She burned.
And yearned.
And hungered for more.
You cannot have more, she reminded herself sternly. It was impossible. Irresponsible. She had told him once that he made her want to break all her rules. But in truth, he made her wish she possessed no rules at all. How could she ever spend the next weeks, perhaps months, at his side without wanting to touch him? Without being tempted to kiss him or to offer her body to him once more? Without stealing to his bedchamber in the midst of the night?
Doing so seemed as likely as the Atlantic Ocean drying up in one day. So much intensity, such deep connection, could not be vanquished. But she had to protect herself. Too much more time in his arms, and she would lose her heart.
“Good morning, Miss Montgomery,” he said in his impeccable aristocratic accent, one more reminder of why she could not run to him again this evening.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she returned with equal formality. She would have offered a curtsy, as she reckoned it was the proper response. But she was wearing her trousers, and dipping like a debutante seemed silly. So she bowed back at him.
His lips twitched. “That will be all, Reynolds,” he announced to the butler without ever removing his gaze from Hazel.
The butler and pair of footmen assisting him disappeared with alarming haste, leaving Hazel alone with the man her body did not want to resist. She frowned at him for being so handsome, for using his tongue so well. For making her come undone so thoroughly, she had been nothing but a quivering, spent mass of woman in his bed. For showing her what she had been missing. For making her want something she could never have.
“You laughed at me,” she accused, feeling in the mood to argue. Perhaps it would be a way to arm herself against him.
“You laughed at me as well, if you will recall,” he countered, raising a brow. “Please, sit. We have a great deal to accomplish today, and I would like to get an early start so we have enough time to go on an excursion later. I know how grumbly Famished Hazel can be.”
The lightness in his tone took her aback, for it was not at all what she had anticipated. Indeed, it was almost…intimate, for lack of a better word. Jarring, for certain.
“I laughed at the absurdity of your question,” she reminded him, “not at you. For you know as well as I that it was a question you ought never to have asked me.”
“Why not?” He skirted the table suddenly, moving past her in such proximity her swift inhalation encompassed his scent. He withdrew a chair and gestured toward her imperiously. “Have a seat, Hazel.”
“I will sit when I wish to do so,” she countered, for just because they had been lovers—past tense, she reminded herself, as it could not happen again—did not give him a right to order her about. She would breakfast when and as she pleased.
“You did not answer my question,” he persisted.
“You know as well as I all the reasons why you ought never to have asked me to marry you. Everything about me is unconventional.”
“That is one of the things I admire about you,” he said seriously. “Sit.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
This was not how they were meant to conduct their breakfast. They were meant to sit, attended by servants, so that nothing untoward could be said, and then focus upon their investigations, before returning to the site of the railway bombings and meeting with Winchelsea. Business. Impersonal. Formal. That was what she had wanted this morning.
How was she to contend with a Duke of Arden, who was looking upon her as if he wanted to consume her for breakfast, instead of the sausages and eggs?
“You would prefer I pretend not to admire you?” he asked innocently. “Strange indeed, Hazel, for I would think an independent woman such as yourself would demand her suitor admire her.”
Suitor?
The word may as well have been a curse. Her heart thumped faster. Louder. Her palms began to sweat.
“You are not my suitor, Arden,” she corrected coolly.
“What if I am?” he returned, his countenance deadly serious.
“You cannot be,” she snapped, her tenuous grip on her own feelings making her irritable. “We have been over this tired discussion before. If there is something you need to know, I will tell you. If not, you need not worry about me. Very likely, I will be on my way soon enough anyway. We already know the identity of the dynamitards. Now it will be a matter of catching them, before they elude us.”
“You see? Famished Hazel, baring her claws.” He gestured toward the chair again. “Sit. Please.”
Her stomach chose that second to deliver a loud, indignant, and wholly unladylike rumble. Bemused, she pressed a clammy hand over her belly, wishing for once she had worn a corset, for perhaps the infernal contraption would have staved off the sound.
