Anne whirled. “Richard.” She glanced behind him. “Anyone could come in.”
He turned the key in the lock and faced her once more. They were in Lord Ashby’s private library, a cozy little room of floor to ceiling books, old beaten leather furniture, and the strong scent of cigars and brandy. It was an undoubtedly masculine place. In that modest white dress, Anne stood out like a snowdrop in the midst of winter. Pristine. Pale as marble, her expression just as smoothed over.
He would do whatever it took to chip away at that marble. She was not a statue. She was flesh and blood.
“You’re avoiding me,” Richard said, leaning back against the door.
“Yes,” Anne sighed. Here was the first crack: a weariness to her response. It was ill-fitting for a woman still partly in a performance. How sweet she appeared, demure. No one would ever know the weight of her trouble just by looking at her. “It’s easier that way.”
“Easier for whom?” Richard shoved a hand through his hair. “Christ. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
She came forward. “I had to. I’m so sorry, but I had to.”
With a soft noise, Richard pushed away from the door and folded her into an embrace. He couldn’t hold her tightly enough. These moments of stolen time were inadequate — they were but mere glimpses into some paradise where he could pretend she was safe with him. That she had no worries to bend her bones with their weight. In these scarce minutes, he longed to kiss her until the world melted away and the weariness left her. She bore enough for someone so young. She deserved care.
Yes, now the marble facade had cracked. She was trembling, clutching him in a grip that bordered on urgent. As if she thought she were going to lose him. No wonder she had put up such a hard exterior, for it had hidden such proof of her fear. It had helped her survive.
“It’s all right,” Richard felt compelled to tell her. “It’ll be all right.”
Anne shook her head. “I can’t make sense of his information. Addresses, monetary amounts . . . I can’t tell what he’s searching for on you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. But she was digging her fingernails into his jacket, her hands making some frantic exploration of his body as if she couldn’t get close enough. “Anne, stop. It’s not important.”
“It is,” she was saying. “Do you have any idea how many men my father has destroyed? I helped ruin all those people. Their families. Their lives. I—”
“Anne.” Her hands were under his shirt now, nails sinking into skin. Could she hear him at all? He cradled her face, but she would not raise her chin. “Stop, I said. Look at me, Anne. Look at me.” Ever so slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his, and he felt as if he’d been struck. Her eyes were filled with tears, the marble facade shattered completely. “I can’t stand to see you cry,” he said hoarsely.
She let him brush her tears with his thumb, kiss each one. They were salt on his lips and his tongue, and he did this until she quieted. Until her grasp on him had loosened.
Only then, did Richard say, “I don’t have any secrets he can use. I promise you.”
She sighed as he pressed his lips once more to the moisture on her cheek. “And your family? What of your sister?”
Richard paused. Could Alexandra be hiding something ruinous? She got into enough trouble in plain view. “I don’t believe so.”
“You have to be certain, Richard. He’s close to something.”
He considered that. While Alexandra was open about her political opinions, he couldn’t watch her every moment of every day. Perhaps she had involved herself in some business he wasn’t aware of. After all, it’s not as if either of his siblings knew how much of a role he played in the government’s inner workings. Richard had worked damn hard to make sure most people didn’t.
As if she read his thoughts, Anne said, “See? Now you know why I must stay.”
He pressed his forehead against hers. “I hate this.”
“So do I.” She shut her eyes. “There’s something else.”
“Let me hear it.”
“My engagement to Kendal is being announced tonight.”
Richard stroked her back. “I know. Caroline told me that she had the Ashbys invite you both for the announcement.”
“No, you don’t understand. He’s moved up the wedding date. We are to marry in a fortnight. My father pressured him to speed things along so our families are united before the vote.”
“Pressured how?”
She swore softly, some honest vocabulary that he had taught her. In any other instance, he would have chuckled to hear it, commented about what an apt pupil she had become, but now was not the time. “I never told you, but my father has blackmailed Kendal for years. It’s how he convinced the duke to offer for me.”
Richard absently caressed her nape as he considered her words. He ought to have figured that Stanton Sheffield had been blackmailing a man as influential as the Duke of Kendal into marrying Anne. Sheffield must have been desperate if he sold off his only daughter at such a young age.
“Problems with finances?” Richard inquired, slipping his fingers below the neckline of her dress. How could he help but touch her? She was some intoxicant.
“Yes.” Anne leaned her head forward, offering him access to the buttons of her dress. He slipped out one button, two. “Among other things.”
“What other things?”
Another button. Another. She pressed closer. “He squandered my mother’s fortune in his rise to power. I believe he owes a number of men a great deal of money.”
Richard eased the neckline of her dress down so he could press a kiss to the curve of her throat. “Kendal supplying it?”
He dragged his tongue down her neck. She made some noise before answering. “I can’t be sure. But I believe so.”
“You keep at work on your father,” Richard told her, raising his head, “and I’ll see what I can uncover on Kendal. Yes?”
