Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Ye always draw the mountains or your sisters, but ye have nae drawn me since that drawing ye sent me,” Alasdair declared one evening, his voice low and teasing as they stood in the soft golden light of the studio he had gifted her.
Elizabeth’s pencil paused mid-stroke, eyes flicking up to meet his.
“Well, that may be true, but does that mean you must be in my studio without a shirt on?” Her voice betrayed a faint squeak, half amusement, half something more vulnerable.
He gave her a smirk, mischievous and dark. His hair was wild, tumbling over his shoulders like a storm just barely contained. His bare chest caught the last rays of sun, muscles defined and glistening faintly in the warmth.
“Are ye sayin’ ye’ve no self-control to sketch me like this?” he challenged, voice husky with something electric.
“You’re the one who has no self-control,” she shot back, cheeks flushing as she smoothed the page in her sketchbook. “You can’t sit still.”
“Aye, I can—at least during the day.” He lifted a brow, daring her to test him.
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. “Then that means you’ll pose for me. A real pose. One you’ll hold for several minutes.”
“And I’ll do it nude for ye,” he said, steady and serious.
Her jaw slackened, eyes wide in a mix of shock and delight. Did he truly mean it? Her nervous laughter hinted she thought it possible.
“You jest, Alasdair!”
“Naw. I’m serious. I want to see how ye see me. Captured on paper,” he said softly, voice dropping an octave as he caught the heat blooming across her cheeks.
Without a word, he slid his trousers down, baring himself fully. He stood tall and unashamed, a vision of raw, unguarded masculinity. Elizabeth’s breath hitched as her eyes drank him in, tracing every curve and plane of muscle. Desire flickered boldly behind her lashes.
The Elizabeth of old, the timid, reserved girl, would never dare such a thing. But here, now, she bit her lower lip and blinked slowly, meeting his gaze with a boldness born of the fire between them.
She sighed, half in surrender, half in wonder, her eyes roaming his body with reverent curiosity. Alasdair caught the subtle shift and smiled.
“If you truly want this, recline on that chaise. Put your arms behind your head—”
“Behind me head?” he asked, amusement clear in his voice as he obeyed.
“Yes. Exactly like that. And don’t move.”
“You’re gettin’ more bossy the better I get to ken ye,” he teased.
“Hush. You’re my subject. Quiet now. No distractions, or I stop.” Her tone was sharp, playful, and entirely in control.
He settled into the pose, fully committed. And as she watched him—her pencil moving swiftly, capturing the boldness, the strength, the intimate vulnerability—he watched her too.
“What do ye see?” he asked, voice soft.
“You,” she whispered, “every part of you… especially that arrogant smile.”
He flexed his stomach, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Arrogant?”
“Well, I’m looking at—”
“Every hard plane of me body?” he interrupted, flexing once more.
She trembled, trying to steady her hand.
“Ye’re makin’ me all flushed, ma dear wife. Me eyes burn hotter, then?” His grin deepened. “Admittin’ ye’ve been watchin’ me with keen interest?”
“You’re my subject,” she breathed.
They held a quiet, charged moment. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows. Her gaze flicked down, widening as she saw the undeniable evidence of his desire, his need for her. He watched her too, captivated by the way she looked at him—not as a stranger, but as a wife.
“Elizabeth—” he groaned her name, voice thick with want.
“Alasdair,” she answered, breathless.
“Ye see what ye do to me.” His hand stroked his hardened length, already aching for her.
That was all the invitation she needed. She dropped her sketchpad, the image of him reclining on the chaise still fresh in her mind, the taut muscles, the proud pose.
He crossed the room, and their mouths met in a fierce, hungry kiss. It was impossible to be apart; their hands roamed eagerly, desperate to touch, to feel, to claim.
“We’ll take it to the chaise, love,” he whispered against her ear, lips trailing slow kisses down her neck.
“Yes,” she breathed, eyes heavy with desire.
When her knees weakened, he caught her effortlessly and carried her to the chaise. There, he unwrapped her like the most precious gift—slowly, reverently—until she lay bare beneath him, breasts rising and falling with need, hips restless and yearning.
“That’s right, my love,” he murmured, fingers tracing the slick heat between her thighs. “Ye drew me on this very chaise. I may nae have yer talent for paintin’, but I’ve the gift for worshippin’. And that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
She gasped, arching to meet the teasing touch, but there was no time for lingering tonight. She wanted him now, fiercely and urgently.
With one swift stroke, he entered her. She cried out, raw and breathless.
“Please,” she begged, voice trembling but eager.
“Yes, darlin’?” he asked, eyes locked on hers as he moved.
“Don’t be gentle this time. I can take it.”
He obeyed, thrusting deep and fast, each movement a rhythm of need and fire. Her breasts bounced with every stroke, and he reveled in the sight, praising her with every gasp and moan.
“Bonnie lass,” he groaned, feeling her tighten around him, pulling him over the edge.
His vision blurred; he spilled himself within her, then collapsed atop her, breath ragged but soul sated.
She wrapped her arms around him, fingers threading through his hair, sighing contentedly as sleep claimed them both.
“We’re going back to London,” Elizabeth declared softly, a hint of wistfulness threading through her voice as the carriage rolled steadily along the country road.
