Chapter Eight
Instead of retiring to his chambers that evening, Marcus decided to return to the library.
He poured himself a glass of brandy and sat in a high-backed chair that faced away from the door.
He idly swished his untouched drink, staring into the dying embers of the fireplace.
He had not bothered to pretend he wanted to read.
His thoughts of Miss Barrett left no room for concentrating on any story or text.
And now that he was alone, he made no effort to think of anything else.
She had looked so graceful, moving through the crowds at the bathhouse.
There was a poise that came so naturally to her, even when she laughed.
He was so attuned to her voice, even after such a short time, that it drew his attention each time he heard her laughter drifting in from the women’s bath.
But he would not pretend that his thoughts were pure and chaste.
No… his entire body had responded yet again with intense, visceral desire, even from a quick glance at her ankles as she had descended the steps.
I can just imagine the way her wet bathing suit clung to her delicate figure, he thought, moaning softly as the evidence of his arousal made itself very plainly known.
The door creaked softly, letting Marcus know he was no longer alone.
He remained motionless, glancing at the mirror above the fireplace.
His heart thumped when he saw that it was Miss Barrett, as if his impure thoughts had summoned her.
He watched as her green nightgown whispered against the carpet behind her while she moved rather silently among the bookshelves.
Had he been sleeping, or perhaps even reading, she would never have roused him, too quiet to hear in her graceful movements.
But he was, indeed, very roused, all the more allured by the knowledge that she was utterly unaware of his presence, even as she idly fondled the long, loose braid in which her honey-color hair was styled.
He knew that, if she lingered much longer, he would be unable to resist approaching her.
And if he approached her, he was certain he would ruin her.
The beckoning of her figure through her nightclothes in the firelight was simply too much to bear.
***
Adelaide was desperate to settle her mind when she left her bed and entered the library.
And yet she was forced to admit disappointment when she did not see the duke stretched out on the sofa as he had been on her last visit there.
But in just a few minutes, she was lost in the spines of the vast selection of books his library offered.
The bulging of his muscles in his bathing suit and the fire in his eyes when he looked at her was put to the back of her mind as the volumes of poetry, she noticed captured her attention.
She was so engrossed in her perusal that she never heard approaching footsteps.
It was not until she reached for William Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads that the sensation of being observed startled her.
She glanced over her shoulder and gasped, seeing the Duke standing behind her, staring at her with a hunger that made her pulse quicken.
She was suddenly very aware that she was alone with him. What was he going to do?
“Did you find something that interests you?” he asked, glancing down at the Wordsworth book in her hands. The tone of his voice was not exactly mocking or taunting. But it carried a certain bemusement that bordered on sensuality.
She clutched it to her chest with wide eyes, and she struggled to find a response to his question and to prevent her body from responding to the seductiveness she was sure she had imagined in his voice.
“Wordsworth is my favourite poet,” she said, her words trembling. She was surprised that she had spoken at all; however, she was more shocked that she had offered such a personal, unsolicited bit of information about herself.
The duke nodded, gazing lazily up at the shelf in front of which they stood. He ran his fingers along the spines until he found one written by Lord Byron.
“Wordsworth is quite talented,” he said, holding up the book he chose. “However, I prefer Lord Byron.”
Adelaide nodded, stunned. She had not known what to expect when he approached her. But a conversation about poetry with the darkly mysterious, cold duke was the very last thing she could have anticipated.
“I appreciate Lord Byron, as well,” she said. “I suppose it is Wordsworth’s descriptions of the healing powers of nature that draw me more to him than to other poets.”
The Duke sniffed and smirked, studying her like an animal trying to decide whether to continue toying with its prey or to simply swallow it.
“Wordsworth might be considered a fool for such ideals,” he said.
“But even I can admit that there is a certain wonder in the notion that nature has such power.” He paused, turning over his book slowly in his hands.
“Byron, however, is nearer to me because he speaks a great deal about tortured souls.”
Adelaide’s heart was racing. This was the most she had ever spoken to the duke. And she was alone with him, in the middle of the night, dressed in her nightclothes. Everything about their situation was strange and improper. Yet she felt more drawn to him than she ever had before.
“You sound as if you know something about being a tortured soul,” she said, surprised at her boldness.
The duke stepped toward her, the hunger in his eyes fiercer than it had been just a moment before.
“One could say that, indeed,” he murmured. “Enough, at least, to be skeptical of things like any healing power or hope that things can change overnight, particularly for the better.”
Adelaide frowned. She was uncertain whether the duke was sincere or if he was mocking her for the themes of Wordsworth’s poems.
“I do not believe that anything is impossible,” she said. “And I believe it is important to have hope. I believe that there is healing to be found everywhere if we are only willing to see it.”
The duke chuckled, stepping even closer to her, close enough now for her to smell the spice of his perfume.
