tonight and I died from wanting. I’m here because all I ever wanted was to stand on the tiered balustrade with you. My place was beside you. Is beside you. That is what you promised me, don’t you remember?”
His lip curled into a sneer, his face tightening into something he was certain was as ugly as the feelings she evoked. “I promised you my heart, you fell in love with the rest.”
“Your promise was empty!” she cried. “Your mother made certain your heart was as cold as hers. You chased me like one of your animals. And once ensnared, I became another pretty thing to mount on your wall. You pledged your love to me but fled your duty again and again. For two years, I waited for you to return from every corner of the earth, happy with your trinkets and your passion. But don’t ever think for one second I caught a glimpse of your heart, because you never let me see it. I’m not convinced you have one.”
Piers thrust her away. “Had you loved me, you’d have mourned me. Had you mourned me, I’d have returned to you. I’d have been your beast. Your animal. I thank that jaguar every night for the monster he made me, because it revealed what a monster you are.”
“You can’t mean that.” She stumbled back, her hands out in supplication. “We’re family now, Piers, at least let us—”
“Get. Out.” She’d drained what little he’d left of his self-possession.
Reluctantly, she turned to leave, her ebony train dragging like an inky trail behind her. She paused at the bookcase, looked back at him. “You’ll tire of her,” she predicted. “And when you do, I’ll welcome back the beast.”
The bookcase slid shut behind her, and Piers wrenched at the lever, rendering it useless.
He never intended to have a clandestine lover.
He was not his mother. He was not like Rose.
Once he’d married, he’d never stray.
Alexandra Lane would be his one and only lover.
He was her beast now.
May God have mercy on her soul.
* * *
It had taken no little doing to calm Francesca and Cecelia down. They’d returned from the ball to find Alexandra missing and had worked themselves into a frenzy of worry by the time she’d slipped through the door.
She should have thought to leave them a note, but in her hurry, she’d taken her pad with her and quite forgot.
Three fingers of whisky had eased Alexandra’s shaking hands and released the coil of tension from her chest enough to recount the evening’s events. As she did so, her friends’ eyes widened in identical, almost comical increments until they resembled two redheaded owls staring at her in disbelief.
“You’re so brave.” Cecelia sighed rather dreamily. She had divested herself of her gown and corset the moment Alexandra had been confirmed safe and stood in the middle of her discarded attire donning her nightgown. “I would have been terrified of him.”
Alexandra frowned at the defensive knot in her stomach. “Why would you have been?”
“He’s just so big, isn’t he? And ever so fearsome.” She paused, her brows knitted with concern. “What was kissing him like? Was he … gentle with you? Considerate?”
Alexandra had trouble conjuring the word for what she and Redmayne had shared. “He was … pleasant.” She realized the inadequacy of the word the moment she’d said it.
Kissing Redmayne had been pleasant, surely, but it was too tame a word. What could she use, instead?
Agreeable? Enjoyable?
Pleasurable.
That was it. Kissing Redmayne had been a pleasure. She could have kissed him all night. She could have kissed him forever.
“He put me well at ease,” Alexandra explained. “I don’t believe we should have stopped if Rose hadn’t interrupted us.”
“Rose Brightwell has always been a horrid bitch,” Francesca swore as she yanked ruby pins from her coiffure. “Remember when I roomed with her at de Chardonne in the early days? She made everyone so miserable. What Redmayne saw in her I couldn’t begin to imagine.”
“She’s Rose Atherton now.” Alexandra draped herself on the chaise, too exhausted by the entire ordeal to even disrobe. “And she’s really quite beautiful.” If one liked perfect, exotic women with elegant features and a figure straight from a lady’s catalogue.
A sick suspicion curled within her. As she and Redmayne had kissed, as their intimacy progressed, he’d pulled her against him, and she’d felt his … his lust. His sex. Turgid and hard against her belly.
He’d been about to peel away her dress. She’d been about to explore his topography. Minutes later they