A child who’d appeared early, apparently sired by an Asian lover.
Bloody hell, was it happening again? “Did you mark my need of an heir, and grasp at the opportunity to make another man’s child a duke?”
Had that been her reason all along? Why her behavior had been so strange? He thought of her blurted marriage proposal, her artless seduction, her offer to resume even after they’d been interrupted by Rose.
Had her intention been to get him inside her no matter the circumstances?
“I’d never!” she cried. “Please. It’s not that—” She broke off, swallowing a note of hysteria before asking, “What are you going to do?”
The anxiety in her voice tugged at him, which brought his rage surging back.
“I’m not going to annul the marriage, if that’s what you’re asking. Not until I can be sure one way or the other. Despite how I look, I’m not a monster, you know.” His voice belied his claim, as it could have belonged to the coldest demon in hell. “The terms of our agreement haven’t changed. Funds in exchange for heirs. Isn’t that how you so charmingly put it?” Because, damn his soul, he still wanted her. Still burned for her. Despite the bleak poison curdling what was left of his heart, his body insistently throbbed for the ambrosia he’d found between her thighs.
As was her bedeviling way, she’d aroused more desire in the dark than an entire household of painted French courtesans lit by golden lanterns.
“Then … should we … resume?” She sounded as though the prospect of a night in his arms held as much joy for her as a night spent in the iron maiden.
Had she always felt thus? Revolted by him? Perhaps Rose had been brutally honest back at Castle Redmayne. Perhaps she’d seen what he did not.
He frightened and disgusted the woman who’d done her level best to seduce him. But, come to think of it, her repugnance had been evident in their every interaction. Hell, she’d nearly shot him at Torcliff. Her ridiculous lists. Her visceral reaction tonight when he’d established intimacy …
Fucking hell. She’d asked him to douse the bloody lights. What validation did he need beyond that? She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
How had he been so blind?
Because genuine feeling had glimmered in her eyes when she’d cupped his face and called him handsome in the darkness of her doorway.
He’d believed her.
And, just like that, he was no longer angry at her. Only at himself. Had there ever lived such an absolute dupe?
“How long until your monthly courses?” he asked on an exhausted sigh.
“I—I’m sorry … Pardon?”
“I’m not unsympathetic to the woman’s plight.” He summoned into his voice an unperturbed tranquility. “I do not insist on being the first man who’s fucked you, but I do insist on being the unquestioned father of your child.”
“I’m not with child,” she vowed. “Please. I can’t explain, but I can swear to you that—”
He wanted no more empty promises. No more lies. No more secrets. No. More. “I’ll ask you only once again.” A foreign, acerbic vehemence crept into his tone, one that had sent warlords and beasts alike scurrying away in fear. “When are you scheduled to bleed next?”
“Ten days.” Her voice had become so small, that something withered inside of him, as well.
“Ten days,” he clipped. “Very well. When it arrives—if it arrives—I’ll come for you after.” He snapped up his jacket and shirt and stormed out into the night.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’d taken Alexandra an alarming portion of the next morning to search the entire first- and second-class decks for her missing husband.
Where could a duke hide on a ship?
And what would happen once she found him?
She should have dressed and gone to him last night instead of awaiting his return, sobbing quietly until exhaustion claimed her.
His valet had awoken her upon discreetly sliding into their rooms to obtain some of his things.
As Alexandra hunted, she berated herself. For such an educated woman, she could certainly be a magnificent dunce. How had she overlooked such a tiny detail as her missing virginity? She’d read about a hymen in certain texts and had known she no longer possessed one. However, it’d never once crossed her mind that a man would notice.
That he’d be so furious.
That he’d draw certain conclusions.
It had never crossed her mind because she simply would never have considered such a deception. Despite her terrible secrets, she’d never been a devious woman. She was a scientist, after all. She dealt in facts and data. Fictions and fibs never served her but the one.
The one keeping her neck from a noose.
What sort of woman would try to pass off her bastard as a duke’s heir? As any man’s child, really. To do something so shameful was abjectly unforgivable.
Alexandra put a hand to her belly, where unease mixed with relief. There were situations where a woman could be so desperate, so destitute, she’d be driven to that sort of deceit. The world was a cruel place, even crueler to the helpless.
“Thank God,” she whispered for perhaps the hundredth time. Thank God de Marchand hadn’t sired a child that night. Because, as much as she ached for one now, the evidence so long ago would have been damning.
So, what should she do about today’s disaster?
She’d absolutely choked when faced with her husband’s fury last night.
It wasn’t that she’d forgotten his banked rage, it was just that Redmayne seemed to discard it in her presence. As though he’d forgotten it when she was nearby. He’d treated her with such tender deference. Like she was a treasure he’d uncovered. Something precious.
That was the case no longer, and his rage was currently directed at her.
Exhaustion and despair drove her to the railing of the first-class promenade deck where she did her best to breathe in a few balancing inhales. Stark taupe cliffs lined the shore of Normandy, capped with grasses so lush and green, they reminded her of Devonshire. As a Channel crossing could be concluded in mere hours from Dover to Calais in these large steamships, one from Maynemouth to Le Havre was conducted overnight.
In no time, they’d dock and disembark.
Alexandra was desperate to smooth things over with Redmayne before then.
She’d only have to find him first.
“Duchesse?” The aged Frankish male voice startled her from her reverie, and Alexandra turned to find a short but stout man standing at the rail with her. Beneath his golden traveling hat, his kind chocolate eyes, bracketed by an attractive web of fine lines, threatened to dissolve her composure into a puddle of liquid tears. The man had a timeless quality about his middle age, and the Rogues used to speculate about just how old he might be. A well-worn forty-five or an aged sixty? It was still impossible to tell. He’d barely aged a day in ten years. He’d traded his dirt-smudged gardner’s kit for a smart morning suit more appropriate to his position.
“Jean-Yves,” Alexandra gasped in surprise. “Whatever are you doing on the ship? Is Cecelia with you?” Surely, she’d have more sense than to accompany her, uninvited, to her honeymoon?
“Duchesse, est-ce que vous allez bien?” He ignored her question, placing a careful hand on her elbow, exerting the same pressure as one would on a piece of blown glass.