Page 53 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Because he’d frightened her, again, and her vehement retreat from his kiss had reminded him that he was no longer merely the Duke of Redmayne.
He was also the Terror of Torcliff.
An unsightly, ungainly brute with nothing but a title and a fortune to recommend him.
She’d said as much, hadn’t she?
Rose had been after his title, and Alexandra was now in need of his fortune.
At least Lady Alexandra had been decent enough not to pretend otherwise. She’d made no overtures of affection. She’d applied no tactics of seduction.
And yet, he was in danger of becoming thoroughly seduced by her.
Perhaps it was better that Francesca climbed the stairs and took his hand. Theirs, at least, would be an uncomplicated misery. One free of the perils of longing.
The Countess of Mont Claire would never be in danger of having power over him.
Power he’d never again surrender to another woman.
Never.
A silken glove slid against his, and he knew it washerbefore he ever turned to verify. He’d pressed those exact dainty fingers to his lips. He’d enjoyed the feel of them against his chest.
His heart took one last jolting leap, and then, to his utter surprise, it settled into a rhythm of relief.
Her scent was becoming pleasantly familiar. A mix of orange blossoms and something earthier. Like fresh-cut grass or a spring garden. Faint, gentle, unobtrusive.
Just like her.
Alexandra Lane.
He turned to her, showing her proudly to their stunned audience. “I give you Lady Alexandra Lane, soon to be Her Grace, Alexandra Atherton, the Duchess of Redmayne.”
He lifted her glove once more, allowing the tiny diamond bracelet on her wrist to dazzle him as he pressed another slow kiss to her knuckles.
Applause erupted from the gallery, and she gripped his hand with astonishing strength, as though he, alone, could keep her from being overrun by the raucous noise of their felicitations.
The orchestra struck up a lively Russian waltz in their honor, and over it all, Piers could hear the little explosions of her rapid breaths as she offered the room at large a tremulous smile.
“Should we take this dance?” he suggested.
He imagined she’d have given him the same look if he’d asked her to set herself on fire with any one of the thousand candles in the room. “Do—do we have to?”
Laughter washed over him with abrupt resonance, and he knew their audience would assume she’d said something witty or flirtatious. They might even assume this was a love match.
For why else would the Duke of Redmayne pick an unknown spinster daughter of an impoverished earl? With all the glitter, glamour, lace, and frippery bedecking some of the youngest, loveliest, and most eligible women in the empire. Why the educated bluestocking in an unadorned silver gown?
Had she even had a season? It was something he’d forgotten to ask. Something he’d never considered.
Why her?
If they only knew. Perhaps some of them did. Perhaps they could also identify what mesmerized him so completely. They’d be fools not to.
She was a soft, silver moonbeam in a room full of glowing golden candles.
And all the more radiant for it.
He leaned in close, his lips hovering above her ear as he breathed her in. “Forgive me, darling, but I’m afraid this waltz is in our honor. No one will be able to enjoy themselves until we open it.”
