Not, unfortunately, an exaggeration. For the past few days, collective sobbing had become accompaniment to London’s already cacophonous song. While they had lost a neglectful nephew and adulterous husband, the rest of the world had lost the vanquisher of Napoleon’s ships, savior of the nation, and one half of a legendary love affair.
“We must remain here because of her,” Hester said with acid. “Her and her bastard child.”
In her mind’s eye, Alicia saw a weeping woman and child huddled together in a bed, wrapped in a bloodied coat. Like a reprimand from beyond, a cold sensation lifted the hair on her neck. She set aside her book.
“The countess grieves as we grieve.”
Hester’s eyes narrowed. “Are you grieving, Alicia? Are you?”
The accusing question hit Alicia like a physical blow.
“Very well, we will go. But you must promise me you will remain silent. If we are seen, you know what kind of sensation that would cause.”
Before she thought through a plan, she was guiding a heavily veiled Hester down the front stairs and along the city streets. A task her own heavy veil made difficult.
By the time the two reached the route, the crowd had grown several layers thick. To Alicia’s amazement, an accommodating group of Gentlemen parted one by one, helping Alicia and Hester to the front.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, all in a state of strange, anticipatory anguish, added flourish to the already unreadable script in her heart. Then, a murmur swelled in the crowds.
The chief mourners passed—members of the Admiralty, she suspected. If she’d been Octavius’s wife in truth, she would have known them by name.
She did not. And her shame was complete. Patriotism, however, formed an efficient cloak. As a British subject, she could stand in gratitude for Octavius’s service and mourn his sacrifice.
A stubborn clog of God-knew-what caught in her throat as the velvet canopy came into view. The canopy covered the admiral’s mahogany casket, adorned with scenes of his heroism.
How was it possible Octavius lay within? How was any of this possible? By all rights she should be back on her island. She did not belong here.
She did not belong anywhere.
Aunt Hester’s hand squeezed hers. The neglectful nephew was still a nephew. The absent husband was still the man Alicia had sworn to love.
“Let’s go,” Aunt Hester choked as she spoke.
Like a beast waking from slumber, the crowd began to move. Alicia wrapped one arm firmly through her Aunt’s, but her veil muffled every “Pardon” and “Please make way.”
“Please—please get us out.” Aunt Hester’s quivering voice sounded close to Alicia’s ear.
She could not see, confound her foolish decision to come out into this mess. With a sweep of her hand, she lifted her veil. Using her firmest voice, she demanded a path. Slowly they made their way through the mass of humanity surging toward St. Paul’s. She maneuvered them to the shelter of a vendor’s cart and stood at Aunt Hester’s side, rubbing her back as she silently wept.
“Aw.”
Alicia glanced around, catching the eye of an elderly female vendor.
“Broken up over the loss of the handsome gent, is she?” the vendor asked.
The vendor must have mistaken Aunt Hester’s petite form for that of a child. Alicia dared not contradict. She nodded.
“We all are.” A young woman looked up from browsing funeral mementos, clearly affronted anyone could have a grief equal to her own. “Imagine what his family feels.” She selected a print from the vendor and sighed. “So, so sad.”
Alicia had seen the likeness of Octavius often enough to blunt its effect. However, in this version, the weeping angel on his left looked a great deal like the countess. And the kneeling child on his right, Octavia.
The vendor dabbed her eyes—eyes undoubtedly fixed on a sale. “Touches the heart, it does.” She pointed to the child in prayer. “His daughter,” she whispered. “Very accomplished, they say.”
“Of course, she is. She was born of beauty and bravery.” The woman sighed as she handed over a coin. “The countess would have made the admiral the perfect wife if the barren shrew he married had the grace to die.”
The pain Alicia had released impacted her chest in dizzying rebound. Aunt Hester slipped an arm through hers and tugged, but she remained rooted. Fixed to the very spot as every emotion she’d suppressed suddenly ran riot through her mind.
