Page 45 of Unraveled By the Duke
Alexander became dimly aware of heads turning to watch them, of eyes landing on them, and of whispers sliding sibilantly between the gathered couples and the onlookers who stood on the edge of the dance floor. At that moment, he did not care.
How many dances had swept by? Alexander had lost count. He was thirsty and damp with sweat. His feet ached.
With silent, mutual consent, they stepped off the dance floor. A young gentleman in an officer's uniform approached Celia, but she politely declined his request to dance with him later.
Alexander put himself between them before he realized what he had done. At that moment, he looked into the young man’s face and recognized Archie Wainwright.
Without a word, he steered Celia away from him. As he did so, he saw the secretive smile on her face once more.
I fear I have conceded a point. What the devil does Wainwright want? What is he doing here? He has been well paid for his work. And to risk introducing himself to her. He will ruin everything!
“The room is utterly stifling. They should open the windows when there are so many people in attendance,” he muttered.
“Then let us see if the night air is any cooler,” Celia suggested. “Though I do not think it will be much less crowded.”
They eventually extricated themselves. Judging by the number of people Alexander exchanged pleasantries with, his mission to be seen with Celia and cement the illusion of their marriage was successful. They would talk, and those they spoke to would talk to others. And word would spread that the young lovers from the Larcher ball were respectably wed.
Outside, the air was deliciously cool. The gardens were lit by flaming torches held in sconces along the gravel paths that separated flowerbeds, lawns, and ornamental hedges. Celia and Alexander walked along the nearest ones, arm in arm.
“You looked positively angry with the poor young man who tried to ask for a dance,” Celia noted.
“I was. He was delaying our escape,” Alexander said.
“You were not jealous?”
“Of what?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“That another man might dance with me. That I might enjoy it.”
“You would be welcome, provided it did not interfere with our purpose.”
Alexander imagined the cool night air entering his body and chilling his words, dropping them below the heat of his body to emerge frosty. Celia looked up at him, but he did not look back, only stared ahead.
The path took them beyond the torches, and the other guests disappeared from view. One or two adventurous young couples still walked the path this far out, giving each other wide berths, for privacy’s sake.
Alexander suddenly reconsidered the wisdom of being alone with Celia. He stopped and made to turn, but Celia walked on briskly. His arm stretched as she refused to relinquish her hold. Her gloved hand slid along his forearm, then her fingers brushed the palm of his hand, until only their fingertips touched.
Celia looked back at him silently, her eyes large and dark. Alexander stepped towards her, took her hand, and drew level. Celia stepped off the path, her eyes never leaving his, and he followed. His heart was hammering as though trying to escape his chest. Reason was a prisoner to desire, kicking and screaming against its bonds somewhere deep within.
A hedge loomed to the side, casting a dark shadow over Celia’s face. Over that secretive smile. It was like a hook, drawing him in. A seductress, weaving her spell for reasons of her own.
I am being manipulated, but I am powerless to resist.
The shadow engulfed them both, and Alexander snatched her into his arms. He pressed her against him as he had wanted to do all evening. His lips sought hers. Sought and found, hunter seeking prey.
She was warm and soft. Submissive and pliant. Her hands clutched at him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as though trying to tear through his coat. Through his shirt and into his body.
Her hips bucked against his, and he responded, grinding his loins against her. He pressed a hand to her buttocks, holding her against his hard manhood. She moaned her desire against his hungry lips. Moaned her need for him, whispered his name.
Those syllables communicated more than a name when spoken in that desperate, longing, demanding whisper. It communicated naked lust, the desire to be taken, dominated,and worshipped. To give in to his lust and control him with that same lust.
She gripped the front of his shirt, pulling as though to rip it apart. Her lips were biting at his own until he thought she would draw blood. He moved his mouth to her neck, pulling down the elegant, expensive gown to expose her smooth skin. He nipped her before opening his mouth and tasting her, making her squeak and then clamp a hand over her mouth.
Suddenly, she was giggling uncontrollably. Alexander pressed the flat of his hand against her womanhood, applying pressure so that she could feel the touch against her most intimate area even through her skirt and underclothes. Her giggles became barely suppressed moans.
Then came a scream, followed by the unmistakable sound of a slap. The sound of a woman’s hand hitting a man’s face with force.
“Why, you little… Who do you think you are?!” came a man’s voice.
