Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

“ I bought some bread and a few other things,” Alexandra blurted, looking flustered.

Oliver thought there was something between himself and his wife. Maybe it was respect or physical attraction, but there was something there—intangible but definite. However, seeing her arriving home early in the morning, looking disheveled, made him wonder if he was fooling himself. They were not even friends.

They were strangers whose lives had collided because of a gambling debt.

Then again, she was still his wife. Alexandra was his . She should not be sneaking out, doing only God knew what.

She was wearing a heavy cloak over her dress, the lace peeking as if attempting to tell everyone that a duchess was pretending to be a commoner returning from her morning walk.

There was nothing ordinary about Alexandra. Her face had no artifice, but her emerald-green eyes were enough to catch people’s attention.

Oliver wondered who had been gazing into them this morning. He shuddered at the thought and clenched his hands into fists. He suddenly felt the urge to punch the wall.

Perhaps he could visit the Duke of Oakdale, his friend and boxing partner. He needed to release the pent-up frustration.

Oliver let his wife in. It was not customary, but he’d been waiting for her for more than an hour. He also did not want a servant to see her in her current state.

“Daisy is the one tasked with buying bread at the market, Duchess. There is no need for you to concern yourself with that,” he informed her, his voice sharp.

When he closed the front door, the hall seemed dimmer than usual, even though his townhouse was often described as brightly lit by his friends.

Suddenly, he was taken aback by the way the decor looked ostentatious with his wife standing in the middle, wrapped in her shabby cloak, her curls unraveling.

What could have made her locks tumble down and her cheeks flush? He did not want to consider the possibilities, and yet they were ramming into his head.

“Oh. I did not know that, Your Grace,” she responded. He saw her lower lip tremble ever so slightly. She chewed on it. “However, I am used to going for walks in the early morning.”

“Take Ellen with you next time. She seems loyal to you and will take your side no matter what.”

Oliver surprised himself by saying those words—full of suspicion—in a monotone that somehow made the accusation stronger.

“What do you mean by that?” Alexandra asked as she fumbled with her cloak. Her voice had risen, and her fingers trembled.

None of it painted a good picture, and Oliver felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

He reasoned that he was merely concerned about his reputation. He had nearly ruined it once. His wife did not have to add fuel to the fire.

“She told the other servants that you were indisposed when—let me help you with that.” Oliver stepped closer to her and helped loosen the tight knot around her neck.

He was so distracted by her fumbling that he had to stop his questioning.

“I-I can do it,” she stammered, even as his fingers deftly loosened the knot.

Suddenly, his fingers grazed the swell of her breasts. Her skin was soft beneath the rough calluses. She gasped softly.

Oliver stiffened, his fingers still on the cord, but at least the knot had loosened. The knot in his stomach, however, lingered. It tightened, painful but almost pleasurable.

He looked down at the soft skin that he had just touched. The mounds were turning a rosy pink. But, oh , she was so sensitive that the color spread so quickly beneath her bodice.

Yet, here she was, stubbornly refusing to tell him what she was really doing. Gamblers knew when they were being lied to or when something was being hidden from them—at least most of the time.

“As I was saying, your maid lied to my servants for you.”

“I was not well this morning,” she replied stubbornly, meeting his intense gaze.

There was a flicker of fear in her eyes—one that he didn’t expect. One that he didn’t want to see. If only he saw defiance in her eyes, for it would mean she was telling the truth—that she was merely buying bread.

“You look well enough, Duchess,” he responded, pointedly looking at her pinkening décolletage.

Oliver wondered if the woman he married was capable of infidelity. She did not seem too interested in anyone else, and he believed her when she said that she was not in love with another. For her, independence was what she desired. Freedom.

He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. Her eyes widened, as if she was just realizing what she looked like after allegedly buying bread—rumpled and slightly perspiring.

So, yes, seeing her blushing and flustered, it was easy to imagine that she had a tryst before coming back home.

His fists clenched at the idea that she wanted someone so terribly that she snuck out of the house to see them at first light. He imagined her thinking about another man as soon as her eyes opened.

No, it didn’t sound like Alexandra at all. Oliver reasoned that it wasn’t consistent with her character. But love could change people—for better or for worse.

