Page 20 of A Gamble with the Rakish Duke
She looked over her shoulder, her eyes soft and distant, still lost in the music.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, rising gracefully from the piano bench, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Oliver countered, his gaze fixed on her. “This music… it’s haunting.”
A flicker of something—sadness, perhaps—crossed her face. “It’s an old melody from my childhood,” she said, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the piano. “I used to play it often.”
“That was remarkable, Duchess,” he said, taking a step closer, his voice warmer than he had intended. “I wish I’d known this side of you sooner.”
She looked at him, her eyes betraying a hint of vulnerability. “There are many things you do not know about me, Your Grace.”
Her words hung in the air, both a statement and a challenge. Oliver took another step forward, still holding her gaze.
“Well then,” he said quietly, “I had better start learning.”
Her eyes flickered to his lips, and for an agonizing second, he thought she might step closer. The tension between them was palpable, the kind that could so easily pull them together or break them apart.
But then she straightened up, the cool mask of composure slipping back into place.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she whispered as she slipped past him and out of the room.
Oliver stood there, watching her go, her haunting melody still echoing in the air.
And that was when realization dawned on him.
Music.
That could be the key to finding out who Alexandra Audley truly was.
Chapter Eight
“One more round, and I could have had you on the ropes,” Philip Ellington, the Duke of Oakdale, boomed, laughing and lowering his equally perspiring body into a chair.
Oliver’s muscles ached deliciously. The sweat dripping down his skin, making his shirt cling to his chest, somehow made him feel better. Reinvigorated.
He eyed his friend with a grin. “You and I both know that is not true. I had you from the start,” he retorted, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.
He did not bother to hide his smirk. The two of them had been friends for most of their lives. While Philip was also close with Thomas Riverton, the Duke of Newden—Oliver’s brother-in-law—the two of them were more dedicated to boxing than the others.
Even though he and his wife Aurelia already had a child, Philip still found some time for boxing.
“You need to get on a real ring one day, Westgrave. Show them how well a duke can box.” He shook his head in delighted disbelief. “Show them that we dukes are not weaklings.”
“You know I do compete, old friend,” Oliver reminded his friend, alluding to his activities at Devil’s Draw.
Philip groaned. “Devil’s Draw is not an establishment you should frequent in the first place. Especially now that you’re debt-free.”
“Let us not be so melancholy. We box to rid ourselves of terrible spirits. If it earns me some extra coin, it is even better,” Oliver replied.
Philip did not understand what it was like to be afraid of losing everything. Oliver knew it well. It was why he handled his income more delicately.
“I do it for the exercise, my friend. If you are doing it to rid yourself of some other kind of pain, perhaps you might want to tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I am happy that you’re here. It would be ideal if we could do it more often,” Oliver said sincerely as he, too, took a seat.
“You have been doing it often enough. Do not exert yourself too much—you must save your energy for pleasing your wife,” Philip teased.
At that, the hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck stood on end. He had to stop the visceral reaction he had to any mention of his wife, who was preoccupied with other things. Music. Embroidery. Buying bread.
