Page 153 of Doxy for the Ton
Her mouth quirked into a smile and she exited the breakfast room, Whitcombe in tow.
Alexander glanced at the footmen, who were all staring directly ahead. Then he snatched the bacon and swallowed it before following his hosts outside.
Less than half an hour later, he stepped onto the drive to see Whitcombe and his wife bidding farewell to their children, pink-faced, giggling toddlers in the arms of their nursemaids, before they climbed into the carriage and set off.
What the bloody hell am I doing here?
What could be worse than being confined in a carriage with Whitcombe and his intense, judgmental duchess? Alexander had only accepted Whitcombe’s invitation to stay because it took him away from London—away from the park, where doting couples promenaded, away from parties where lovesick young men danced with the women they desired…
…and away from his house in Grosvenor Square that overlooked number sixteen, where he had finally understood what it was to make love—and to fall in love.
A family lived there now, a man with a wife and two daughters. Pleasant enough except for one thing.
They weren’ther.
Which was why London gave him no pleasure—it was filled with people who werenot her.
After they stopped for luncheon at an unremarkable inn, the journey continued, and Alexander fixed his gaze out of the window, watching the countryside pass by. When he heard a snore, he turned to see Whitcombe fast asleep, a smile of contentment on his lips. Beside him sat the duchess, holding his hand, her fingers intertwined with his. She lifted her husband’s hand and kissed it, her eyes filled with love.
What might it be like, to be loved with such ferocity?
And youwere—only you were too blind to see it.
He blinked, and moisture stung his eyes. When he wiped them, he saw the duchess was staring directly at him.
“Are you well?” she whispered.
The armor he’d fashioned around his heart was no defense against the compassion in her voice.
“I did love her, Duchess,” he said.
“Did?”
He turned toward the window and sighed, his breath misting on the glass. “I still do. But what good will come from confessing it?”
“To the exclusion of all others?”
“God’s teeth, woman—must you be so belligerent?” he snapped.
“Hush!” she said, glancing toward her sleeping husband. Whitcombe stirred, and she caressed the back of his hand. “Montague is always accusing me of belligerence, though I prefer to call ittenacity, which has less of an air of malevolence.”
“Nobody could accuseyouof being malevolent, Duchess.”
She frowned. “Are you teasing me?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare. I value my balls.”
Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Your balls are safe with me.”
He returned her smile. “I’m glad to hear that. I did wonder, on receiving your invitation, whether I’d return home a pound or two lighter.”
She gave a soft laugh. “You can be quite disarming when you’re not in your cups.”
“And you can be brutally frank,” he said, “when your lips are moving.”
Whitcombe stirred and opened his eyes. Then he yawned and stretched.
“Have I missed anything, my love?” he asked.