“And what of redemption?” he asked, still laughing softly. “Do you believe that everyone can be redeemed? Even those with dark souls?”
The furrow in Adelaide’s brow deepened. Was he trying to tell her something? Or was this his indirect way of telling her that he was taunting her after all?
“Yes, I do,” she said with surprising fierceness. “It is one reason why I love to read. There are so many tales, inside and outside of poetry, in which the most impossible circumstances change and the coldest of hearts can be transformed.”
She did not realize he had moved closer still until his jacket brushed her nightgown.
She looked into his face, noticing that his stony expression wavered.
His eyes danced between the longing hunger she always saw within them and a consideration of something which compromised his carefully constructed air of cold composure.
Could her defense of hope and redemption be reaching his concealed heart?
Apart from the hunger in his eyes, his features were harsh and unreadable in the shadows cast by the firelight. She cleared her throat and opened the book she held, turning to a page she believed to be non-invasively pertinent to her opinion about her favorite poet.
“Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense.”
She held her breath, waiting to see if he would correctly name the poem from which she recited, or if he would mock the optimism within the passage.
However, she noticed that he was not looking at her eyes.
Rather, he was staring at her lips, licking his own as the desire reached a fever pitch in his eyes.
***
Marcus’s chest felt the wild hammering of his heart as he stared at Miss Barrett. Her awareness of his eyes on her lips fueled his ravenous desire, and he forced himself to look away from her.
“You should flee, Miss Barrett,” he growled, his desire boiling and barely contained. The beast within him clawed to break free; to claim her and mark her as his. He formed fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms. But the sting only served to feed his passion for the young woman.
Instead of leaving or stepping away from him, Miss Barrett moved closer. Her lavender scent overwhelmed him, and his entire being tensed, wrestling with the feral hunger that clamoured to consume her.
“What if I do not want to?” she whispered, placing a delicate, ungloved hand on his shoulder.
The fragmented control he had thus far contained, broke.
He cupped her face in his hands, his touch gentle enough to surprise him, given the tremors of need running through his powerful frame.
She was already prepared to meet his lips as he placed his mouth on hers with the tenderest of affection.
It lingered almost reverently for a moment, but it was not long before his primal urge took control.
Their kiss quickly turned savage with hunger, and Marcus was surprised to discover that Miss Barrett seemed just as starved as he was.
She melted against him, the poetry book tumbling to the floor, forgotten.
The taste of her lips threatened to undo him completely as he lifted one hand from her waist to her braid and destroyed it, tangling his fingers in her hair.
He thought some distant voice in his mind tried to stop him, but his primal desire roared it into silence when her small whimper of pleasure tried violently to shatter his restraint.
She arched into him, the fierce beating of her heart evident as his hand drifted from her hair to just beneath her collarbone.
Her innocence was a stark contrast to the heat of her physical response to him.
He had no doubt what he would find if he allowed his hand to travel further.
And he did not know for how much longer he would have the ability to refrain from doing so.
The sound of approaching footsteps made his decision for him.
She pulled away from him, smoothing her unruly hair as he stepped back, both of them breathing heavily as they stared at the door.
Marcus knew the implications of them being found in their state.
However, he was far more annoyed that they had been interrupted.
If his eyes did not deceive him, Miss Barrett’s expression seemed to agree with his.
A shadow retreated quickly from beneath the door, and Miss Barrett faced him with wide eyes.
“I—I,” she stammered, her cheeks bright red and her eyes like molten blue-green from her desire.
Marcus longed to reach for her, to take the innocence which was so intoxicating to him.
He yearned to see the rest of her and explore her in ways that would certainly give whoever had approached the door a great deal of scandalous gossip.
However, he did not move, watching Miss Barrett flee the library.
Her taste lingered on his lips as another wave of dizziness swept over him.
He could not discern whether it was from desire or his mystery ailment.
All he knew was that his body was still fully responding to the carefree passion they had just shared.
And part of him knew it was only a matter of time before he relented to its beckon.
***
Adelaide firmly locked herself inside her chambers, her breath still stolen by the intensity of the new emotions and sensations she had just experienced.
She had learned of the heat of attraction the moment she met the Duke.
However, it was not until that evening that she learned how it felt to be so desperate to give in to it.
She was a proper maiden; she had never had such experiences with a man.
However, as the burn of his kiss lingered on her lips, it was all she wanted in that moment.
Leaving the duke’s presence had not quieted the flame below her waist, and pressing on her lower abdomen brought a heated weakness that drove her mad.
She hurried over to her vanity, splashing water on her face and chest, marveling at how it fueled the heat within her, rather than cooling it.
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, which were swollen from the powerful kisses the duke had given her.
She hurriedly fixed her skewed nightgown, forcing her breathing to return to normal.
Yet her body refused to quiet, humming with the intensity of her desire to finish what was started in the library with the Duke of Lochville.