Chapter Eight
Ashley studied her reflection in the full-length mirror, her heart hammering with equal parts excitement and trepidation.
The gown was the most daring thing she’d ever worn—deep sapphire silk that clung to her curves before falling in elegant lines to the floor.
But it was the neckline that made her breath catch.
Cut scandalously low, it revealed the upper swell of her breasts in a way that bordered on indecent, saved from complete impropriety only by the finest margin.
“Are you certain about this, my lady?” Her maid, Petra, hovered anxiously. “It’s very…that is, it’s quite…”
“Revealing?” Ashley supplied, her cheeks warming. “Yes, I know. But it’s perfectly fashionable. Lady Caroline wore something similar to the Rothschild ball last month.”
“Lady Caroline is unmarried and trying to catch a husband,” Petra said carefully. “You’re the Duchess of Blackstone. The standard is somewhat different.”
Ashley knew that. She also knew that conventional approaches weren’t working with Raven.
After yesterday’s conversation at Kitty’s house, after his promise to be honest with her, she’d decided it was time to take a more aggressive approach.
If her husband needed encouragement to see her as a woman rather than merely a wife, then encourage him she would.
Even if it meant pushing the boundaries of propriety.
“Help me with the cloak,” she said firmly, ending the discussion.
The heavy velvet cloak covered her completely, hiding the scandalous gown beneath its respectable folds.
She would reveal it at the opera, when Raven couldn’t simply send her home to change.
When he would have to sit beside her in their box, acutely aware of what she was displaying to all of London.
The thought made her pulse quicken with nervous anticipation.
*
Raven was waiting in the entrance hall when she descended, looking devastating in his evening attire.
Black coat perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, crisp white cravat, dark hair brushed back to reveal the strong lines of his face.
When he looked up at her approach, something flickered in his green eyes—appreciation, perhaps, though her cloak revealed nothing.
“You look lovely,” he said, offering his arm. “Though I don’t believe I’ve seen that cloak before.”
“It’s new,” Ashley said, which was true. She’d purchased it specifically to hide the gown until the opportune moment. “I thought it appropriate for the opera.”
“Very elegant.” He guided her toward the waiting carriage. “I should mention that we’ll be joined by the Earl of Marlowe and his sister Claire this evening. I believe you are friends with Claire and know her brother.”
“Of course. Though Lord Marlowe can be somewhat…improper in his conversation. I think he does it on purpose to scandalize us ladies. I’ve met Fane several times, because he’s Claire’s brother.
Claire is one of the Sis—that is, she’s my friend,” Ashley said.
Valora, Viscount Vale’s sister was madly in love with the rakish earl with his easy charm and scandalous reputation, even though the Sisterhood tried to warn her off.
“He is most definitely a rake but a loveable one.”
“That’s Fane precisely.” Raven helped her into the carriage, settling beside her with careful distance. “He treats life as an extended entertainment, while I…” He trailed off.
“While you take everything very seriously,” Ashley finished gently. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Perhaps that’s why you’re friends—you balance each other.”
“Perhaps.” Raven’s expression was thoughtful as the carriage rolled toward the opera house. “I envy his ease sometimes. Nothing seems to weigh on him the way responsibilities weigh on me.”
Ashley studied her husband’s profile in the dim carriage light. “Is that what you want? To be free of responsibility?”
“No. Responsibilities are part of the dukedom. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to simply…enjoy things. Without constantly calculating consequences and managing obligations.” He turned to meet her eyes. “Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” He’d been forced into the Dukedom at a young age.
She suspected he’d had no one to help him, and he’d been scared of failure.
She resisted the urge to reach for his hand.
“Though I think you’re more capable of enjoyment than you believe.
You simply need to give yourself permission. ”
Something shifted in his expression—interest, curiosity. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.” She held his gaze, letting him see the certainty in her eyes. “You’re not made of stone, Raven, no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise.”
The intensity of the moment was broken by their arrival at the opera house. Raven helped her down, and they made their way through the crowded entrance hall, greeting acquaintances as they moved toward the Blackstone box.
Lord Marlowe and Claire were already waiting, Fane draped elegantly in one of the chairs while his sister stood near the railing, watching the crowd below.
