Page 6 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
The Rogues only allowed Alexandra to hold the lantern, which she’d done rather well, she thought. She’d stood like a statue, brandishing the light even when her shoulder had begun to tremble with fatigue. Even when it ached. Then burned.
Even when something viscous and unthinkable had begun to run down her leg.
She’d not moved.
A part of her feared she’d become so cold. So empty.Sohardthat she’d turn to stone. That they’d not be able to pry the lantern from her fingertips, and when the authorities came, as they surely would, she would advertise just where the body was hidden.
She could condemn them all.
“I will finish here and then I will make certain the study is cleaned.” Jean-Yves motioned toward Alexandra, though he addressed Cecelia. “You take her, and you care for her as we discussed.Comprenez-vous?”
Cecelia nodded, placing her hand on the man’s shoulder.
“We will speak of this tomorrow.” He kissed her temple affectionately, then turned back to his work, dismissing the girls.
Alexandra hadn’t let go of the lantern until Francesca uncurled her fingers and relieved her of it.
She felt nothing.
Nothing but sensations beneath her feet as they led her back. First, the chilly dew of the grass. Then the slippery tiles of the back kitchens. The lush carpets of the school halls were welcome cushion against her beleaguered soles.
Her beleaguered soul.
And then she was standing in the tower, staring at the coals in the fireplace as her friends silently bustled around her, not realizing that she was naked until the sensation of the lukewarm water on her foot returned her to the moment.
A blaze flared as two filthy nightgowns, dressing robes, and Alexandra’s favorite yellow gown, stockings, and underthings fed the fire.
Francesca added a log or two as Cecelia lowered Alexandra into the tub and bathed her gently.
Alexandra stared at her conflagrating undergarments.
De Marchand had never even taken them off. The slitmade for her necessary conveniences were convenient for men, as well. She’d never once considered that. Had anyone considered that? She suddenly wanted to warn every woman alive.
“Are you certain we can trust Jean-Yves?” Francesca finally broke the silence from where she stood in front of the wardrobe, completely naked, snatching at fresh nightgowns and heavy, warm robes. “I don’t like that he knows.”
Alexandra clinically examined her friend’s lean body. De Marchand had been wrong. Francesca was impertinent, but she wasn’t scrawny. She’d the sleek, long build of the thoroughbreds she was so fond of riding. Comprised of lean muscle used for speed and agility.
Her wit was just as quick, her tongue as sharp, and her instincts impeccable.
How Alexandra envied her that. Perhaps she’d have been able to escape before—
“Jean-Yves is the only man I’ve ever trusted,” Cecelia insisted, using the back of her wrist to slide her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. “He’ll keep our secret, of that I have no doubt.”
Francesca paused with a pair of new white drawers in her hand. Her cat-green eyes glimmered with equal parts sardonic speculation and gentle curiosity. “Isn’t your father still alive? Isn’t he a vicar?”
“Yes.” Cecelia’s plump, ever-placid features darkened.
“And Jean-Yves is the only man you trust?”
“That’s what I said.” Her sapphire eyes flashed at Francesca as the latter pulled a ruffled nightgown over her head.
“I know he’s important to you, Cecil, but we have to consider—”
“Jean-Yves and I have long had an arrangement,” Cecelia cut in, picking up a pitcher and easing Alexandra’shead back, so as to wash her hair. “I’m taking him with me once we leave to be a part of my household.”
“But—”
“We will speak of thistomorrow.” Cecelia echoed Jean-Yves’s words with more vehemence than Alexandra had ever marked from her. For the first time in their short lives, her tone brooked no argument. Even from Francesca.
