Page 142 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
He gave her a long, searching gaze, “Alexandra, tell me honestly. Are you all r—”
“I think it’s possible that I love you.” One might think she’d gone and blurted something without thinking. But she hadn’t. Not this time. She simply didn’t want to answer the question he was about to ask. Because the answer would be both yes, and no.
He couldn’t have appeared more stunned if she’d stabbed him in the heart. “You think… it’s possible…”
She sighed, looking heavenward. They were back to the repeating again.
“I’ve never had a definition of love before.” She brushed her hand through the fine fleece of hair on his chest, finding the quick, strong beat of the organ beneath it. The one she wasn’t certain belonged to her. Or ever would. “But I think if I can’t imagine my life without you. If I feel so attached—so dedicated to you. So powerfully possessive of you. That must mean something, mustn’t it? If I trust you like this. To do this.” She let out a wry laugh. “I’ve only known you nine days. Ten come midnight. But I have ceased being able to imagine my subsequent days without you in them. Doesn’t that seem like love to you?”
“Alexandra, I…”
She placed three fingers over his lips, one against theseam of her favorite scar, silencing his reply. “You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t. Not tonight. I just needed you to know.”
She burrowed into his body, and was heartened when he pulled her close without hesitation. A new emotion had likewise seeped into his embrace.
Possession, she liked to think.
Alexandra watched the arms of his mantel clock, content to time the rhythm of his slowing breaths. Just over an hour before she had to go.
She fought a sense of doom at the thought of leaving the safety of his arms.
The sensation of his limbs became lush and heavier upon her, twitching with dreams. A quiet, masculine snore rumbled through him. Just the one.
She smiled, glad he could sleep.
At least one of them should.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
A portent of dread sang through Redmayne’s blood, yanking him from a blissful, languorous sleep. He clutched at his head, feeling like the very devil had woken him.
Needing comfort, he reached for his wife, disconcerted to find himself alone in bed.
He sat up, calling her name as the covers drifted away from his naked body.
The wind no longer cooled his fevered skin but added an insidious chill to a gathering sense of doom.
Don’t be a melodramatic fool, he admonished himself. He mustn’t allow the events of the past fortnight to weaken his constitution. He needed to remain sharp. Self-assured. To enhance his instincts and keep his wits about him.
It was the only way to keep his wife safe until he dealt with the threat.
Her sheets were cold enough to have been empty for some time. Too long for a visit to the washroom. The fact pierced him with no small amount of displeasure, and something eminently darker.
He stood, intent upon finding her.
Perhaps she’d gone back to her own room, unused to sleeping with another. Certainly, they’d made strides toward healing, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t require a great deal of space and patience. She was so used to her own sovereignty, and he’d no mind to take that from her.
Most noble couples slept apart; perhaps that was her preference.
Well, it bloody well wasn’this.He’d do what he could to change her mind forthwith.
He reached out to close the window, lost in his thoughts.
His hand froze on the pane, the other joining it as he watched a cloaked figure haloed by a lantern scurry through the intemperate night. The wind blew the hood away from her head, uncovering a long braid of the most extraordinary color.
He’d known who it was before he saw her hair. Of course he had. He’d memorized her walk, her height, her movements. He’d studied everything about her without even meaning to.
He wanted to fling the window wide and call after her.