Her cheeks went hot. Arden said nothing, merely regarded her calmly. Knowingly.
Well, she was hungry. There was no denying it. And he seemed content to continue their impasse, he at the chair, she standing in the midst of the dining room like a fool. So she did the only thing she could think of doing. She strode to his vacated chair and seated herself with as much elegance as she could muster. She was aware she possessed precious little grace, but she could force herself to conform when the situation required it.
She laid Arden’s napkin neatly in her lap and regarded him from the opposite side of the table. “I am quite famished, Mr. Arden. Thank you.”
She took care to drawl the words, lifting his untouched coffee to him in a mock toast, before she took a sip. The decadent, dark liquid rolled over her tongue, bitter and rich and delicious. She had to admit, he had excellent taste in coffee. Even if he was an overbearing, arrogant duke.
He inclined his head and lowered himself into the seat he had been offering her. “Touché, my dear. I only hope you like kippers.”
She glanced down at his laden plate with dismay, discovering a grouping of the revolting, smoked herrings the English so favored upon the fine china. “I adore them,” she lied with a brilliant smile.
“Excellent.” There was a smile in his voice, but she refused, on principle, to look back at him.
Her stomach growled again. Grimly, she snatched up a fork. She had been hasty in her decision to steal his place at the table, that much was plain. But by no means would she retreat now. At least, there was also a poached egg and some sausage. She would simply consume the disagreeable creatures first, while breathing through her mouth, then drown them with delicious coffee, before ending the meal in epicurean delights.
She stabbed at the thing, then cut off a bite-size portion and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing hastily. Hazel swallowed before washing it down with coffee.
“Excellent indeed,” she gasped, for her gulp of coffee was hot, and the flavor of smoked fish remained redolent on her palate, much to her chagrin.
“Hazel.”
She glanced up at him at last, her eyes watering from the combination of the dreadful kippers and the hot coffee. “Yes?”
“You do not have to eat the damned kippers to prove a point.” He looked as wry as he sounded.
“I enjoy them.” She speared another bite, lifted it to her lips. Even the texture of the thing was enough to make her want to gag. Truly, how could he eat this wretched fare? She would sooner eat the bark of a magnolia tree.
“Hazel.”
She swallowed more coffee to mask the untenable flavor in her mouth, just a sip this time. “Arden?”
“Lucien,” he corrected gently. The smile he gave her was disconcertingly tender. “I do believe we are beyond formality at this point, are we not? And please, for the love of all that is holy, cease eating the kippers, lest you vomit all over the breakfast table.”
Yes, they were well beyond formality.
Yes, the kippers were horrible.
She sighed. “What do you want from me, Lucien?”
His sensual mouth hiked into a deeper smile. “Many things. But to begin, I would
like the honor of your company this evening.”
“This evening?”
This time, he grinned at her with such ruthlessness, twin divots appeared in his cheeks. Heavens, the Duke of Arden had dimples. And they were a revelation. As was the man himself.
“Yes, that is what I said just now, I do believe, my dear,” he said calmly. “I would like you to accompany me this evening.”
Was this his strange way of attempting to get her to reconsider his proposal, because of his own guilt? If so, he was destined for disappointment.
“I will not go to one of your balls or society functions, Arden,” she warned. “It is out of the question. I have no notion of your fancy rules and fancy ways, nor do I have any wish to. I am as you see me, unapologetically.”
“No ball,” he said smoothly, reaching for a plate of Bayonne ham and liberating a slice for his new plate. “Just an excursion.”
“What manner of excursion?” she demanded, eyes narrowing as she studied his calm façade.
He looked almost princely as he glanced in her direction. Certainly too handsome and too blue-blooded for her. “Agree to join me, and you shall see.”
She clenched her jaw. Oh, the rotten man. He knew her well enough, far better than she sometimes expected. And he knew she would not be able to withstand the mystery of where he planned to take her. If she refused him, the question would persist, taunting her, making her wonder. If she agreed, she would know.
