Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

O liver had kissed many women in his life, especially when he was younger. As he got older and more jaded, he refused to kiss his lovers on the mouth. He would caress their bodies, help them reach climax, but he wouldn’t kiss them—for kisses were sacred.

He wanted to believe that whatever earth-shattering experience he just had was caused by that long period of abstinence.

He wanted to believe that Alexandra was not special.

Yet, even in the dim lights of the opera, he could still see every line of her face as if they were outside in the morning sun.

The way her emerald-green eyes glittered in the semi-darkness flashed in his mind, and he wondered what it would be like to lie with her in the same bed, to get a peek of those green eyes at night. Up close. No boundaries.

Alexandra had too many boundaries. Perhaps that was natural for someone who had no good experiences with men. Oliver wondered how much he had to do to peel back the layers and see the woman within—the real one, without any secrets and artifice.

As they made their way out of the opera house, they felt as if they were in on a secret as members of the ton surrounded them, chattering among themselves. They felt like a single entity, separate from the rest, which felt strange, since they had already been married for a year. It felt like a slow realization.

Oliver made sure he walked beside her, even though her gloved hand was no longer holding his elbow. Every now and then, their hands would brush against each other. She would tense up at each contact, but she would not pull away. Oliver thought it a victory in a way.

“You were moved by the performance,” he commented in a low voice.

“Perhaps,” Alexandra replied, her tone neutral.

He eyed her curiously. “I rarely see you get affected by anything.”

“I am not made of stone, Your Grace,” she said, but her voice was hard, and her eyes seemed like emerald steel.

“I know that now.” His voice was now more intimate. “I have finally seen you moved by something other than music.”

She stopped walking then, her breath catching in her throat.

Oliver could only imagine what she was thinking at that moment, but she kept her composure for now. There were no blushes, no stammering, and no lip chewing.

They resumed walking, but they could still feel the tension crackling between them. Walking was no longer just about using their legs. It had become a challenge. Each step. Each swing of the arms.

When they reached their carriage, Oliver offered his hand to help her inside. He could read her hesitation.

After a beat, she placed her gloved hand in his. He knew what was to come, that simmering heat he felt whenever they touched. It was no different now. The kiss did not extinguish his desire—it only stoked it. Now, he had become more aware of her presence. The scent of violets, subtle and fresh, somehow still tickled his nose.

In the carriage, as they sat across from each other, his sinful thoughts inundated his mind. He wanted her. Perhaps she did not want him back, but he was now determined to make her see that they could make their marriage more interesting.

He craved her presence, even her sharp looks and defiance. That was more than anyone in a forced marriage could hope for.

“Why did you cry?” he prodded, breaking the stifling silence in the carriage.

He had to ask, or her presence would tear him apart. Those beautiful lips that he had tasted not long ago. The rouge stained by her tears. The wary eyes. The heaving mounds that had been pressed against his chest during their kiss.

Perhaps it was lust. Perhaps it was more. He didn’t just want to kiss and touch her. He wanted to know what she was thinking, and what it would take to make her smile genuinely like John Prescott did.

Anger threatened to overtake him. So, he focused on his wife once more.

“The opera reminded me of… my brother, Julian. His death.” Her words surprised him.

He thought he would continue teasing her the whole night until she gave in. However, she simply gave him the reason, and he sensed the honesty in her words.

The awful truth.

Alexandra had lost the one decent man in her life.

“I tried not to cry. I could have. People would have thought I was affected by the performance, but I had to leave.”

“I am sorry.”

There was real grief in Oliver’s voice, although he knew it could never match what she was feeling.

He had lost both his parents, yes, but their deaths had not cost him. He had never felt what he could see in his wife’s eyes after their deaths.

Alexandra looked at him curiously.

Suddenly, he realized that this woman could destroy him. She was now doing it with her own pain.

What else could she do to him if he let her in?

“It-It’s all right, I guess. I need to accept his death as part of life. Loss is part of life.”

Her eyes were fixed on her hands, as if she could control her destiny with them. He wanted her to look at him again when she said those words.

He wanted to shake her and tell her that they could work together to make sure they didn’t lose each other.

But how could you lose someone who was never yours?

Oliver looked at his wife. He thought of John Prescott and his growing animosity toward the man. Seeing the way Alexandra spoke with the music teacher evoked feelings in him that he was unfamiliar with.

A year ago, that situation would have been welcome. If he so much as suspected his wife of loving or even caring for another man, he would have sought a divorce. He was a duke. The ton would have listened to him if he said he had been wronged. On the other hand, Alexandra—the daughter of a disgraced nobleman—would have been shunned by Society. She could live with her music teacher and he would not have cared.

These days, though, things had been different. Oliver could not imagine hurting Alexandra, even if she had been hurting him.

Now, all he could think about was how he could win her over.

But how could he possibly achieve that?