Page 45 of A Gamble with the Rakish Duke
Perhaps it was time to change.
He recalled Alexandra saying that some people could not afford to, but he’d show her.
As he climbed up the stairs, candlelight spilled into the hallway from the doorway to Alexandra’s room.
She was awake.
“Your Grace?”
She was awake, yes, but not playing her music. He paused, his hand clutching the banister.
His instincts told him to move past her room. After all, she was the reason why he wanted to forget through pain. Through physical violence—one that could soothe the emotional oneinside of him. Still, he found himself rooted to the spot, staring at the beautiful figure before him.
Alexandra closed the distance between them quickly, her eyes widening at the sight of him. The dregs of sleep that clung to her were gone—if she had ever slept.
“Good Lord! What ever happened to you?” she asked, a curious mix of alarm and anger lacing her voice.
“It’s nothing, Duchess,” he replied, attempting a nonchalant tone.
He did not want to talk to her—not tonight. He didn’t want to explain why he ended up back in Devil’s Draw.
“Go back to sleep,” he told her.
And because she was Alexandra Audley, she would not be easily dismissed. She wanted to be there, the stubborn wench.
“Nothing? You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed, concern and exasperation etched into her features. Her hands hovered over his face. “Come into my room. Now.”
Oliver was too exhausted to argue. He obeyed his wife, even though he wanted to retreat into himself.
She led him inside, her smaller figure somehow filling the quiet room. Her gentle hands guided him to sit near the lamp.
In mere moments, she had a wet cloth ready and was dabbing the cuts on his face. She was gentle yet efficient—a pianist and a healer.
For a moment, Oliver let himself close his eyes and simply feel her soft, cautious touches. It felt good to be taken care of, although his pride smarted at the thought of being weak or vulnerable. He rarely let himself feel like this.
“There’s no need to fuss,” he murmured, his voice low.
“Because you’re the great Duke of Westgrave? Well, I certainly need to fuss, since you don’t seem capable of taking care of yourself.”
Oliver was surprised by the genuine concern in her voice, subtly disguised by irritation. She cleaned his wounds with care and precision, as if she had been doing it her whole lifetime.
“What drove you to this? Your face is marred with bruises, but your side looks even worse.”
“Thanks very much, I hadn’t noticed,” he said drily, unable to deny the truth in her words.
“You returned to Devil’s Draw, didn’t you? Why?”
“Boxing clears my head. It gives me focus,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the pain and his pent-up emotions.
“Why did you need to focus?” she whispered, her eyes fixed on him. “Is something distracting you?”
Oliver was caught off guard by how direct she was. He straightened his back, wincing and slightly moving away from her. Her hand was now hovering over the bruise on the side of his torso, where the red hue was already turning purple.
Alexandra’s gaze softened at his silence. Her hand trembled as she pressed the cloth to his side. She had more questions to ask him, he could see that, but nothing came out of her lips.
“I know it may seem contrary to what you’ve heard about me, Duchess, but I like a sense of control in my life. Boxing at Devil’s Draw helps with it.”
“And you feel like you’re losing control now? Is that why you went there tonight?” she asked softly, bowing her head even as she continued to gently tend to his wounds.
