Читать книгу From Duke till Dawn: 2018’s most scandalous Regency read - Eva Leigh, Eva Leigh - Страница 10

Chapter 3

Alex stared out his bedroom window, his hands braced on either side of the glass. The chamber overlooked the garden in the back, but at this late hour, there wasn’t anything to see. Night’s shadows thickly covered the hedges and trees. He strained to observe something, anything, to distract him—yet nothing emerged from the darkness.

Unlike his antecedents, Alex often suffered from insomnia. It was family lore that the first five Dukes of Greyland could sleep the undisturbed slumber of the just, even if someone decided to use cannons and trebuchets to rip down the walls of Greyland House—the dukedom’s seat in Suffolk. Alex’s own father slept through his predawn birth, despite the efforts of several large footmen trying to shout the old duke awake.

Alex’s mind could never be so easy. It often kept him awake late into the night, no matter how physically exhausted he might be. He frequently sat up until the small hours of the morning, thinking over how he might have spoken more eloquently in Parliament, or if he was taking the correct path by ordering a field flooded, or whether or not there was enough grain for his tenants.

Am I doing the right thing? The thought always stalked him, from his earliest years to now.

Tonight was no different. He’d left the gaming hell and, escorted by Ellingsworth and Langdon, gone immediately home. He dismissed his friends as soon as he’d arrived on his doorstep, then retreated to his study to pore over estate ledgers and review petitions. Anything to stop him from thinking of Cassandra. To keep away from her, even while he longed to claim her as his own.

He knew that was out of the question. Though Cassandra came from a noble background, his father would have looked askance at her impecunious circumstances. Alex had enough fortune for them both, “But,” his father had said more than once, “a bride must bring wealth and influence with her. Neither can be neglected when selecting a wife.”

Lady Emmeline had possessed both. She had been the perfect candidate for a wife.

When it came to potential duchesses, Cassandra had neither wealth nor influence. All the emotions he’d tried to bury after her desertion now roared to life. His chest actually ached. She could have given him what he’d feared would never be his—love. But he’d never have that now. He’d never have her.

When the clock chimed one, he’d sent his remaining staff to bed. Tried to do the same for himself, but to little avail. Lying in bed, staring up at the canopy, he wished for shackles to keep him bolted to his mattress.

Alex scowled now and pushed away from the window. He tugged on the bellpull, then threw on his clothing heedlessly. His legs urged action. As he dressed, his sleepy butler arrived, wearing a hastily donned robe.

“Your Grace?” Bowmore asked.

“Have my horse saddled,” Alex answered in a clipped tone.

Bowmore was too well trained to ask where Alex planned on going at this hour. “Which one, Your Grace?”

He wanted speed, wildness. “Sirocco.” Though the horse was a gelding, he’d never lost that spirit Alex needed right now.

The butler bowed and retreated silently. Alex finished dressing, shoving his feet into tall boots. He didn’t bother with a hat. Whoever saw him on the streets at this hour cared less for decorum than he did at the moment.

He pounded down the front stairs and out the door to the street, where a groom waited for him, Sirocco dancing on the end of the lead. Without a word, Alex mounted the horse and took up the reins. He’d give the groom an extra day off to compensate for being awakened. A guinea would go to Bowmore, too.

But he’d worry about his servants later. Now he needed movement. He urged Sirocco into a trot, then a canter, finally a gallop, tearing through London’s dark streets. Directions meant nothing. He had no purpose, his mind trying to empty itself of thoughts as his body moved in time with the horse.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop their churning.

Hell, he wished Cassandra had come to him when her cousin had cheated her out of her widow’s portion. It would have been so very easy to bring in his own legal counsel and restore her lost fortune. If that had been unsuccessful, and she had refused any financial assistance, he could have readily found her employment with any of a dozen fine families looking for companions and chaperones for marriageable daughters or elderly aunts. He could have done something.

“Damn it,” he growled to himself. “Do not go back.”

Because he could do something now. He could get her out of that gaming hell, could try to recoup the money her cousin had cheated from her. Or gain her a position with a good aristocratic family. If he, the damned Duke of damned Greyland, gave her a reference, she would have no trouble finding honorable employment.

The night was cool, and his breath showed in puffs as he rode. If it were a more decent time, he’d go to his fencing or pugilism academies and work through the frustration pulsing through him. But neither were open for several more hours.

Cassandra would refuse any offer of help he extended to her. Her pride matched his own. Much of her life remained a mystery to him, but he knew that much. At Cheltenham, she hadn’t let him pay for her meals whenever they had dined together, though that meant she ate plain boiled meat and broth. Unable to feast on rich roasts and succulent vegetables while she nibbled slowly on her miser’s meal, Alex ate boiled meat and broth, too. Then he had consumed a second dinner in his room, because his appetite had barely been sated by such scanty food.