Rage.
Anger.
Pain.
Pain, as unforgiving and inescapable as a humid high noon in her tropic home.
And then another type of burn, as if she were being watched. She turned, instantly locking gazes with a man. His black hair teased his collar with a hint of wave. His symmetric nose complemented his unforgettably firm mouth. He was alive and vivid, pulsing with an arresting consciousness at odds with the mourning throngs.
Something in her chest cleaved.
He saw. He saw the heartlessness of the woman’s statements. He saw the truth of them, as well. In short, he saw Alicia’s most closely guarded secret—the aching loneliness at the center of her heart.
Somehow, she’d unwittingly shared a more honest part of her than she’d ever shared. Alicia had been cast off, shut out. She’d wanted desperately to be let back in, yet had known the struggle was futile—the door had forever closed.
Worse still, this truth was reflected in the handsome stranger’s eyes. His sympathetic expression left her wanting dreadfully to be held.
Ash’s gaze fixed on the widow and a lightning bolt hit his chest.
She was no longer veiled as she’d been when he’d followed her from her home—the effect was glorious dawn. Not strictly a youth, she was neither a matron. Her light hair curled in discordant wisps around a soft face so lovely and luminous he nearly doubled over.
She was everything Chev had described and more. And she was standing just beyond his reach.
He refused to look away when her eyes met his, though his behavior was rude. He refused to look away because her gaze, full of tortured emotion, clashed with her presence. Tortured emotion, he understood.
A sensation, long frozen, burst free from his chest—pain. Pain, and grief-stricken anger, both suspended in yawning loneliness. The emotions—Good God—they cut through him with the messy imprecision of a surgeon’s saw.
He was feeling. Not just observing, but feeling.
They had not even met, and Lady Stone had accomplished the impossible—she had made him feel.
In the weeks following Cheverley’s warning, he poured through his library archives, striving to find any mention of her name.
Early papers described the young bride in praise-worthy, though suspicious terms—she’d not been born on British soil, after all. She was not, therefore, one of them. Then Admiral Stone met the countess, who fell into his arms in grateful tears after his victorious fleet arrived in Sicily where she’d been stranded by war.
The countess was already a legend—a vivacious siren with a titillating past. Beauty had indeed met bravery. England collectively swooned. Lady Stone was cast out as the unwanted specter marring a world belonging to undeniably genuine—if salacious—love.
Ash understood the wilderness beyond society’s castle walls. He understood the lonely longing to be let back inside. He became more determined they meet.
In Ash’s dark dreams, she became a cinder pathway beneath his feet. In his noonday reflections, she became his muse.
His absorption wasn’t rational.
It was not even sane.
Yet his dreams persisted.
Covet was too pithy a word for a force capable of thieving a man’s reason.
And now that he had seen into her soul, he wanted to take her away. Away from the hordes jockeying for a glimpse of the admiral’s casket. Away from these women and their words, sharp as pointed shards. But away to where? Wisterley, half in ruin?
She’s embroiled in scandal enoug
h as it is.
“Blind me!” The vendor stared at Lady Stone. “Aren’t you the admiral’s—?”
“No,” Ash answered sharply. “My wife resembles her, yes. But I am sorry to disappoint. My dear, shall we return to the carriage? I fear the crowds have grown too thick for Felicia.”
He extended his arm to Lady Stone. She hesitated only a moment.
“Yes,” she replied.
She dropped her veil, and leaned down to whisper something in her companion’s ear. The companion nodded in silence.
Then, Lady Stone placed her fingers against his arm. A heady effect, one that stirred places he dared not name. Visceral desire joined his extraordinary response to her pain.
He struggled to master his need as he followed the course she chose. Anyone looking would have assumed he led, but he’d known men with less determined strides, less mettle, less pride. She did not speak. Oddly enough, it did not matter. Remaining close was his only concern. Close enough for her scent to permeate less alluring smells. Close enough to feel the rise and fall her shoulders.
