Читать книгу From Duke till Dawn: 2018’s most scandalous Regency read - Eva Leigh, Eva Leigh - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCassandra couldn’t move. Her thoughts halted in place, too. For a moment, she could only stand frozen with shock as Alex kissed her. The sane part of her mind fizzled like water on a candle, until it burned away. Because her body knew just what to do, and what it wanted. Need and hope and happiness swelled within her, until she felt she would burst with the press of emotions.
It had been so long. Too long.
He kissed her with the hunger of a man long denied. She echoed his need with her own, their mouths hot and open and searching.
She pressed close to the unyielding span of his body, curving into him, finding all the places where they fit. Her fingers wove through the thick silk of his hair, angling his head to give her better entry to his demanding, velvety lips. He made a low, animal sound as she deepened the kiss, his hands fitting to her waist and urging her closer still. No more decorous duke. He was a man letting his carnal self go free, a self that demanded to be known.
This is a mistake. A bloody mistake. It opened the dam of her own wants and desires. She wanted him, in every way—his soul, his body. His proud, honorable heart. She wanted him so much it made her eyes burn. So much that she wanted to say to hell with the gambling and Martin and money and the promise of a secure future, to simply sink into the storm of passion that couldn’t be held back or refused.
They continued to kiss, even as he walked her back into the deeper darkness of the balcony. She followed his lead.
Dreams long denied swirled to the surface. He could carry her away, and they would be together, fully together in every way. Her past would mean nothing. The future didn’t matter. They would revel in the now.
Yet Alex was a complication she couldn’t allow. Everything he made her feel threw obstacles in her path.
She couldn’t make herself break away. She kissed him hotly, giving in to desire and fantasy. Just this once, let me have what I truly want.
He was the one to pull back, his chest heaving, his gaze sharp and fierce. Slowly, his hands slid away from her waist, leaving her aching with need.
She lowered her hands from where they cupped his head. But she didn’t move to put a safe distance between them. She stayed where she was, the air thick with hunger, the scent of him all around her.
He opened his mouth to speak.
She interrupted. “Is this the part where you apologize for insulting me like that?” Her voice sounded breathless. “Because if you do, I may truly slap you.”
“Gentlemen don’t kiss ladies without express permission.” His own voice was a dark rumble, going against the politeness of his words. “I behaved like a rogue.”
The word ladies almost made her laugh. She was no lady—but he didn’t know that. And she preferred his rogue’s kiss instead of the well-mannered, bloodless kiss from a gentleman.
“Then we’re both scoundrels,” she said, continuing to fight for breath. She sounded much calmer than she felt. Her mind and her body shouted for more. More of him. More of the dream he offered.
She tried to take a step back, but had nowhere to go, the balustrade pressing into her spine.
“Never say such a thing about yourself,” he growled.
“Let’s both accept responsibility,” she said with more confidence than she had, “and agree that it will never occur again.” If it did, what came next would be certain. She’d throw herself into his bed and never want to leave. And sooner or later, the truth about who she truly was would surface. He would learn that she was no widow, there was no villainous cousin, that she was nothing she’d claimed to be. It would be a complete disaster. And the heartbreak that would surely follow would devastate her.
His jaw flexed, as it always did when he was angry. Yet she knew his anger was entirely for himself. No matter what she said to him, or how she had reacted to his kiss, he’d still believe that he’d behaved like a beast, in a way utterly unbecoming to a duke.
The sudden desire to muss his hair and tear open his clothes grabbed her. She wanted to see him completely naked, watch him lose his treasured self-control. He’d come very close when they’d had their one night together. He’d pinned her hands to the bed—to her excitement—but had released her almost at once, as if afraid of crushing them both with his need. His touch had been careful, almost humble, verging on too gentle . . . though she’d seen fierce desire in his gaze and the flare of his nostrils. Even then, he’d kept part of himself back, as if afraid of hurting her with the full force of his hungers.
It had been just one night with him, yet she still felt every part of it, the memory never fading.
Now he seemed close to letting slip the tether that bound his urges. His words were barely more than growls, and his chest rose and fell with hard-drawn breath.
