Bloody idiot girl.
Did she really think she would be happy with a lame arsehole like that?
The only part of her body that kind of man could get wet were her eyes since Mary would likely be crying herself to tears with boredom if the professor ever managed to get her in his bed.
Not that it was likely to happen, Rathe thought, his body already tensing in anger at the idea. As long as he was in the picture, he was not going to let any other bloody man get close to Mary … starting now.
****
Professor Byron was not making any sense, but Mary was doing her best to look like it wasn't so and that she understood every word that came out of his mouth. Ever since the first day of school, she had been impressed – so very startled and star struck, actually, at how gentle he was, especially with women. His voice was soft and smooth, almost melodic. His mannerisms whenever he spoke were well-defined and expansive but not at all threatening. His face was also an open book, with a mixture of friendliness and ancient wisdom shining in his eyes.
If Mary had to summarize all her feelings for Professor Byron, it was that he was the antithesis of her stepfather and this was what drew her most strongly to him.
" … the eloquence and articulation. It's quite beautiful, isn't it, Mary?"
She quickly tried to look as blown away as he was and clapped her hands with everyone else when the student who had just recited an ode to his dead guinea pig bowed before the crowd. It really wasn't that weird, she told herself. If her piranha died, she might be driven to write a poem, too.
A waiter came to their table, temporarily blocking her view of the stage as he bent down to whisper something in the professor's ears. Mary looked around, not wanting to seem as if she was eavesdropping. As her gaze roamed her surroundings, she realized that most of the other students were either glowering at her – or snickering.
Flushing, she quickly looked down, wringing her hands. They knew about her crush on Professor Byron. The realization made Mary want to head bang the table in patent embarrassment. How could they have known? But then – how could have Saffi also known when she wasn't even attending Professor Byron's class? Had she been that obvious with her adoration for him?
She glanced at Professor Byron and this time, Mary saw the way his gaze was both condescending and – gulp – warm towards her. Oh no. He, too, had known about her feelings for him?
Before she could speak and clear the air – how she would do so, Mary wasn't really sure – the host of the event came back on stage, a weird look on his face. "Thanks, Mark, for the superb ode. We were very moved by your words – I know everyone, like me, hope that your guinea pig is in pet heaven now." He paused, ignoring the snickers that followed his words.
Professor Byron took the opportunity to speak to her. "My dear, in just a short time we will no longer be teacher and student."
Mary slowly gulped.
In the background, the host was speaking again. "And now, for our next reader, please join me in welcoming an unexpected walk-in … "
His deep dark eyes were now focused completely on her face. When Mary smiled weakly at him, his face took on a triumphant expression that he unsuccessfully failed to conceal.
Professor Byron was secretly ecstatic. He had been moved by Mary Ashton's devotion to him, something that he couldn't help but brag to the rest of the faculty about. Most of the teachers knew Mary, if not by face then by reputation since she was not only one of the smartest in her course but she was also famous for being Saffi March-Aehrenthal's confidante.
He had liked being the envy of the teachers and had deliberately led the young girl on a merry chase, treating her with incredible gentleness – something he had guessed early on she could not get enough of – and then occasionally giving her the cold shoulder, just to keep Mary on her toes.
But the semester was drawing to a close, and it was time to reward the young and beautiful Mary. Also, he was being pragmatic about it. He was not a fool. If she was no longer in his class, it was more than possible her feelings for him would wane and he was not about to let that happen. Her immensely voluptuous body had been the subject of his dreams for quite some time now. He was aching to possess her and tonight was the night he would make her his.
"We will no longer see each other often."
Mary gulped again. She just plain didn't know what to say. She didn't even know how she was feeling. She should be happy that the professor sounded as affected as she was – and she really was, but maybe she was just numb with shock right now and that was why she didn't feel happy.
"But it does not have to be the end. I want to let you know---"
The host announced in a booming voice, "My dear friends, may I present to you, His Grace, the Duke of Flanders."
Mary's head jerked up, her gaze flying towards the makeshift stage.
Oh dear Lord, it really was him!
Rathe Wellesley climbed up the stage with impressive ease and confidence, as if doing poetry nights were a daily routine for him. But it wasn't so. She knew, and probably everyone here knew just by looking at his arrogant and gorgeous visage, that what Rathe was used to was being in the limelight and having everyone stare at him in deep awe.
Mary quickly snapped her mouth shut, having realized she had been gawking at him all this time. When she looked at him again, their eyes clashed. Even from a distance, Mary could see the darkness in his gaze and the tension in his profile. He wore yet another beautiful and sophisticated suit – did the man ever wear jeans? – and, standing tall and proud, he looked every inch the noble duke he was.
"Who is that man?" Professor Byron's hiss was underlined with outrage and ill-kept jealousy, seeing the way every girl in the club was looking at the stranger – even Mary. The Duke of Flanders? Ha! The man appeared as if he expected everyone to curtsy in his presence, and when the professor looked around the club again, he could tell that everyone was more than half-inclined to do so, if only for the fact that they might have a chance of seducing the man with a generous look of their cleavages.
"Ms. Ashton?" Professor Byron's voice snapped Mary out of her daze.
"He's, umm, the Duke of Flanders."
"Oh, please! That is only---"
"---the truth," she finished faintly, unable to take her gaze off Rathe. She couldn't because he wasn't letting her. How was it that he had her in his command so easily? Sick with the way her stepfather constantly suppressed her and her mother, Mary had promised herself she would never tie herself to a dominating man.
So why was she feeling like this about him?
On stage, Rathe was briefly thanking the host for allowing him to join the event. He said it with such charm that by the end, the host was just as bowled over as the rest of the crowd.
When the host jumped down, leaving Rathe alone under the spotlight's glare, he took the microphone and looked at Mary.
She paled under his scrutiny and seemingly unconsciously moved her chair a few inches back.
Good. She should be afraid. He did not take kindly to sharing his women. It didn't bloody matter that he had done his very best to destroy any feelings of desire for her. Nothing had worked and now, seeing her with another man, he knew that nothing would ever work.
His desire for her was too strong, impossible to deny, and the only way to get rid of it was to allow it to burn bright like a raging fire. They would soak up its heat until there was nothing left, his desire waning a natural death, and then they would part, like they were supposed to part.
Rathe said in a velvety voice, "For tonight, I'm just going to read a few passages from a John Keats poem."
Everyone clapped except for Mary, who was stunned that Rathe even knew John Keats, and Professor Byron, who was scowling because he had been hoping the duke – if he really was that – would not have anything to say.
I met a Lady in the Meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild---
Rathe stopped and only looked at her.
Mary bit back a gasp because the heat of his gaze was more than enough to throw her back into the past, and in a second she vividly remembered the passion in his kiss and the way they were wild for each other.
Oh, drat.
That was not what this poem was about but from here on, she knew Rathe Wellesley had ruined the famous poem for her. From here on, she would not be able to think of those words without blushing, without getting wet, without thinking of … him.
Slowly, a seductively beautiful smile formed on Rathe's lips, and audible sighs rose from the girls in the crowd.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets, too, and fragrant Zone;