National Gallery, as it is being called.”

Alexander grimaced, and Celia prodded him in the chest with a finger.

“Remember our agreement, Your Grace. Besides, your stepmother is fond of art, is she not?”

“It is most likely why I am sick of it.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“It is a waste of money. My father—” Alexander suddenly clamped his mouth shut, his face hard as steel.

“Your father?” Celia prompted.

“Disapproved of such wastage,” Alexander said finally.

“Oh, that does not seem an opinion to keep secret.”

“I do not. If I did, I would not have said it.”

“But you almost didn’t. You stopped speaking.”

They were winding their way down the hill now, and as though to silence her, Alexander dug in his heels, spurring the horse into a canter which caused Celia to bounce in the saddle. She yelped and then imitated Alexander by clamping her mouth shut, as she saw his smile.

Keep your secrets, then, Cheverton! I will not give you the satisfaction of asking. Particularly if it will just be further ammunition for you to snap at me.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Celia noticed that Alexander’s grip on her tightened as the pace of the horse increased.

She did not mind, allowing herself to be pressed against his body.

For a blessed while, she let herself be transported into a daydream in which they were happily married, riding back from a morning of unbridled passion in the hay.

Wanton, reckless, but driven by the purest of motives. The love between a man and his wife.

By the time they were within the shadow of Finsbury House’s walls, Celia was residing within a deeper shadow. The fantasy was not enough. It was ephemeral and served only as a reminder of what she could not have.

What is the matter with me? I have never sought true love or romance. Never craved a husband. Why do I feel this for a man who has treated me so harshly? Who has made it clear that our marriage is a transaction? I am the world’s biggest fool!

Entering the house with Alexander at her shoulder, they were greeted by Peggy, who looked shocked by the sight of them. Celia sent her for hot water and the butler, Mr. Samuels.

A man with severely combed, lacquered black hair and ferocious eyebrows, Samuels was more than up to the task of supporting his master to his bedchamber.

An hour later, Celia had bathed and changed. She sat for a while in her room, looking out the window at the decrepit walls and grounds of Finsbury. It was crying out for love and attention. She felt an affinity for it, in her mind giving the old place a character.

“I wish I could be here longer to restore you to your former glory,” she said, running a hand over the stone window frame.

Then, she shook herself and stood up—the tenth time in as many minutes.

Every other time she had sat down again, clasping her hands in her lap, waiting, though she did not know for what.

This time, she strode across the room, determined to take some action that would distract her from her romantic delusions.

Her determination took her, without allowing her time to comprehend or understand her reasoning, to Alexander’s rooms.

“I told you I can manage. Get out!” was the greeting as she opened the door.

Samuels was retreating, followed by a muddy boot which he promptly scooped up from the floor and held it by the cut. The look on his face spoke of distaste for the boot’s condition.

After he had left, Celia closed the door behind her.

She heard Alexander sigh in exasperation. “Save me from servants who cannot understand my needs!”

“Or read your mind,” she drawled.

She approached the door to his bedroom and heard a splash, as if someone had just turned in a tub full of water.

“Celia? What are you doing there?” Alexander asked.

“I wanted to discuss our trip to the National Gallery. I thought you would have bathed by now.”

She entered the room. A folding screen split the room in two. Steam rose from behind it.

Celia stopped at the screen. She caught tantalizing glimpses of Alexander through the joins between the screens.

“It took me longer to undress because of my bloody ankle. And Samuels took an age to bandage it.”

“He is not a physician.”

“No, he was my valet at Cheverton and is now the butler at Finsbury House. I think he is disappointed with the promotion. A promotion in rank but a demotion in the house in which he now serves.”

“It need not be. I have often thought of what could be done with the place.”

“Much could be done with money.”

She looked at the sliver of a view she had. She saw his knee and part of his thigh rising out of the water. Then, as they went back under, she caught a glimpse of his stomach and navel that made her heart race.

