Page 19 of Wedded to the Duke of Sin (Dukes of Passion #2)

CHAPTER 19

“ L ord and Lady Rothbury request the pleasure of your company…” Mrs. Harrison trailed off as she presented the gilt-edged invitation on a silver salver the following morning.

“Another invitation to a ball?” Dorian glanced up from his correspondence to find Alice looking remarkably unenthusiastic for a new bride being welcomed into Society. “Is something amiss?”

Mrs. Harrison quietly withdrew as Dorian studied his wife more closely. She looked particularly lovely this morning in a deep blue morning dress that brought out the copper highlights in her hair, but there were shadows beneath her eyes that suggested she’d slept as poorly as he had.

“Must we attend?” She barely glanced at the invitation. “I am sure the Rothburys would understand if we declined.”

“The Viscount is an old family friend.” Dorian set aside his letters, studying her carefully blank expression.

The slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twisted in her skirts—everything about her posture spoke of discomfort.

“And it would be remarked upon if we failed to appear, especially with your brother’s upcoming nuptials.”

“Yes, because we wouldn’t want to give the ton anything more to gossip about, would we?” A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. “Though I suppose they’ve moved on from speculating about our hasty marriage.”

Her words pricked at his conscience. She had a right to be resentful, after all. He’d been avoiding her since their heated encounter in the dining room, throwing himself into his business—and his clandestine meetings with Sarah—rather than facing the growing complication of his feelings for his wife.

“Ah.” Dorian leaned back in his chair, finally understanding her reluctance. “As I recall, the last ball we attended ended rather… unexpectedly.”

“With you offering me marriage to save my reputation.” Her green eyes met his, the challenge clear in their depths. Something about the defiant tilt of her chin stirred his blood, made him remember how she’d felt in his arms that night. “Yes, how could I forget?”

“If memory serves,” he said softly, rising from behind his desk, “the offer came after I kissed you quite thoroughly on that terrace.”

A flush crept up her neck, and he watched in fascination as it spread across her cheeks. “And now here we are.”

“Here we are, indeed.” He crossed to her, unable to resist lifting her chin with one finger. Her pulse fluttered beneath his touch. “Though this time, I promise to behave with perfect propriety.”

“Do you?” Her tone made his blood simmer. This close, he could smell the jasmine of her perfume and see the golden flecks in her green eyes. “How disappointing.”

His thumb traced her lower lip before he could stop himself. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“Am I?” She didn’t pull away from his touch. “I thought I was being perfectly proper, just as my duke requires.”

The way she said ‘my duke’—half challengingly, half possessively—nearly shattered his resolve to keep his distance.

“Alice—”

But she was already stepping back, smoothing her skirts with slightly trembling hands.

“I’ll inform Charity to prepare my emerald silk dress for tonight. Unless you’d prefer I wear something more… modest?”

The thought of her in that particular gown—the way the deep green would bring out the color of her eyes, the way the cut would emphasize every curve—made his mouth go dry.

“Wear whatever you like.”

“How generous of you.” She moved toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Since you were so insistent on attending, do try to look less like you’re marching to your execution. It rather undermines your earlier enthusiasm.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving behind only the scent of jasmine and the echo of her challenge.

Dorian sank back into his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. Keeping his distance from his wife was proving far more difficult than he’d anticipated. Particularly when she had insisted on provoking him with that sharp tongue and those knowing eyes.

He glanced at the brandy decanter, decided it was far too early, and reached instead for the next letter on the pile of correspondence. But the words blurred before his eyes as his mind kept conjuring images of Alice in emerald-green silk.

Tonight would be an exercise in torture.

The Rothbury ballroom blazed with hundreds of candles, their light catching the diamonds at Alice’s throat and making them sparkle like stars. But it was the way her emerald-green gown brought out the copper in her hair and the golden flecks in her eyes that made Dorian regret his insistence on attending. He would much rather be at home, discovering exactly how many pins held that glorious hair in place.

The string orchestra played a lively country dance as they made their entrance, the music nearly drowning out the sudden hush that fell over the nearest guests.

Lady Jersey’s fan fluttered furiously before her face. The Countess of Marlborough’s eyebrows rose with poorly concealed interest. Even Lord Pembroke, who was notorious for his disinterest in Society’s machinations, paused his conversation to observe them.

“Everyone is staring,” Alice murmured as they descended the steps, her hand tightening around Dorian’s arm.

“Of course they are.” He guided her past a cluster of debutantes who didn’t even try to hide their curiosity. “You’re breathtaking.”

“They’re not staring at me,” she corrected, nodding gracefully to their hostess. “They’re watching us. Speculating.”

She wasn’t wrong. Though the guests kept their distance, maintaining the careful veneer of politeness, Dorian could feel their curious gazes following them.

The Duke of Ashthorne’s unexpected marriage was still the subject of speculation even several weeks after the fact. He caught more than one whisper about their “hasty” wedding as they navigated the crowd.

“Let them speculate.” He smoothly steered Alice toward the dance floor as the opening strains of a waltz began. The timing was perfect—perhaps too perfect, given Lady Rothbury’s satisfied smile. “Shall we give them something worth watching?”

“What happened to perfect propriety?” But Alice had already stepped into his arms, her body remembering the steps as naturally as it recalled other more intimate dances.

