Chapter Three #2
“I remember many things about you,” she said softly, then released his arm and stepped back before the moment could grow too weighted. “I’ll see you in the drawing room before eight?”
He nodded, and she thought she detected a hint of color along his cheekbones. “Before eight.”
*
Ashley used her perfume, dabbing the lighter floral scent Madam Chloé had recommended at her pulse points—wrists, throat, behind her ears. She loosened a few tendrils of hair from her coiffure, letting them frame her face in a way that was artfully disheveled rather than perfectly proper.
When she entered the drawing room at precisely quarter to eight o’clock, Raven was already there, standing by the sideboard with a glass of brandy in his hand. He’d changed into evening attire, and the sight of him in his perfectly tailored black coat made her breath catch.
“You look lovely,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made heat bloom in her chest.
“Thank you.” She moved toward him, accepting the glass of sherry he poured for her. “You look rather handsome yourself, though I suspect you already know that.”
Was that a blush? The mighty Duke of Blackstone, blushing at a simple compliment?
She settled onto the settee, but instead of taking her usual position at the far end, she chose the middle, leaving space beside her that was clearly meant for him. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat—not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Tell me about your day,” she said, angling her body toward him. “You mentioned a meeting at the club?”
“Yes, with Lord Upton and several other investors. We’re discussing a venture in the Indies—sugar and rum, primarily, but also cotton.” He paused, seeming to assess whether she was genuinely interested or merely being polite.
Ashley leaned forward slightly, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his. “That sounds fascinating. Isn’t the sugar trade quite lucrative these days?”
His eyes lit with genuine enthusiasm. “Extremely. The key is securing reliable shipping and maintaining good relationships with the plantation owners. The profit margins can be exceptional if one manages the risks properly.”
“Is this going to help you win this anonymous wager you and Lord Marlowe have been involved in. I have been hearing about it in the ballrooms.” It was hard to keep a straight face, given the Sisterhood were the challengers.
A bet had been placed in the Whites ledger.
A twelve-month period to see who could earn the highest return with a thousand-pound investment.
The ladies were of course winning. The men never considered them a threat so never tried to hide their investment business when they were around.
“Yes. I’m sure it will give me an edge.”
“And do you enjoy it? The business aspect, I mean. The strategizing and calculations? I know you see it as a duty, but is it a pleasant duty?”
He looked at her with surprise, as if no one had ever asked him such a question before. “I do, actually. There’s something deeply satisfying about taking measured risks and seeing them pay off. Like solving a complex puzzle.”
“Then you must be very good at it.” She took a sip of her sherry, allowing her gaze to hold his over the rim of her glass. “I’ve heard gentlemen speak of you with considerable respect. And a fair amount of envy, if I’m being honest.”
“Have you?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I wasn’t aware you paid such close attention to business gossip.”
“I pay attention to anything concerning my husband,” she said softly, then added with a slight smile, “Besides, it’s far more interesting than the usual discourse about fashion and weather.
” How could she tell him that she took a very close interest so she could feed any information to Tiffany in order to help win the wager.
He laughed—a genuine, warm sound that she’d rarely heard from him. “I suspect you’d find most business discussions rather tedious.”
“Try me.” She shifted closer, letting her skirts brush against his leg. “Explain this shipping venture to me. Why the Indies specifically?”
And so, he did, his words coming faster as his enthusiasm grew, his hands moving to illustrate points about trade routes and market demands.
Ashley found herself genuinely engaged, asking questions that prompted longer explanations, watching the way his face transformed when he spoke about something he was passionate about.
She touched his arm when she laughed at one of his observations, let her hand linger perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary. Each time, she felt him tense slightly, as if hyperaware of the contact.
Henderson appeared to announce dinner, and Raven rose, offering his arm with a formality that felt different, charged with an awareness that hadn’t been there before.
“Shall we?” he said, and his voice was lower, rougher somehow.
She placed her hand on his arm, standing close enough that her skirts swirled around his legs as they walked.
She could feel the muscles of his forearm beneath her fingers, hard and strong, and wondered what it would feel like to have those arms around her without the barrier of clothing between them.
The thought made heat pool low in her belly.
*
The dining room was intimate with just the two of them, candles casting golden light across the polished mahogany table. Raven held her chair, and as she sat, she was acutely aware of how close he stood behind her, his hands briefly touching her shoulders as he adjusted her seat.
Throughout dinner, she continued her campaign of subtle seduction.
