Duke of Darkness (17 page)

His voice sank to a husky growl. “We can’t. I can’t.”

Didn’t he feel the inexplicable sensation that pulled them together? The spark of something she had no name for, but all the same demanded attention with the equalled insistence as air and hunger? She leaned against him and swayed a little with the doing. His arms enveloped her, holding her still.

“Lexi, stop.”

He dropped his forehead to rest against hers and gazed into her eyes; the depths of his obsidian gaze clouded with desire and other emotions she could not label. He exhaled, a deep breath, and ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek to caress the spot where her childish dimple surfaced.

“We can’t do this.” The velvet depth of his voice sent shivers to her heart although his words were nothing she wanted to hear.

“Just kiss me. Kiss me again.” She stood within his embrace, shaken, breathless and confused.

But he didn’t kiss her. His usual armour of control, his emotionless demeanour, slipped into place with each shared breath. He disentangled himself with a gentle shrug and walked to the other side of her bedchamber. She watched his every step. He ran a hand through his hair in a habit she’d come to know as a sign of frustration.

Then he spoke again. Feelings of cowardice and perhaps a little inadequacy surfaced and she struggled to keep them at bay.

“I shouldn’t be here.” His eyes left her to make a sweep of the room. “In your bedchamber, kissing you senseless.”

“I only wanted to—”

He cut her off, each word of his reply compounding her regret as inept temptress.

“You’re too young to know what you want.”

The accusation ignited her temper, passion transformed to anger with each of his condescending syllables.

“Of course, when I reach the advanced age of thirty I’ll be a master at decision making.” She hardly knew what she was saying, but the fact slowed her little. “You don’t know what you want when it’s standing right in front of you.”

“Don’t know what I want?” He whipped his head in her direction, a sliver of candlelight reflected in his eyes and his gaze scorched over her with wicked, carnal heat. She swallowed any rebuttal as her body reignited under the intensity of his stare.

“Listen to me.” He rushed forward and clasped her shoulders in a firm hold. “My aunt entrusted you to me. It’s my responsibility to provide for you, protect you, and settle your future.”

Her chin shot up in defiance. “Those are the responsibilities of a husband.”

“She wanted me to find you a husband, not …” His voice dropped off as he released her. “Do not look so wounded, you have caused me nothing but unrest.” He stepped away. “How did you know it was me?”

He sounded resolved, although she knew the pain of his rejection reflected on her face. What was it he asked? Could he possibly see into her heart? Unanswered questions fired inside her brain.

“As Bickerstaffe,” he continued. “What gave me away?”

How foolish, her hope, so soon after his rejection. All too easy he would dismiss her. She vowed to stop jumping to ludicrous conclusions. Devlin’s thoughts did not parallel her own. She did not matter to him. She could do the same. She could pretend he did not signify.

“A hopeful admirer sends a bouquet. Not the entire hothouse.”

He coughed into his fist.

“And the poetry book, a rare first edition from the Cambridge Library. It was very ducal, but truly, the gifts weren’t what gave you away.”

If he sought to calm her with his ill-placed questions, he’d achieved his goal. She relaxed considerably since the moment he released her.

“What then?”

He seemed more assembled, although if she made an effort, she believed she could find evidence he’d been affected by their kiss.

“Your notes did you in. They sounded so
Devlin
.” A rueful smile turned her lips.

“My intentions were well placed. I did not want you to feel badly.” He spoke in a sincere tone that belied the truth. His words formed just another ill-placed statement. Their meeting this night proved more painful than playful and she refused to allow him to see her undone.

“Then this time it is I that needs to thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Tillie was her usual talkative self. Awake only an hour, Alexandra fended off a headache at her maid’s incessant chattering. On any other morning she would welcome the girl’s cheerful conversation, but last night she had spent restless hours scolding herself in an unsuccessful attempt to come to terms with her emotions.

“Let me see you.” Tillie circled and assessed the new gown, a simple dress of cream muslin embroidered with tiny pink blossoms. “You are a perfect English rose. And with your hair up in a twist, you have an air of feminine sophistication.”

