Ravishing Regencies- The Complete Series

by Emily Murdoch

  Alexander nudged his friend’s shoulder. “Well?”

  Luke sighed. “Well, what? You think that a Dukedom means that any pretty woman should throw herself at your feet?”

  “No, but – ”

  “You think that you are the only charming man that walks into Almacks?”

  Alexander felt a little uncomfortable now. “‘Tis not like you to preach, Luke.”

  Their footsteps had taken them directly to the Marquis of Dewsbury’s London apartment, and he sighed when he looked at his friend. “Caershire, you know that I am your friend, and I do not say these words to hurt you – or to embarrass you.”

  Alexander sighed, and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And a better friend, I have not in the world.”

  Luke grinned. “Careful, or Anthony will be after my blood. No, let me be serious for a moment. The rumours of your reputation notwithstanding – ”

  “Or lack thereof,” interrupted Alexander.

  “Are you going to let me speak?”

  “Sorry.”

  Luke smiled ruefully at the tall man opposite him. “I am going back to the family home tomorrow, and yes, that means you will be here in London on your own. I know that this hurts you more than you let on. Just . . . just know that you knew this would happen when you made that decision four years ago. You knew the consequences then. You have to live with them now.”

  Alexander stared into the dark brown colour eyes of his best friend, and dropped his gaze. “I cannot deny it; and yet I wish that it were not so. If I had known, then . . .”

  “You would have made the same decision.” Luke grinned, and jerked his head to the door. “I better go in, I am meeting with my brothers tomorrow and I will need all my strength for it.”

  Alexander returned the smile. He had known the Northmere brothers his entire life, and Luke, as the eldest, rarely missed getting his own way with the family – even if it meant going against his intimidating father.

  “Send my best wishes to the Duke,” he said.

  Luke nodded. “My father, I am sure, sends his regards back.”

  The two men embraced, and Alexander tried to convey some of the gratitude that he felt to his friend for the last two weeks of companionship. It was difficult; he was not a man who shared his emotions easily, and Luke’s constant devil-may-care attitude belied what he truly felt. But if ever a man was a brother to him, it was the Marquis of Dewsbury.

  They broke apart.

  “Safe journey,” said Alexander with a smile.

  Luke nodded, and entered his home leaving Alexander alone in the street.

  He sighed, and watched his breathe plume before him. His own lodgings were just a few streets away, but his feet itched. This bitterness, this frustration at being – once again – rejected by a beautiful woman, it had to be got rid of before he turned in for the night.

  The streets of London were well known to him, and so he made his way to the banks of the Thames. Long and winding, the pathway along the north bank were almost as populated at this midnight hour than during the day.

  Hawkers and sellers, a few pedlars and a woman selling hot pies that smelt delicious; Alexander glanced at them all with little care as he strode along by the water’s edge.

  Somehow, water had always calmed him. He had been like that since a boy, when he and Richard –

  The pain shot back into his heart, and Alexander physically shook his head. No need to delve into that again. He had experienced enough heart wrenching today without revisiting his brother’s past.

  The gas lamps had been sparsely lit down the pathway, so Alexander moved from light to shadow as he paced. Why should he care so much, why should it matter? The memory of the entire room in Almacks quietening as Miss Layland strode away from him, a friend at her side for support. The way that eyes had followed him, greedy in their hunger for gossip, intrigue, and rumour.

  The darkening of her eyes as she had beheld him, and rejected him publicly and without honour.

  There was physical pain now; Alexander glanced down at his hands, and saw that he had clenched them, digging his nails into his palms until his left hand had started to bleed.

  It was intolerable, this stain on his reputation. If things did not change soon, then something drastic had to happen. Perhaps even –

  The night was torn apart by a loud scream, and a terrible splash.

  As Teresa hit the water, the freezing cold seemed to burn her skin, dragging her down as her skirts became drenched.

