She plucked it from his hand, tapping him on the arm with it. “We scientists do not proclaim, we deduce.”
He merely laughed. “Now that you’re a duchess, you should indulge in the odd proclamation. Much less work than a deduction, and yet often just as startingly effective.”
She wondered if the world would ever recognize that the Terror of Torcliff had never been a terror at all. But a man. A man possessed of so much wit, skill, charm, intellect, and humor, he was forever surprising her. Often delighting her.
Enchanting her, even.
If she did anything for her husband, she vowed, it would be to make certain everyone else accepted that, as well.
Finally exhausted after hours of shopping, they strolled along the waterfront, where he’d drawn her into idle conversation about her family. They’d wandered into a café offering the most delectable pastries filled with delicacies both savory and sweet. As their nibble became a gorge, they spoke of her antics with the Red Rogues as an impetuous girl.
For once, her girlhood memories weren’t tainted with what came after. She could look at the joy and the innocence she’d shared with her dearest friends and appreciate it for the treasure the relationships had been.
That they still were.
He’d been appropriately charmed and chagrined at her account of the time Cecelia had been caught reading a lurid novel in a deportment class. The mistress had forced her to read a passage aloud, and then almost expired from the vapors as poor Cecelia read a particularly salacious scene between two star-crossed lovers.
They’d savored sumptuous custards as they spoke of Francesca’s dark wit, inflexible will, and impetuous temper, painting horrific alternate futures wherein he’d actually married her.
He’d wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, and held patiently still as she picked a spot of cream from his beard with her handkerchief.
It was almost as though they had no secrets from each other.
And they almost didn’t.
On the carriage ride home, the currency in her purse was heavy at her side as she tucked her arm into Redmayne’s and rested her temple against his shoulder.
He pressed a short, temperate kiss to her forehead and patted her gloved hand indulgently.
It was the first time he’d touched her all day.
The thought drew the corners of Alexandra’s mouth into a pensive frown. He treated her as though she was a precious antique, already chipped and on the verge of breaking. Though she enjoyed his more relaxed and charming company, and was grateful for his tender care of her, she wasn’t certain she liked this new dynamic between them.
The restrained, almost virtuous edge to his need.
It very much resembled distance.
She missed the Terror of Torcliff. Rougish, wicked, assertive barbarian that he was.
They required a veritable train of porters as they swept into the hotel, and the concierge met them at the bottom of the stairs with a message.
The laborers had tirelessly dug out the entry of the catacombs, enough for the engineer to safely go in and investigate it in the daylight on the morrow if Redmayne desired to be present.
The reminder of the danger smothered their good humor.
They didn’t speak of it through their tense dinner, as a mighty wind curled the whitecapped waves high against the beach. Nor did they mention anything of import as they mounted the three flights of stairs to find their suites at the end of the evening.
They didn’t speak about much of anything, in fact, as there was too much to say, and nowhere to begin.
He kissed her at the door, and bade her a solemn, tender good night. “Come to me,” he invited. “If you need anything.”
Alexandra stood in her doorway, an invitation perched on her tongue as she watched his broad, straight back until it disappeared into his rooms.
She’d so much to ponder and to dread. The meeting. The money. The murder. All the possible outcomes of a confrontation.
It settled her mind, somewhat, to learn the catacombs were now open. Though she battled nerves about ever setting foot in there again, she also hadn’t received any new notes about an alternate meeting place.
Now that she had the money, she was anxious to get on with it.
She obsessed over the identity of who would reveal themselves to her as Constance dressed her for bed with an extra attention that both bemused and moved her.
Once they’d bade each other good night, she selected a skirt, wide belt, and simple blouse from her purchases she could hide beneath her dark cloak.
That accomplished, Alexandra perched on her bed and glanced at the clock. Quarter to ten. She still had over three hours. Three hours to allow the howl of the wind to slowly drive her mad.
Drifting to her husband’s door, she heard the murmur of voices and the faint rustles of footsteps over the din of the night. She pressed her ear to the cool wood, listening to the masculine percussions of his friendly but perfunctory conversation with his valet.
Though it made her feel pathetic, she stayed like that, letting his voice and proximity create a welcome distraction. The steps faded, and the light was doused, but for the faint glow of what she assumed was a bedside lamp.
Alexandra heard the protestations of the bed as he settled his heavy frame into it. Finally, she drifted to her own bed, collapsing onto her back.
His presence thrummed through the wall with an almost palpable vibration, and Alexandra occupied herself by picturing him beneath the enormous canopy, his brawny limbs stretched long and splayed in indolent repose.
Her body came alive at the image that invoked, tingling with a restless, anticipatory sensation she summarily rejected.
What did he do before sleep claimed him? Did he read? Or ponder the view of the hectic sea? He didn’t strike her as a man who would keep a journal, though often explorers such as they were known to do so.
Did he think about her? Or write about her? What would he say?
Did he still want her?
Tomorrow, he’d offered. Or whenever you’re ready.
Tomorrow was never guaranteed, for anyone, especially them. The threat to her life hadn’t passed, and she faced a possible enemy tonight with obscure but obviously nefarious intentions. What if the money wasn’t enough anymore? What if the entire world discovered her crime?
Could Redmayne protect her then? Would he? It was one thing to keep the secret of a victim, but another thing, entirely, to perjure oneself for a murderess. One who’d put your life in danger on multiple occasions.
Redmayne suspected his own enemies to be responsible for the recent attempts on their lives, but he’d also noted that it was her appearance that started the happenings in the first place.
It didn’t make sense that a blackmailer would want their target dead.
But she wasn’t, was she? She’d never truly been harmed.
Could he be so insidious, so ingenious, that he’d meant for her to survive everything?
Could it be that his aim was to terrorize her, to illustrate just how easily he could take everyone she cared about from her if she failed to pay?
Which now included her husband. A man she’d only known for nine days.
Ten, at the stroke of midnight.
She tossed and turned, wresting herself into a sitting position as a memory of something he’d said tore through her.
The idea that I could have died without making love to you is untenable. Impossible.
She made a sound of pure disbelief as a not altogether foreign ache settled low in her belly. Lower. Intimate muscles clenched around a slick sort of emptiness the moment before she sprang from the bed.