Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alice couldn’t fault the Duke’s behavior on the way back from the opera. He had found her a drink at the intercession, had teased her about books and the library, even going as far as to offer out his own to her and Helena, and then all but carried her back to the carriage.
Really, she should be feeling grateful that he had been so caring.
In truth, she felt as though some part of her was shriveling up inside.
She hated being an object of pity. But worse, she hated having to rely on anyone—especially not this man—for help because she couldn’t do it herself. Such simple things, like navigating steps and climbing into the carriage.
She could still feel his arm around her, and she shivered.
“Are you well?” he asked into the darkness.
“You can stop playing the role of a perfect husband now,” she said wearily, tipping her head back against the seat. All the exertion made her leg ache more than ever, and she wished she could have a normal life again.
What a vain, pointless hope.
Nothing about her world would ever be normal again.
She just felt so tired.
“No pretense here,” he shook his head smoothly. “This is how things could be between us if you let them.”
“Will you ever stop trying to woo me?” She cracked open an eye, and to her surprise—her tone had been brittle—he tipped his head back and laughed.
“This is basic compassion, Alice. Not wooing.” His tone dropped, his voice turning gravelly. “If I was wooing you, believe me, you’d know.”
She shivered, telling herself it was from the cold, not the dark promise in his voice.
Now that she’d had his mouth on hers, she couldn’t ever undo that knowledge. Her fingers trembled, and she curled them into fists on her lap. They would not become lovers just because no one else had ever kissed her like that.
“You seemed to get on well with Helena,” he added as he gazed out the carriage window now. “Be kind to her, even if not for my sake—she is like a little sister to me and still an innocent.”
“She holds you in quite some admiration,” Alice remarked.
“So I should hope. I have been her brother’s friend almost since before she was born.” He paused, looking at her. “You may not feel up to the task, but you are a Duchess. Doors will open to you, if you ask them to. And you could help her a lot.”
“Me? Even with this?” She pointed at her leg, then winced and leaned down to massage the muscle. It had cramped with all the use, and quite possibly in response to her frustration, too.
“Even with that,” he said and caught her ankle. “Here, let me.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but his thumbs dug right into where she needed them the most, and instead, she let out a small moan of relief.
For an instant, his hands stilled.
“Is that all right?” he asked, voice low again.
Her pride demanded she remove her leg from his vicinity and wait for the physician to return and massage it.
Temptation demanded she accept this relief when he offered it.
“I…” She sucked in another breath as he resumed his caresses. Very well; she would allow this just one time. Just tonight. They had seemed to extend a small truce to one another. “But this does not mean you are forgiven.”
“Of course not.” He ran his fingers tenderly along the mangled flesh of her inner ankle, and she bit her lip, trying to keep herself from responding. “After all, you hate me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He traced her muscle, squeezing and pushing gently against her flesh, finding the stiffness, the knots, and massaging them away.
When the physician did this act, gruff and professional, she was able to experience it with indifference.
The relief certainly was welcome, but nothing else—she certainly never felt this tingling sensation travel through her body at his touch.
She never felt hot and flushed all over from the gentle scrape of his fingers against the soft skin of her inner thigh.
He made her forget how to breathe.
She placed her hand between her teeth and bit down.
The Duke exhaled noisily. “You don’t need to hold back with me, Alice.”
“Why do you insist on using my first name?”
“Because you are my wife.”
“You don’t even like me.”
He pressed small circles against a knot, slowly unwinding it, easing the tension there. “I like you now.”
“Because you have your hands on me?” She tried to snort, but the words came out a little shaky. She still couldn’t believe she was allowing him this freedom.
He squeezed her foot gently. “Because you trust me enough to let me do this.”
“I don’t trust you at all,” she countered, biting her lower lip.
“Mm.”
“Don’t.” She tried to lift her leg away, but he stopped her, fingers circling her ankle.
“You are so small here.” There was a gruffness in his voice she was utterly unready for. “So delicate... Do you see?”
“Your Grace—”
“Call me Frederick.”
“It seems awfully forward.”