And she wanted to agree. Of course she did. The Duke of Arden could offer to escort her to the gates of hell, and she would gladly accept.
“Perhaps,” she allowed.
“There is no ‘perhaps,’ sweetheart,” he countered. “There is only ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Which shall it be?”
“My pride demands that it is ‘no,’ ” she said. “But my pride also demands that I eat these revolting things you call kippers. I do not think I can stomach the latter, so my pride may well have to go to the devil.”
Indeed, she rather feared it had already gone there.
“One word, Hazel. Say it.”
She sighed. He would give her no quarter, as always. And she would expect nothing less. “Yes,” she grumbled. “Very well. I will accompany you on this excursion, whatever it may be. But only if I do not have to eat this nonsense.”
He grinned. “No one ever said you had to eat the kippers, my dear. Perhaps you ought to stop heeding your pride.”
She was sure her pride was the only thing she ought to listen to. But for now, there was only one voice her heart wanted to hear, and it belonged to the Duke of Arden.
Chapter Fifteen
Hazel knocked on Lady Beaufort’s chamber door half a dozen times before she finally received an answer. She and Lucien had returned from a full afternoon of investigations and interrogations—questioning the staff of the hotel, the railway workers, and other bystanders and witnesses. Lucien’s aunt had been once more absent from dinner, and this time, Hazel had been too concerned to avoid seeking the older woman out to make certain she was well.
“I told you, Greaves, I am not hungry,” came the unmistakable voice of Lucien’s aunt at last.
“It is not Greaves, my lady,” Hazel ventured, bracing herself for the stinging censure Lady Beaufort would once more hurl her way. “It is Hazel.”
“Miss Montgomery?” Lady Beaufort’s voice was hesitant, edged with a note of disbelief.
Hazel suppressed a smile. Of course Lady Beaufort would refuse to refer to her with her given name. Formality was her mantle of protection. “Yes, my lady. It is Miss Montgomery. May I enter?”
“No.”
Well, she supposed she ought not to have expected any different. Still, she was nothing, if not determined.
“Please, my lady?” she tried, lacing her voice with sweetness. Even the English were susceptible to a drawl, she found.
There was silence on the other side of the door.
“I am mightily stubborn, Lady Beaufort,” she warned without heat. “And my constitution is hearty. I can stand here, asking for you to let me in, for the next few hours at least. Why, on one of my cases, I pretended to be an invalid and stayed at the home of a suspected murderer for an entire week, spreading droplets of false blood all over his hallway floors, until he finally confessed to his crime, believing he was being haunted for his sins.”
It was a true story, and one she was not necessarily proud of, for she preferred not to resort to trickery to wrangle her quarry. But as it turned out, it was just the bait she needed to dangle before Lady Beaufort.
The door opened.
Lady Beaufort faced her, pale and drawn. Her eyes were swollen, bloodshot, and even her hair was bereft of its usual severe—if outmoded—style of two loops worn over her ears. She was not even dressed in her typical mourning, but wrapped up in a plain gray robe, a simple cap on her head.
And she had been crying.
The realization took Hazel aback.
“Come inside, if you must,” Lady Beaufort announced coolly. “I cannot bear the notion of the domestics hearing you carry on about such vulgar nonsense.”
There was the Lady Beaufort Hazel knew. She flashed a smile, ignoring the insult as she entered Lucien’s aunt’s chamber. She noted at once the small nuances which told her this chamber must have belonged to Lady Beaufort for a long time.
The wallpaper was gray damask, but the walls were hung with a vast array of elaborate needlework framed in gilt housing, and portraits of a gentleman she could only imagine must be Lord Beaufort. From the coverlets to the smell of the room to the very carpet, every inch of the handsomely appointed chamber bespoke it was Lady Beaufort’s domain.
Lucien had clearly been taking care of his widowed aunt for years, and the knowledge settled in Hazel’s heart. It was plain to see he was a good man. But she had not sought out his aunt so she could fall deeper beneath the Duke of Arden’s spell.