Alasdair squeezed her hand gently, his eyes steady on hers. “Are ye nae happy we’re goin’ back?” His Scottish brogue softened the question. “We had a bonnie two weeks here.”
She blushed, recalling every stolen moment, every tender touch, every secret smile exchanged in the privacy of Redmoor Hall. The thought still felt almost surreal. Married, yes, but passionately loved and cherished in ways she had never dared imagine.
“Of course, I am,” she said, voice warm but edged with longing. “I haven’t seen my sisters in weeks. They’ll want to know everything, every little thing I’ve been up to.”
“I hope ye daenae tell them everything,” Alasdair teased, a roguish grin playing on his lips.
“Alasdair!” Elizabeth swatted his arm, laughing despite herself.
Back in London, the invitations came flooding in almost as quickly as the gossip. Elizabeth could hardly keep up.
“Another invitation!” she exclaimed, sliding an ornate envelope onto the desk with a flourish.
They sat together in the drawing room, the afternoon sun filtering through heavy curtains as they sipped lemonade, bracing themselves for the demands of the ton.
Alasdair chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought they’d be sendin’ us threats, not invitations.”
“Me too,” Elizabeth admitted, her fingers tightening slightly around the glass. “Lady Grisham made it clear I’d made the worst match possible. I half-expected society to shun me altogether.”
“Well, we have a busy season ahead,” Alasdair said, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. “When will we have time for ourselves, do ye think?”
She smiled, returning the jest. “Is that what you’re thinking? Wanting to hide away forever in our own little world?”
“That’s temptin’, Elizabeth,” he murmured, voice low, “but there’s work to be done. These events… they’re more than mere entertainments. They open doors, alliances, answers. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to show yer stepmaither how wrong she was.”
She studied him closely. He was serious, of course. More serious than he let on. She knew justice was his true north but wondered just how much of his drive stemmed from something darker: revenge.
“You were the one who suggested we stay inside, not mingle,” she teased lightly, trying to hold back the shadow that threatened to settle again.
“Aye, true enough. I apologize,” he said, brushing back his hair. “But I believe we should attend Lord Beckwith’s soiree.”
The night of the party, Elizabeth stole a glance at her reflection before stepping into the crowded drawing room.
The sapphire gown she wore clung to her curves, shimmering in the flickering candlelight. Whispers followed her every step. She looked radiant, regal, worthy of the title she now bore.
Seth approached Alasdair with an easy grin. “Your wife’s got ye turning respectable, Redmoor. I reckon your future’s looking brighter than you thought.”
Alasdair laughed. “What’s in me future? Ye a fortune teller now?”
“Poetry readings and operas,” Seth teased. “But I think ye’d enjoy it if it keeps her happy.”
Alasdair shrugged with mock reluctance. “It doesnae sound so terrible.”
Seth clapped him on the back. “I’m truly happy for you. You and the duchess arrive with a new glow. Everyone’s noticing.”
Before Alasdair could respond, his eyes caught movement across the room. Lady Grisham appeared, Wilhelmina by her side.
The younger woman smiled politely, but Lady Grisham’s gaze was icy and deliberate. She might have feigned ignorance, but Alasdair knew better.
Elizabeth’s grip on his arm tightened, a silent plea for strength. He met her gaze, whispering, “Keep yer chin up. She kens ye’ve won.”
The flush that rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks made her look even more magnificent. Pride swelled in Alasdair’s chest.
Then, the atmosphere shifted. Lord Kittridge approached with a deliberate air of civility. The temperature seemed to drop as he extended a hand.
“Duchess,” he said with a measured smile—cordial, but devoid of warmth.
“My lord,” Elizabeth replied with a graceful curtsy, though a subtle tension tightened her shoulders.
Alasdair’s eyes locked on Kittridge, reading the unspoken hostility beneath the surface. He was certain the older lord sensed the undercurrents between them, even if most guests remained oblivious.
“Kittridge,” Alasdair greeted, voice steady.
“Your Grace,” the lord replied, his tone equally controlled.
The silence between the two men was thick with meaning, a silent battle of wills and power. Alasdair’s mind raced, reminding himself to be cautious, and to leverage the unexpected goodwill his marriage had earned him.
Kittridge tilted his head thoughtfully. “I must say, you’ve acclimated well, Your Grace.”
“Of course. I have a marvelous teacher,” Alasdair replied smoothly, a hint of pride in his tone.
Kittridge’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth briefly. Surprise, perhaps, well-hidden. Alasdair noted the cold calculation behind it.
As Kittridge moved away, Elizabeth exhaled softly. “Well, that was peaceful.”
“He probably thinks I’m a buffoon,” Alasdair muttered with a crooked smile. “Let him think that. It’s better when the lords underestimate me, thinkin’ I’m just a tamed Scottish pet.”
“You are not a pet,” Elizabeth said indignantly.
“I’m willin’ to be yers,” he whispered, nudging her gently with his elbow.
Light moments like this were a balm to the darker shadows hanging between them.
Later, at home, Elizabeth nuzzled his shoulder, voice soft and full of trust. “I feel so safe with you. I never imagined I could.”
“Ye always will with me,” he promised, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.
But beneath the peaceful veneer, the storm was never far away.