Page 57 of Unraveled By the Duke
He suddenly caught sight of her neck as a lock of hair was swept to the side with a flick of her head. There, behind her ear, was a mark, red and round. His eyes widened, and she caught the reaction.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
“I have just seen a… stamp that I put on you without realizing it. Some men would call it a badge of ownership.”
Celia’s face turned scarlet, and she clapped a hand to her neck, her eyes going wide. Alexander smiled, feeling that for once he had the upper hand. He guided the hand that held her fan so that it covered the mark.
“A mark of ownership?” Celia whispered. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Alexander guided her towards the door that would lead them up to the boxes on the east side of the auditorium.
“Well, it is a common enough expression among rakes like me,” he said.
“I cannot believe you left a visible mark on me,” she muttered as a door opened, and they found themselves walking along a carpeted corridor.
The walls were covered with framed playbills of previous performances, some cracked and ancient as papyrus in their appearance.
“Now that I think of it, there may be others,” Alexander added, enjoying the outrage he was causing. “Just not so visible.”
“Then you should not be speaking of them in public,” she hissed, looking behind them, where the door had been opened again to admit another couple.
Alexander grinned, beginning to enjoy himself.
Perhaps this is the freedom that comes with being a rake. The freedom not to care what anyone thinks. A dangerous freedom to experience. A man could become drunk on it.
They arrived at the door to his box, and he led Celia in.
Beyond the elaborately gilded and ornately carved balcony was the glittering auditorium. It was filling with patrons, the air humming with overlapping conversations. As Alexander took a seat next to Celia, high above, he noticed more than one head turning upward.
They see the newly married Duke and Duchess of Cheverton. They tell their friends. Each look is a drop of water on the flames of gossip and scandal.
He held out his hand and looked at Celia.
“For the benefit of our audience,” he murmured, turning his eyes to the auditorium, “and our illusion.”
She caught his meaning, putting her hand in his and letting their fingers entwine.
Alexander kissed her hand. He found himself savoring the satiny smoothness of her skin, the slenderness of her fingers. She wore no rings, no jewelry of any kind.
She didn’t need it. Her eyes were a greater adornment than anything glittering around the necks or in the hair of the women he had seen so far.
He lowered her hand. She made no move to extricate her fingers from his. Alexander looked straight ahead as the audience tooktheir seats and the curtain rose. He focused his attention on the actors, their words, and their movements.
But the woman next to him had captured all his senses. He breathed in the delicate, floral scent of her perfume. He listened to the sound of her breathing while his mind dredged up treacherous memories of her animalistic pants and wanton moans. While his eyes focused on the stage, his mind focused on the body of the woman who had claimed the title of his wife.
She sat next to him, respectably dressed, while in his mind, she was naked. Pale, soft, feminine skin damp with sweat. Slick and pliant.
His thumb stroked her hand, hungry for the delicacy of her skin. It moved a few inches across her knuckles and then back. She responded by flexing her fingers and tightening them around his.
When the performance was over, they stood up and applauded along with the rest of the audience.
Alexander felt that he and Celia had staged their own private performance in the hours that the actors had pranced and preened. One to be appreciated by the two of them alone. He felt as though he were teetering on the edge of a cliff. The feel of her fingers against his had threatened to send him over that edge.
Perhaps there is nothing wrong with indulging the desires of the flesh as part of this game we play. If it brings the two of us pleasure while we play man and wife.
It would mean becoming the person he had once paid Archibald Wainwright to help him convince the ton he was—a man who indulged in the pleasures of the flesh without love. A rake.
The thought grated on his nerves. It felt wrong, against every principle he had.
