Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

A lexandra had missed Oliver, but she could not fault him for staying away from her and looking for fresh diversions.

She had not been a welcoming wife, facing him with a dour face almost every day. She could not help it. She needed to form and keep a shield between them—to protect herself.

To protect him.

She had been risking her reputation and marriage, publishing compositions as J. Lewis. All the proceeds thus far went to paying off her father’s debts, and it seemed that he had the talent for piling more debt onto them.

He was a greedy bastard; it was time to admit it. There were times when she wondered if staying with Oliver was worth it. Perhaps it was time to retreat to the countryside—time to admit defeat. She felt like drowning in her father’s debts, and she could only imagine that he did not care at all.

“That is all you can do, you little chit? I’ve warned you. I don’t know where you get your money from, but it can’t be from your dear husband. Do you want me to go to him and ask him if he knows what you have been doing?”

A man had stopped by the townhouse to slip the letter into Ellen’s hands. Her father and the terrible men surrounding him knew where she lived, naturally. Her husband was a duke and a prominent member of the ton . It was difficult to hide, and she was afraid that Oliver would become embroiled in her troubles.

There were times, though, when she still hoped for a better life with him. When he went back to gambling and drinking, she thought that she had lost everything and did not believe that she could get them back.

“I’ve missed this, Oliver,” she confessed between kisses. She was shivering now, even though her skin was hot from the sherry.

“I know, my love,” he murmured into her neck.

It was the second time he’d used the term of endearment, but Alexandra dared not hope that it meant more than just that—a term of endearment. A way to call someone.

“Come here and kiss me some more, Your Grace,” she urged, giggling at the surprised look on his face.

“Your wish is my command, Duchess,” he murmured as his hands tore her gown off her body.

“Now what?” she asked teasingly as she lay on the sofa, naked as the day she was born.

“I can’t make love to you when you are uncertain about the way forward,” he said, looking grave even as he undressed in front of her.

She bit her lip.

Her husband did not know it, but she liked looking at him. Every part of him. His beauty often distracted her from her problems, and she appreciated it.

“There may be things I am not certain about. But when it comes to this, I am certain,” she assured him, spreading her legs for him.

It was only then that he joined her. Their kisses were passionate, filled with something that had not been there before. Alexandra was certain of it as she tasted his lips and clung to his muscular body.

When Oliver entered her, there was something more. As if their souls had merged. With each thrust, he’d somehow reach a place he had not before, heightening her pleasure.

“Oliver…” She moaned his name as if it was a prayer.

“Yes, darling?” he asked, not stopping.

He dipped his head to lick her nipple as he waited for her response. Then, he focused on driving them both to the edge of madness. His grip on her hips was firm enough to bruise, but she did not care.

“Just be with me,” she whispered hoarsely.

He stayed with her, pounding into her with urgency as he sought his pleasure and hers. They had mastered this dance, clutching at each other as if they did not want the other to disappear. He even continued thrusting into her after they shuddered with their release.

In the aftermath, he rested his head on her chest. Alexandra ran her fingers through his hair, loving the feel of his skin on hers. Their heartbeats created a symphony, one she had been trying to ignore.

Finally, Oliver lifted his head, gazing down at her.

“Alexandra…” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

It was as if he was about to tell her something, perhaps something she was not quite prepared for.

So, before he could say anything more, she placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.

“Shh… not now,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with a mix of relief and contentment. “Not now…”

When his eyes had closed and slumber had taken over, Alexandra wondered if she should have just let him talk.

The following morning, deliciously aching after their lovemaking, Alexandra woke up with a few realizations.

One, she called the intimate act lovemaking .

Two, she could not imagine returning to the countryside without Oliver.

Three, she?—

She stopped there. She did not want to say the words because that would make everything real. Painfully real.

She stood up completely naked, admiring her husband’s equally naked body on the sofa. An embroidered pillow covered his manhood, which made her giggle.

He was hers. She could no longer imagine a reality without him in it, and that made her throat constrict. A sob threatened to burst out, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

What was happening to her? One moment, she was in the throes of passion. The following morning, she was happy and sated. Then, she was distraught all over again.

“A good morning to a beautiful woman,” Oliver said, his husky voice making her blush. “Stay like that for the day. Do not look for a gown to cover yourself.”

“And what will happen when we have guests?” she teased. “What about the servants? Do I show myself to them? See if they approve?”

He sighed as if he truly contemplated having her naked the whole day. Then, he rose from the sofa, took her gown from last night, and helped her into it. Slowly. Tenderly.

Again, Alexandra felt like crying and she did not know why.

Oliver, meanwhile, found himself increasingly restless, his mind racing. Although he and his wife had reconnected the night before, there was still something between them, and he was determined to discover and rid them of it.

Alexandra, even as she gave him more of her body, continued to guard her emotions.

The frequent late-night piano playing continued. The candlelight slipping under the door to the music room, her hushed movements, and the occasional sheet music all fueled his curiosity and frustration. He was more discreet with his listening, unwilling to disturb her from her passionate playing.

There was no way that playing the piano was merely a pastime for his Duchess. She had not only mastered the keys, but she had also commanded them.

Through the crack in the door, he watched her. As he had expected, she was playing the pianoforte as if she were one with it. Her fingers moved gracefully over the black and ivory keys as if they were parts of each other.

He could see her profile, the way her face softened as if she was living in another world.

Perhaps she was.

Oliver could hear his own breaths, but he knew that his wife could not hear anything beyond her piano playing. Then, she stopped and murmured to herself. He had not seen her do this before.

