Chapter 4

Chapter Four

“ T he breakfast is delicious, Your Grace,” Alexandra murmured, looking refreshed even after the late night. “My compliments to your cook.”

Oliver noted the pink hue on her cheeks, unburdened by rouge. He realized he had not previously looked at her up close with the morning light caressing her errant freckles and bow-shaped lips.

He couldn’t believe how much had changed between yesterday and today.

This morning, he woke up with his wife in his house.

She had even almost ended up in his bed a few hours ago.

Perhaps she had made the right decision by pushing him away, but it left him with a lingering disappointment that still fogged his brain.

With any other woman, he would have been more forward. The chit’s gown would have been stripped off in minutes—stockings, stays, and all. With Alexandra, he had to be careful, as well as patient.

He knew she was an innocent, and she could only respond to something physical. Oliver did not want her to do something she would later regret.

At least she was staying in London with him. She understood the folly of finding other accommodations when her husband was right there, and that was a start.

A start to what?

Oliver groaned when he realized the big step he had taken. That was not how things were supposed to be. He was living a solitary life—married but with a bachelor’s privileges.

Alexandra could barely meet his eyes across the breakfast table. Instead, she seemed to find her teacup fascinating.

“Well, Remy likes being called chef de cuisine , partly to remind everyone that he was trained in France. He is also your chef, Duchess. You are, after all, my wife,” he finally responded.

From the way she glanced left and right at the servants standing and waiting for their orders, and flattened her lips, she seemed to be holding back her words. Her back had become even more rigid if that was even possible.

She took a deep breath, and Oliver noticed how her bosom rose. He reminded himself to send a carriage to Lady Barrington’s townhouse to bring her lady’s maid. Someone would have to restrain Alexandra’s generous, ahem , curves.

For his sake.

He was tempted enough just hours ago, and he couldn’t imagine anyone else lewdly eyeing his wife. That might cause another fight, and the one with Percy had to be enough for now.

“For about a month, Your Grace,” she said in an uncharacteristically low voice. “Then, I will retreat to the countryside. Or, perhaps our arrangement has a closer expiration date…” she trailed off, her eyes wide and expectant.

She seemed eager to end their agreement, and for some reason, Oliver wasn’t pleased.

“I believe I had mentioned my trepidation about divorce. It may ruin your reputation, Duchess. It will barely taint mine because it is already in tatters, but yours…” Oliver let the implication hang, watching her intently.

Alexandra’s eyelashes fluttered as she struggled to make eye contact. Even though she was evidently nervous about the new arrangement, Oliver could detect some defiance there.

Her emerald-green eyes flashed with annoyance. “I do not care for my reputation, Your Grace. I barely have family other than my cowardly father. I have no younger sisters whose marriage prospects will depend on my decisions,” she responded, her lips quivering. “And you? I doubt that your reputation is truly in tatters. This world is made for men to do as they please.”

“You may be surprised that it is not completely so, Duchess,” Oliver said, lifting his chin.

He was growing frustrated with the way they had to sit across from each other, but that had always been the norm.

Sitting apart. Sleeping in separate rooms.

“A divorced woman has options,” she argued, her eyes glazed, possibly imagining herself being granted complete freedom.

Oliver reminded himself that he should not even care about their situation. She was merely a young woman who had been foisted on him by her father.

It was pitiful, really, to be sacrificed by your own flesh and blood. He was more fortunate than her. His sister had ventured into a gambling hell to save him; he at least had Catherine.

“Some men see widows and divorcees as easy prey,” Oliver warned.

“By then, it would not be your concern,” Alexandra responded stubbornly.

Her husband would have believed the strong facade if not for her chewing on her lips. She didn’t seem excited about the possibility of men pursuing her after her divorce.

Somehow, that gave Oliver some satisfaction.

“Even so, I should not be here,” she murmured, again finding her teacup more fascinating than her husband.

“I see you’re enjoying the honey cake,” Oliver commented as she fastidiously cut into her slice.

He noticed how graceful her fingers were, as if they were made for making music. He faintly remembered something about her mother playing the pianoforte and her father boasting about her musical talents.

As if just playing the piano could make a woman a good wife.

It was then that Alexandra looked him right in the eyes. She was blushing, the pink on her cheeks turning bright red. But it was more than that. She kept staring at him, and Oliver felt something strange in his belly.

It wasn’t lust, like with the other women, but a strangely pleasant sinking sensation.

His pulse quickened as her gaze lingered. He was having trouble taking his eyes off her and did not like it.

Not one bit.

He clenched his jaw and looked down at the remnants of his breakfast on his plate.

Why?

Why was it difficult to tear his gaze away from her?

She was beautiful, yes, but Oliver had seen many beautiful women in his life. Most of them would gladly become his lovers. Even with courtesans, fallen debutantes, and divorcees, he had never held their gazes unless to give them a knowing look. A challenge. The haze of lust usually got rid of all the details.

He was slightly annoyed—only slightly. Women usually agreed with him quickly, but his wife didn’t seem in a rush to take his side. She was obstinate, nothing like he had expected her to be.

What had he expected?

