Читать книгу Dare to Love a Duke - Eva Leigh, Eva Leigh - Страница 12

Within his carriage, Tom stared out the window, watching the world shoot past him. Everything seemed to be going too fast. He hoped that tonight, he’d be able to gain his footing again, if only for a little while.

The vehicle sped down London’s darkened streets, heading toward Bloomsbury. And release. But only for a brief while.

Absently, Tom touched the ducal signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. At the feel of the gold against his fingers, thoughts of his father flooded him, threatening to drag him down into the ever-present morass of grief.

Tom slipped off the ring and tucked it carefully in the inside pocket of his coat. Where he was going tonight, he couldn’t have anyone recognize him.

It was for Maeve, and his mother, that Tom had made the choice that impelled him to Bloomsbury tonight. After this night, he would never again return to the Orchid Club.

A throb of loss pumped through him, but he put it aside. He meant to enjoy these last hours of freedom before donning the permanent disguise of staid, sober duke.

He adjusted the green silk mask covering half of his face. While wearing it, he could be anyone. A sailor or a tradesman or a vagabond. All cares could be set aside for a few hours in his final pursuit of selfish, wonderful pleasure.

The carriage pulled up outside a place Tom knew very well. He’d visited it weekly for almost a year, until recently, when he’d stayed at his father’s bedside and failed to attend the Orchid Club’s openings.

His footman jumped down and opened the carriage door for him.

“Wait for me in the mews,” Tom directed the young man, though he needn’t have bothered. The routine was well-known by his servants.

When the carriage drove off, Tom tugged down his dove-gray silk waistcoat and brushed at the shoulders of his gunmetal-gray coat. How strange to be out of mourning, even for a few hours, but he didn’t want anyone inside knowing such intimate details.

After climbing the short flight of stairs to the door, Tom gave the customary secret knock. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Waiting, hoping, his heart rose in his throat in anticipation. They hadn’t seen each other in too long.

Throughout these long weeks, he’d used the memory of her as a touchstone, a gleam of gold amidst the ashes. He needed that brightness now.

A moment later, the door opened a sliver and the black woman appeared.

After he’d exchanged the customary password with the doorkeeper, he entered. For good measure, he showed her a small coin, stamped with a mask. The token was given to whomever had attended the club more than three times, to demonstrate that they were familiar with the rules of the establishment.

The tangles of grief and responsibility loosened in his chest as he stepped into the foyer. A sense of ease and release crept through him. No one here called him Your Grace. Only the moniker for all guests: friend. This was where he was meant to be. Not the heavy-paneled study where all the matters of the estate were handled, nor the corridors haunted by England’s men of power, where Tom was charged with both preserving England’s traditions—regardless of Tom’s own feelings on the matter—and preserving the Powell family’s reputation.

He handed the doorkeeper money, which she tucked into the purse hanging at her waist.

“Most everyone is in the drawing room and the ballroom,” she said, gesturing to the hallway behind her.

Familiar with the route, he made his way toward the sound of conversation, laughter, music, and sex. With each step, more and more weight fell from his shoulders. For the first time since his father’s final illness, Tom felt genuinely buoyant. Yet that buoyancy was undercut by the fact that soon, he’d give this up, too.

He entered the parlor, and his gaze fell upon the familiar sight of guests in various states of dress and undress. Bare flesh gleamed in the candlelight, laughter and sighs filled the air, and the scent of perfume and unbridled sexuality wafted like a tropic current.

Some weren’t actively engaged in sensual pursuits. Two women drank champagne and chatted in low voices. A quartet played a game of cards—though it appeared the stakes were articles of clothing, as evidenced by the piles of gloves, stockings, and coats heaped in the center of the table. No one bid their masks.

The people in this room could have been anyone, from barristers to fishmongers, barons to abigails. That was part of the thrill. The man or woman someone was coupling with could have been their servant, or master. It was rumored that spouses had made love to each other without ever knowing their partner’s true identity. But it was impossible to ever know the truth of this.

Tom took a glass of wine from a passing footman, then sipped as he surveyed the room. He took his usual place by the window. The moment a woman in a red dress began approaching him, he moved on. Over the course of the year, he’d fielded many offers of sex from interested parties, but he’d never accepted. That wasn’t why he came to the Orchid Club.