“But you need to leave,” she concluded. “Now.”
He didn’t move. “I want to see you again.”
She exhaled, and glanced away. Shards of invisible hurt stabbed themselves into her chest. “That would be ill-advised.” Turning back to face him, she added, “Women on the margins don’t have much reputation. What little remains of mine would be obliterated by your continued presence. People would see us. They’d know we had been lovers. I’d be ruined.”
It wasn’t a fair thing to say, striking him just where he was most vulnerable—her respectability. But in the world where Mrs. Cassandra Blair was an upright, well-bred widow, she spoke the truth.
A shadow crossed his face, painful and fierce. But he quickly ruled his feelings and was in control of himself once more.
“You’re right,” he said. “We cannot see each other again.”
How she hated hearing him say those words, even if they were the truth. Feeling like a rusted machine, she held out her hand. To her aggravation and fear, her fingers trembled. “Shall we part as friends?”
“I’m always your friend, Cassandra.” His hand engulfed hers. Vulnerability flickered through her. He could crush her easily. “If you ever have need—please find me.”
A hard ache formed in her throat, and she found herself blinking furiously.
“I will,” she said, with no plan of ever doing so.
Instead of kissing her knuckles, he released her quickly, as if holding her too long would make him act wildly. He took a step back. Then another.
Her chest hurt. Everything hurt.
“Goodbye, Cassandra,” he said lowly.
And then he was gone.
She whirled around to stare blindly at the dark garden. A jagged throb clenched in her chest, and her throat burned.
Swindling was the only life she knew. Though she’d been tempted to find more honest work in the two years since Cheltenham, she had no skill in any trade other than running schemes. The few times she’d applied to shops, the proprietors had stared at her with hard, cutting gazes, and demanded references. Once, to work at a bookshop, she had fabricated a letter of character, but it had all fallen apart when she’d been quizzed thoroughly on her knowledge of authors and their works. The shop owner sneered with contempt as she’d slunk out.
If she had the capital to start her own business, that humiliation wouldn’t be repeated. No one would deride her or snicker.
But to make that dream happen, she couldn’t go after Alex. She had to stay here.
She ground her knuckles into her closed eyes, forcing back anything that resembled a tear.
“Move forward,” she whispered to herself. “Always forward.”
But that didn’t sound as good as it once had.
His heart still thundering from his hard morning ride, Alex stood in the stables behind his home, with Sirocco tethered to an iron ring set in the stone wall. The horse’s velvety sides glistened as Alex sponged cold water over its sweat-coated body. He’d already walked Sirocco at a steady, slow pace for several minutes after they had finished their ride. The horse needed further cooling, however. And while the job might be more suited to one of the stable hands rather than the master of the house, Alex took some soothing comfort from the routine.
Anything was better than brooding and stewing over last night. Reliving the kiss again and again until he fairly throbbed with wanting. But he couldn’t stop the bitter taste of Cassandra’s definitive dismissal. Yet another woman showing him the door.
The sting of Lady Emmeline’s rejection was nothing compared to what he experienced now. Sharp agony pierced him when he recalled the feel of Cassandra’s lips against his, her body lithe and snug to his own. The bright intelligence and dignity in her gaze. She could coax a smile from him, too, when even his closest friends accused him of being overly somber, exceedingly dignified.
That gravity vanished whenever he was around Cassandra. He’d kissed her on the terrace of a gaming hell—hardly the actions of a gentleman.
He didn’t miss his poise. He only wanted her. Wanted, and couldn’t have.
He ran a wet, cold sponge along Sirocco’s neck, over the horse’s back and down its flanks. The animal snorted, dancing slightly, but it held itself mostly still, happy to be cooling off.
Alex needed the same service performed for him. He’d had another restless night as his mind churned and his body steamed with thwarted hunger. A cold bath might suffice, snapping him out of his roiling turmoil. How was he to go on as normal, with her a short ride away? How could he keep his distance—especially knowing that in a brief time, she’d disappear again. He’d assured her that he wouldn’t go near her, but as each minute apart from her ticked by, that task seemed more and more impossible. With Cassandra in London, he had no tolerance for his ducal duties, the mountains of papers to review, the men of consequence to see. Knowing that she was close by, he throbbed with impatience to be near her.
