Page 21 of When her Duke Returns
Mary set her cutlery down. She would not be eating any time soon, as her stomach performed a somersault. “I handle myself quite terribly at everything out-of-doorsy, unfortunately.”
“Is that so?” the Duke asked. He was practically beaming at their exchange; Mary had not known she could incite such joy within a person. “Not even rowing or cricket or anything else of the like?”
“I fear you mistake me for a man, Your Grace.”
“Far from it. I’m afraid I’ve never been more aware of your… femininequalities.”
Mary knew it was a trap, but she could not hold back from indulging herself in his games. It was most unusual for the Duke to be so forward. “Such as?”
“You’re quite aware,” he answered, and his voice dropped to a low rumble.
“Do enumerate them for me.” It was as if the room emptied at her words, and only the two of them remained—sitting there at the end of the table, dancing a dance only they knew the steps to.
“Your eyes… your fingers… your skin… your mouth. None of your womanhood has escaped my attention, Mary,” he murmured, bringing his knee to brush against hers beneath the table. “Though I wager the key to the rest of you has been lost to time and circumstance.”Mary let out the smallest, softest sigh. Her body was aflame with desire.
“Perhaps you have only to fish for it,” she suggested and sought to brush her foot against his beneath the veil of the table.
Alexander bit his lip, and, after a quick glance around the room to make sure none were watching, he drew his hand from the stem of his glass to place it on her thigh.
A jolt of anxious pleasure ran up her body—from her leg to her stomach and up to her heart and throat. The feeling of his hand on her thigh, halfway between her knee and the place where all her desire lay in wait, was enough to set her blood on fire.
Throwing all caution to the wind, she took her own hand and placed it atop his where he had bunched up the fabric of her gown. She drew it up higher, so the knuckle of his thumb could brush against the very top of her heat.
“You are not as you once were,” he said then, and his voice was heavy with lust. For only a moment, he brought the rest of his hand flush with her core then pulled away entirely.
It was all Mary could do to not scream out in frustration and longing. She felt herself growing faint for want of him and pressed the cold glass of her drink to her face. She had to think of a way to excuse herself quickly.
“Are you quite all right, Mary? You look as though you’re about to faint.”
Elara had spoken from the other end of the table—that raspy, poking voice of hers shattering all fantasy and cutting through the mist of dinner conversation. Mary almost jumped out of her skin. She could not know how long the woman had been watching, and she did not want to wonder.
“Yes…Yes, Your Grace. I… I fear the wine has gone to my head. That is all.”Elara nodded, and she heard Alexander let out a breathy laugh beside her before entering a conversation beyond her reach.
With the Dowager seemingly placated, and Alexander bent on her ruin, Mary returned to her meal in silence.
ChapterNine
Mary Carlisle was not the woman she had once been. The truth of her evolved spirit had never been more evident to Alexander. He lay on his bed thinking over the events of the night, the warmth of his drink still aglow, and the lingering emotions from their game swelling in his trousers.
Whatever wine had wrought, it could not chase the image of her from his mind: wanting, waiting, pink with lust. It was enough to spur him to drunken action.
Under normal circumstances, he would never have allowed himself to act so foolishly and put her at risk of more scandal. But he could not deny the fact any longer, and it had overwhelmed him with such power upon catching her in that dazzling crimson gown that evening, a color she knew he had long favored: he yearned for Mary, and he would live as half a man until he had her.
Given enough time by his side, it was impossible for her not to surrender to him… Or it would have been if not for his damned face. While she had not seemed deterred by his scars when last they had met, hehadtaken great pains to hide them behind his dressing. Who knew what would transpire once this truth of his injury had been revealed to her, and he could no longer hide behind her memories of him.
He would not let that deter him.
When Alexander finally drew himself from bed, the sun high in the sky over London, he greeted the day with a sore head and the strange sense he had done something terrible. His remembrance of the dinner was hazy at best.
Once he had summoned the courage to head downstairs—no doubt his grandmother would be lying in wait—he crawled himself into the study to undertake some reading and will the day away, fearing that only a night of solid rest would ease him from his hangover.
Within the hour, a knock sounded on the door. Instead of Garvy or a footman returning with his luncheon order, he was met by his mother. Her large dark eyes fixed on him strangely, and he knew to put down his book and pay full attention.
“Mother,” the Duke said upon catching sight of her.
“I trust you slept well, my love?” his mother asked upon entering the study, her voice low and hesitant.
“I think so. Is aught amiss?”
