Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

“ I know you are there,” Alexander’s voice startled her.

The light outside the windows of the library had gone by the time Madeleine left the library, not realizing it had grown so dark, or so late.

The candles around her had been lit. She had been so engrossed in her book that she had not even realized the maids had entered to do such a thing.

Closing the library door behind her, Madeleine had glanced left and right down the hallway, finding it dark and empty.

Footsteps had sounded in the distance, the soft scuff of servants’ feet, and she had wondered if, during her deep reading, she had missed her husband coming home.

Then, she had heard the clink of a glass in the drawing room as she’d headed towards her chambers.

Pausing before the stairwell, she’d peered into the drawing room, finding Alexander sprawled in one of the armchairs, his head tipped against the chair’s back.

The first thing she’d seen was the smear of blood on his face, the peppering of bruises, and the scratches across his neck and face.

Her gaze roamed over him, noticing the absence of his cravat and the loose, unbuttoned state of his shirt.

His thick neck gave way to a broad, defined chest, the hard swells of muscle tapering into a taut, chiseled stomach that rose and fell with each deep breath. The shirt slipped from his shoulders, revealing the powerful cords of muscle beneath.

Madeleine bit her lip.

His fingers tapped his empty glass on the table next to him. A groan slipped free from him as he lifted his head.

“Madeleine,” he called softly.

His dark mahogany hair was disheveled around his face, his eyes hooded as they locked on her.

“You are hurt,” she said quietly, looking at his injuries, trying not to look so blatantly at the hardened muscle rippling through his body.

Her mouth watered, and she swallowed.

“A little bit,” he told her. “It is nothing. I am not often a fighter, but I can hold my own. Tonight forced me to be no more than a thug.”

He groaned as he began to move but Madeleine rushed forward.

“Let me help you,” she said quickly. “Do not struggle alone.”

“I am not wounded,” he muttered as he stood up.

“No, of course not,” she quipped, arching an eyebrow. “You merely groan like an elderly gentleman trying to retrieve his cane.”

His lips twitched despite himself. “I assure you, I am perfectly capable.”

“And I assure you, your pride is getting in the way of practicality,” she shot back. “If you collapse in a heap, I shall have to explain to the servants why a great oaf of a man is sprawled across the floor. Save us both the embarrassment.”

He let out a huff, “I am not going to collapse,” he said like a child.

“You are insufferably stubborn,” she countered, stepping closer. “Now stop being difficult and let me help, or I shall call for reinforcements—and trust me, Mrs. Turner won’t be as discreet as I am.”

With a defeated sigh, he relented. “Fine. But only because I dread the reinforcements.”

“Wise decision,” she replied with a smile, slipping under his arm to steady him.

He leaned on her lightly as she guided him up the short staircase and to the landing of their chambers.

Quickly herding him inside, she set him to lean back against the desk.

“Do not move,” she instructed before ducking into the bathroom.

She filled up a round, porcelain basin with water, and picked up a small towel before returning. Alexander had slipped his shirt off completely, waiting for her in nothing but his breeches and boots.

She stumbled for a second, sloshing the water around, before clearing her throat. Her face burned as she tried not to look at the expanse of skin on display so confidently.

Alexander watched her as if he knew what she tamped down.

Madeleine set the items down next to him on the desk. This close, he was intoxicating. A thin layer of sweat sheened on his skin, and she had the odd urge to run her fingers over his stomach, wondering if those muscles would clench beneath her touch.

“Is this what I had to do for you to let me into your chambers?” Alexander teased as she dunked the towel in the basin, soaking it before wringing it out.

She ignored him, rolling her eyes, but she blushed deeply. Instead of answering, she set about cleaning the blood, tender when she reached the wounds, and light when she cleaned over bruises.

As she focused her gaze intently on the injuries, trying to notice how he barely flinched beneath her touch, she could feel him watching her.

The weight of his gaze unnerved her. It made her hands shake.

She ran the towel up the column of his neck, and he closed his eyes. His shoulders stopped being so tense for a moment.

“You are very good at this,” he commented, his voice rough.

Madeleine let out a nervous laugh. “One of the maids taught me how to clean in such a way. John was notorious for getting into brawls when he was younger, and I often cleaned him up alongside the maids.”

“John, the fighter,” Alexander laughed. “Of course.”

“There was a time when I asked him if I could follow him to the battlefield as a nurse,” Madeleine laughed. “If I do not go, who will patch you up and clean the blood? I asked, and John just told me it was utterly unheard of, could not be done, and that there would be plenty of doctors to get the job done. He did not understand that I was frightened about him being hurt.”

