Page 12 of Her Wicked Duke
His grandmother was right. France was different, but his home was here, back in London. He had worked hard to make a name for himself, to reconnect with friends and acquaintances, to rise to the top.
He refused to leave everything behind, again, and go back to France.
He had time to find a wife.
“Your father had to get quite intoxicated before he was ready to court any lady,” his grandmother continued. “He made quite a scene at the opera once. Ah, he liked to look, he did. And looking is good, Alex, as it lets you weigh your options, but you cannot simply look forever.”
She kept rattling on, and he felt like a scolded child rather than an adult. He cringed away from her lecture and began to pick up the evidence of his outburst.
Would a wife truly calm him down? Surely he would not be so aggravated and riddled with desire for Anne if he had a wife. It was because of her, and her tendency to drive him to make poor choices. If he got rid of that temptation, he would have a neat desk, his outbursts would not be so intense, and he would settle down.
As he gathered the papers, picked up the inkpot, and put the paperweights back on the desk, he came across his sketchbook. He was not much of an artist, but he had painted a lot while he was in France and had sketched for many years before that.
Once, he had thought to pursue his love of art, but his father had swiftly put a stop to it.
Now, he did it recreationally but not half as often as he wished.
His grandmother’s voice faded out as he picked up his discarded sketchbook and opened it.
“Alexander, are you listening to me?” his grandmother asked sharply.
“Of course,” he answered, motioning for her to continue.
He sat back down and flipped through the first sketches. Most of them were decorative motifs, but Anne was scattered all over the pages of his sketchbook. It was her eyes. They mesmerized him. A deep brown hue that spoke of romantic sonnets and songsplayed in the hazy, love-filled streets of Paris, where he thought she might blend in very well.
Anne had a romantic sort of face, and her eyes had haunted many of his dreams, and he had been unable to sleep even after sketching them night after night. Now, he was left with a book full of sketches of her face. His blood boiled when he recalled almost kissing her. He touched a sketch of her plush, full lips.
His mouth had brushed against her skin, but he had not kissed her properly. Their lips had not met, but he wished they had. He wished he had not witnessed the conflict in her eyes when he had leaned in closer, ultimately watching the moment reason won out.
He had left in an angry haze, blinded by his desire.
Should he have propositioned her so boldly?
He shook his head. But the thought of her going to bed that night thinking of his offer made something coil pleasantly inside him.
Alexander would not break his promise to Christian, but he was certain of something: the temptation of taking Anne would slowly unravel him, and he needed to get a grip on it, or else he stood to ruin his prospects, her reputation, and his friendship with his best friend.
He was a fool.
His grandmother prattled on about French women, but he had utterly lost his grip on the conversation. He needed to fulfill his promise to his friend and resist temptation.
He felt Anne gaze at him from the charcoal sketches.
It was going to be hard.
Chapter Five
“Isaw you trying to get the men’s attention, Annette, for Heaven’s sake! Stop parading yourself around like you’re still a debutante.”
The following day at breakfast, Anne was in a daze. The ball the night before had been successful, and, despite Alexander’s spiteful warning, she had stayed with her friends between dances.
She had retired to bed exhausted, thinking of the Duke of Winsor before forcing her thoughts of him out of her mind. Yet, she had teased herself with the memory of his almost-kiss, her hands wandering downward almost of their own accord without her thinking about it. The only thing threatening her blissful morning was the sound of her parents’ bickering.
“Oh, Matthew, darling, you do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”
The Marchioness hid her face from her husband so she could roll her eyes, smiling like a young woman. Despite being in her fifties, Annette Hatson still carried her elegance and glamor from her younger days.
“You are too old to expose your chest the way you did last night! And the wine, Annette. I feel as though just by witnessing you, I must attend church on Sunday.”