“Thank you. You are very kind. I plan to sketch by the pond this morning, so keeping this unruly mane out of the way is a splendid idea.” Decorating the exterior hardly settled her emotions, but nothing could.

She set Henry against her waist while she balanced the sketch pad and pencils in a precarious grip. Then down the stairs she went, determined to instigate a new outlook on life. If Devlin could pretend indifference, so could she. In that fleeting moment when they broke from their kiss, she found raw emotion in his eyes. No matter the veneer of unresponsiveness he attempted to portray with the words pouring from his mouth, his body spoke a different language.

She reached the bottom of the staircase, resolute in her new outlook. Reeston crossed the hall in brisk strides and she smiled in greeting.

“Chopping wood, milady.”

Her brows furrowed in a look of bewilderment. “Pardon me, did I hear you correctly?”

Reeston employed his usual reserve. “Chopping wood, milady.”

Perhaps the vaguest smile traced his mouth, but Alexandra was not certain.

Henry released an impatient bark and squirmed in her arms. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Milady, as much as I enjoy our morning chats, I’ve discovered they end on a usual note. As I have a bevy of maids to direct in the west-wing refurbishment, a cluster of footmen waiting instruction for furniture removal, and several painters already mixing plaster, I thought to save us the trouble and cut directly to the end of the conversation.”

“I am sure I do not know.” Her perplexed answer echoed in the hall.

“His Grace is in the field beyond the wishing-well, chopping wood. He enjoys the exercise and fresh air as part of his rigorous routine.” Reeston quirked a minuscule smile and Alexandra sensed he enjoyed the conversation at her expense. She did not mind at all.

“Thank you, then.” She offered him a genuine smile. “You’ve been most helpful as I plan to sketch this morning and will also be outdoors.”

She left the foyer and headed for the back kitchen. Depositing Henry on his little bed near the pantry, she entered as Cook removed a tray of currant scones from the oven.

“Hello, milady. Aren’t you the picture of pretty this morning?” Cook’s broad smile brightened any day and Alexandra warmed with the realization she’d grown very fond of the unexpected collection of servants employed at Kenley Manor. Her mood improved significantly and it had nothing to do with the sweet scent of the oven, although the fresh-baked confection did smell wonderful.

“I thought I’d spend the morning sketching near the pond. At times it helps clear my mind.” Alexandra accepted the scone Cook wrapped in a linen napkin, objecting when she reached to wrap another. “No, please. As delicious as they are, one is enough.”

“Oh, this is for His Grace. He enjoys a warm scone in the morning.”

Alexandra paused, one eyebrow quirked in consternation. Was she so transparent in her admiration, the staff viewed her and Devlin as inseparable? It posed a riddle to be solved.

With no ready reply, she accepted the treat and balanced both on her sketchpad. She ventured outside and followed the winding gravel path that led to the wishing-well pond. When she arrived, she settled on a smooth boulder, her back propped to the stone, and set the pad on her lap, her eyes anxious to scan the landscape in search of an interesting subject.

The cool blue pond met her eye, but it proved dull in appearance. Not even a whisper of breeze teased the surface. Had it been a wishing-well, it might have been worthy of her charcoal, but being flat and worthless, at least according to Phineas, it would never hold her interest.

What would ignite her imagination? She scanned the horizon from left to right. She’d find something, anything. The search didn’t take long.

Across the pond, and partially hidden by a copse of willow trees, Devlin stood over a cord of wood. Several split logs lay in disarray near his feet. His boot rested on a chopping stump and sunlight glinted off the edge of the axe slung over his shoulder. He wore no coat and his white linen shirt contrasted with the line of his dark beard and the inviting bronze of his tanned skin. Well-developed legs encased in tailored kidskin breeches were outlined by his musculature with the slightest movement, and black boots reached his knees.

Transfixed, Alexandra dropped her pencil in the grass as Devlin resumed chopping. She might have stayed motionless had King not begun to bark. The sheepdog’s gruff complaints roused her from her musings, yet the subject of her morning excursion was etched indelibly in her mind. She settled against the rock and drew with industrious strokes. She did not need to glance at the paper, her hand and mind in perfect unison. And, too, she refused to look away from Devlin, all muscle and masculinity, in the far off field.