He crossed the threshold of the ballroom. This was where he’d first met Amina, a night he’d never forgotten. As always, the notes of a waltz drifted from the musicians as the guests on the dance floor surrendered to the seductive air of unfiltered desire.

This was not sanctioned London. It was the secret, dark side. The place where people of all walks of life came for release, to cavort and be free.

He sensed a charge like unheard music, a subtle threading of awareness moving invisibly through his body. Despite being engaged in watching the unfolding action, Tom became conscious of a new presence in the room.

Amina had arrived.

She glided through the chamber, calm and assured, a small, unreadable smile playing about her lips as she stopped to chat with guests, making certain they had everything they needed. Tonight, her mask was emerald green, embroidered all over with gold thread and tiny pearls. The mask matched her richly hued gown, which hugged her curved body.

Tonight, her thick black hair was pinned up, though small brilliants seemed to twinkle in the dark waves. But it could have been his imagination. For surely whenever she was near, he had eyes for no one but her.

Riveted, Tom watched her glide through the ballroom, expertly weaving through the crowd. She kept that slightly removed smile on her face as she talked with the celebrants. Occasionally, she waved over a servant to provide more refreshments to the guests. She checked with the musicians and adjusted the position of a candelabra on a table.

This is my realm, she seemed to silently declare. The ruler of Bloomsbury. The empress of the Orchid Club. Regal and confident, her head held high, her shoulders back.

She caught sight of him, and he straightened to his fullest height. A thrum of excitement pulsed through him, all the way to his bones, as she approached. The lingering clouds of his unease lifted the nearer she came.

This close, he could see the deep brown of her eyes shining behind her disguise. Her pupils were large, fathomless.

“Rogue,” Amina said when she stood before him.

“You chide me baselessly.” His heart took up double time to have her so close and to hear her low, throaty voice again. Every now and again, he caught a hint of an unknown accent in her words, yet he could never ask after her origins.

She had to be from somewhere warm, a place where, beneath a gleaming sun, dark-eyed beauties felt temperate breezes caress their tawny skin. The thought of all Amina’s flesh bared to the sunlight made his mouth water.

“I’m not a capricious creature,” she said crisply. “I do nothing without reason.”

“If you are my judge, I’m entitled to know the offense for which I am accused.”

She clicked her tongue. “Even worse that you don’t know.” At his mystified silence, she explained, “Six weeks. It’s been six weeks since I’ve last seen you within these chambers. I thought you’d enlisted or run off to Argentina.”

He smiled to himself. “You think me an adventurer?”

“I think you dreadfully rude to have disappeared,” she said coolly.

He bowed. “Family obligations, unfortunately, have kept me away.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “I forget, sometimes, that people have families.”

Despite her wry smile, a note of melancholy tinged her voice, making him contemplate her kin. Did she have any, and did they know what she did to earn her bread?

Then, she said more lightly, “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“Thinking of this night has been a balm to me these past weeks,” he said candidly. There was no need to dissemble or tell flattering half-truths. Not here. Not with her.

“If you’ve been troubled, I am sorry for it.” Sincerity firmed her words. Perhaps he was, to her, more than another masked guest, something beyond a means to keep a roof over her head.

God knew she held greater significance to him than her role as manager of this establishment.

He bowed. “I’ll find my way through my difficulties.”

Or so he hoped. Every step put him deeper and deeper into unknown, perilous territory.

“Good,” she said. “It would pain me to think of you in distress.”

“Would it?”

She shot him a pointed look. “I’ve no reason to speak falsely.”

“You are this club’s proprietress. I would be inclined to believe that you’ll say nearly anything to ensure a paying guest’s return.”

“It may be that I do not always give voice to my innermost heart,” she said, inclining her head. “Yet I will not lie. Not often,” she added wryly. “But, I won’t dissemble with you.”

Perhaps here, too, she wasn’t telling the truth, but he chose to believe her. It filled him with dark pleasure.

“Appreciated, madam.” Her presence beside him warmed him far more than any wine.

“We match.” She glanced at his mask. He’d forgotten that his was green, nearly the same color as her own. She stroked a fingertip along her mask, and then his. Though it wasn’t skin-to-skin touch, he nearly growled at the contact. “Coincidence?”

“Fate,” he said.

She gave a half smile. “Fate doesn’t exist. There are only choices.”