“You speak as though that is not something you have,” she noted.

“You speak as though you wish to make a discovery.”

“I do, but only to know more about you.”

“Is it necessary? We are to spend a week together, enjoying each other’s company and showing the world how happy we are. What need is there for knowing more about each other?”

Celia turned away. “Perhaps none. Do you feel up for the Gallery today? Or should you rest your ankle, do you think?”

“The swelling is coming down. The bandages Samuels applied are helping. We will leave later this afternoon.”

Celia could not leave the room. She could not stand with her back to those teasing noises of water lapping at a naked body. The noises that invited her to think of that naked form. A body she had kissed and caressed. Tasted and joined with. A body that had used her and which she had used.

She looked back at the same moment Alexander sat forward in the bath, his eyes coming level with the gap through which she peeped.

He swiped the screen aside violently. It clattered to the floor, one hinge breaking as it struck a bedpost.

“If you wish to look, then look,” he grunted, levering himself up with his hands on the edge of the tub.

Celia raised her eyes to his face as his body emerged from the water, gleaming and slick. Hard and finely wrought. It was like the work of a master blacksmith.

“Linen, if you please?” he demanded.

A large, folded piece of linen sat on a chair beside the bath. Celia almost went to it, but then stopped herself.

“Am I a servant?” she asked.

“No, but you are more ambulatory than I am,” Alexander pointed out. “You may remember that I’m in this condition because of you.”

“I did not ask you to ride after me.”

“I did what honor dictated.”

“Ah, it was not your desire at all, simply what others have prescribed for that situation.”

She was aware of his body. His manhood. She knew it intimately now. Even liked it, though the notion shocked her to her marrow.

A woman should not come to like such… appendages. It is not decent. But then, what we have done together can hardly be deemed decent. Just because we are married, does not excuse…

She knew she was blushing and stood boldly, not trying to cover it. Just as Alexander was not trying to cover himself.

“I cannot hover here all day on one foot, woman!” he barked.

Celia smiled. “Then ask, rather than demand.”

His eyes blazed, but she recognized the quirk at the corner of his mouth. What would be a laugh for most men.

I am learning to read him. Can he read me as easily?

“Why does every conversation between us become a contest?” he asked.

“Because you are stubborn.”

“As are you. Would you please hand me the linen?”

Celia gave it to him, unfolding it to its full length and holding it against him. She felt the water on his body being absorbed into the flat weave of the fabric. He looked into her eyes as she moved it down his body.

“I am stubborn,” she said, “and I have been selfish in the past. Pursuing my wishes and ambitions with no thought to the consequences. I think that must end before anyone else is hurt.”

She reached his navel, feeling the fabric tent as it reached his manhood. She moved around it, smoothing it over his hips and thighs, kneeling as she did so.

His breathing quickened.

“I thought there would be no more touching,” he said.

“I said no more touching or kissing me. Anywhere. You are not doing so.”

“So, you may touch me, but I may not touch you. Can you bear that?”

Celia laughed, rising and rubbing the linen over his wet mane. “You flatter yourself, Alexander. Do you believe that you are irresistible?”

He pursed his lips. “I follow the evidence my eyes see.”

“Eyes can be deceived.”

“Touch is often a more reliable sense. Either something is solid or it is not.”

Alexander moved closer to her, his hands settling on her waist. She briefly felt the press of him against her loins and quickly stepped away.

It was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. Moving away from his embrace, from his ardor, felt unnatural. Every fiber of her being resisted, as though she were commanding herself to remove her own skin.

Released from her hands, the linen fell to the floor. Celia smiled, taking in the fullness of his nudity.

“But not solid enough. I would have the touch and the knowledge that it is echoed in here.”

She touched her hands to her heart.

“Would you be ready to leave for Pall Mall in an hour?” she asked.

Alexander nodded wordlessly, picking up the linen and wrapping it around his waist.

Celia left the room, trying to ignore the ache in her loins.