If he’d been in her position—friendless, penniless—he, too, would reject anything that implied a handout.

Yet she was a woman, and therefore at the mercy of a brutal and indifferent world. She wasn’t a girl, either, but an adult woman, and one of gentle birth. There were so few options available to her.

He had to help her. Even if they did not rekindle their affair, it was his duty to make certain she was safe and cared for. He couldn’t let her traverse this callous world without offering her some kind of security. Being a duke meant he had to see to the welfare of those less fortunate. Cassandra didn’t need to demean herself by inveigling wealthy gamblers at the gaming hell. Surely anyone deserved better than that.

And if his heart beat faster at the thought of her, if a thrill of anticipation crackled through his body knowing that he would see her again, hear her voice and watch the candlelight shine upon her hair and skin—if any of that happened, he would suppress those feelings like turning down a lamp’s flame. Their time together had passed. He wouldn’t mourn what was never to be.

He pulled his horse up sharply. The animal wheeled in circles as Alex stared at the front of the gaming hell.

She was in there. And he’d brought himself to her door without thinking.

“Hellfire,” he bit out.

A powerful tug in the center of his chest commanded him to dismount, stride into the gaming hell, and carry Cassandra out.

Instead, he urged his horse into a gallop, taking him away.

From her.

The gaming hell’s doors opened tonight, as they always did, at eight o’clock. The first surge of genteel gamblers flooded into the main area in a wave of diamonds, tobacco, and glassy-eyed excitement.

Cassandra stood in the middle of the hall, wearing a modest gray silk dress and her most welcoming smile. She murmured, “Welcome, my lord, my lady,” over and over again. “The hazard table is looking very promising this evening. Do help yourself to our excellent wine. Lovely necklace, my lady.”

She wasn’t used to playing the shill this way. Her swindles were usually more complex, involving at least a week of planning and planting seeds to gain the desired outcome—namely, a nobleman giving her a heap of money for various reasons, and then her disappearance.

The oddest aspect of Martin’s gaming hell was its legitimacy. None of the dice at hazard were weighted. The cards for faro and vingt-et-un were unmarked. The dealers had been instructed to work with absolute honesty. Very likely, this gaming hell was the most trustworthy establishment of its kind within fifty miles.

Everything had to be on the level, or else she would walk. That had been her most important condition when accepting Martin’s proposition. To her surprise, he’d readily agreed.

Her taste for the swindling life had soured after Alex. She’d gotten by these past two years running small schemes on dishonest men, men who wanted to cheat the system. Ambition and greed never waned. She could always rely on those darker hungers to put food on her plate and a roof over her head.

Alex had never been one of those men. She’d assessed him at dinner one night, in the grand dining hall. He’d been dining alone. A few discreet inquiries had revealed that he was a duke, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. She’d been struck by his good looks—surely rich, well-bred men didn’t have such angled jawlines or shoulders that could fill a doorway. The way he held himself revealed a lifetime of horsemanship and fencing, as well as lessons in dancing and decorum.

Men with strong morality were not drawn to people who bent the rules. She’d seen that about him right away. And so she’d formulated her strategy. Instead of playing the beseeching, helpless female, Cassandra had tailored her role to match his pride with her own. She’d forced herself to eat the most pallid, cheap food with the air of a deposed monarch. She’d avoided nearly everyone’s company, making sure he saw her taking solitary walks with an aura of pained dignity.

Her plan had worked. He’d been drawn to the strong, resilient woman she had pretended to be.

“Will you blow on my dice for luck?”

With a polite, mildly reproving smile, Cassandra turned to a young buck. He grinned at her as he held out a handful of ivory cubes.

“I fear that if I do,” she said, “the same request will resound from every corner of this establishment, and I’ll have no breath left for myself.” She continued to smile. “Turning blue would hardly be attractive, don’t you agree?”

“You would be lovely no matter your hue,” he answered with an attempt at gallantry. “You would start a fashion for maidens to paint their own cheeks blue.”

“And you are keeping the table waiting, my lord.” She said this gently, nodding toward the other hazard players who observed the buck’s flirtatious efforts with annoyance.

With a carefree laugh, her would-be wooer returned to the hazard table.

Cassandra silently exhaled. There had been a time in her life when she would’ve relished wrapping that lad around her finger, amusing herself with seeing just how much she could manipulate him. She could praise his signet ring and touch his hand. He’d be captivated by the brief contact and stammer out some compliment, which she’d blushingly disavow. It would be a simple matter to draw him further along, flattering his needy self-image with a slight hint of her own superiority—a powerful lure for young men with too much money and not enough purpose.

But she wouldn’t do that.

Her weariness of the game had to be because of her age. The things that excited and interested her at twenty—including controlling a rich young man—didn’t have the same appeal anymore. She didn’t have a girl’s excitement about the possibilities of the world. But then, she’d never had that luxury.

