Page 43 of Unraveled By the Duke
“I understand that Persian men outline their eyes in ash to make them stand out. A technique English women understand well,” Celia said.
“Indeed? I thought the effect nothing short of witchcraft,” Alexander replied, opening the carriage door.
“A kind of witchcraft,” Celia murmured with the smallest of secretive smiles.
Whether by accident or design, her nose twitched, a rabbit-like wrinkle. Her eyes reflected the light of the setting sun, and Alexander felt himself wavering on the edge of an abyss. A void into which part of him wanted to fall and fallforever. His heart thrummed like the string of a longbow. His stomach clenched, and he had never wanted to kiss a woman more.
Celia climbed into the carriage, and he followed, before closing the door and thumping the roof to signal their departure.
He cleared his throat. “A fine night. Almack’s will probably open the gardens. I always prefer moonlit walks in the gardens to the mucky air inside.”
He tried to roughen his voice, attempting to cool the thrumming tension between them.
“I remember,” Celia said.
“I was somewhat drunk that night.”
“Why?”
The question took him aback. It was either too obvious or too clever.
He narrowed his eyes. He was sitting opposite her, but found himself wishing he had sat next to her. Not only would it mean being closer to her physically, but he also would not have to look into her eyes.
She gazed back at him innocently, her hands folded in her lap.
“That is the favored pastime of a rogue,” he replied.
“Is that what you are? Maxwell seemed to think that your respectability made the perfect foil for his… knavery,” Celia said.
“Maxwell has an over-large mouth,” Alexander scoffed.
“He was insistent that I think well of you.”
“Because he wants my plan to succeed. Which it has. We are married.”
“True. But if you continue talking to me of rakishness and roguishness, you will only succeed in driving me away. I think my father would storm into your house to rescue me if he thought I was married to a rake.”
Alexander felt as if he was in a duel, words being the weapons and the uncovering of secret motivations the method of scoring points. He settled into his seat, letting the motion of the carriage rock him, and watched Celia from beneath half-lidded eyes. He allowed a sly smile to creep across his face. The smile of a rake. A rogue. A man not to be trusted.
Celia looked away, her face coloring, and she reached for the leather strap that secured the carriage window, letting the pane drop.
“It is warm this evening,” she said, fanning herself with one hand.
She glanced at him, her eyes darting to his face and then away. Her lips pressed together.
“I cannot fathom you, Alexander. I cannot decide what kind of man you are.”
A hit. A palpable hit.
Alexander felt no satisfaction in the point scored in their verbal duel. He did not appreciate causing the disappearance of that secret smile, the smile that made him feel privy to her innermost thoughts and desires.
Yet, I do not want to be privy to them. I want to be secure in my fortress, protected against love and the weakness it brings.
They spent the rest of the journey from Finsbury to St James’s and King Street in silence. They were fashionably late, as befitted a duke and duchess. By the time the carriage drew to a halt before the doors of Almack’s, a host of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen already inside could be seen through the tall windows.
A footman crossed the pavement and opened the carriage door. Alexander disembarked first, striding up to the door without waiting for his wife. He walked with his head held high and an arrogant swagger to his steps. He did not stop until he was at the door, which was opened by another footman. He waited for Celia to catch up, offering his arm without looking.
Her slender hand slid beneath his arm and rested on his forearm. Alexander swallowed. Her delicate, floral perfume had preceded her, and now it wove its heady strands around him. He was intoxicated, bewitched.
