Page 35 of When her Duke Returns
“Well,” Mary hummed and brought a finger to her mouth. “When I was quite poorly as a child, my mother would sing to me. Her song would always make me feel much better. Perhaps it might help.”
“I really do not fancy rousing your mother this late,” he said with a playful grin. It was the first time that evening he had smiled with any sincerity. “What if someone hears you?”
“We have been speaking for a while now, and no one has come to bother us,” Mary said. “And I do not intend to belt out a song. I have quite a lovely voice as you well know.”
At that, Pudding came to rest next to them on the bed, and Mary laughed softly. Against her all her good sense, she searched her memory for a song he might enjoy as the Duke settled against his pillow.
With an earnest look toward her audience, of whom the onlynon-felinemember sat in nervous anticipation, she began to sing a breathy song. It was a tune she had heard at an afternoon ladies' party earlier that summer that had been played on the pianoforte by some young lady whose name she had since forgotten.
She performed the rest of the song in sinking quiet, watching as the Duke’s face slowly softened. For the first time since she had seen him returned, he looked truly at peace.
Mary brought herself to heel and was surprised to find that her eyes were wet with tears.
The man, who was not quite asleep, made note of them too. In a most certainly restful daze, he drew his fingers then his mouth to the delicate skin of her undereye. With gentle presses of his lips, he kissed away whatever emotion the song had dredged up.
His hand rested upon the side of her face as he drew her in close. She hovered over him now on the bed, her feet dangling off the side, her chest closing in on his.
He kissed her softly, his lips parting hers much like the tides of the song, and the taste of him was sweet. His free hand traveled through her hair and down her shoulders, resting at the small of her back in a way that drove Mary to quiet madness.
She drew herself atop him, dreadfully aware of the naked body that lay beneath her thin nightgown, of the bareness of his chest, and the feel of his skin against her hands.
With a breathy smile, he made to rise but flipped her over instead—his rakish ways had never been more apparent to her, and she loved every minute of it.
He pressed his lips atop her forehead, and Mary was overcome by the sweetness of the moment. She reached her hands around his neck to join her lips with his again, but Alexander pulled away.
“There is too much danger in your kiss,” he breathed into the soft skin of her cheek. “I must stop myself before I do the unforgivable.”
“I’ll forgive you,” Mary jested, breathlessly.
Alexander smiled. “I do not doubt it,” he replied and breathed in the scent of her before pulling away entirely.
His eyes fell languidly beneath his lashes, and Mary knew he was but a moment from sleep—perhaps he had thought himself in a dream this entire time.
With a sigh, she withdrew from the bed and got to her feet. She folded the covers gently over Alexander, who had begun to snore softly, picked up her candle with a smile toward Pud’, and made to leave.
At the end of the room, nearest to the door, her eyes came to settle upon a small note on the man’s desk. It sat in solitude upon the wood and looked to have been penned quite hastily. She recognized the script immediately but could not place its author in her mind.
Surely, then, she was quite justified in her snooping.
With a quick glance toward the bed to make sure the Duke was he was still fast asleep, she set her candle down upon the desk and wrestled the note from its small, ivory envelope.
It read:
Alexander,
Avoid me if your heart so desires, but you will not outrun your fate.
The match is made.
G.
ChapterFourteen
The Rowes upheld as a matter of pride the truth of their being the most gracious hosts. His grandmother had long told Alexander that it was their wealth and good standing that set them apart from all the rest. If they did not take great pains to flaunt their many assets, they did themselves and all their friends a terrible disservice.
As he stood in the grand and gilded ballroom of Whitcliff looking over the gathered crowds, the man felt as though he belonged anywhere else in the world. Where once the pomp and ceremony of such affairs had coerced from him a deal of great excitement and pride, now, the taste of it all was ash on his tongue.
Nothing could compare—no feast, nor compliment—to the sweetness of a woman whose heart aligned with his own.