What would it be like, to spend an evening not worrying about her next meal? Not agonizing about how long she could safely call someplace home?

And if she was spinning dreams . . . What if she had someone of her own, who knew precisely the kind of woman she was? And accepted her anyway?

A dark-haired, brown-eyed man with a hawkish nose and unshakable integrity . . . ?

The need for such a man was so powerful that it was like a second heartbeat. Wanting him was a dream, a foolish fantasy she couldn’t dismiss as a girlish infatuation. He made her feel safe, cared for, respected. No one had ever given her as much.

And no one would again.

Yet, as if she’d conjured him from wishing, Alex appeared at one end of the main hall, looking devastating in black evening dress, his hair slicked back, his cheeks freshly shaven. Her imagination must have fabricated this illusion of him. But no, the image of Alex looked right at her, causing her heart to jump. As he began walking toward her, she realized he was no illusion, but real. He stopped in front of her.

She swallowed hard as he gazed down at her with his unwavering dark stare. Had he been speaking to people? Somehow learning her secrets? Her mind hastily slapped together stories, excuses, explanations.

He gazed at her, and she could only look back, like a doe being spotted by a wolf.

But his eyes were warm as he gazed at her. “Cassandra,” he murmured.

Her body heated in response to hearing him say her name in his low, gravelly voice. Her pulse stuttered, and that hot, bright gleam of happiness and hope cut through the darkness within her—just from having him near.

“Staying away is impossible,” he went on. “Not when I know you’re here.”

Her heart leapt again, damn the stupid thing.

She glanced around. Martin was busy in the foyer, greeting guests. He had to know that Alex was here, which meant he would try to urge her to gull him again.

What should she do? Send Alex away? That would be wisest.

Her fingers wove between his—thank God, he wore gloves tonight, so she wouldn’t face the temptation of his skin against hers—and she led him toward the back of the main hall. She tried to quiet her thundering pulse, and almost physically shoved aside the hope and excitement swelling within her.

A set of doors opened out onto a small, secluded terrace. The heat lessened here, while intimacy increased. In the shelter of the darkness, Cassandra could pretend that she truly was a woman of quality, without a blight on her name, and that she could have a future with a man like Alex. Self-deception was chancy, however. She needed to remember that, especially with so little distance between her body and Alex’s, and his scent of soap and sandalwood casting a cunning spell.

Having him near was too painful. She ached with the desire to be something she wasn’t—a real lady of gentle birth, the kind of woman with whom he truly belonged. He thought she was, but she knew differently. If he ever felt anything for her, it was all an illusion, based upon her lies. What would he do if he knew she was only a fabrication? Would he forgive her and pull her close, promising to make everything all right? Or would he angrily push her away and walk off without a backward glance, leaving her to collect the fragments of her heart?

She knew the answer, and it made her hurt throb all the more. Better to head off that pain before it could take hold and ruin her.

Her only consolation was the end of her career as a swindler. Once the gaming hell closed shop, she would be free. Free to live as just a woman without pretense. It would be a solitary life, but she was alone already. The isolation couldn’t be much worse than what she now experienced.

She turned, and her hands lightly rested on the stone balustrade. A neat enclosed garden slept behind the building.

“I cannot be out here long.” She rubbed her hands against the stone to remind her of who she was and what she needed. “I’ll lose my position if Mr. Hamish thinks I’m not attending to the other guests.”

“It’s for that reason I’ve come back,” Alex said softly. “It doesn’t need to be like this.”

Her pulse kicked, and she couldn’t stop herself from turning around to face him, leaving only a foot’s distance between them. Cassandra had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes—unusual for her, given her height.

“And what do you propose?” she challenged. “There are not many honorable ways for a woman to earn her coin. I am a lady’s companion, not a gentleman’s.”

Though it was dark on the terrace, she thought a flush stained his cheeks. It was as close as she could come to saying the words courtesan or mistress in his company.

“Is that what you are suggesting?” she pressed.

“Cassandra,” he said roughly, “I’d never insult you that way.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Alex was too much a gentleman to suggest anything so impolite. Yet she’d tasted the fires of his passion, felt him groan against the skin of her belly. He wasn’t as cool or removed as he believed himself to be.

Yearning welled up. To break open the dam that held back his desire. See him wild with need, loosened from the role he had to play. To let herself be wild with him. To be truly herself with him.

Here. In this dark space where no one could see them.

Had she picked this spot on purpose? Was she guided by her own unknowing hand?

A dangerous game. There were times for risks, and times for sticking to what was known. Her mind had to be firmly turned to the running of the gaming hell and the goal of financial freedom. She couldn’t let her needs or the demands of her heart dictate her direction. If she did, she may as well tie stones to her feet and walk into the Serpentine.

