Page 10 of Her Wicked Duke
He wished tomakeher pliant, to see to what lengths he could push her sharp wit. He wished to corner her, kiss her breathless until she had no more insults to hurl at him, and only a resolute desire for him that burned as his own did. In his mind, he saw his hands gliding up her waist, her skirts pushed up, more and more skin exposed…
Stop this.
He tried to push away his thoughts of what he wished to do to Anne Hatson, but he desired her.
As soon as the carriage stopped, Alexander jumped out. He had not intended to leave the ball so soon and knew he should not have, but he could not stand to witness that flush on Anne’s chest any longer. It had spread down in a rosy pink blush to her straining breasts. They had almost spilled over her neckline tantalizingly.
What would it feel like, if I were to run my tongue across that place where her skin met her neckline? Does her skin taste as smooth as it looks?
Still, he cursed himself, storming into the castle.
You foolish imbecile.How could you think of these things so shamelessly?
“Your Grace,” the butler greeted with a nod of his head.
Alexander paused to respectfully nod back. “How is my grandmother?”
“Her Grace remains in the parlor, Your Grace. She already had dinner.”
“Then I shall speak to her later.”
His grandmother had stayed in the castle due to a small ailment. But she had made Alexander promise to tell her if anything interesting happened—like meeting a potential bride.
She would be disappointed.
All Alexander wished to do was shut himself away in his study and think of Anne and her ragged breaths and flushed cheeks. The way her rosy lips had parted and her dark curls had fallen down her back as he had led her upstairs.
Yes, he wished to hide away and take care of his erection until he did not have to think of it any longer.
But as soon as he closed the door to his study, it was not desire that simmered beneath his skin but anger at himself. In a burstof fury, he swiped a hand across his desk, letting out a frustrated snarl. Everything crashed to the floor, the deep red rug beneath the desk muffling the sound.
It was only when he saw the now ink-stained letter from Christian, asking to arrange their visit several weeks ago to discuss his concerns, that Alexander stopped. He gripped the edge of his desk, hanging his head.
He was furious. How could he have made such an offer to Anne? To offer her discretion and pleasure. He was a fool. An idiotic fool who had been far too tempted. It was a bold proposition, yet he had not been able to hold it back. And then to suggest that her brother would not find out! He had not been the sort of best friend to keep secrets.
Involving Anne in my life would be complicated.
Yet, the thought of the Earl of Satton, with his greedy, quick hands, catching Anne’s eyes—the thought of those greedy hands touching Anne—made him see red. He had almost kissed Anne, wanting to claim her first kiss before anybody else did.
One year, when he had stayed with the Hatsons for Christmas, he had almost kissed her. It was the very last year before he had gone to France.
Alexander had been awaiting Christian to meet with him so they could talk about the poems Lady Angleton wished to recite at the Christmas gathering. But in the study, he had found Anne siftingthrough Christian’s books. It had not been the first time he had caught her in there.
She had jumped back and started to walk out until her eyes had caught the mistletoe Christian had hung in the doorway as a joke. Alexander had said nothing, only given her a look. She was already a young woman, no longer the little sister, even if he had teased her about it.
They had been inches from each other, beneath that mistletoe, when Christian had called for Alexander and interrupted the moment. Anne had scurried away, Alexander had left two days later, and they had not seen each other since.
Alexander knew he was the last person who should be touching Anne. To even think of it was dangerous and was an insult to her very virtue and heart. He was a tainted, cursed man. To involve Anne in that was to doom her along with him.
He slammed his fist down on his desk. He eyed the bookshelves, wanting to take his anger out on those, too. But as soon as he turned to them, his hand raised to swipe at the trinkets he had collected over the years, the door opened.
Alexander stood in the center of his study, trembling with anger, feeling foolish. In the doorway, the proud figure of Elizabeth Dunst, the Dowager Duchess of Winsor, stood, tapping her cane on the floor to announce her presence—as if the door slamming was not enough.
He turned to face his grandmother. Well into her mid-seventies, many had wrongly underestimated her. She was a formidable woman with a sharp tongue on her, an old gossiping goose that quarreled with anybody who looked at her from the wrong angle.
She was proud and elegant, and he loved her so.
“Grandmother,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.