“Were I the scribbling sort,” Ellingsworth drawled as he strolled up, “I would pen a burletta called The Duke’s Disguise, about a nobleman who masquerades as a stable lad. I’m still trying to decide if it’s a comedy or a tragedy. Someone should marry the horse before the final curtain.” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, his usual smirk firmly in place.
“Lady Marwood is ashen with fear of losing her place as London’s most celebrated playwright,” Alex answered without looking up from his task.
“She’s married to a viscount, so I’m not overly concerned about her revenue stream being curtailed.”
Alex stopped what he was doing and pulled out an engraved watch from his waistcoat. His discarded coat lay on a bale of hay in the corner, and he worked only in his shirtsleeves.
“This timepiece needs repairing,” he noted. “It states the hour as being half past ten, yet here you are, awake.”
Ellingsworth yawned hugely. “Am I, though?”
“That’s always debatable.” Slipping the watch back into his pocket, Alex resumed rinsing off his horse.
“I’m in desperate need of tea with a liberal amount of whiskey in it. Come with me to White’s,” Ellingsworth offered. “Let the servants finish your work here.”
Alex shook his head. “I always complete what I start.”
“Naturally.” Ellingsworth rolled his eyes. “Ever the principled duke, never the scoundrel.” He paused. “But you haven’t always been principled, have you? For example, during your time in Cheltenham.”
Alex stiffened. “You look like a man of gentle birth,” he retorted, “when, in fact, you behave like a gossiping orange girl.”
Ellingsworth took no offense. Instead, he stepped forward, careful to avoid ruining his boots in the puddles on the ground.
“There’s a thunderous cast about you,” he noted, “and evidence that you’ve ridden your poor horse like a demon. Since the gaming hell the other night, you’ve been more dour than usual. Hypothesis—you’re pining for Madam Cheltenham.”
“Her name’s Mrs. Blair,” Alex said through clenched teeth.
“Ah,” Ellingsworth said with appreciation, “the fair Mrs. Blair has wrought some kind of spell on you. She’s got you dangling and jerking like a puppet at the end of its strings.”
“She’s no master manipulator.” Alex wrung out the sponge over Sirocco, then tested the temperature of the water running off the animal’s side. It was still slightly warm, so the beast needed further cooling.
“Greyland,” Ellingsworth said soberly, “I can see you’re troubled. Speaking of it might provide some relief.”
He stared pointedly at his friend. There was no sense in prevaricating, not when Ellingsworth proved both perceptive and determined. He needed to speak of Cassandra to someone, and Ellingsworth was here, waiting for him to unburden himself. “What I say to you can go no further than this stable.”
“I’m as silent as our equine friend here,” Ellingsworth said with a grin, then he grew more serious. “Truly, Greyland, I’ll say not a word to anyone. Not even Langdon, if you wish.”
“I do,” Alex said.
“Very well.” Ellingsworth’s brow creased with a rare display of concern for someone other than himself. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Is she making herself problematic? There isn’t . . . a child?”
Cold alarm shot through him. “God, no.” Though he wasn’t entirely certain. There was always a possibility. But Cassandra would have told him, had their one night together produced a babe. She might be proud, but she wouldn’t condemn a child to a life of poverty simply for the sake of her self-worth.
“She and I . . . became lovers,” he finally managed. “In Cheltenham. We went to bed together, and the next morning, she’d vanished. Until I saw her the other night at the gaming hell, I’d heard nothing from her for two years.”
Ellingsworth’s brows climbed in surprise. “Who is she?”
“A gentleman’s widow. Her husband’s cousin cheated her out of her widow’s portion. I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I tried to help, but to no avail. She has nothing and no one. She’s orphaned, and her sodding cousin ran to the Continent.” Simply stating these words aloud filled Alex with fury, that someone as decent and gentle as Cassandra would have been treated so abominably by a man who was supposed to help protect her.
“Thus the necessity of employment at the gaming hell,” his friend deduced. “Not the most suitable work for a respectable woman. Surely she’d accept you as her protector.”
