Page 132 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
He plied her with costly gifts, insisting on a garnet set of jewelry he claimed matched her hair and eyes. The earrings, brooch, bracelet, and watch cost more than she thought it should, but he’d not even bothered to barter with the jeweler.
After a few disconcerting extravagances, Alexandra had begun to contain her appreciation of anything, worried they’d end up going home with it. If she exclaimed over an intricate telescope, he bought it and the matching sextant and compass. If a scarf caught her eye, he commissioned it in every color. He didn’t restrain his purchases to those she admired, but procured her French and foreign things he thought she might like, such as a jewel-encrusted Moroccan lantern, or a book written by Sir Grégoire-Pierre Leveaux, the famous sixteenth-century explorer. It charmed and delighted her how easily he matched her tastes without needing to ask.
He insisted she pick several ready-made skirts and blouses from a shop window, and he obtained a few new articles of clothing, himself, mentioning something vague about an incident in the laundry room.
It embarrassed her a little, how many times he vowedto take her to the dress shop in Rouen Julia went on and on about.
“These will do just fine,” she said, hoping the shopkeeper didn’t speak English, for fear he’d offended her. “I have no need for Rouen.”
Alexandra had never considered herself a materialistic woman, as a frequent traveler must select her things with economy, but she couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy herself immensely.
She could barely contain her gratitude when he recommended she select a gift or two for Cecelia and Francesca. She found a vastly expensive decorative abacus for Cecil, and agonized over Frank until he suggested a new riding crop with a lovely and intricate but eminently practical handle.
He whipped his own thigh with it, testing its merit.
Alexandra knew she’d forever keep that moment locked in her memory, the most precious acquisition of the entire day. The Terror of Torcliff, a bearded menace with the reputation of a demon, lost in a distracted, boyish fantasy, swiping at the air with a riding crop as though it were a fencing sword.
“I’ll thank you to school the ridicule from your regard, Doctor,” he bade with a lopsided smile upon noticing her intent gaze. “I was merely conducting a thorough scientific analysis.”
“And what has your analysis concluded?” she inquired, suspecting she was unable to school much of anything from her features, not even the strange, aching profusion of luminescence in her heart.
He held the crop before him with as much fanfare as Arthur’s Excalibur. “I proclaim this item an excellent offering for even the most discerning outdoorsman, or outdoorswoman, as is the case.”
She plucked it from his hand, tapping him on the arm with it. “We scientists do not proclaim, we deduce.”
He merely laughed. “Now that you’re a duchess, you should indulge in the odd proclamation. Much less work than a deduction, and yet often just as startingly effective.”
She wondered if the world would ever recognize that the Terror of Torcliff had never been a terror at all. But a man. A man possessed of so much wit, skill, charm, intellect, and humor, he was forever surprising her. Often delighting her.
Enchanting her, even.
If she did anything for her husband, she vowed, it would be to make certain everyone else accepted that, as well.
Finally exhausted after hours of shopping, they strolled along the waterfront, where he’d drawn her into idle conversation about her family. They’d wandered into a caféoffering the most delectable pastries filled with delicacies both savory and sweet. As their nibble became a gorge, they spoke of her antics with the Red Rogues as an impetuous girl.
For once, her girlhood memories weren’t tainted with what came after. She could look at the joy and the innocence she’d shared with her dearest friends and appreciate it for the treasure the relationships had been.
That they still were.
He’d been appropriately charmed and chagrined at her account of the time Cecelia had been caught reading a lurid novel in a deportment class. The mistress had forced her to read a passage aloud, and then almost expired from the vapors as poor Cecelia read a particularly salacious scene between two star-crossed lovers.
They’d savored sumptuous custards as they spoke of Francesca’s dark wit, inflexible will, and impetuous temper, painting horrific alternate futures wherein he’d actually married her.
He’d wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, and held patiently still as she picked a spot of cream from his beard with her handkerchief.
It was almost as though they had no secrets from each other.
And they almost didn’t.
On the carriage ride home, the currency in her purse was heavy at her side as she tucked her arm into Redmayne’s and rested her temple against his shoulder.
He pressed a short, temperate kiss to her forehead and patted her gloved hand indulgently.
It was the first time he’d touched her all day.
The thought drew the corners of Alexandra’s mouth into a pensive frown. He treated her as though she was a precious antique, already chipped and on the verge of breaking. Though she enjoyed his more relaxed and charming company, and was grateful for his tender care of her, she wasn’t certain she liked this new dynamic between them.
The restrained, almost virtuous edge to his need.