“More forward than this?” He slowly brushed his fingers from her foot up to her knee, then back down, and although she knew she ought to pull away, all she could do was shiver.
Underneath them, the carriage rocked as it carried them back to the Duke’s house, but she could barely think about that.
All she knew was his hands on her, the way he eased some of her discomfort—and more than that, the way he made pleasure spark through her.
She hadn’t thought her ruined leg could be anything other than a source of pain, but he was proving her wrong, one touch at a time. His fingers caressed her skin through the soft material of her stockings.
She closed her eyes. Every part of her screamed that she should move away, but it had been a long time—such a long time—since anything had made her feel this good. Could it be a crime, no matter who she was with?
Slowly, slowly, he slid his hands up to her knee.
Then higher. His fingers caressed the ribbons at the top of her stockings.
She caught her breath, and he stilled, but when she said nothing—she should have said something, but she was trapped in the power of his touch—he tugged the flimsy material down her leg.
Then there was no barrier between his hands and her skin. Heat blazed in the wake of his touch, a brand of fire. After this, she would never be the same. He would have left an invisible mark on her—the knowledge of how it felt to be touched.
And with such gentleness.
His hands were painstakingly gentle on her, kneading her muscles until they softened, stroking up and down the tendons, drawing patterns on her skin.
With a rustle, he slid from his bench and sat beside her.
She didn’t think through her actions as she turned, allowing him to bring her leg onto his lap.
The way he was situated, he had positioned himself between her legs.
Her skirts fell back, exposing her calves and the slight flush on his cheekbones.
He looked drunk, but he’d consumed no alcohol at the opera.
No, it was something equally potent. This was how desire appeared in a man…
Hunger tightened her stomach. He glanced up as his fingers brushed up her thigh, to the tender skin there.
She shuddered, a throbbing ache between her legs now.
His eyes might have held the secrets of the universe; they consumed her attention.
If she fell into them now, she might never land again.
She felt like a ship unmoored, and he was the restless, tossing ocean.
With every slide of his fingers, she lost herself a little further under the water.
She was a married woman now, but she understood how women could be ruined through this. The air grew taut and her lungs seized in her chest. Her heart pounded in time with his rapid breaths. If he reached any further up, he would feel just how slick she had become...
“Alice,” he murmured, his voice grating. “Would you allow me—may I touch you?”
The question jolted her back into reality. This was the man who had ruined her life. And here she was, yielding to him as though he was nothing more than merely her husband.
“I… can’t.” Her voice caught on a sob, and he immediately froze. Desire gave way to horror, and she pulled herself free from him, knocking her ankle against the seat and letting out a little squeak of pain.
“Be careful,” he soothed, but she ignored him, reaching down and drawing her stocking back up her leg. It sagged, the material wrinkling, but she didn’t dare draw her skirts up to her thighs so she could re-tie the ribbon. “Let me.”
“No!”
“What—” He cleared his throat, evidently making an effort to not show her the magnitude of his need, though she could sense how great it was. “What are you thinking, Alice? Was it truly so bad?”
“If I allow you these freedoms,” she whispered, tears pressing against her eyelids, “then it will be a betrayal to my family’s memory.”
Silence followed her words, but this time it was the silence of understanding. Acknowledgment.
“I… see,” he said quietly.
She dragged in a shuddering breath. “If I don’t hate you, then who am I? What sort of person could I possibly be?”
With a sound like a sigh, he removed himself to the opposite side of the carriage once again. She felt the absence of his presence like an ache.
“Very well,” he said, and she had the sense he was drawing a curtain over this incident in order to move to a new topic.
“I will be hosting a political dinner next week. We will be discussing several things. You are not obliged to be there, but if you should choose to host alongside me, I would be more than happy to accommodate you.”
She felt her lips quirk in a reluctant smile. “You are not suspicious that I might attempt to ruin your political career?”
He made a low noise that might have been amusement. “Will you?”
“Perhaps. Will you still invite me to join you?”
“You are my wife,” he stated, and for once, the words didn’t unsettle her gut as much as she might have thought. “It is your prerogative to do as you choose.”