Page 8 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction (Dukes of Passion #3)

CHAPTER 8

“ L ady Asquith, what a delightful surprise.”

The following afternoon, Marina was browsing for herself at Hatchard’s bookshop when a familiar voice startled her from her contemplation of the latest gothic novels.

She turned to find Noah Crawford, Marquess of Blytheton, regarding her with undisguised amusement.

“Lord Blytheton.” Marina dipped into a curtsy. “I didn’t realize you frequented Hatchard’s.”

“Only when in pursuit of particularly engaging reading material.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he glanced at the book in her hands. “Though I find Mrs. Radcliffe’s tales pale compared to certain anonymous publications currently making the rounds.”

Marina carefully replaced the novel on the shelf. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

“No?” His smile widened. “How disappointing. I had hoped to discuss the author’s remarkable insight into certain ducal temperaments.”

“Perhaps you should speak with His Grace directly,” Marina suggested, wondering how much this man—someone she knew to be a friend of the Duke’s—knew or suspected.

“Oh, I have.” Noah selected a book at random, flipping through it with feigned interest. “He was most illuminating on the subject. Though I must say, he seems unusually preoccupied with the mysterious authoress. I’ve never seen him so invested.”

Marina’s pulse quickened. “Invested?”

“Indeed.” Noah returned the book to its shelf. “In fact, I believe this is the first time in a decade I’ve seen him truly engaged with anything beyond his search for his brother. It’s rather refreshing, if not alarming, for those unfortunate enough to cross him when he’s in such a mood.”

He leaned slightly closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, Lady Asquith, I think you’ve accomplished what years of friendship failed to do—you’ve made Leo actually feel something again.”

Before Marina could plan a response, Noah straightened and offered her a polite bow.

“A pleasure encountering you, My Lady. I hope our paths cross again soon. The Season has become so much more interesting since your arrival in Leo’s life.”

Marina’s hands still trembled as she dipped her quill into the inkwell.

She had barely slept since her encounter with the Duke three days ago.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom pressure of his fingers against her skin, saw the dangerous heat in his gaze as he’d backed her against the wall.

Caroline had extracted every detail from her on their walk home, alternating between delighted scandal and genuine concern.

“That’s a risky game he’s playing,” her friend cautioned. “And so are you.”

Perhaps that was true. But as Marina’s pen flew across the page, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

The Duke’s touch had awakened something in her—something her late husband had never stirred, something her own imagination had only hinted at. Now those sensations poured onto the page, reckless and vivid.

Her latest heroine—a widow with a secret passion for literature—found herself cornered between towering bookshelves by a nobleman with wicked intentions and knowing hands.

Marina blushed as she wrote their encounter, the scene unfolding with an authenticity her previous stories had lacked. The rustling of pages, the scent of leather-bound books, the thrill of forbidden desire in a public place—all infused with the memory of hazel eyes burning into hers.

The ritual of writing had become as familiar to Marina as breathing, yet tonight had been different. Usually, she approached her desk with a clear purpose, arranging her tools with methodical precision—the stack of paper, neatly trimmed quills, the ink she mixed herself to the perfect consistency—neither too watery nor too thick. Everything ready for her to write.

But tonight, the memory of Leo’s touch had disrupted her careful routine. Her fingers had trembled as she dipped her quill, splattering tiny droplets of ink across the pristine page.

The first draft had been a tangle of half-formed thoughts and sensations—his scent, the pressure of his body against hers, the precise texture of his lips. Too personal, too raw to share, even behind the veil of fiction.

She had crumpled that attempt and started again.

“Focus,” she’d whispered to herself, closing her eyes to center her thoughts.

When Marina wrote, she became someone else—not the scandalous widow, not the woman society shunned, but a creator of worlds and sensations. Her hand moved across the page with a confidence she rarely felt in her daily life. Each stroke of her pen transformed memories and whispered confessions into something greater than their parts.

Tonight, she had woven truth with invention. The bookshop scene began with her own encounter with Leo, but as her pen flew across the pages, the characters took on lives of their own.

Her fictional widow was bolder than Marina dared to be, answering the Duke’s challenges with fire rather than retreat. And the Duke himself—she filled in the gaps of what she knew about Leo with imagined details, crafting a man who was both commanding and vulnerable, whose desire masked a deeper hunger for connection.

Marina paused once, setting down her quill to press her fingers against her lips, still tender from his kiss.

This was dangerous territory. Her stories had always been drawn from others’ experiences, safely distanced from her own heart. But now she was writing something perilously close to her own desires, exposing a longing she scarcely admitted to herself.

The candles burned as she worked and cast shadows across the study.

When the last words flowed from her pen, she felt the familiar mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion that followed creation. This story differed from her others. It was more honest, more vulnerable. In these pages, she had revealed not just the secrets of a fictional duke but the longings of her own heart.

Dawn’s first light painted her window as Marina read through the completed manuscript one last time.

Would Leo recognize himself in these pages?

Would he see how thoroughly he had invaded her thoughts, her dreams, her very blood?

“He’s avoiding you,” Caroline declared when Marina joined the Clarkshires for dinner three days later. “Harold saw him at White’s yesterday, brooding over brandy with Lord Blytheton.”

Marina spent the next few days in a state of nervous anticipation. She half expected the Duke to appear at her door in renewed fury.

