Epilogue

EPILOGUE

ALESSANDRA

I sit at the window and stare outside, huffing as people pass by. Two weeks until my birthday. Two weeks until my debut. Two weeks until I'm officially a woman.

Unfortunately, due to actions beyond my control, I find myself locked away in Redleigh's London house. Trouble with his friends' wives, or some such nonsense. But what has that do with me?

With a huff, I walk back over to the pianoforte and glare at it. Lessons for this. Lessons for that. Fittings for this. Fussing over that. The one person I want to spend time with is always absent, leaving me in the hands of tutors and finishing governesses.

As my guardian, Redleigh should be the one seeing to my needs and ensuring I'm learning how I need to. A smile curves my lips as I slide my fingers down the keys. Granted, with him constantly being gone, it has afforded me some freedoms.

I look back over at the governess and watch as she does her needlepoint. Who needs skills in that? Honestly. What I truly wish to learn can't be taught with some needle and thread. Besides, once I wed, there will be others who will do that task for me.

Feigning a pain, I lay the back of my hand against my head. "Might I lay down for a bit? My head aches and throbs."

"Certainly," she cries out, setting her needlepoint on the chair next to her. "Shall I fetch someone to attend to you?"

"No thank you. I will be quite well."

I do my best to not lengthen my stride as I leave the room, showing an excitement I shouldn't have. There's only so much education I can take. If I have to practice one more dance step, I might scream. Besides, I only have to wait a few more hours until it's time to look at my new dresses for the season.

Once I'm out of earshot, I practically skip down the hall, making my way to my guardian's study. Who knows when he'll be back and how much time I have to explore the contents of his books. The fact that they're strictly forbidden only means that I need to be careful with how I do my investigations.

The door closes behind me with a soft click. Anticipation drips down my spine as I take in the masculinity dripping about the room. Dark woods and leathers fill the space, making it dark and ominous. I long to throw the thick curtains back to let in some extra sunlight, but then the grumpy duke will know I've been in here.

Forbidden… Like the west portion of the house. Just thinking the word sends a shiver through my body as I run my fingers along the desk. His scent is strong here—dark masculinity wrapped up in leather and parchment. No one in Italy ever smelled so good. But then, as a child, I'd probably never think about it that way.

Now that I'm on the cusp of being a woman, I can't help but observe things that have remained elusive until now. I shouldn't notice how his broad shoulders fill out his clothes. I shouldn't notice how his deep, growly voice makes me feel things I cannot define. And I most certainly shouldn't notice how my heart races whenever he's nearby.

He's my guardian and I'm his ward. Some lines should never be crossed. Unfortunately, all it does is make me curious as to why those lines are there in the first place.

As I go to leave his desk, my thigh bumps along the edge, jostling loose a hidden compartment. A thrill makes my fingers tremble as I look through its contents. Unfortunately, it's just a binding of papers. Probably nothing important. Still though…

I turn to the most recent entry, and my heart pounds in my chest as I read my name.

April 6th, 1813,

What am I to do with Alessandra? She is far too curious for her own good. Even more, I must guard myself and the secrets of this house, the secrets from me she will, no doubt, try to ferret out.

How she vexes me. Everywhere I go, she's there. Her eyes ask questions I cannot, will not answer. How can I explain to her my needs, my desires? How can I tell her the man she looks at as a guardian is a depraved fool? With each day closer to her birthday, I'm tormented by the woman she has grown up to be.

I can't want her.

I shouldn't want her.

God help me, but I crave my nettlesome little thorn.

Sounds echo down the hall, alerting me to the passage of time. Soon, my guardian will be home. I shove the diary back into the slot and close it as best as I can. Heat fans my face as I slip out into the hallway unawares. As quick as I can, I fly to my room and lie upon the bed.

That way, if anyone questions my whereabouts, they'll see me as the invalid in need of space to breathe and recover. My hand trembles as I place it over my pounding heart. My guardian craves me? The stern man who glowers at me over every meal and forces me to perform a task again and again until it's perfect craves me?

Vibrations fly down my body as I lie there, unsure of what to do or think. Somewhere betwixt my thighs, an odd ache and throb distracts me, drawing my fingers lower. The skirts refuse to lift fast enough.

Eventually, I wrest them up, allowing me access to my most intimate part. Wetness coats my fingertips as I glide them over puffy, swollen, slick tissue. They glisten in the light as I examine them, amazed at the sticky substance. It's not blood. What is it then?

I explore further, grazing against a bit of engorged flesh. A gasp wrenches from my throat as pure pleasure races through my veins. Terrified, I toss my skirts down and study the door. Thankfully, no one comes in, but I have to wonder exactly what these reactions are.

The End