Page 18 of Taming a Beastly Duke
Adelaide nodded, biting her lip. She had hoped she was simply tense and misreading Lord Edwin. But hearing her suspicions confirmed made her uneasy. When Helena beckoned for them to exit the bath, Adelaide was relieved. She followed her aunt silently to the exit, relieved to be leaving so she could take a moment to collect her thoughts.
***
Marcus was thrilled when it was time to depart. He held his hand to his head, feigning a worse headache than he felt, surprised at how much better he truly felt as they exited the men’s bath. On the other side of the complex, the women were leaving their pool, and Marcus glanced up in time to see Miss Barrett ascending the steps before disappearing around the corner to where she and the other women would change clothes.
Her wet bathing gown clung to her curves, setting his veins ablaze. Her golden hair, styled in a neat bun, had darkened to honey from the steam of that water, with a few loose tendrils curling against her pale neck.
It is as if she is the first woman I have ever seen, he thought as the desire to caress her skin as he brushed aside the curls and kissed the spots where they had lain, stirred him in a very obvious physical way. He forced his gaze from her, trying to settle himself. He was aware that he often stared at her much morethan propriety allowed. If anyone were to observe the effect of Miss Bennett's gendering upon him, it would torment his mind for all eternity.
From the edge of his vision, movement from Edwin drew his attention. His cousin smirked at him, indicating that he had noticed his distraction, and undoubtedly the reason for it. His jaw clenched and he looked away, but not before noting the calculating assessment in his cousin’s eyes.
Family members were supposed to be people you could trust. But with each passing day, Marcus trusted his cousin less and less. He told himself it was because he was concerned for Miss Barrett’s welfare and annoyed by Edwin’s exaggerated interest in her. But something deep within made Marcus realise that there was also an unknown darker reason.
Chapter Eight
Instead of retiring to his chambers that evening, Marcus decided to return to the library. He poured himself a glass of brandy and sat in a high-backed chair that faced away from the door. He idly swished his untouched drink, staring into the dying embers of the fireplace. He had not bothered to pretend he wanted to read. His thoughts of Miss Barrett left no room for concentrating on any story or text. And now that he was alone, he made no effort to think of anything else.
She had looked so graceful, moving through the crowds at the bathhouse. There was a poise that came so naturally to her, even when she laughed. He was so attuned to her voice, even after such a short time, that it drew his attention each time he heard her laughter drifting in from the women’s bath. But he would not pretend that his thoughts were pure and chaste. No… his entire body had responded yet again with intense, visceral desire, even from a quick glance at her ankles as she had descended the steps.
I can just imagine the way her wet bathing suit clung to her delicate figure, he thought, moaning softly as the evidence of his arousal made itself very plainly known.
The door creaked softly, letting Marcus know he was no longer alone. He remained motionless, glancing at the mirror above the fireplace. His heart thumped when he saw that it was Miss Barrett, as if his impure thoughts had summoned her. He watched as her green nightgown whispered against the carpet behind her while she moved rather silently among the bookshelves.
Had he been sleeping, or perhaps even reading, she would never have roused him, too quiet to hear in her graceful movements. But he was, indeed, very roused, all the more allured by the knowledge that she was utterly unaware of his presence, even as she idly fondled the long, loose braid in which her honey-color hair was styled. He knew that, if she lingered much longer, he would be unable to resist approaching her. And if he approached her, he was certain he would ruin her. The beckoning of her figure through her nightclothes in the firelight was simply too much to bear.
***
Adelaide was desperate to settle her mind when she left her bed and entered the library. And yet she was forced to admit disappointment when she did not see the duke stretched out on the sofa as he had been on her last visit there. But in just a few minutes, she was lost in the spines of the vast selection of books his library offered. The bulging of his muscles in his bathing suit and the fire in his eyes when he looked at her was put to the back of her mind as the volumes of poetry, she noticed captured her attention.
She was so engrossed in her perusal that she never heard approaching footsteps. It was not until she reached for William Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads that the sensation of being observed startled her. She glanced over her shoulder and gasped, seeing the Duke standing behind her, staring at her with a hunger that made her pulse quicken. She was suddenly very aware that she was alone with him. What was he going to do?
“Did you find something that interests you?” he asked, glancing down at the Wordsworth book in her hands. The tone of his voice was not exactly mocking or taunting. But it carried a certain bemusement that bordered on sensuality.
She clutched it to her chest with wide eyes, and she struggled to find a response to his question and to prevent her body from responding to the seductiveness she was sure she had imagined in his voice.
“Wordsworth is my favourite poet,” she said, her words trembling. She was surprised that she had spoken at all; however, she was more shocked that she had offered such a personal, unsolicited bit of information about herself.
The duke nodded, gazing lazily up at the shelf in front of which they stood. He ran his fingers along the spines until he found one written by Lord Byron.
“Wordsworth is quite talented,” he said, holding up the book he chose. “However, I prefer Lord Byron.”
Adelaide nodded, stunned. She had not known what to expect when he approached her. But a conversation about poetry with the darkly mysterious, cold duke was the very last thing she could have anticipated.
“I appreciate Lord Byron, as well,” she said. “I suppose it is Wordsworth’s descriptions of the healing powers of nature that draw me more to him than to other poets.”
The Duke sniffed and smirked, studying her like an animal trying to decide whether to continue toying with its prey or to simply swallow it.
“Wordsworth might be considered a fool for such ideals,” he said. “But even I can admit that there is a certain wonder in the notion that nature has such power.” He paused, turning over his book slowly in his hands. “Byron, however, is nearer to me because he speaks a great deal about tortured souls.”
Adelaide’s heart was racing. This was the most she had ever spoken to the duke. And she was alone with him, in the middle of the night, dressed inher nightclothes. Everything about their situation was strange and improper. Yet she felt more drawn to him than she ever had before.
“You sound as if you know something about being a tortured soul,” she said, surprised at her boldness.
The duke stepped toward her, the hunger in his eyes fiercer than it had been just a moment before.
“One could say that, indeed,” he murmured. “Enough, at least, to be skeptical of things like any healing power or hope that things can change overnight, particularly for the better.”
Adelaide frowned. She was uncertain whether the duke was sincere or if he was mocking her for the themes of Wordsworth’s poems.