“I know you don’t mean any insult,” she murmured. “I’m not the first female to find herself in . . . dismal circumstances.”

“They needn’t be so dire.” He clasped her hand between both of his. She wanted to tug herself free. She wanted to sink into the comfort he believed he offered. “I have the ear of England’s best families. Say the word. I’ll find you a good, respectable position with any of them. Girls in need of a chaperone, or dowagers who require companions. Stay in England. Travel abroad. See the world, now that we have peace. Anything you want, Cassandra, and it’s yours.”

“And you can guarantee that?”

“You know I can.”

His absolute certainty broke her heart. His longing to be her savior was obvious, like a thick blanket that warmed and suffocated. She had no doubt that he could and would give her whatever she desired.

Not everything.

Damn, but hearts were fragile, easily wounded things. They needed protecting. Armor. Yet if she let someone slip past that armor, that meant the chance of a terrible wound. One she might not survive. It was hard enough, to endure having Alex so close, with his desire to rescue her. But he didn’t realize how impossible it was for him to play her savior.

She’d seen her own father waste away in the Marshalsea, more heartbroken over his wife’s desertion than his own debt-riddled circumstances. She’d watched countless men and women in London’s dismal corners suffer and fail at affairs of the heart. Why? Because they’d put their faith, and love, in someone else.

The brokenhearted haunted Whitechapel and Southwark, the ghosts of the lovelorn and wretched.

Wisdom was a hard-won gift. She’d become wise at a very young age.

Send him away, her mind whispered. Protect yourself.

Never let him go, cried her heart.

But who would she listen to? Her heart or her brain?

Sadly, she knew the answer.

“I made a promise,” she said at last. “Mr. Hamish is relying on me.”

“He’s using you,” he answered bitingly. “He’s thinking only of himself, not your honor. Not your welfare.”

Part of her already understood this. Martin had been kind to her, but only as far as it benefitted himself. She couldn’t fault him for his selfishness. Generosity for its own sake didn’t exist, not in her experience. Though it did—with Alex. It was one of the reasons why she’d gone to his bed.

“I know,” she replied. “But I gave him my word, and I am always true to my word.”

A muscle flexed in Alex’s jaw. She knew he didn’t care for her response, even if some part of him respected her code of ethics.

“How long do you intend to work here?” he demanded.

A little bit of truth helped shore up a lie. “Mr. Hamish doesn’t plan on keeping the hell open for more than a month. We’ve got thirteen days left, and then the operation closes. He intends to use his earnings to open a more-permanent establishment in Edinburgh.”

“You’ll follow him to Edinburgh?” He seemed to push these words out as if rubbing sand into an open wound.

She shook her head. “With my saved wages, I plan on going to a town somewhere up north and teaching deportment to mill owners’ daughters.”

“Every step is planned out.” He released her hand and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Life is a chess game.” She pursed her lips. “All moves are thought out well in advance, or else disaster follows. I made that mistake with my cousin, and it can’t happen again.”

He exhaled as he glanced away. “This . . . is intolerable. You must allow me to help you.”

The duke was completely in her control. She could ask anything of him now, and he’d give it to her.

She imagined the luxurious apartments that could be hers, silk and satin and beauty everywhere she looked. Jewels for her ears and throat. Food cooked by her own French chef. Plenty of fine things to wear or look at. Every one of her youthful dreams brought to bear.

She didn’t want any of that anymore. Where once her mouth might have watered with greed, now she tasted ashes.

“Must I?” She smiled.

He looked rueful. “Of course, you have to do what you think is right.”

“Thank you.”

A corner of his mouth turned up, the most she had ever seen him smile. What would it take to get him to grin, to laugh aloud?

She wouldn’t know. She shouldn’t know.

“I have to do something to assist you,” he insisted.

Nodding toward the doors that led back into the building, she said, “Spend extravagantly.”

“I am not given to extravagance,” he said drily.

Oh, how she longed to flirt with him. To finger the diamond solitaire winking in his cravat and tell him that he wasn’t always so restrained. To coax more smiles and laughter from him, those rare, intoxicating sounds. But why torment herself with what she couldn’t have? That way lay pain and disappointment—two emotions she knew too well.

“Try,” she urged him. “For me,” she could not resist adding.

“How can I deny you?” he asked playfully.

“Or risk my wrath,” she teased.

“Watch me tremble.” He held up his rock-steady hand.

She pushed his hand away. “Mocking a lady is poor form, Your Grace.”

“Very well,” he allowed. “I’ll go back inside.”

Her heart squeezed tightly. This was it. The last time they would see each other. She thought she understood pain, but it kept surprising her with its depth, its tenacity.

“Before I do . . .” Alex continued, “forgive me, but I cannot stop myself.”

“Forgive you for—?”

Before she could finish her sentence, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.