  An attempt to scream was stifled by the rush of water that flowed into her throat, and her desperate arms moved wildly in an attempt to keep herself afloat.

  “Help me!” she spluttered, desperation preventing her mind from knowing that there was no one who could help her.

  This could not be happening – she was not going to drown here, she was not going to die! But there seemed little chance of any other outcome as the freezing current started to pull her downwards, and there was nothing she could do, she could not swim, and her head sank under the waves and her hands were the only things still above the water, and this was it, this was how her life ended –

  A hand. A strong hand, a hand on hers. Teresa felt it dimly, as though it was happening a thousand miles away from her, but it was definitely a hand, and there was a pain in her shoulder and she could not understand why, and her lungs were on fire and yet her mouth was full of water, and suddenly a rush of water was cascading down her as she was hauled out of the water and dropped onto something that felt as heavenly as earth …

  Teresa took in the deepest breath of her life. Coughing and spluttering, the cold night air absolutely glacial on her skin as it hit the droplets of Thames still dripping from her, her gown sodden and ruined, the silk completely destroyed, she opened her eyes.

  Before her were a large pair of men’s boots. There were legs inside them.

  “What in God’s name were you doing in there?”

  The words were harsh, from a deep male voice, and cutting in their tone.

  Teresa tried to speak, but spluttering was all that she could manage. Her lungs were painful, throbbing pulsated in her throat as she tried again, but her body could do nothing.

  “Fool,” muttered the same voice, and suddenly a heavy coat was covering her sprawled body.

  Heat now rose within her, but it was of shame and embarrassment, not thanks to the greatcoat that enveloped her. To think that she should be seen like this, bedraggled, hair a mess, gown ruined, and by a man of some repute too, if the quality of his greatcoat was anything to go by.

  Teresa took another deep breath, and tried once more to speak. “Th-thank you.”

  It was not enough, she knew, to say to the man who had saved her life, but it was all that she could manage at the moment.

  “How did you fall in?” asked the voice, and Teresa pushed herself into a sitting position on the damp ground to look at the face of her rescuer.

  He was tall. Seated as she was, Teresa had to tilt her neck backwards to reach his face, and it was only then that she realised that he was just as drenched as she was. He had a dark, olive complexion, dark hair – although perhaps it looked darker because it was wet – and a questioning eye that did not blanch as she examined him.

  “I did not fall in,” she said eventually, arching an eyebrow with a smile. “I was pushed.”

  “Pushed?” The man seemed astonished, and despite the cold, wet, and slightly uncomfortable position that she was in, Teresa could not help but smile. It was always reassuring to see that she had what it took to confuse a man.

  Teresa nodded, and struggled to her feet. “‘Tis of no matter, I assure you.”

  “No – no matter?” Now it was her rescuer’s turn to splutter. “My dear lady, if a man has made an attempt on your life, you should inform the Bow Street Runners, immediately! I will be glad to assist – ”

  “No,” said Teresa curtly. The last thing that she needed was for a peeler to get anywhere near her. At the rai
sed eyebrow of her rescuer, she added, “I am sure it was an accident, and I would be loath to get a gentleman in trouble for an accident.”

  Now that she was standing, the man’s height seemed diminished slightly. The broadness of his shoulders, perhaps, distorted the view, for he was still just as tall, but strong, young like she was, perhaps even a little younger.

  Teresa pulled a blonde strand of hair away from her cheek, and smiled. “Now, I have an appointment to make. Do excuse me, sir.”

  Looking about her, she saw that she was back on the north bank; most inconvenient, as it was going to be a long walk back to the dockyard. Perhaps she could find –

  “Appointment?” The man stared at her. “What sort of appointment – with whom?”

  Teresa smiled, and removed the greatcoat from her shoulders. “No one of your acquaintance, I am sure, Mr . . ?”

