Page 98 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
Everything about him, from his scars to his soul, held her in an undeniable thrall.
Why hadn’t she noted the sartorial elegance beneath his sardonic savagery before now? Certainly, he was a bestial creature, fierce and unruly as his barbaric ancestors. A hunter of beasts. An apex predator. But a nobility lurked in the long, sophisticated lines of his form, as well. Something handsome and almost… wholesome in a sort of robust way.
Almost civilized.
Almost.
Therein lay the draw, perhaps. Whatever lurked in his blood, whether the Viking warrior, the fabled were beast,or fearsome demon, it was undeniable that something sinister and sinful rippled beneath the ducal bearing. Something ferocious and ancient that might have earned him a pagan’s grave upon a day.
He did not belong in this age of gentility.
Staring at him now made her think of reincarnation. Had his soul graced these shores before? A thousand years prior, such a man launched from these Norman beaches and invaded England, handing a crown of blood to the bastard who would become a conqueror. A king.
And here stood the Redmayne progeny. The product of an old and unbroken legacy chock-full of strong warrior sons.
As Alexandra pressed her hand to her belly, a breath of longing escaped her. His decedents would be hers, as well. In truth, as a scientist, she’d never much given credence to noble bloodlines, even her own. Titles could be granted and taken away. Dynasties rose and fell through the sands of time, some of the greatest families already long forgotten.
So why did it give her such a strange shiver of pleasure at the thought of bearing such a man’s child?
That he should choose her to do so.
Not that hechoseher, she reminded herself. Rather the opposite.
She’d selected him. Out of desperation, at first.
And now unexpectedly—astonishingly—she’d discovered within her a desire for him to choose her back. Or, perhaps… she merely wanted to be considered worthy.
Shame had been her companion for so long. So very long. She had to admit it was difficult to hear the whispers about her. To know thetonconsidered her undeserving to stand as consort to such a man. To such a duke. She was too bookish. Too educated. Too old and unsocial.
Everything she’d once made peace with, had been proud of, she now questioned.
She hated that her growing feelings caused her to question herself. Hated even more that he questioned her. Her loyalty. Her word.
That he had good reason to.
What a long road they had to travel, the two of them, toward any kind of marital contentment.
They each had so many scars.
As she stood shoulder to shoulder with her breathtaking husband, she realized what her vanity had been trying to tell her all evening.
She’d looked in the mirror in her bedroom this evening, and had seen a beauty. She’d acknowledged that beauty without once thinking of de Marchand. Without being ashamed of or repulsed by the idea that Redmayne might see her thus.
Because, if she were being honest, she’d found within herself the desire for Redmayne to look at her. Toseeher. She wanted him to find her beautiful. He’d declared so shockingly this morning that he’d a difficult time being in her proximity without wanting her…
And, despite everything that had happened between them, and before him, she found within her a longing to encourage his desire. Because beneath the fear his lust evoked, an answering flame had undoubtedly ignited within her. Warming that very part that made her essentially female and tuning it only to him. So much so, that one appreciative gaze from him, one brush of his gloved hand against hers, sent curious little electric thrills through her.
Because she now knew the magic of which those hands were capable. And the gentleness. And restraint.
Because that magic preceded the act that would give her his children.
How very cruel it was to fear and crave something—someone—in equal measure.
Redmayne growled low words into the night, breaking her reverie. The wind carried them in the other direction, but he finally turned and speared her with those hot, damaged eyes.
Blue fire.
Blue flames always burned the hottest, didn’t they?