“She isn’t that kind of woman,” Alex snapped.
Ellingsworth’s mouth was wry. “There is no that kind of woman, Greyland. Morality is a fragile, illusory thing that men invent to keep women tractable.”
Alex dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Suffice it to say, that path is not one she chooses to follow.”
“And yet . . . ?” Ellingsworth prompted.
“And yet . . .” Alex took the bucket and strode toward the pump in the courtyard. He pulled on the handle, and fresh, cold water poured from the spout. When the bucket was full, he brought it back to the horse and resumed his work.
“You went to her,” Ellingsworth exclaimed.
“I kissed her,” Alex admitted.
“Judging by the look on your face right now, it wasn’t very good.”
Alex opened his mouth to speak, but his friend cut him off.
Ellingsworth continued. “The kiss wasn’t very good—it was a thing of unequaled magnificence.”
Heat bloomed in Alex’s face. He wanted to deny it, but then nodded in acquiescence. Everywhere he was hot, even thinking about what it was like to taste Cassandra again. The desire between them was fiercer than before.
Ellingsworth clapped his hands. “Langdon owes me a hundred pounds!” He grinned. “He was convinced you’d simply walk away from the woman, but I had faith your blood wasn’t made of sleet.”
A flare of outrage blossomed, that his friends would actually bet on him. But he should expect no less from two rich, idle men.
“Take your hundred pounds and damn the both of you,” Alex muttered.
Ellingsworth raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, then lowered them. He peered closely at Alex. “There are no scratches on your face.”
“What of it?” Alex demanded.
“She must have enjoyed the kiss.”
“Was that another bet?”
Ellingsworth didn’t bother looking affronted. “For a man who kissed a beautiful woman, and she took pleasure in it, you’re terrifically choleric.”
“She did enjoy it.” He’d felt the way she’d opened for him, the tight press of her body against his, her frantic breath. He’d seen her passion-glazed eyes and swollen lips.
He struggled to push those images away. “But it matters not, because I can’t have her.”
His friend straightened. “Whyever not? You’re a duke—the Prime Minister hangs on your word. Dozens of noblemen will leap like jackrabbits to obey your command. Anything you want is yours.”
“That’s why I can’t have Mrs. Blair.” Alex tested the water coming off the horse again and was satisfied to find it cool. He wanted to dump the rest of the bucket over his own head—or maybe throw it at Ellingsworth.
Instead, he grabbed some drying cloths from a peg and wiped down the animal. “A genteel widow with nothing to her name. No possessions. No family. She’s at the mercy of the world.” His jaw tightened. “All the power belongs to me. I could ruin her with my attention.”
“What if,” Ellingsworth posited, “your attention was more honorable. Take her as your mistress.”
Alex straightened. His hands clenched into fists. “What?”
Ellingsworth appeared to warm to the idea. “You can remain lovers. Have new kisses of unequaled magnificence—and more. And you’d keep her generously supported. A house of her own, jewels, servants, a carriage. Women love carriages,” he added confidingly. “More than jewels.”
It took every measure of Alex’s control to keep from punching his friend. “How the hell can you suggest that?”
Ellingsworth held out his hands as if even discussing the topic was ridiculous. “Lady Emmeline is an earl’s daughter. Who is Mrs. Blair’s father?”
Alex struggled to recall, but his mind came up with nothing but haze. “Can’t remember. Some landed gentleman who must have been the son of a baronet. I’m not certain.”
“Exactly my point,” his friend said, aiming his finger at Alex. “She was working in a gaming hell, for the love of Christ. It’s not as though she has outstanding prospects. Becoming your mistress would be an advancement for her.”
Alex tossed down the cloth he held and strode over to Ellingsworth. He gripped his friend’s neckcloth in a vise and gave him a shake.
“Don’t ever insult Mrs. Blair again,” Alex said through gritted teeth.
Ellingsworth’s eyes were round with shock. “It’s not an insult,” he managed to gasp. “It’s realism.”
“She’d never sell herself that way.”
His friend struggled to pry Alex’s fingers from the silk around his neck. “Have a care. My valet will pillory me if I return to him with a destroyed neckcloth.”