  For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of confusion over his face, but then he sighed and said, “Alexander.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr Alexander, for your kind rescue.” Teresa put all her beauty, drenched as it was, into the smile that she gave him. “I certainly do not know what I would have done if you had not come along, but I am quite safe now.”

  She reached out the greatcoat, but he did not take it. “It is not Mr Alexander, actually. ‘Tis just, Alexander. That is my name.”

  Why did he not take the coat? Teresa tried to keep her smile on her face, but it was a little more brittle now. She was late to meet Lord George Northmere as it was, and if she missed it, she was unlikely to get a second chance.

  “Alexander? Surely you have a surname?”

  He looked even more uncomfortable at this, and Teresa could not sense why. There was such a simplicity about him, really, completely unlike most of the men she knew.

  But she did not have time to play naming games with a stranger on the bank of the Thames. She had somewhere to be.

  Throwing the greatcoat over one of his shoulders, Teresa said gaily, “Well, whoever you are, thank you. Good evening.”

  She turned away from him, and began to walk briskly – partly to reach Lord George in time, and partly, in truth, to keep warm.

  Hurried footsteps followed her, and she rolled her eyes before Alexander reached her side.

  “But you cannot just – you are soaking wet!”

  “Yes, I am aware of that, thank you,” Teresa attempted to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but it was incredibly difficult with such a silly man. Why could he not leave her alone? “And yet I am almost sure I know the remedy for that, so good evening to you.”

  He was a handsome man, she could see that now. That olive complexion, that chiselled and finely shaved jaw, that essence of strength that a man either had or had not. You could not replicate it, you could not pretend.

  This Alexander had it in spades.

  “My dear lady – what is your name?”

  Teresa was attempting to increase her pace, but the dratted man was just as quick as she was. “Teresa.”

  They rounded a bend in the river, and passed a gaggle of revellers, undoubtedly thrown out by one of the gentleman’s clubs. Teresa swore under her breath. If she did not find Lord George soon, she would be too late to take advantage of throwing out time, and then she would be in a difficult spot.

  “Teresa . . . you must have a surname.”

  Alexander placed a hand on her arm as he attempted to slow her down. “Surely you cannot be any sort of real rush, Miss – ”

  “I am,” she said, wrenching her arm away from him and glaring at him. “Miss Metcalfe, not that it means a thing to you, Mr . . ?”

  If she had not known better, she would have said that he looked a little embarrassed.

  “Duke, actually.”

  She did not have time for this, every second wasted on this man was one that she was losing with Lord George. “As I said, thank you, Mr Duke, for helping me out of the river, but there really is no need to accompany me.”

  And yet he still did not disappear, even when she started walking again. “I am not Mr Duke, I am a Duke.”

  That was enough to stop her in her tracks. Teresa flew around to stare at him. “A Duke?”

  Alexander grinned at her, almost apologetically. “Duke of Caershire, believe it or not.”

  Teresa stared at him, calculating. Well, knowing that he was a Duke certainly turned things around a bit; now that she took a closer look, she could see the unmistakable signs of wealth. But pennies in your pocket were worth more than guineas in someone else’s, and she had no time to waste.

  “I would have curtseyed, had I known,” she said with a cheeky grin, and she saw the answering preen in his stance that she knew would come. My, but weren’t men predictable? “Good evening, my lord.”

  His surprised face drew level with hers, even though she was walking as fast as she could – almost running. “You – you do not want my protection?”

  “I do not need your protection,” Teresa said hurriedly, and with just a little of her irritation seeping through. “To tell the truth, my lord, I have somewhere to be, and it is not a somewhere that you should be seen. Go away.”

  Darting down a side alley, Teresa broke out into a run – anything to be rid of this puppy of a Duke. But she had underestimated him; his reflexes were quick, and so were his feet, and within twenty seconds he had caught up with her, caught hold of her, and thrust her against a wall.

  “God’s teeth, let go of me!” Teresa cried, and then, in a desperate hope that the knowledge would release her, exclaimed, “I am a courtesan, you fool!”