She asked thoughtful questions about his various ventures, about the wager he was so focused on winning, about his opinions on everything from politics to literature.
Each time he answered, she leaned forward attentively, her eyes never leaving his face.
“I’m surprised,” he said over the third course, a hint of wonder in his voice. “You’re remarkably well-informed about current affairs.”
“Did you think me empty-headed?” she asked with a playful smile. “I assure you, despite my scandalous reputation, I do actually read the papers. And I’ve found your study quite educational when you’re not occupying it.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been in my study?”
“Only to borrow books,” she said quickly, then added with deliberate boldness, “Though I confess, I enjoy being in there. It smells like you—sandalwood and leather and something else I can’t quite identify. It’s rather…comforting.”
The color rose in his cheeks again, and she noticed his hand tightened around his wine glass. “I…that is…you’re welcome to use my study whenever you wish.”
“Thank you.” She allowed her gaze to drop to his mouth, just for a moment, before meeting his eyes again. “That’s very generous of you.”
They spoke of other things—his sister Farah’s upcoming visit with her husband Rockwell, the renovations Ashley had been planning for the east wing of the house, a charity event they were both expected to attend.
But beneath the ordinary conversation ran an undercurrent of something else, something electric that made the air feel thick and warm.
Ashley deliberately took a sip of wine, allowing a small drop to cling to her lower lip. She saw Raven’s eyes track the movement as she caught it with her tongue, saw his pupils dilate slightly in the candlelight.
“This wine is exceptional,” she said. “You have excellent taste.”
“Thank you.” His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. “It’s from a vineyard in France. I… I’m pleased you enjoy it.”
When dessert arrived—a rich chocolate torte that Cook had prepared—Ashley took a bite and let her eyes flutter closed in genuine pleasure. “Oh, this is divine. You must try it.”
Before she could second-guess herself, she held out her fork toward him, the gesture intimate and playful. For a moment, she thought he would refuse, that she’d pushed too far. But then he leaned forward and accepted the offering, his lips closing around the fork as his eyes held hers.
The moment stretched, suspended in the candlelight, and Ashley felt a flutter of triumph mixed with something deeper, something more dangerous.
This wasn’t just about securing her future or getting the child she wanted.
This was about the man himself—this complicated, grieving, honorable man who was looking at her now as if truly seeing her for the first time.
“It is divine,” he said softly, and she couldn’t tell if he meant the dessert or something else entirely.
After dinner, he escorted her back to the drawing room, and this time, when she sat on the settee, he sat beside her without hesitation, close enough that their legs were almost touching.
“Thank you for dinner,” he said. “I…I hadn’t realized how much I’d been neglecting you. It was wrong of me.”
“You haven’t been neglecting me,” she said gently, though they both knew it was a lie. “You’ve been busy. I understand that.”
“Nevertheless.” He reached out, hesitated, then gently tucked one of the loose tendrils of hair behind her ear. The touch sent shivers down her spine. “You deserve better than a husband who hides in his study. I shall endeavor to do better.”
“I would like that,” she whispered, her heart thundering so loudly she was certain he must hear it.
His hand lingered near her face, his thumb brushing against her cheek with devastating gentleness. She saw the war in his eyes—desire battling with loyalty to a ghost, need fighting against fear.
“Ashley, I—” he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle with words.
She waited, barely breathing, wondering if this was it—if tonight would be the night he finally bridged the distance between them.
But then he pulled back, rising from the settee with visible reluctance. “It’s late. I should let you retire.”
Disappointment crashed through her, but she managed to keep her expression serene. “Of course. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“The pleasure was entirely mine.” He offered his hand to help her rise, and when she placed her hand in his, he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that felt like a brand against her skin. “Perhaps we could dine together again tomorrow?”
“I would like that very much,” she said, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
As she made her way to her bedchamber, Ashley’s mind raced. The evening had been a success—she’d seen the desire in his eyes, felt the tension in his touch, watched him struggle against his own restraint. Madam Chloé’s advice had worked, at least partially.
But it wasn’t enough. He was still holding back, still trapped by whatever fears or loyalties kept him from her bed. She needed more than subtle flirtation and intimate dinners. She needed knowledge that went deeper, understanding that could break through his walls.
As she prepared for bed, Ashley made her decision. She would return to the establishment with the red door. She would accept Madam Chloé’s scandalous offer and observe what she needed to learn.
Because tonight had shown her something crucial—Raven desired her. She’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in his touch. The attraction was there, simmering beneath his careful control.
Now she just needed to learn how to set it aflame.