Anne stared up at him. He could not begin to understand such a look, the complexity of it. There was more depth in those eyes than in the deepest parts of the sea, he wagered.
Words are not necessary, he thought, as she settled her lips against his. She could express so much more with her kiss, her touch, and he would do the same. He whispered her name, finishing his task with the buttons of her dress. He parted the fabric to bare the tops of her breasts, her collarbones, her shoulders . . .
But as he leaned in — to breathe the scent of her, kiss and lick and nuzzle her — he noticed bruising in the shape of fingers along her shoulder.
His blood ran cold. “What are these?” When she didn’t reply, he prompted, “Anne.”
Anne looked away. “Kendal is not gentle with me.”
Something inside him broke. It took him two tries to ask, “Did he — has he forced himself on—”
“No,” Anne said. “Not that. He tells me he’s preparing me for our wedding night.”
“Christ god,” Richard breathed, pulling her against him. “I’m going to kill that bastard. I’m going to—”
She shook her head. “Please,” she whispered, “help me forget. Just for this moment, help me forget.”
Richard thought about resisting. He wanted to take her somewhere safe. But she would not allow that. Anne was not a woman he could command, not one he could push into doing what he willed. If he did, even if for her safety, how would he be different than every other man in her life? There to dictate her choices.
So he kissed her. He kissed her with everything in him. He couldn’t put into words how he felt, and so he did it with his lips, his hands. He treated her with the reverence she deserved because this woman was brave and beautiful and she deserved better than the life she had been dealt. He was determined to do everything in his power to give her a better one.
Richard pushed her back against the door. He tried to take some control over the situation — soften their kiss, slow their movements — but Anne would not let him do this. She was overtaken
by the same frantic need as she had been minutes before. A desire so strong that that she nearly ripped his shirt to feel his skin.
He let her. He let her take her pleasure. Her desire was some flame given kindling to make a blaze, for he, too, became fevered by her insistent, wild kisses.
This was not soft — such couplings were for beds in a fairytale cottage. Not here. Not now.
He needed.
She needed.
“Please,” she whispered, undoing the buttons of his trousers to free his cock. “Please.”
No, she would not need to beg. Richard craved this. The scent of her, her heat — her everything. He palmed his hands down her curves to feel the rough shape of her. Not possible. Her petticoat, her corset, all these layers of material — so many impediments to a woman’s body. He longed to have her naked against him, skin against skin. Nothing between them.
But he would take whatever he could get.
Yes, god, he would take anything.
He grabbed up her skirts — raising layer after layer — and found the split in her drawers. She gasped when he slipped his finger inside her.
Wet heat. So, so wet. Ready. Christ, yes, so ready.
“Hold onto me,” he said. His voice was rough from his breathing.
She grasped his shoulders as he swung her up and used his body to hold her against the door. Petticoats, skirts, drawers — these were all obstacles. One day they would be gone and he’d worship her properly again.
Now, he shoved all those things aside to cup her arse.
And he thrust into her.
It was unceremonious. There was no courtesy or hesitation — he thrust into her with hard, steady strokes. Had he frightened her? She was quiet—
“Yes,” she breathed against the pulse of his neck, before tipping her head back and shutting her eyes. “Please, god, like that. Just like that. Yes.”
Her words inflamed him. He buried his face against the curve of her shoulder and drove into her again and again. Hard. Fast. If he slowed, she urged him on, her fingernails biting through his jacket. Her thighs squeezed him. Her hips lifted with his thrusts.
This was torment. This was heaven. So many competing feelings Richard could not begin to describe. It all diffused through some insatiable hunger until he felt as if his body was no longer his own. It was a creature that marveled at the physical — hot wet skin, rough skirts, rustle of clothing, her breath against his throat, her tongue at the shell of his ear, soft gasps of pleasure . . .
Some sound escaped her as she threw her head back. She whispered his name again as she came. In wonder, revelation — or perhaps in agony, too. For this was agony — their time was not enough. He wanted her longer, but he could not make it last.
His pleasure built. Yes, it built, and she was hotter and wetter now and —
She set her teeth on his neck.
Richard orgasmed with a rough groan, breathing hard against her skin. She held him there, as if understanding his need for quiet — or perhaps she needed to hold onto him, too.
He stepped away from the door and gently set her on the ground. The only sound between them was the rustle of her skirts, the shifting of material as he buttoned his trousers once more.
Their breathing had yet to come down. It seemed to roar in that small space — the only sign of what they had done there. A betrayal of their secret coupling.
“I have to go,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest as if to settle herself. “Before Kendal wonders where I’ve gone.”
He tightened his hold, only for a moment, before releasing her. He helped smooth her skirts and button her up. All those beautiful freckles were hidden once more.
Yes, she was marble again. Her expression was almost cold as she straightened the loose strands of her curls in front of the library’s gilt mirror. All evidence of ardor was gone.
Richard couldn’t help but kiss her one last time. She turned her face away, jaw tight. “I have to go,” she said once more.
