No such miracle occurred.
Alexandra turned in her chair to heed the man, and Piers set his jaw against a maelstrom of churlish resentment.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” Forsythe began, lifting his glass as he prepared a toast. “It is with humbled gratitude and fervent anticipation I accepted the commission to become the next foreman of this exciting archeological expedition. So often, as surveyors of the past, we archeologists are called to distant locales where the climates, both political and ecological, are so very inhospitable. It is in such places, one learns to appreciate, to admire and esteem, those closest to him.”
Forsythe’s gaze slid to Alexandra.
Piers’s grip on his knife tightened as suspicion churned the meal he’d enjoyed to bricks of disgust.
“I am fortunate in this particular vocation, in this lovely country, that we can study the ancients of our own vast and violent English history, rather than those of another mystical society,” the doctor continued, swinging back to the company at large. “Fortunate, indeed, that the descendant of our Viking specimen is not only among the living, but among us here, tonight.” He turned to their table, directing all attention not to Alexandra, but to Piers, himself.
“To His Grace, Piers Gedrick Atherton, the Duke of Redmayne, and his new and incomparable duchess. May your marriage be long and fruitful.”
“À votre santé!” the audience toasted, and Alexandra turned to Piers, her smile radiant as she urged him to stand, to accept the applause beginning to swell. When he didn’t instantly comply, she stood, obliging him to do so, or to risk disrespecting her in public.
Piers didn’t hear their applause as he stood.
He still contemplated the meaning of the word “sin.” The sins his wife might have committed in her past. The ones she might commit against him in the future.
The sin he wanted to commit with her here. Now. Iniquities so fiendish, even the devil would blush.
“Would Their Graces indulge us in a waltz to begin the evening?” Forsythe stroked his mustache above a cheeky grin and the assemblage made affirmative noises as the chamber musicians thrummed the first notes of Strauss.
Piers advanced, thinking Forsythe would look a great deal better wearing the champagne rather than drinking it. Such seemingly innocuous words. Appreciate. Admire. Esteem.
But not when it came to his wife.
My wife. The beast within him snarled. Mine.
Was he too quick to believe her when she claimed there was not—nor had there been—a relationship between them? Forsythe’s look had certainly conveyed more. And for a man who disliked Piers as heartily as he was certain Forsythe did … why would he take such pains to show him such public courtesy?
Curious, indeed.
What Piers wouldn’t have given to have been able to catch the look Alexandra had given back to Forsythe.
Had it been one of similar meaning?
A small hand slipped into his, as Alexandra stepped out in front of him, a vision of mahogany hair, emerald silk, and metallic gems as she glided past a few tables, the topiary, and the grand fireplace.
She nodded to Forsythe and her vapid friend—Piers forgot her name, Jane?—but then she paid them no further heed as she led Redmayne to the middle of the grand room.
Piers pulled Alexandra close, closer still as he twirled his graceful wife across the marble in a seamless, flawless waltz.
He hoped the intelligent Dr. Forsythe made some keen fucking observations. Such as, the perfect fit of her body against his. How synchronous their rhythm was. How, even though Piers was arguably the unsightliest man in the room, he could still get the most beautiful woman in the world to smile up at him, just as she did now.
Light from the chandelier gilded flecks of gold into her eyes.
She smiled despite the dark subjects of their conversation. Even though they’d spoken of God and death, scars and sin, something about the atmosphere of the evening, the gather of the west wind beyond their enchanted golden celebration, and the feel of her glorious shape locked in the circle of his arms gave Piers the fanciful sensation of dancing on a cloud.
Because, yet again, she didn’t look away from him. Even when she ought to.
She didn’t look at Forsythe. She didn’t arch her lovely neck away as propriety dictated. She kept her gaze firmly affixed to his and, for a moment, Piers thought she might possess the acumen to look past the scars on his face, through his eyes to the ones on his soul.
Those were uglier, he feared. Those would drive her away surely, even if his physical deformities did not.
For the first time, Piers’s step almost faltered as Forsythe’s form spun into view. He’d abandoned his untouched champagne and affably followed his intrepid partner—Judith?—as she dragged him to the floor.
A strange question haunted Piers, one he’d never thought to ask.
He’d been so focused on what this marriage might mean to him, his future, his legacy, his revenge, he’d never stopped to think about what it would mean for his bride.
In his mind, he’d saved her from financial ruin. Because she’d asked him to.
But what of her heart? He’d never thought to possess it before. He’d not expected to, as it wasn’t something he could equally trade for.
Could it belong to another? Had he, by taking her hand in marriage, also taken any chance at future happiness, as well?
Perhaps that was why she’d been so aloof. So reluctant.
Suspicion surged through him, chasing away the clouds upon which he danced and weighing him deftly to the ground. He gazed into her eyes. Such beautiful eyes, a brown so amber that the shades in her hair set a certain fire to the color. Not red, but close.
If only he didn’t read secrets in their depths. If only her thoughts weren’t so infuriatingly opaque.
Perhaps she wasn’t dishonest with him about feelings for Forsythe, but with herself. Sometimes Alexandra was the most logical woman he’d ever met. And other times, she spoke the most utter nonsense. She’d claimed to have no prior romantic entanglements, and no interest in such.
And yet, she’d taken a lover.
She claimed that lover hadn’t been Forsythe.
In this moment, so much of him wanted to believe her, even though his shallow, black heart screamed that to do so would be folly.
What if he fell for her? What if he fucked her?
What if she then gave birth in nine months to a golden-haired genius with Forsythe’s unctuous features? The very idea had him contemplating walling the bastard in with his ancestor and leaving him to rot.
Piers would hate himself for allowing it. For being as weak against her multitude of charms as his father had been.
He’d hate her for being so deceitful.
He’d hate the child for not being his.
After the life he’d led, a deception of this magnitude would be his undoing.
He couldn’t allow this fate. No matter how much his body yearned for her. No matter what sort of spell she weaved with her wit and her wisdom.
He would wait to claim her. He would wait until the machinations of fate were more under his control.
He would not allow himself to fall. It was better that way, for them both.
If he never loved her, he could never hate her.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t set about some machinations of his own.
No matter what happened in ten days—eight now—he could still lay siege to her body. He could—he would—pleasure her, and then he’d take what pleasure she could give. If two people such as they couldn’t share trust or love, at least they could indulge in this. This connection threaded through the warp and weft of his very fabric, thrumming within him a constant erotic longing.