Page 89 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Hours later, Alexandra gawked at the stranger in the mirror.
It wasn’t the expensive foreign gown, exactly, that caused her not to recognize herself. She couldn’t even say it had anything to do with her conceding to the corset, or the appallingly and—she supposed—fashionably low neckline that revealed much more of her décolletage than she was accustomed to.
It was a little bit of everything. Insubstantial changes had turned her into an absolute foreigner. Where she’d often considered her eyes a dull brown, she found a glisten of amber fire within them. A gleam of something indefinable and undeniably feminine. Her lips seemed fuller, somehow, flushed with a peach that matched the high color in her cheeks. Could it be possible that whatever new feelings her husband had begun to evoke now shone on her countenance?
Was joy beautiful? Because today had been joyful, hadn’t it?
Transcendent, all things considered.
Even her hair glinted with a brighter sheen, coiled in a simple but flattering braided knot that shimmered in every form of light.
When they’d parted at the end of their day at the catacombs, Alexandra and Redmayne had each been covered in a fine layer of cobwebs, stone dust, and a patina of cheerful exuberance.
Her husband had seemed much his prior charming self, and willing enough to let them retain some of their previous amicability.
He’d barely been an arm’s length away from her the entire day, a looming—some might say hovering—tower of virile muscle and grim caution. Something about the intensity, theinsistency,of his proximity had both alarmed and appeased her. The words he’d spoken when they’d been alone had evoked whispers of warmth within her that didn’t want to abate.
Her body shimmered with awareness—and not a little caution—when he was so close. And yet, she felt absolutely protected beneath the shadow of the Terror of Torcliff. As though any of the danger they’d faced in Devonshire couldn’t touch her here.
He’d even displayed some interest in the catacombs as they’d surveyed the walled-off entrance to the final tomb. His eyes had glowed with pleasure as he’d verified the Redmayne sigil decorating the worn red banner over the entrance.
Tonight had been subsequently decreed a celebration. Of the serendipitous find. Of their nuptials. Of wine and food and summer evenings by the sea.
Tomorrow, the work on the Redmayne tomb would begin in earnest.
Julia Throckmorton had decided to spend a few nights in Seasons-sur-Mer to further her pursuit of Dr. Forsythe.It had taken her all of five minutes to declare Alexandra’s wardrobe hopeless, and she’d thrust upon her this emerald silk gown bedecked with bronze beads at the sleeves, hem, and neckline.
Alexandra had been given no recourse but to accept the woman’s insistent kindness.
Before she’d left her room, Alexandra had pinched herself soundly, admonishing herself for a fanciful fool. She was clean and presentable and attired as a duchess should be attired. What else mattered when it all came down to it?
She floated down the hall toward the grand hotel’s open ballroom, following a path lit by crystal wall sconces and faded striped paper.
Ever interested in her setting’s history, Alexandra had learned that the Hotel Fond du Val had been a majestic resort before the Napoleonic wars, and had sunk into disrepair, though it was lovingly and patiently being restored by a new owner. The accommodations were clean and spacious, if not opulent, and Alexandra found herself utterly charmed by the touch of rustic in a missing crystal or two of the chandeliers, or the dull creaks of the undervarnished floors.
Because of this, the rooms which had once housed Philippe de France, the beloved brother of Louis XIV, could now be let to everyone from gentility to humble archeologists to merchants from the city on a seaside holiday.
She paused at the top of the stairs, smoothing her gown for the thousandth time. Beset by nerves, she consulted the faded golden carpets beneath her feet before gathering her courage to look up and find her husband.
She forced a shaky breath into her constricted lungs, grateful for the fragrance of the summer sea air wafting through windows flung wide. In the northwestern cornerof the grand room, several white linen-covered tables were set apart by topiary and serviced by perfectly attired footmen offering an informal dinner.
A dark wood bar stretched out below the stairs, behind which a small, harried man struggled to fill glasses that drained faster than he could pour.
Alexandra hadn’t hesitated on the steps to be noticed, though she became painfully aware of the increasing number of eyes upon her. It was the sight of her husband that had rooted her to the ground and had her grasping at the finely wrought mahogany railing for support.
Redmayne stood at the bar conversing with a gathering of gentlemen, sipping occasionally from a glass of red wine.
He was an oak among aspens. A mountain among men.
When would she ever get used to the sight of him in formal attire?
So often, he was to her the man she’d met on the platform. Indolently dressed in a casual workman’s kit, throat exposed and dusky muscles hinted at beneath thin, white shirtsleeves.
How did she prefer him? The hunter, predatory and insolent? Or the duke, charismatic, sleek, and cunning?
Either way he’d the same effect on her mind, which endlessly churned with thoughts, ideas, anxieties, and plans, and seemed to sputter to a crashing halt in his vicinity.
His effect on her was most unnatural. Distressing, even.