Alex released Ellingsworth with a shove. The younger man stumbled back before regaining his balance.
“Women have few ways of making their way in this awful world,” Ellingsworth said, trying to smooth out the mass of wrinkles at his throat. “We don’t let them use their brains, so the only resource they have is their bodies. It’s a bloody shame, but it’s the way of things.”
“There are other ways to help her besides paying for her bed,” Alex muttered.
“Like what?” Ellingsworth pressed. “The only other option you have is marriage, and that’s an utter impossibility.”
The word itself—marriage—struck Alex like cannon fire hitting a fortification. He steadied himself.
It was absurd. Impossible, as Ellingsworth said.
But was it . . . ?
Ellingsworth stared at him. “You can’t possibly be thinking of taking Mrs. Blair as your wife.”
Almost at once, Alex wanted to deny it. Yet the thought kept returning to him again and again like a bee revisiting a flower. What if he did marry Cassandra? She would have his protection, his true protection. She would be elevated in the eyes of Society and never want for anything again. No more work as a lady’s companion, no more smoke-filled gaming hells. They would fall asleep together at night and rise together in the morning. And they would never have to be apart. They could be seen in public without scandal.
She could give him children. Perhaps even love. Alex and Cassandra would live out their lives, side by side.
He felt something strange and shining unfolding within him. Happiness. Genuine joy.
Hell, he thought. I’ve gone wild.
Ellingsworth gaped at him. “If you want to permanently tie your name to someone, her breeding has to be impeccable. Society expects nothing less.” He shook his head. “Precisely the reason why I won’t be taking a wife. I’m a third son. Nobody cares who I marry, no family name relies on me.”
“But you can dole out advice to me like a costermonger selling me a pear,” Alex answered drily. “You can’t even keep a mistress for more than a few months without losing interest in her.”
His friend dismissed the idea with a sniff. “That signifies nothing. You, my dearest Greyland, are a different kettle of sheep.”
“Don’t you mean kettle of fish? Or sheep of a different fold?”
Ellingsworth shooed the thought aside. “What matters is that you’re in a very different position from me. From the rest of the country. You’re a pillar of England, et cetera. You have obligations.”
Alex’s anger renewed itself in an acidic wave. “Why shouldn’t I marry someone I have feelings for, regardless of who her father is? She has feelings for me.” He drew himself up, heedless of the towels in his hand. “I’m a bloody duke. I can do whatever the hell I please.”
Color drained from Ellingsworth’s face. “So you’re actually thinking of marrying the widow from Cheltenham.” He sputtered. “She brings nothing to the table. No alliances, no money. Nothing.”
“She brings herself,” Alex angrily corrected.
Everything within him blazed to life. The thought was absurd, preposterous. And yet marrying Cassandra felt right. They cared about each other. They had mutual desire and passion. And she was from a good family, even if they weren’t listed in the Domesday Book. He’d have a greater chance of happiness with Cassandra than Lady Emmeline. And he would make it his life’s work to ensure Cassandra was very, very happy.
There was a prospect of love. He had to seize that possibility while he could, for it might never come his way again.
To hell with what his father had decreed. The late duke couldn’t rule Alex from beyond the grave. This was Alex’s life.
“All my years,” he ground out, “I’ve played by the rules. Done exactly what was expected of me. Acted the dutiful heir, listening to everything my father told me. What did I get for my troubles? Jilted by Lady Emmeline. But this time . . . this time, I’m going to go after what I desire.”
“I . . . I . . .” Ellingsworth blinked. He fell silent. Then, “If this is what you truly want—”
“It is.” He’d never felt more certain of anything.
“And what of Lady Emmeline?”
“She made her choice, and I make mine. This time, I will marry a woman I care for. Who cares for me. No more mutual toleration. I will have what I want.”
“Then I support you.” He stepped closer and clapped a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Felicitations, old man. You will make her quite happy.”
“She still has to say yes,” Alex said with a wry smile.
“How can she say anything else?”
He felt like a furnace ready to explode. But he would be calm. He would be in control. Tonight, he would go back to the gaming hell and ask Cassandra to be his wife.