What was she doing?

He listened more closely. Yes, every time she stopped playing, she whispered something. Now, she was writing something on the sheets with a quill, making him catch his breath.

And all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

One night, too restless to sleep, Alexandra paced in her room. She should be happy—ecstatic even. After all, she and Oliver had reconnected. They talked about their future. What he did not know was that she had just given birth… to her latest composition.

Alexandra realized that caring for someone meant wanting to be honest with them. Her heart was often heavy with her secrets, weighing down even her happiest moments with Oliver.

But what if she told him? What would he think? Would it be the end of J. Lewis and his compositions?

Fear and excitement warred within her. On the one hand, she was afraid that her identity would be unmasked and she would have to flee into oblivion. On the other hand, she felt a flicker of excitement about finally being recognized for her achievements. She certainly had not enjoyed the fruits of her work, and her father was forever ungrateful.

The music room no longer felt like a refuge. It was now a prison with walls that were thin enough to reveal her passion but opaque enough to hide her secrets.

Confession. For now, she could only do it through playing the piano. Her nightgown clung to a body drenched with the sweat of guilt. Her latest composition was sorrowful and yearning, revealing the turmoil that continued to plague her even as she tried to live a happier life with her husband.

As with most nights, Alexandra let herself get lost in the moment. She was aware that Oliver sometimes listened, though not how often.

A part of her wanted to be caught, she realized.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a figure silhouetted against the faint candlelight. Oliver’s presence was unmistakable, but she was afraid to look at his face.

What would she see there? She’d like to see admiration and love, but she knew that was her wishful thinking.

Oliver was no longer hiding. He walked toward her, not even bothering to muffle his footfalls.

Alexandra stopped playing as soon as he stopped inches away from her. A tense silence hung between them. It was not like last night, when he came in and saw her trying to hide the proof that she was J. Lewis. This time, she felt that he knew more, but she would still try to deny it.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, dread coiled in her stomach like a snake about to spring. However, she straightened her back, seemingly composed.

What if he told her to leave? Why would he want to spend the rest of his life with a coward and a liar?

Time seemed to stand still as they studied each other. But then, he broke the silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Duchess?” he asked in a low, measured voice.

Despite his civility, Alexandra sensed the betrayal he felt. He also did not call her by her Christian name.

Regret washed over her. Why didn’t she simply ask for his help? He had proven from the very first day they were reunited that he was capable of defending and protecting her, but her pride was strong, and their connection back then was non-existent.

She could not say a word. She could only hope that her pleading eyes were enough to show him that she had not meant to deceive him. She was merely trying to help her father.

Her breath hitched when he came closer.

“You’re J. Lewis,” he declared.

No, his time to ask questions was over.

Her hand flew to her throat as if she could force down the lump that had formed there.

She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered weakly. “I never meant to deceive you, Oliver.”

No, she would not take several steps back as she always did when feeling cornered. She was keeping his name on her lips. However, she noted how his brow furrowed and his eyes glistened.

The candlelight cast shadows on his face as he finally made sense of something he had suspected before.

“But you did,” he said through gritted teeth. “You kept a secret from me while I thought what we had was real.”

It was like a slap to the face. Her insecurities had attempted to shield her against perceived and future hurts. There were no words that could make this better. She had lied to him, and the secrecy was proof that she did not trust him enough.

“I had to protect myself, Oliver,” she choked out. “As a woman, I would not have been taken seriously.”

“You’d assumed that I would ridicule you? You thought I would reveal your name against your wishes—deprive you of your passion? Have you not noticed how I listen to you and appreciate your music from afar?”

Alexandra bit her lip. She did not want to cry in front of her husband. He’d think that she was using her tears as a weapon. But she also wanted to reason with him, even if she could no longer understand her own motivations.

Silence fell between them. It seemed for a house that loved music, silence always found them.

Oliver took another step closer, and his wife could barely look at him.

“Alexandra,” he began, the rough emotion in his voice giving her fresh hope. He reached for her chin and tilted it up so that he could look her in the eyes. “I want you, but not with a wall between us. Not with you escaping whenever I peel back a layer covering who you truly are.”

It was her turn to reach for him, and she flattened her palms on his chest. She liked that he was firm and solid in a world where she could barely grasp her dreams.

“I… I don’t want to lose you, Oliver,” she finally admitted, her voice trembling at the enormity of her words.

She did not want to be vulnerable before anyone, but her fear of losing him was greater.

“And I you,” he said, his voice breaking as he covered her hands with his own. “You have brought hope to my life. Even your most melancholy music made this place a home. So, please trust me. Tell me your secrets, and you can ask me to tell you all of mine.”

“You don’t want to be with me, Oliver. My troubles will only drag you down. You’ve worked hard to help yourself become?—”

“Shh,” he murmured. It was his turn to put a finger on her lips. “You’re the one who helped me overcome my unhealthy desire to frequent Devil’s Draw.”

“But you still went there,” she reminded him, her tone mildly accusatory. Her head rested against his chest, and she listened to his heartbeat.

“Only because I thought you did not care whether you lost me or not,” he whispered.

It was then that Alexandra let herself cry in front of the man she had learned to accept as her friend. Her lover. Her husband.

They stood like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, finding comfort in each other and the sounds of their heartbeats.

Alexandra was prepared to give Oliver all her truths now—all her secrets. But then, she felt his body stiffen.

He gently pulled away from her and asked, “What is John Prescott’s role in all of this, Alexandra? Does he know about J. Lewis?”