Alexander opened his eyes, and she forgot herself for a moment, meeting them. She let the towel slide down his stomach, clutched in her fingers. She was keenly aware of how close to the waistband of his breeches she was.

The Duke leveled her with that cool stare. His breaths were shallower, as though something brewed beneath him that he was trying to keep at bay.

A rush of heat flooded her, and she succumbed to it, letting it guide her closer to him. With her bed only a few feet away, how could she turn away from that rush?

Alexander’s gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips, and then he was there, kissing her, pulling her against his bare chest.

Her hands fisted against his skin, and neither of them cared that the towel between them dampened their clothes. All she cared about was how he was unraveling her slowly, languidly, with his mouth.

His kisses were careful, practiced. Precise. His lips eased hers apart but she found that a hunger gnawed through her, and she had denied it over and over.

Not now; not tonight.

Madeleine gasped when Alexander yanked her closer, and she felt the heave of his chest against her own. He took advantage of her parted lips and slipped his tongue into her mouth, sliding it along hers. Madeleine jolted at the sensation, moaning quietly.

Alexander made a small growl in his throat, and cupped her face, angling her head upwards to him, deepening the kiss. Sliding his hands into her hair, he tugged, and she felt her head move with the pull, a spike of heat spearing her.

Yes , she thought. Claim me. I am already yours—I wish to feel it .

“You are akin to the richest wine,” Alexander told her, his mouth barely moving from hers. He slipped his hands down to her hips, bringing them flush against his. “You may prefer a lighter wine but I will have nothing less than the boldest, the finest. And that, Madeleine, is you .”

Her words left her, but any response she may have mustered was kissed away by him in the next moment.

She closed her eyes, feeling his hands roam. His fingers bunched her dress, tugging it up and up, exposing more of her.

Heavens above , she was tumbling—if he was the storm then she would fly through it endlessly. Heat surged through her, drowning her.

I will have nothing less than the boldest, finest.

Bold. She wished to be bolder. Madeleine wrenched the towel from between them, exposing the arousal building in her husband’s breeches.

She danced her fingers along his waistband, and he stuttered on a groan.

Lower and lower, her hand grew closer to dropping between his legs, as one of his own slipped beneath the skirt of her dress, trailing higher. The place between her legs was aflame, her core aching. Her whole body tensed, waiting for that first brush of his hand.

Outside her room, a crash sounded, the sound of a glass breaking, and a quick apology sounded right after. Alexander growled and went to move to see what had happened but Madeleine pushed him back.

“You are injured,” she said sternly. “I will see to it.”

The sound broke their spell, and Madeleine snapped back into reality, stepping back. She withdrew her hand, almost wide-eyed at how close she got to brushing over his blatant arousal with her hand.

Alexander’s expression flickered before he removed his hand from beneath her skirt.

Did she imagine his disappointed sigh before he nodded, letting her go for a moment?

Madeleine tugged the towel between her hands, folding it before placing it over the basin, needing something to do with her hands. She cleared her throat and left her room for a moment, spotting a maid crouched on the floor with a brush.

“What happened?” she asked, startling the maid.

The girl turned to her. “I am sorry, Your Grace. One of the newer maids dropped a glass while she was clearing His Grace’s chambers.”

Madeleine paused, nodding. “Of course.”

She did not know what to say. That petty distraction had snapped her out of her own delicious, dangerous haze, and she did not know how to get back to it. Or if she should.

She went back into her chambers.

“Is everything all right?” Alexander asked.

“A maid dropped your glass from your nightly drink.”

He huffed a laugh. “As long as it is cleared up and nobody got hurt.”

Madeleine couldn’t believe the odd consideration he had for the staff. She smiled but could barely meet his gaze.

The silence pressed around them, her thoughts getting lost in his prior touch beneath her skirts. She’d grown so breathless, aching and needy for him. She needed something else to distract her.

“Have you—” Her voice was hoarse. “Have you heard from John yet?”

“No.”

“Right.”

She stepped back, and she knew she was raising her defenses. Alexander did not take his attention off her, though. But he eventually pushed off from her desk and bowed to her.

“Thank you for assisting me,” he said, his voice sharp but not unkind. More guarded, distant, as she felt. “Good night, Duchess.”

“Good night, Your Grace,” she whispered, and he slipped out through her main doorway.

He was true to his word, it seemed: the connecting door would remain shut unless invited. He was still giving her that semblance of privacy.

Her chest ached as she collapsed back onto her bed.

And she still ached for him.