Rather, she had come here to ascertain for herself the state of Lady Beaufort’s well-being. She spun about to face her ladyship, who was walking, as usual, with the aid of her handsomely decorated cane. But aside from her halting gait, there appeared no heightening of her illness.
“Why are you hiding in your chamber, my lady?” she asked.
Lady Beaufort’s chin snapped up. “I do not hide. I am ill. Can you not see?”
“I can see you have been weeping,” Hazel said. “Why?”
“Curse you,” Lady Beaufort spat with great feeling, her eyes—the same green, Hazel noted, as Lucien’s—brimming with hellfire. “How dare you speak to me with such impudence, you vulgar American vagabond?”
Hazel suppressed a wince. “Even vulgar American vagabonds can feel concern for someone who is suffering, my lady,” she persisted. “What is the cause of your grief? Is it me?”
“You possess an awfully high opinion of yourself to imagine I would concern myself over you, Miss Montgomery,” Lady Beaufort said. “Of course, I worry about Arden’s reputation, but he can weather any scandal you decide to cast in his direction. No, these tears are purely selfish. They are for me alone.”
Hazel had not been expecting such brutal honesty, but she could respect it. “The tears are for you?”
Lady Beaufort sniffled. “To be precise, they are for my beloved Beaufort. Today marks the day of my Arnold’s death.”
It was as she had suspected then. Hazel’s heart gave a pang. “I am sorry, my lady. I know how difficult the death of the one you love can be.”
“How can you know, Miss Montgomery?” Lady Beaufort demanded. “I daresay you never knew love in your life, else you would have been married already at your advanced age.”
The advanced age comment did smart, but she supposed it was not altogether incorrect. Hazel was twenty-eight years of age or thereabouts. She would never know for certain.
“I would know, because I loved and lost the man I was going to marry,” she said, though her voice trembled a bit under the force of remembrance. “He was shot in front
of me, and he breathed his last breath on this earth as he lay dying in my arms. That is how I know, my lady.”
Lucien’s always dignified aunt appeared to crumple before her. “I am sorry, Miss Montgomery. I ought not to have said something so horrid.”
“I understand the bitterness grief brings.” She paused, offering Lady Beaufort a gently reassuring smile. “Do you care for company?”
Lucien’s aunt was quiet for so long, Hazel braced herself for a rejection and a request for her to leave. Instead, Lady Beaufort sighed and gestured to a sitting area near the hearth. “We may as well sit, Miss Montgomery.”
Her grudging invitation made Hazel’s smile deepen. Here, at last, was evidence Lady Beaufort did not loathe her entirely. “Thank you, my lady.”
They settled into the overstuffed chairs by the cheerful little fire crackling in the grate. The autumn day was cold and wet, and the warmth of the fire felt good to Hazel after a day spent in and out of the carriage and traipsing about in the railways. She recalled Lady Beaufort’s absence at dinner, and her assertion she was not hungry, when she had assumed Hazel had been her lady’s maid.
“Have you eaten, my lady?” she asked, as she arranged her divided skirts in a concession for Lady Beaufort’s sensibilities. “May I ring for some tea?”
Lucien’s aunt was staring pointedly at Hazel’s trousers, but to her credit, she made no comment on them. “No, thank you, Miss Montgomery. I have already taken my tea for the day, and I have no desire to eat. This day has been a dark one for years. I allow myself a few days of sorrow, and then I go on.”
Hazel rather suspected Lady Beaufort had not, in fact, gone on. Her perpetual mourning attire, the brooch she wore pinned to her bodice each day, even the style of her hair and dress, outdated by decades, suggested a part of her remained trapped in a happier past. That part of her had never moved on from losing her husband. And Hazel saw a great deal of herself in the older woman, if she were brutally honest. The love she had lost had made her close her heart. She had devoted all her time and energy to being a Pinkerton agent.
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