Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

A lexandra felt bereft. She missed the heat of Oliver’s body. It was his way, always finding a reason to be close to her.

Those moments made her believe that their marriage might turn into something more, but she also easily dismissed them as a grand delusion.

Men only wanted to get women in bed. To control them. To parade them in front of the ton while they were free to find pleasures in other women.

Oliver said he had abstained since their wedding, but how long would that last? How long would he keep his supposed honor when he realized his growing resentment for her?

However, Alexandra could now understand what he felt about her interaction with John. She remembered slipping out of John’s lodgings. She knew the dangers and the implications of meeting an unmarried man without an escort.

At the moment, she was the one endangering the fragile fragments of their marriage.

On stage, a soldier died, and the music sounded like impassioned weeping.

A soldier. Dead.

Just like Julian.

She curled her fingers into the skirt of her gown while she struggled to breathe.

Calm yourself.

She felt a tear roll down her cheek and used her handkerchief to dab the wet spot, careful not to smear her rouge.

Oliver shifted in his seat but still seemed determined to look away from her. Patrons in other boxes would think that she was merely touched by the performance. That the music had overtaken her soul. And perhaps that was true.

But it became too overwhelming.

All she could think about was the gaping hole that Julian’s death had left in her life.

He was the only man who had actually cared for her.

But he was gone forever.

So, she rose from her seat, intent on heading for the powder room. The dark halls startled her out of her misery, and she wondered if she should have walked out of the opera in the first place.

She burst into sobs, anyway, more from frustration than despair.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps approached her. They were urgent and fast.

She turned around to see Oliver looking furious.

“Why did you leave?” he demanded.

When he was closer, he saw the tears on her cheeks. He faltered, his anger vanishing instantly.

“What’s the matter? Have I upset you?” he asked, stroking a thumb over her cheek.

The motion felt soothing on her skin, and Alexandra could only imagine the trails her tears had created.

“N-No,” she stammered.

“What is it then?” he asked softly.

“It is nothing. Let us return to the box,” she said and took a step forward, but he stopped her.

“I know our arrangement is far from ideal, Duchess, but… at least think of me as a friend, or even a companion. I need to know what is happening to you.”

“You say that now, Your Grace, but you’re no different,” Alexandra muttered, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Men like you always find something more interesting to chase. You’ll move on the moment it suits you.”

Oliver’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something intense igniting within them.

“Is that truly what you think of me?” His voice was low, tinged with disbelief.

She crossed her arms over her chest, desperately trying to maintain her composure. “You make everything seem like a game, and I do not care for games.”

He stepped closer, the air between them thick with tension. “Maybe that’s because you think everyone will play you. Not everyone is your father, Alexandra.”

His words struck her, igniting a mixture of anger and confusion.

“I am not talking about him,” she retorted, but the defiance in her voice wavered under the weight of his gaze.

“No?” His voice dropped, each word heavy with unspoken meaning. “Then who are you talking about?”

Her pulse quickened, the challenge in his eyes pulling her in, even as she fought against it. She wanted to step back, to shield herself from the heat radiating off him, but instead, she held her ground, her breath hitching in her throat.

“I do not want to be a temporary amusement for you,” she finally snapped, her voice sharper than she had intended. “You might find this situation amusing, but I do not.”

“Amusing?” He took another step forward, their bodies nearly touching now, the tension between them palpable. “Do you think I am amused by this? By you?”

The sincerity in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She shook her head, trying to dispel the desire blooming within her. “I think you are used to getting what you want without consequences.”

“And you think you’re so different?” he challenged. “Running away from what’s in front of you, acting like none of this matters?”

Her heart raced, each word a taut string pulled tighter between them.

“What do you want from me, Your Grace?” she demanded, her frustration mixing with the undeniable thrill of his proximity.

His gaze darkened, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I want you to stop pretending that this doesn’t exist.”

Every word wrapped around her like a silken thread, drawing her in, blurring the lines of anger and attraction. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, and for a moment, she was too stunned to respond.

“I’m not pretending,” she said, her voice shaking slightly despite her best efforts to sound strong.

Oliver let out a low, frustrated laugh. “Then what are you doing, Alexandra?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with possibility. She opened her mouth to reply, but the words eluded her. All she could focus on was the way he stood so close, the warmth of his body igniting every nerve in her.

Oliver’s eyes softened slightly, understanding flickering in them. He reached out, his thumb brushing lightly against her wrist, sending shivers down her spine.

“One day,” he said quietly, “you’ll stop pretending.”

His lips crashed against hers before she could take another breath. The heat of him, the force of him—it stole every thought, every ounce of resistance.

For a moment, she froze, her mind racing with panic.

But then her body responded instinctively, hungrily. She kissed him back, her hands clutching at his coat as if she needed him to hold her up.

It wasn’t the kiss she had imagined—gentle, slow. This kiss was raw, consuming, and she felt like she was drowning in it. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him in ways she had never allowed herself to admit.

The rest of the world vanished. The opera, her fears, her secrets—none of it mattered. At this moment, there was only Oliver.

There was no doubt that she kissed him back as if she had done it so many times before. The taste of his lips, his tongue, destroyed the last fragment of her resistance.

She tugged at his hair again, and he grunted but did not stop ravishing her mouth. All the frustration and desire she had been repressing had exploded into the open.

For a moment, they were a tangle of limbs, mouths, and tongues, but it still did not feel enough.

It did not matter that they were in a public, albeit dimly lit, place. Oliver had no plans of stopping. The force of his desire had him backing her up against the wall.

There was nothing to fear, Alexandra thought. She liked how he handled her, physically trapping her against the rough stucco. Her breasts were squished against his chest, her nipples hardening.

Then, reason came slithering back, slow to react but present once more. Even though his lips felt good on hers and their bodies fit as if they were made for each other, Alexandra was alarmed by how fast she had lost control.

She wanted to pull him closer, even though their bodies were already flush against each other. She could not understand the effects he had on her. Her breasts felt heavy. She felt like she was wading through water, her limbs too weak to move. Only, the kiss made her feel alive .

She moaned when the kiss finally ended. Her arms were around his neck, a result of the frenzy of lips and limbs.

He was not finished, however, his lips moving down to the pulse in her neck. It felt so pleasant, each brush of his lips caressing her skin.

She loved and hated that he knew just what to do, that his experience set her body on fire.

When his tongue dipped to taste and lick, her eyes flew open.

“No!” she cried out as if she had been burned.

It was one word, but it spoke volumes.

The two jumped apart and watched each other warily, their lips swollen and their breaths ragged.

“Alexandra…” Olive spoke her name like a prayer, his fingers running through his hair.

The strands were sticking out after she had mussed them with her hands.

“It’s Duchess to you, Your Grace,” she spat out, but her heart twisted at the cruelty of her own words.

She turned on her heel and rushed back to their private box, before the stricken look on his face could change her mind.