Free Duchess Decadence by Wendy LaCapra Page A

spoke in low conversation with men in snugly tailored waistcoats. A small orchestra was seated to the far side of the Broadfield, awaiting direction. The air, if Wynchester was not mistaken, was lifted with a sense of excited expectation, even more so than at most soirees. He counted the people lining the closest wall. Twenty . A respectable crush, when you multiplied that number by the other walls flanked by chattering ton .
    The evening, so far, had been a success.
    He, Thea Marie, and Eustace had greeted every aristocrat of influence in London residence. Ensconced between himself and his brother, the duchess had behaved with perfect grace then, and later, while the two of them led the opening dance.
    He had no reason to believe that she would not behave, of course. She had given her word. But she’d not taken his request with equanimity.
    In fact, he could have sworn she had responded by flirting with him.
    I will behave…if that is what you really wish.
    Her gaze met his from across the room. She spread her black fan and cooled her cheek’s slight flush.
    Oh yes, Thea Marie. Misbehave for me .
    Two warring thoughts immediately reared in response. Where the hell did that come from? And, capitol idea . The second was accompanied of a vision of her black curls, tangled and damp around her temples and then cascading in waves across his white linen pillows.
    He blinked to clear his head and motioned to the conductor. As the violins struck up the next dance, Thea took the arm of a man in her group—the MP of something-or-other, Tory, of course—and joined a group of three other couples. The feathers in her hair wafted as she stepped in time to the strains of a cotillion. The sight of her smiling at the MP was enough to make him consider rotten-borough reform.
    His lips formed a thin, grim line.
    Why was it he could look into the eyes of any man present and know exactly what he must do to bend them to his will, and yet know nothing of her thoughts?
    He read men’s needs on their features with the ease others read newspapers. Never had he tainted his discernment with compassion, nor had he used his gift to acquire friendship. A duke’s business was to perceive, to know, and to direct, not to understand. And definitely not—his gaze briefly flit over Randolph and Harrison—to make friends.
    …Or—he warmed—lovers.
    Thea Marie . He concentrated, but she remained a blank page. The inner nudge that told him how to proceed was missing. Every night he stood outside her door while his conscience warred with his need. There were worse things than being uncertain whether or not your wife would welcome you into her bed, but such uncertainty was enough to drive one mad.
    Well—he folded his hands behind his back—absent direction, he would focus on the main…a united front. Their collective consequence restored.
    But even as his duchess played—or in this case, danced—her part with precision, he knew restored consequence would not be enough.
    He wanted more .
    St. Swithin . Sentiment was not only a hungry panther, it was one of those irritating crank toys—crank the needs inside your heart and suddenly a white-faced devil bursts out to play. The partners changed and Thea Marie twirled in Harrison’s arms. Her smile in that moment was genuine—rare and precious. Another surge of jealousy, directed at the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend.
    Then, at the start of the next dance, she joined Lord Randolph.
    …And pop goes the weasel .
    Air . He needed air. He started moving.
    The mansion’s inner courtyard was a place of peace and beauty—even if the strains of music and conversation could be heard rising and falling in distant waves. The garden was not well-lit, but he knew his way. He wandered from plant to plant, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Absently, he wondered if Thea Marie had noticed the roses since her return. And if she had noticed, had she perceived their significance?
    “You