“Anne, I—”
She placed her finger against his lips. “I know.”
His heart ached as she left.
Chapter 26
In the days immediately following her engagement announcement, Anne was measured for her wedding dress. She was poked at, prodded, her weight analyzed, her body measured.
None of it without a care to her person. Not her happiness, certainly, for that didn’t matter. After all, she was marrying a duke, wasn’t she? A man with a title just below that of a prince. Why wouldn’t she be elated, no matter his age?
Age did not matter; a title did.
She felt as if she were a doll. Not a person, not a human, just a toy created for the comfort of a duke. Her diet consisted of bread and water, and sometimes she woke in the morning wondering if she’d faint getting out of the bed.
But she endured because she had to. For survival. For Richard. For that small sliver of hope that once this was all over, she would be with him and finally show the world who she really was.
“Aileen,” she said, as the maid wound her hair into some lovely braided updo. “Your last position was with the late Dowager Duchess of Worth, was it not?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Was she . . . happy?”
The girl seemed confused. “Miss?”
“Nothing. Never mind, please.” She had to remind herself that this girl, like all her father’s servants, could not be confided in. She had no one with whom she could freely speak.
Aileen was silent as she wound another plait around the crown of her head. “Yes, miss, she was happy,” the maid finally said quietly. “After His Grace’s sudden passing.”
“And before that? Did she confide in you?”
The maid seemed to hold her breath. “All the time, miss. He was not kind to her.” She pinned Anne’s hair in place and cleared her throat. “Rather like yer duke and yer father, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
This was some risk, Anne knew. This woman was paid by her father. But she had learned trust from Richard, and there was assurance in not being alone.
Anne gently grasped the other woman’s free hand. “If I ever need your help, will you give it? I fear I may require it.”
The room was so quiet as the maid seemed to consider this. Anne feared she had made some mistake. But then, ever so slowly, Aileen nodded. “Should you ever need it.”
Before Anne could express her gratitude, her father shoved his way into the room. “Out,” Stanton said to Aileen. “My daughter and I have something to discuss.”
The maid curtseyed and quit the room without another word. Anne’s heart pounded hard against her chest. Did he hear her conversation with Aileen? Did he know about Richard, or Granby? Oh god, perhaps he’d heard about Granby. Had there been gossip about them that had reached his ears? Had—
“Addresses.” He held up scraps of paper. “Times.” He held up more. “Map.” He set down a map of London. “Get to work.”
Anne held her breath as her father placed the papers and times in front of her. He was onto something. Was it about Richard? “What is this—”
“I didn’t come here to answer questions. I came here to use that freak mind of yours.”
Anne pressed her lips together and looked at the pages. He needn’t have provided the geography of the city for her. She’d already committed it to memory. She corrected and honed her mental map through walks, the architecture of the buildings, and memorizing the lengths of streets. There were patterns in people’s movements, and she knew this was what he wished her to find: a location. Something his spies had uncovered.
Each address of this person’s movements served as a distraction. They were clever — the information was seemingly confused — but Anne’s skills involved recognizing patterns. Oh, her gift. What a beautiful gift it was. How destructive it could be, if used by the wrong person.
With an inward sigh, she pointed at an address. “There.” And another. “There. All these movements are between the tw
o. Who—”
He began to pull up the papers so eagerly that his hands shook. “Good work. Good work. Excuse me.”
Anne froze as her father strode to the door, alarm curdling in her belly.
Her father never complimented her. Not ever.
“Father,” she called.
He paused at the nob, his body tense. “What is it, Anne?”
But she could not ask. She could not have him suspect her to be anyone but the woman he had raised — too brainless to understand why he had barged into this room so eagerly.
So she only said, in a voice lighter than she felt, “My hats are all from last season. I thought to go out and buy a new one for my trousseau. Kendal seems to love my hats, and perhaps some dresses for after the wedding to—”
“Buy as many as you’d like,” he interrupted sharply, with a distracted wave of his hand. “I don’t give a damn. Excuse me.”
Anne stared after him. Buy as many as she’d like? He never gave her that permission without complaint.
Something was wrong. She hurried to the bell pull to ring for Aileen to return. She was going out.
She had to warn Richard.
Chapter 27
Richard went to bed every night thinking of Anne’s bruises.
Oh, she was some surviver, all right. She’d been attacked by the lion, emerged alive, and was still determined to return to its den. She slept there with her head in the lion’s mouth, while Richard remained awake at night conceiving of ways to get her out of it.
Those bruises were a reminder. His time was short. The easy solution would be to seek out Kendal and murder the duke with his bare hands — but Richard wasn’t about to hang for that bastard. Anne deserved better.
He’d settle, instead, for destroying Kendal. Utterly. Completely. Whatever it took.
Stanton Sheffield wasn’t the only man in the city who could bring someone to ruin. Richard had done it plenty of times in the years he had been secretly involved in politics. This was no different.
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