The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(73)
“You read me wrong,” Alexander said, the tight control in his voice more frightening than a shout. “I did not marry you simply because I wanted another wife. The last thing I wanted was another wife. I married you, Meagan, because I hurt you, and I did not want to leave you in the dust of my passing. I married you because I wanted you.” He swept his hand across the chessboard, erasing her imaginary lines and crashing chess pieces to the floor. “I want to send it all away, every bit of it, and have you and nothing else. That is what I want.” His chest rose with his breath, his blue eyes blazing.
Meagan twined her fingers together. He made her feel selfish but at the same time frustrated. She had certainly not wanted to marry a formidable man and live in this gaudy house, forcing herself to smile at ambassador’s rude wives, and duchesses who were eaten through with jealousy.
She firmed her mouth. “You made me Grand Duchess as though if I slipped on the title, I would become as powerful as you are.” She shook her head. “But it isn’t like putting on fancy dress. It’s only me behind the mask—Meagan Tavistock, plain miss from Oxfordshire. I am in the box, Alexander, whether you meant to put me there or not.”
Alexander reached to her and softly touched her hair. “But it is fancy dress, as you say. You put on the mask of Grand Duchess, and everyone sees that. In time, they forget about the miss from Oxfordshire and see only a woman poised, and beautiful, and powerful—as powerful as you want to make them think you are.”
“Beautiful,” Meagan mused, trying not to shiver at the warmth of his hand. “Poised. Words never before applied to me.” She drew a breath. “I do not know if I can play the role, dearest husband. I do not have the devious mind you do. While you are putting people into their compartments, you are busy devising five different schemes for which you could use them.” She pointed her finger at him. “And do not tell me otherwise. I have watched you do it.”
Alexander closed his hand around her accusing finger. “I do what I must.”
The heat that shot through Meagan unnerved her. She tugged at his grip, but he wouldn’t release her. “That is not normal, Alexander,” she said shakily. “Most of us meet people and wonder what their thoughts are about the latest play at Covent Garden or whether they’d enjoy a game of whist. Not how can he aid me in manipulating the English cabinet? or How can I use her to spy on the Austrians?”
He shrugged, still holding her finger. “I am Grand Duke of Nvengaria. It is my business to watch all the time, to decide who to trust and who to use. It is what I am.”
Meagan cleared her throat. “But the trouble is you never cease being Grand Duke, you know. You tell me to put on the mask—but you never take yours off.”
“Because I cannot.” Alexander brought her finger to his mouth and flicked his tongue over the tip. Liquid heat burned through Meagan, and her knees went weak. “I can never remove the mask,” Alexander was saying through the rushing in her ears. “I learned to wear it when I watched a man I trusted murder my father and then expect me to kiss his cheek and embrace him. I had to be Grand Duke then; I could not have been Alexander, because I would have died in that moment. Every day, had I been only Alexander and done what Alexander wanted, the Imperial Prince would have tortured me, likely very slowly, until I begged to die. I had to live to avenge my father, and I had to be Grand Duke every day of my life for that.”
The sadness in his voice cut at her. Meagan imagined him as a youth, forcing a look of blank coolness as he watched his father’s execution. She saw in Alexander determination that no matter what happened, his son would never witness what he’d been made to see.
“Tell me what to do,” Meagan said, her voice low. “I will do anything you want, be anyone you want to keep Alex from that fate. I promise you.”
Alexander looked at her for a long time, his sash of office, the reminder of who he was, crumpled in his left hand. He released her finger, much to her disappointment. “When I met you I thought I had found someone with whom I could be Alexander the man,” Alexander began, voice soft. “An English miss with freckles who slammed into my life. I had no idea who you were, or how to, as you say, compartmentalize you. I did not lie when I said I did not want to marry, but I also did not lie when I said I needed to marry you. I need you to let me be Alexander.”
Meagan swallowed. “It might just be the love spell, you know,” she said, “devising a reason for you to want to stay with me.”
Alexander drew his left knuckle along her cheek, the sash of office brushing her skin. “Why do you think I have not found means to break the spell? My men could have run Black Annie to ground by now if I’d truly wanted them to. They could have questioned her and even quietly murdered her—I have the means to command that. But the spell, it is giving me something I never had. I am not in such a hurry to give it back.”
Meagan leaned into his touch. “I do not want to break it, either,” she answered. “Although it can be most inconvenient, I admit. It is difficult to stand and speak politely to the Duchess of Gower while I am imagining holding you. And I do not mean holding you in my arms, I mean holding a specific bit of you, in my hands.”
Alexander’s smile heated her blood. “Is that what you were thinking at the ball tonight? I’d imagined you were being pleased with the attention of the gentlemen.”