  2

  The woman stopped struggling, and for the first time, Alexander was able to look at her properly.

  He was utterly transfixed. Golden blonde hair falling in soaking wet waves down her neck, her large blue eyes gazed at him, defiance and fear mingled in their huge irises. There was strength in her steady gaze, but a vulnerability too.

  His hands were on her arms, and he was suddenly conscious of her damp and heaving chest, rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. Her gown, a green or blue he could not tell, clung to her body as she shook slightly with cold.

  Teresa Metcalfe was stunningly attractive, and Alexander hardly knew what to do with himself as her last words echoed in his mind. “I am a courtesan, you fool!”

  “A – a what?” He said stupidly.

  She was barely moving, and yet he could feel the resentment in her, and he dropped her arms as though they had burned him.

  “A courtesan, a lady of the night, whatever you want to call it,” she said with a curling smile. “And I can tell by your shocked expression, my lord, that you have little to no experience of such matters.”

  Alexander flushed; he could not help himself. Two hours ago he had been at Almacks, waiting for a girl who he had felt attracted to, one of the most eligible young ladies of society. Now he was standing in a back alley of London, arguing with a courtesan.

  “May I suggest that you keep it that way,” said Teresa in a low voice. “I would not want your wife to be disappointed.”

  Alexander laughed darkly. “I have no wife to speak of, nor intended, nor mother actually, if it comes to that. I would not worry on their accounts.”

  His gaze raked over her. There could almost be no difference in age between them, and yet what different lives they had led; he, the son of a Duke, now a Duke himself. She, a woman who offered men the pleasures of her body – and the more that he looked at her, the more conscious he became that those pleasures were likely to be very delightful indeed.

  He shook his head. That was no way to think of her, not a path that he was going to go down. Becoming transfixed by a pretty face, perhaps. But considering taking her into his arms, his bed –

  “I did not know,” he said stupidly, and cursed his tongue for once again stating the obvious.

  She laughed. It was a pretty laugh, but there was an edge to it. “My dear Duke, do you think that we all wear signs around our necks with a pr
ice list? Goodness, I should have known you for a prude the moment that I saw you, you have never known of such things and far be it for me to enlighten you.”

  Alexander stared at her, and then shook his head once more. “There is much bitterness in you, is there not, Miss Metcalfe?”

  For a second, he thought he saw something; a glimpse into sorrow, or something deeper, in those blue eyes. But then it was gone.

  “Life has dealt me a hand, and now I must play it,” she said briskly. “And as I said before, I actually have an appointment with a young gentleman who shall, between us, remain nameless. If you will excuse me.”

  Teresa Metcalfe, woman of the night, started to walk slowly back down the alleyway. Alexander stared after her; even from a short distance, soaked to the skin and in the dead of night, there was no denying that she was an incredibly attractive woman. There was something about the way that she walked, perhaps, or the curve of her gown – though, and he smiled to himself, perhaps if every woman strode the streets of London in damp and clinging gowns, there would be riots in the street.

  He bit his lip. If he had met her at a dance hall, been introduced by mutual acquaintances over a cup of tea, or come across her at a music recital, he would have liked to get to know Miss Metcalfe better.

  A great deal better, whispered his darker self. With far fewer clothes on.

  Alexander started walking, hardly knowing why, after her. She represented everything that he despised: a bad reputation, sensual depravity, the dregs of society. And yet he could not keep his eyes from her.

  “Wait,” he called softly, and was astonished to find that she did. There was a tightening in his body as he gazed at her, as those eyes turned to him, as she twisted and the silk fabric, barely covering her as it was, tighten across her hips.

  “What do you want, Caershire?” She sighed.

  Alexander raised an eyebrow as he reached her in five long strides. “I would not have expected you to address me correctly. Most people call me Duke, or Alexander.”

  It had been a pet peeve of his father’s and to his shame, it was one he had inherited.