“Blackstone!” Fane rose with his characteristic easy grace, moving to shake Raven’s hand. “And the lovely duchess. How delightful to see you both.”
“Lord Marlowe.” Ashley offered her hand, which he took with a courtly bow that somehow managed to seem mocking despite its perfect execution. “Lady Claire, how wonderful to see you again.”
Claire turned with a warm smile, moving to embrace Ashley lightly. “I’m so glad we could join you. Opera is far more entertaining with company—particularly when Fane insists on providing inappropriate commentary throughout.”
“I provide context,” Fane protested. “It’s not my fault if the performers choose to…over-dramatize certain moments.”
“You mean like you over-dramatize everything?” Raven said dryly, but there was affection beneath the words.
As they settled into their seats, Ashley kept her cloak firmly fastened, waiting for the right moment. The opera house was filling rapidly, boxes around them occupied by London’s elite. Perfect. The more witnesses to Raven’s reaction, the harder it would be for him to maintain his careful distance.
“Shall I take your cloak, my lady?” A helpful attendant appeared at her elbow. “The box can grow quite warm once the performance begins.”
“Yes, thank you.” Ashley stood, unfastening the clasp with fingers that trembled only slightly.
The cloak slid from her shoulders, revealing the sapphire gown in all its scandalous glory.
The silence was immediate and absolute.
Fane’s eyes widened appreciatively before a slow grin spread across his face. Claire made a small sound that might have been approval or shock—it was hard to tell. And Raven…
Raven had gone completely still, his green eyes fixed on Ashley’s exposed décolletage with an expression that made heat flood through her entire body.
It wasn’t disapproval she saw there, not exactly.
It was shock, certainly. But underneath that, burning through the propriety he wore like armor, was raw, unmistakable desire.
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he visibly struggled for control. When he finally found his voice, it came out lower, rougher than usual. “Ashley. A word. In private.”
“The performance is about to begin,” she said sweetly, settling back into her seat with deliberate grace. The movement made the neckline shift lower, and she saw Raven’s hands clench into fists against his thighs.
“Now,” he said, but Fane intervened with easy humor.
“Come now, Blackstone, you can’t drag your lovely wife out of the box like a jealous husband. Everyone will talk.” He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Besides, she looks magnificent. That color is extraordinary on you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Lord Marlowe.” Ashley kept her eyes on Raven, watching him wage an internal battle between propriety and the urge to cover her with something—anything—that would hide her from view.
Claire leaned closer to Ashley, her voice low. “That is a very bold choice for the opera.”
“Is it?” Ashley kept her tone innocent. “I thought it was quite fashionable.”
“Oh, it’s fashionable,” Claire agreed, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Also potentially scandalous, likely to cause gossip, and guaranteed to drive every man in this opera house to distraction. Including, I notice, my brother and your husband.”
Indeed, Fane was watching Ashley with unconcealed appreciation, while Raven looked like he was contemplating either murder or something far more primitive.
His eyes kept returning to her neckline despite his obvious attempts to look elsewhere—at the stage, at the crowd, anywhere but at his wife’s exposed skin.
“You’re playing with fire,” Claire murmured. “I approve, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Ashley wasn’t entirely sure she did. But after months of careful distance and polite indifference, she was willing to risk burning if it meant finally capturing her husband’s genuine attention.
The lights dimmed as the performance began, and Ashley settled in to watch, acutely aware of Raven’s tension beside her.
He’d positioned himself closer than usual, and she realized with a small thrill that he was attempting to block the view of her from the other boxes.
His body formed a partial barrier, shielding her from casual observation while his hand gripped the arm of his chair with white-knuckled force.
“What are you doing?” he whispered harshly during the opening aria, his lips close to her ear.
“Watching the opera,” she whispered back. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” His breath was hot against her skin, and she suppressed a shiver. “That dress—”
“Is perfectly acceptable. Look around—half the women here are wearing similar necklines.”
“You’re not half the women here. You’re my wife.”
“Yes.” She turned to meet his eyes in the dimness. “I am. Perhaps it’s time you remembered that.”