The emerald silk of her gown brushed against Dorian’s legs as he guided her through the first turn.

“Propriety be damned,” he murmured, pulling her perhaps a fraction closer than was strictly proper. The familiar scent of jasmine filled his senses. “You’re my wife. I am allowed to waltz with you.”

“Is that all you’re allowed?”

The look she gave him from under her lashes nearly made him forget they were in a crowded ballroom.

Heat bloomed wherever their bodies touched, even through layers of silk and superfine wool.

“Careful, sweetheart.” He guided her through a turn that brought her flush against him for a breathless moment. “Or I might decide that propriety is overrated.”

Around them, other couples moved through the practiced steps of the waltz, but Dorian barely noticed them. His entire world had narrowed down to the feel of Alice in his arms, the way her breath caught when he pulled her closer, the delicate flush spreading across her cheeks.

“You’ve been remarkably skilled at avoiding me this past week,” Alice said, her tone deliberately light as they moved across the dance floor. “I would almost think you regretted our encounter in the dining room.”

“Is that why you’re suddenly as cold as a winter morning?” His thumb traced circles on her gloved palm. “And here I thought you were simply tired of my company.”

“Impossible to be tired of someone who’s never there.” She met his gaze with a resolve that made him wince. “Though I suppose that was your intention.”

Dorian sighed, guiding her through a turn that gave them a moment of relative privacy. “I owe you an apology.”

“Do you? How fascinating.”

“Do not make this more difficult than it already is, sweetheart.” His grip tightened slightly on her waist. “I am trying to do the honorable thing.”

“By ignoring me?”

“By giving you space.” The words felt hollow even as he said them. “You’re innocent in all of this. Our marriage was born of necessity, not desire. I won’t force my attention where it might not be wanted.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “And did I seem unwilling in the dining room?”

“You seemed…” He cleared his throat. “Rather enthusiastic, as I recall.”

“Do tell.” The faintest smile played on her lips. “I am not sure I remember clearly. Perhaps you should remind me?”

“Minx.” His voice dropped lower. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do I?” She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “I thought I was being quite innocent.”

“There’s nothing innocent about the way you’re looking at me right now.” His hand splayed possessively across her back. “Or the way you pressed against me that night, making those lovely, little sounds when I?—”

“Your Grace!” Her cheeks reddened. “We’re in public.”

“Are we?” He pulled her infinitesimally closer as they spun around. “I had quite forgotten. You’re rather distracting when you blush like that.”

“I am not blushing. It’s merely warm in here.”

“Is that why your pulse is racing?” His thumb brushed the delicate skin of her wrist. “The heat?”

“You are impossible.”

But her breathless voice made his blood burn.

“And you are terrible at feigning indifference.” He leaned closer, his lips barely brushing her ear. “Especially when I can feel you tremble every time I touch you.”

“Perhaps I am trembling from irritation.”

“No.” He smiled against her hair. “I rather think you’re remembering exactly what my touch felt like that night. How your body responded when I?—”

“The music’s coming to an end,” she cut in quickly, though she hadn’t pulled away.

“So it is.” He slowed their steps but kept her close. “Though I suspect we’re not finished with this conversation.”

“That depends entirely on whether you plan to keep avoiding me.” She met his gaze with a challenge that made his heart stutter. “Well, Your Grace?”

“God help me,” he muttered. “I couldn’t avoid you now if I tried.”

“Ashthorne.” The cold voice cut through the lingering heat between them. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Every muscle in Dorian’s body tensed as he turned to face Lord Treyfield. The older man’s smile didn’t reach his calculating eyes as they swept over Alice.

“And the new Duchess, looking quite enchanting tonight.” Treyfield bowed, holding the gesture for a fraction too long. “I must say, marriage seems to agree with you both. Though one does wonder at the hasty nature of the match.”

“I wasn’t aware that my personal affairs were any concern of yours, Treyfield,” Dorian returned coldly. “Unless you have some particular interest in my marriage?”

“Merely making conversation.” Treyfield’s smile turned sharp. “Though I did hear the most fascinating rumors about your recent activities in certain parts of London. Still keeping company with the lower echelons, Your Grace?”

Dorian took a deliberate step forward, using his height to full advantage.

“Watch it, Treyfield. I would hate for you to say something that might require… satisfaction.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Merely a friendly warning.” Dorian’s smile could have cut steel. “I am not as tolerant of insults as my late friend was.”

Treyfield’s face darkened with barely suppressed rage, but before he could respond, Joanna appeared at Alice’s side.

“There you are!” She looped her arm through Alice’s. “You simply must come and try the champagne punch. It’s absolutely scandalous how strong it is.”

“An excellent suggestion.” Dorian pressed a kiss to Alice’s gloved hand, noting how she’d tensed at the exchange. “Go with Lady Joanna, Duchess. I have some business to discuss with Lord Treyfield.”

“But—”

“It’s fine.” He squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “I’ll find you shortly.”

He waited until the ladies were out of earshot before turning back to Treyfield. “If you ever so much as look at my wife again, they won’t find enough of you left to bury. Are we quite clear?”

Without waiting for a response, he strode away, already scanning the crowd for Gregory.

He needed a drink—preferably several—and someone to talk him out of committing murder during a very public event.