King sat in the sun, unbothered by the sound or sweeping fall of the axe as it cut the air three feet from where he lay. Meanwhile, Devlin worked at a fervent pace. His shirt hung loose. Whether to allow freedom of movement or respite from the heat she did not know, nor did she care.

Despite the distance, she appreciated the ripple of corded muscle, the band of dark hair that graced his chest and smooth perfection of his movements as he worked in the fickle shade of the trees. Her pencil danced on the page and sketches filled her pad.

He reversed his position and noticed her. A spark of some undecipherable emotion caused him to still. Alexandra flipped to a fresh page and skimmed the opposite landscape in an attempt to calm her rioting emotions as he made his way to where she sat. When she gathered the courage to turn to him, his shirt was refastened and the axe rested against the boulder near her back. King barked with enthusiasm at his heel, but Devlin quieted him with a soft-spoken command.

“In need of fresh air?” The mundane question revealed his reluctance to speak of last night. He would not give much in way of emotion this morning. He rarely did and now, neither would she.

“Sketching the pond and well.” She angled the tablet in the hope that he would not discover the blank page.

“You realize the pond is behind you.” A cynical grin curled the left corner of his lips, but she shifted her gaze to King and leaned forward to scratch behind his ears. The dog moved to her side and settled at her feet. Alexandra suspected he smelled the scones.

Silence stretched and when she thought Devlin might walk away, leaving her bereft for any scrap of explanation, he surprised her, and breeched the subject she vowed this morning to forget.

“Last night should never have happened. I shouldn’t have come to your bedchamber.”

His regret stabbed her heart and she schooled her features in a desperate attempt to disguise how deeply the words cut.

“You deserve more than I could ever offer you, Lexi. To face a future attached to … me? The gossip and censure …” His voice dropped off and she met his eyes with a silent plea.

“Only a fool would believe everything the gossips propagate. I’ve lived at Kenley Manor for almost a month and I know their lies to be untrue.” A trace of despair tinted her admission, but anger overrode the sentiment as he chuckled a bitter sound in response.

“They believe what they will. Do not prove yourself naïve. We’ve both done a superior job of pretending nothing matters beyond this estate, but it does. I could never offer you society or the ability to move within a ballroom without a trail of whispers behind you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her resolve slipped, her anger eased, and a familiar yearning to comfort the vulnerable man in front of her trumped her earlier vow to remain furious.

“It is not so easily dismissed. You would care after a time of being gawked at, discussed and excluded. I know. I live that life.” His words rang with a note of finality and she forced herself to speak.

“Then let me be the judge.”

An odd laugh escaped him. “Were it that easy.”

“Then tell me why. Help me understand. Explain your feelings, otherwise I am left to believe …” She couldn’t complete her sentence, but she knew he heard the raw emotion in her plea. He gazed into the fields for a long moment then his expression softened by the words he spoke.

“Emotions are a weakness I cannot afford.”

Disappointment ignited her temper anew. She stood and met his eyes in challenge. King’s low growl echoed her movement. “You keep such a tight rein on emotion, how would you know?” She gasped as his countenance transformed in a heartbeat, his stance angry, his jaw tight. He stepped closer to her.

“How would I know? You need proof of my emotions? Emotions drove my father to madness and my mother to suicide.”

Something inside her twisted in torment. He appeared disassembled, tortured by his memories. She drew a shaky breath. Was his love beyond her reach? Her heart preempted the horrifying conclusion. No matter how he lashed at her in anger, his volatile reaction stood as evidence he secreted far too much within his guarded heart.

He scoffed at her startled reaction. “No doubt you’ve been spared that juicy bit of gossip. It is easy to do so behind these walls of rustication. And the reason why I rarely leave the manor. Little exists for me within the ton.” His words were a bitter sneer. “Aside from ample opportunities for the gossips to fuel their stories of my painful existence. They believe me insane, or likely to develop madness as I age. I am an oddity. How well do you think they would receive my wife?”