Page 39 of A Gamble with the Rakish Duke
Oliver clenched his jaw. “It’s nothing of the sort,” he lied, though even he could hear the irritation in his voice.
Catherine arched an eyebrow. “Oh, is that so? Then what exactly are you planning to do?”
“I am going to cut in,” he stated simply, already moving forward, not even waiting for his sister’s response.
Chapter Sixteen
“Mind if I steal my wife for the rest of this dance?” Oliver asked, though it was hardly a question.
He’d crossed the ballroom in swift, purposeful strides, weaving through the clusters of guests until he reached the dancing pair.
He had barely paused as he stepped up beside them, his gaze fixed on John.
Prescott blinked, fear flickering in his eyes, but he recovered quickly, offering a polite nod. “Of course, Your Grace.”
As the music swelled again, Oliver didn’t waste a moment. He slid his hand around Alexandra’s waist, pulling her close. Their bodies fit together as if they had done this a hundred times before. His grip was firm, openly possessive, and the look he gave her was searing.
“Oliver,” Alexandra began, startled by his sudden appearance, “I didn’t expect you to?—”
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he interrupted, his voice low as he led her into the next step of the waltz.
Alexandra furrowed her brow, trying to read his expression. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all,” he replied, though his grip on her waist tightened, his fingers pressing into her side. “Just thought I’d remind everyone, including you, who you belong to.”
“Who I belong to? This marriage was never meant to be real,” she responded coolly, her eyes flashing with defiance.
“You’ve certainly underestimated what this marriage means to me,” he countered, looking her dead in the eyes.
The tension was back between them. This time, though, there was anger.
Only a few moments ago, they were on the cusp of becoming friends or something else—something deeper. But now, they were back to enduring the animosity between them. Despite it all, Oliver could not help but focus on her lush lips and her wide eyes. There was no artifice in her beauty, but he knew she was still wearing some kind of mask.
As the music ended, Alexandra pulled away from his grasp and left the ballroom.
Oliver did not have to wonder if he should follow. He just did.
“Do you always have to escape when you cannot handle a confrontation, Duchess?” he called after her as he rushed down the hallway.
“No. I feel suffocated. Tired. How can you accuse me of things as if there is something that ties us together—something more than what my father had placed upon you? Why did you not come to rescue me when he was abusing me just before I danced with John?”
John. The familiarity of the way she said the man’s name stirred other emotions within him. He was angry. He was confused. Most of all, he could no longer restrain himself.
Something more than whatmy father had placed upon you, she’d said.
Her father.
Guilt followed when he realized what she just said. He had caught a glimpse of Lord Hartwell and thought that he would not dare harass his daughter with members of thetonsurrounding them.
He should have been more vigilant. Perhaps it was John Prescott who had saved his wife from her father, and that stung.
Oliver stepped closer, cupping her face in his heated palms. Inside his head, there was a battle brewing.
“I am sorry I wasn’t there,” he whispered to her, hoping she understood what he meant.
She did not seem to fight him. Instead, she stared back at him with an open mouth and heavy-lidded eyes.
Damn it, how was she so beautiful?