His throat felt raw at the thought, but he shook it away quickly. It did not mean he would not try to find out what she had been doing.

Then again, Oliver did not really know his wife.

What if…?

A nagging thought crept into his mind. What if Alexandra was raising money for her father behind his back?

But how? What can a young woman do to earn enough money to pay off substantial gambling debts? She refused to use her allowance.

“I suppose it’s the morning sunshine and fresh air, Your Grace. Perhaps you are right. I may have to take Ellen with me on my next venture,” Alexandra said airily, having composed herself.

She tossed her head, making her stray curls bounce against her coiffure.

Oliver decided at that moment that his wife would not go on another venture. Not without his knowledge.

And perhaps not without him.

“You’re here to check the state of your wife’s finances. Is she doing worse than you once did, Your Grace? Forgive me for asking, but does she also gamble? Does she buy too many clothes?” Oliver’s solicitor, Henry Fields, had a cigar dangling from his lips while he rattled off the series of questions.

The room was smoky and dim, reminiscent of the domain of a gambling hell owner than a solicitor’s office.

“The Duchess has no such proclivities. However, her father is drowning in debt. She attempted to pay it off, but her money was not enough. Still, she had a considerable amount with her even though she barely used her allowances. It makes me wonder how and where she got the money.”

“Hmm.”

The noncommittal answer annoyed Oliver. He was willing to pay good money to investigate his wife, and the solicitor seemed not to take it as seriously.

“I need you to investigate her financial activities. Does she have a source of income that I don’t know about?”

“Are you concerned that the Duchess might be involved in something… illegal?” the solicitor asked, resting his cigar on a tray, the smoke curling up in the poorly ventilated room.

Oliver sighed. He did not know what to think. He had let a beautiful stranger into his home, and his simple days of avoiding vice, boxing for entertainment, and flirting with ladies were over.

Things were not simple when his wife was more secretive than an owl—or a slithering snake.

When he went home that night, he was gratified to hear the strains of the piano.

There, in a previously unused music room, Alexandra sat at the piano, playing a melody he was not familiar with.

It was beautiful, haunting, and sad.

He stood quietly by the door of the music room, not daring to make any noise lest she stop.

He had known his wife was talented, but the way her fingers flew over the keys… it was mastery. She was playing like a virtuoso, someone who had been playing concertos for years.

But Alexandra had not. Instead, she had been imprisoned in a loveless marriage and sequestered in the countryside.

The first strains of music lulled him into complacency. They then swerved into darker territory, growing faster. Alexandra’s curls bounced as her fingers expertly moved over the keys, her body entirely absorbed in the performance. The crescendo built, fierce and powerful, until it felt as though the room itself was holding its breath.

And so was Oliver.

Then, without a warning, the music stopped, the final note hanging in the air like an unanswered question. Alexandra’s hands stilled, but she did not turn around.

“I didn’t know you played so beautifully,” Oliver said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make her shoulders tense up.

She looked over her shoulder, her eyes soft and distant, still lost in the music.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, rising gracefully from the piano bench, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Oliver countered, his gaze fixed on her. “This music… it’s haunting.”

A flicker of something—sadness, perhaps—crossed her face. “It’s an old melody from my childhood,” she said, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the piano. “I used to play it often.”

“That was remarkable, Duchess,” he said, taking a step closer, his voice warmer than he had intended. “I wish I’d known this side of you sooner.”

She looked at him, her eyes betraying a hint of vulnerability. “There are many things you do not know about me, Your Grace.”

Her words hung in the air, both a statement and a challenge. Oliver took another step forward, still holding her gaze.

“Well then,” he said quietly, “I had better start learning.”

Her eyes flickered to his lips, and for an agonizing second, he thought she might step closer. The tension between them was palpable, the kind that could so easily pull them together or break them apart.

But then she straightened up, the cool mask of composure slipping back into place.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she whispered as she slipped past him and out of the room.

Oliver stood there, watching her go, her haunting melody still echoing in the air.

And that was when realization dawned on him.

Music .

That could be the key to finding out who Alexandra Audley truly was.