“And what do you choose tonight, madam?”

“For now, I choose to spend my valuable time with an inveterate scoundrel. One who disappears like smoke.” Her rich and husky laugh reached all the way down to his groin, making it tighten. Then she frowned. “In all this time, you’ve never joined in the activities in here. A displeased or bored guest is unacceptable in my establishment. I thought that when you stopped coming, maybe you’d grown tired of us.”

“Nothing here has ever disappointed me.” He was never returning after tonight, so it cost him naught to speak the truth.

Together, they observed the room and people within it. Half-nude guests danced together, while sighs and moans gently wafted above the music.

“You have never participated in the activity here,” she said, “not once in the whole of a year.”

After the too-brief conversation they’d had that first night, he’d returned again. And again. Each time, he’d been careful. Seeking her out, but trying not to appear too fervent. Yet every time, he made sure to engage her in banter, draw her out like a silken thread.

She was swathed in mystery, cloaked in secrets. Beautiful, aloof. How could he resist her? He wanted more.

But they played a sophisticated game, him and Amina. Always at a slight distance, like chess opponents strategizing the movement of their pieces on the board. A word here. A flirtation there. They both seemed to understand the way of the world, never revealing themselves entirely. All the while, desire was an invisible presence between them, gathering strength.

The last time he’d been at the Orchid Club, they’d spoken of their favorite secret places in London, little corners of the city that held unexpected joy. She hated the zoological gardens because of the caged animals, but loved to watch the birds take wing above a tiny square nestled in Chelsea. He’d confessed he would grab a cake from Catton’s famed sweet shop and eat it while standing on the banks of the Thames, watching the ships drift along the water.

Then . . . he’d taken her hand. A brief touch. Their eyes had met, and the charge between them had crackled like summer lightning. He’d nearly gone to his knees from merely that contact.

She’d slipped away to see after other guests, but he’d felt her gaze on him the rest of the night. A promise of what could be. He’d excitedly planned what might happen the next time they met. But then he’d had to disappear. Leaving the potential unfulfilled.

Until now.

He stepped in front of her so that he commanded her full attention. She tilted her head back to look him in the eye. Always, she had that direct way of looking at him, and it shot awareness through him with a hard, quick intensity.

“I return to this place again and again for one reason,” he said. “The same reason that brings me here tonight—you.”

Her lips parted, yet she did not speak. Surprise flashed in the depths of her eyes.

He narrowed the distance between them, and this close, he caught her scent of night-blooming flowers.

“This will be my last visit to the Orchid Club.” It pained to speak it, making it more real, more inevitable.

She frowned. “If I’ve said or done anything to drive you from here—”

“The world pulls me away, not you. I’d speak more on it, but the rules of the house . . .” He smiled regretfully.

“I . . .” She looked away, then back at him. “I’ll miss you.”

If she wasn’t speaking the truth to him now, she was an excellent actress. She was the picture of regret. So he opted to believe her—it was a falsehood to which he’d gladly cling.

“And I’ll miss you.” For the rest of his life, no matter what befell him or what path his life took, he’d ache for her. “Before I take my final leave, I’ve one thing to ask you.”

“And that is . . . ?”

He took her capable hand in his. She wore no gloves, and neither did he. The press of their palms together jolted through him, bright and hot. He’d anticipated her touch again with an unseemly eagerness—but now he saw that his eagerness had been entirely warranted. She felt . . . exquisite.

“Spend the night with me.” To his own ears, his voice was all but a growl.

Her eyes widened. For a long moment, she said nothing. Hope rose and fell within him, like a bird riding currents of air.

“One night,” he said in the silence. “In the morning, we’ll part company forever, but until the sun rises, we’ll give each other unimaginable pleasure. I promise,” he went on, “you’ll have nothing to regret, only memories of an extraordinary night. All you have to do is say yes.”

She stared up at him. Her breath came quickly, mirroring the thundering of his own pulse. The heat between their bodies could start a conflagration that would raze the city.

God, how he wanted her.

One moment became another and another. He could see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, the calculation of risk against reward.

He prayed for her answer, craving it with a fierce intensity, yet fully prepared to walk away if she said no. The choice had to be hers.

Her gaze locked on his, and when she spoke, her words were firm and decisive.

“Yes.”