Yet as the days passed with no sign of him, Marina found herself oddly disappointed. Had she imagined the intensity between them? The way his body had seemed to gravitate toward hers as though drawn by some invisible force?

“I am hardly surprised,” Marina replied, accepting a glass of wine from a footman. “Our last encounter was unsettling.”

Harold raised an eyebrow. “Unsettling enough to inspire your latest literary triumph it seems. Lady Jersey was positively effusive about it at Lady Frothingham’s musicale yesterday.”

“Harold!” Caroline admonished though her eyes danced with amusement. “You promised not to tease.”

“I merely report what I observed,” Harold protested with an innocent smile. “The patroness of Almack’s declaring that she’s never read such a stirring depiction of passion in all her days is hardly something one forgets.”

Marina nearly choked on her wine, still not entirely comfortable with Harold’s knowledge of her secret occupation. Caroline had convinced her a week ago that they could trust him implicitly, and he had proven to be both discreet and supportive, often bringing her tidbits of gossip about how her stories were being received among the gentlemen at White’s.

“Lady Jersey said that?”

“Yes.” Harold’s expression grew more serious. “Though she might be less enthusiastic if she knew you were the author. You are courting disaster if the ton finds out.”

“I know.” Marina set down her glass. “But what choice do I have? Without the income from the stories?—”

“You could accept our help,” Caroline interjected. “We’ve offered before.”

Marina shook her head. “Your friendship means the world to me, but I cannot become a burden. The stories are my independence.”

“And the Duke?” Harold asked quietly. “Is he merely a subject for your pen, or is there something more?”

She didn’t know exactly what the Duke had become to her. A subject for her pen, certainly. An inspiration unlike any other to be sure. However, another feeling was also growing—a quickening pulse whenever he appeared, a reluctant fascination with the man beyond the gossip.

A week later, Mr. Lupton’s note arrived along with a larger payment than usual.

Her newest story had sold out its first printing in a single day. Ladies across London were reportedly huddled in drawing rooms, reading passages aloud behind closed doors.

Even gentlemen were secretly purchasing copies, Lupton wrote, though they claimed it was merely to understand what had their wives so flustered.

Marina should have felt triumphant. Instead, as she gazed out her window at the rain-slicked streets, she wondered if a certain duke had read her words yet—and whether he recognized himself in every line.

The next morning, Marina was surprised when Lady Jersey, a powerful patroness of Almack’s, came to see her. The elegant woman swept into Marina’s drawing room with the air of someone accustomed to being immediately accommodated.

“Lady Asquith,” she greeted, settling herself on the sofa with regal grace. “I trust I find you well?”

“Quite well, Your Ladyship.” Marina’s mind raced, trying to imagine what could have prompted this unusual visit. “May I offer you tea?”

“That would be acceptable.” Lady Jersey’s sharp eyes took in the modest but well-appointed room. “I shall come directly to the point, Lady Asquith. There has been some discussion among the patronesses regarding your vouchers for Almack’s.”

Marina’s heart sank. Almack’s vouchers were the pinnacle of social acceptance; without them, one might as well not exist in the eyes of the ton. “I see.”

“The unfortunate circumstances of your husband’s death…” Lady Jersey paused and studied Marina’s reaction. “Well, let’s just say it has led some to question your suitability. However, I find myself inclined toward leniency, particularly since Lady Clarkshire speaks so highly of your character which weighs considerably in your favor.”

Marina relaxed slightly. “You’re most kind, My Lady.”

“Besides,” Lady Jersey continued, waving her hand dismissively, “the ton is far too preoccupied with these anonymous stories to concern themselves with old scandals. Literary developments have quite displaced the usual gossip.”

Marina nearly choked on her tea. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Jersey waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, come now. I am not so easily shocked as some of my peers. These anonymous stories everyone is reading—they display a remarkable understanding of human nature. Particularly the more intimate aspects.” Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “The latest one, with the library scene, is being discussed in every drawing room in Mayfair.”

“Is it?” Marina managed, setting down her cup before her trembling hands could betray her.

“Indeed. Lady Cowper insists the author must be a man, given the, ah, explicit nature of the encounters. I, however, maintain that only a woman could capture such emotional nuance.” Lady Jersey leaned forward. “The scene where the Duke whispers poetry as he—well, you’ve read it, I’m sure.”

“I have heard of it,” Marina hedged, hardly believing the direction of this conversation.

“The point is, Lady Asquith, that there is nothing more fashionable at present than discussion of these stories.” Lady Jersey rose, her mission apparently complete. “I expect to see you at the Ellinsworth’s ball on Wednesday. The Duke of Blackmere is rumored to be attending, and I would not miss the ton’s reaction for all the tea in China.”

After Lady Jersey’s departure, Marina sank back into her chair, stunned.

Her scandalous stories, far from ruining her socially, had somehow become her salvation. She savored the irony—and the delicious knowledge that the very society that had rejected her was now celebrating her work while claiming indignation.

The thought of facing the Duke again, surrounded by everyone who had all read her intimate imaginings of him, sent a thrilling mixture of dread and anticipation through her.

Would he recognize the library scene for what it was—not just fiction but a retelling of their own heated encounter?

The clock in the hall chimed and reminded her she had promised Caroline a visit that afternoon. No doubt her friend would find Lady Jersey’s unexpected call highly amusing.

Almost as amusing as Marina’s increasingly complicated feelings for the Duke, who was both her muse and her nemesis.