Page 128 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
She’d not been acting the innocent, she’d truly not known what to do. She’d never experienced pleasure before, only pain.
You claim you’ve never been kissed? Well, you sure as hell have been fucked.
A raw, torturous breath hissed out of his throat as a fathomless, abysmal pit of regret, shock, and self-disgust threatened to buckle his legs from beneath him.
Like the monster he’d never wanted to be, he’d tortured his poor wife.
The games. The teasing. The agonizing anticipation of ten days, when all she wanted was to be done with her wifely duties. To have the untenable obligation in her past, instead of looming like a sword over her head.
Because the expectation of a terrible thing was often worse than the reality of it.
And how had he finally approached that situation this evening? By pressing his inflamed, naked body against her. Kissing her with all the savage lust unleashed by a brush with death and exacerbated by her exquisite feminine beauty.
He’d pinned her to a chalky cliff, imprisoned her with his oafish body, intent on wrapping her strong, lovely legs around his waist so he could fuck all the life-affirming desire roaring through him into her.
No woman deserved that for their first time with a new lover, no matter how many she’d had before, let alone a woman with her particular trauma.
The crimson-hued wave of rage receded, and another tide of exhaustion overtook him as he surveyed the devastation he’d wrought on the laundry room.
It shamed him that he’d acted thus, but he couldn’t have faced her filled with such impotent, violent, passionate hatred.
Never.He’d never frighten her like that. Never face her with the fury contained within him. Not as long as he lived.
He needed this fatigue in order to maintain the gentility she’d require of their next interaction. Because, even now, a cold splash of murderous haze lingered inside of him. Longing to demand answers from her.
Like who? And how? And where could he find the—he dare not even call him a man—the mud-sucking villain?
Because every breath he took was borrowed from the devil. Every day since the terrible day he’d put his hands on her would be carved out of his flesh.
Yes.A Redmayne’s revenge was slow. It would be wet. It would be messy. Methodical. And ultimately lethal.
But now was not a time for that. First, before he could hunt down and take apart a true monster, he must do his level best to put his wife back together.
She deserved that, at least, to feel safe with him. From him.
Carefully, he retrieved her drawers and hung them just as they’d been before, his hands visibly trembling. They seemed so small and pretty and clean in a room afflicted with such disarray.
Turning, he went to find her, prepared to answer for his crimes against her, whether intended or not.
In the hallway, Constance single-handedly held back a bevy of wide-eyed clerks, porters, and his favored maître d’. They all gaped at him, some with wariness, and others with apparent concern.
“I’ll replace all that is broken on the morrow, and pay for any extra work I’ve caused,” he offered wearily. “I couldn’t… go to her—”
“Do not you worry yourself, Your Grace,” Constancesaid in a small, kind voice. “They only know what they need to, but they understand.”
“They understand what?” he asked, not wishing to have brought any embarrassment to his wife.
Constance opened her mouth to reply, but a young, swarthy porter beat her to it.
“Quelqu’un a essayé de nuire à la femme qu’il aime.”
Wearily, Piers turned to take the back stairs up to her room, not allowing himself to contemplate why he didn’t bother to correct the boy.
Someone tried to harm the woman he loves.
When Piers didn’t immediately find Alexandra upon opening the door to her room, he called her name, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
No lamps had been lit, and daylight had almost faded entirely, giving way to an early gloom. Other than the cream damask curtains performing a ghostly dance at the open balcony doors, everything in the cozy suite remained still.