The woman licking away the crumbs of honey cake on her lips looked tame and innocent enough, but she wasn’t as obedient as he thought she was.

For some reason, he wanted her to look at him a little differently. Perhaps as a friend? He absentmindedly nodded at that. A lover?

He squinted at her and slowly shook his head. She glanced at him strangely.

“Well?” he prompted.

“I like the flavor,” she said, nodding agreeably.

But Oliver suspected she liked the cake more than she let on; there were mere crumbs left, and she had barely touched the rest of her breakfast.

Oliver was tempted to let her eat the rest of her honey cake while he looked her in the eye.

“Oh, do you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he rose from his chair.

The sudden movement made Alexandra flinch. She closed her mouth just as quickly, her cheeks pinkening again.

“Are you finished with your breakfast?” she squeaked, looking at him with alarm.

He was amused to see the hunger in her eyes as she looked over the rest of her breakfast.

“Finish your breakfast, Duchess. I am simply going against decorum and will sit next to you,” he said as he strode toward her. “How can I be the master of this house if I cannot make my own rules?”

“That sounds like a novel idea, Your Grace. But what is the purpose of such a rule?” Her eyes followed his movement, and her shoulders rose to her ears and stayed like that until he sat beside her.

“Why, to get to know my wife, of course.” His tone was slightly teasing, but he realized he truly wanted to get to know her.

A footman stepped forward from his post by the wall and, as if he could read the Duke’s mind, poured tea into the cup to his right.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Oliver acknowledged as the footman retreated.

He thought he heard approaching footsteps, urgent and a little louder than normal. Did he have visitors early this morning?

“You don’t have to be this close, Your Grace,” his wife protested in a low voice.

Oliver somehow suspected that she would have screamed at him if not for their present company.

This close, he could smell her scent.

Violets. Interesting.

“Oh, but you must finish your breakfast. Let me pour some honey on your bread.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Her tone was no longer as polite, but he had already reached for the honey.

His hand brushed against hers, and she instinctively recoiled, squaring her shoulders. The movement pushed her breasts forward.

Oliver didn’t pull back his hand. Instead, he studied her face. When she pulled back her hand, he let out a long breath slowly.

“Stay with me here in London, Duchess.”

Oliver made the offer not because he wanted her there; it was simply convenient. That way, he would not need to worry about her whereabouts or her plans. The incident at Devil’s Draw was proof that he had to keep a close eye on her. Much like his sister, she could very well disguise herself and get into the gambling hell again.

“I am no longer who I was a year ago, Your Grace. You and my father thought that I was merely an object to be bartered.”

“It was not how it happened,” he replied.

“Would you like to keep me here, as the pitiful wife everyone calls a weakling, while you continue your affairs?”

Oliver was shocked by the bitterness in Alexandra’s voice. No, not bitterness, he decided. She was right to question him. He had not sought her out for the whole year they were married. It took her attempt to save her father to draw him back to her. For him to remember that she existed.

“I have not been with another woman since the day we got married, Duchess. Yes, I was a rake of the first order for a long time, but I am not completely without honor.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at his declaration. Of course, she would not believe him.

“Then set me free, Your Grace. Set yourself free.”

Oliver realized that it was more difficult to argue with the woman up close. Her scent was subtle, but her presence was not. He was aware of their proximity—something he was responsible for—and the way her eyes flashed with every word that came out of her lips.

He had grown so tired of women with dull eyes and agreeable words—Alexandra was a breath of fresh air.

Or rather, a hurricane. One that threatened to upend his life and leave him standing in the wreckage, wondering why he had ever thought a breeze was harmless.

“Were you in love with another man, Duchess, when you married me? Is that perhaps why you insist we divorce?” he found himself asking.

Oliver’s chest and throat had tightened with an anger he could not understand. It was one thing to use his fists at Devil’s Draw—more for release than for money. It was another to make this woman agree with him.

A shadow seemed to have passed over her face, but even that could not stop him from watching the emotions flicker in her lively eyes and tug at her plump lips.

“What? No! It isn’t about a man!” Her eyes held his, and he wanted to believe that he saw honest indignation there. “I am seeking my independence, Your Grace. Nothing more. After I save my father, I?—”

“You still want to save that cad?” he scoffed, affronted.

His wife opened her mouth to speak, but the distinctive sound of a man clearing his throat halted her.

“Pardon me, Your Grace. A message has been delivered for you.”

Both Alexandra and Oliver were startled. They realized that they had been so focused on their argument—and each other—that they had not noticed the servant standing to Oliver’s left, a silver tray in hand.

Breathing hard but trying to hide it, the Duke snatched the envelope off the tray and ripped it open while his wife gaped at him.

“It is a message from our neighbors, the Dowager Countess of Layton and her son, the Earl of Layton. They’ve heard that you are staying here. They want us to come over for dinner whenever we are ready.”

“How did they find out so quickly?” Alexandra wondered aloud.

“Possibly your appearance at Devil’s Draw. We must make an appearance or two, Duchess. They know you are here. They are like bloodhounds.”

“How would those same hounds behave if we seek a divorce?”

“Oh, it could prove quite unpleasant, indeed.”