When they reached the corner just beyond her street, she stopped.
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness.” She released his arm, and bowed her head. “We will make our way from here.”
Chev’s warning wrangled with Ash’s ferocious need until, reluctantly, he agreed. If he were to spirit her away, what then? He had nothing to give. Nothing that would staunch the flow of her pain.
“I will wait here until you are safely inside,” he said.
Her companion turned away. She nodded before following. As they rounded the corner, she glanced back.
That gesture was his undoing.
Intentionally or not, she’d opened a window into her soul, and he’d seen a mirror of his own.
She’d left the country of her youth, she’d been cast off, heartbroken, and yet, she retained an unnatural sincerity, purer than anything he’d ever known.
He did not, in fact, have anything to give. And she was, as warned, embroiled in scandal enough without him.
It did not matter. They must meet again, and soon. His life depended on a closer acquaintance. A much closer acquaintance.
Chapter Four
Ash’s fortnight of planning had finally met its moment of truth. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the alleyway. No sign marked the entrance of the small establishment known as Marie’s, but rare was a hot-blooded male unaware of its existence. Marie and her women stitched sinfully silky concoctions, chiefly for the celebrated members of London’s demi-monde, the half-strata of society occupied by mistresses and actors, divorced wives, and poets.
A buffed-brass shop bell trilled as Ash entered.
This wasn’t Ash’s first visit. Madame Bianci wouldn’t have been caught dead in undergarments made from anyone else. Ash esteemed Marie as a talented tradeswoman—discreet, with an ingenious understanding of texture and design. However, when he’d hired a man to uncover places he might ‘accidentally’ discover Lady Stone, Marie’s had been the last place he expected to find his mark.
His man paid a shop girl for answers. The answers provided Ash his opportunity.
For years, idle Tuesdays had strung together, providing no change but the ever-deepening wrinkles in his skin. For a time, idle days had been a comfort. However, on this idle Tuesday—at around quarter-past six—his life would transform once again.
Provided she agreed to his proposition, of course.
He’d crafted his impending offer with great intention. A liaison, brief enough to ensure he did not bring harm to Lady Stone, and long enough for him to absorb the light she had to offer.
He was alive with anticipation.
Marie arrived in the elegantly appointed sitting area. Her reserved expression broke into a genuine smile when she recognized Ash.
“Ah. Your Grace.”
“Marie.” He took her hands in his, leaned down and kissed her on each cheek.
A curtsey from her would have been appropriate, but no one stood on ceremony here. Marie’s concoctions might as well have been stitched with the scandalous secrets of half the peerage.
“What brings you today?” Her sly eyes met his. “Has Madame Bianci grown tired of her last dressing gown so soon?”
“My dear Marie,” he smiled, “I am certain you know Miss White has transferred her affections.”
Her eyes went wide with innocence. “Surely, you intend to fight for the lady’s love! May I suggest a gift, perhaps, to prove your sweet devotion?”
“Alas,” Ash held a hand to his heart, “when the prima donna met the Russian prince a fortnight ago, I hear it was love, prima facie. I am afraid there is nothing I can do.”
“Well.” Madame arched a brow. “I cannot blame Madame Bianci. A woman likes to be wanted.”
Ash should have been insulted. His cold reserve, however, was legendary. And, she was right. Women yearned to be wanted. He yearned to be wanted.
A yearning that had never been truly satisfied.
“Water under the bridge, Marie. I wish the newly minted couple souchastiye.”
Marie lifted one shoulder in an uncaring shrug, but the knowing did not fade from her gaze. “You have come for a reason, non?”
“I am here to buy the debt of the late Admiral Stone.”
Marie’s start revealed her surprise. She recovered quickly. “If you are looking to obtain the graces of the countess, paying the admiral’s debts will do no such thing. The countess has sworn never to look at another man.”
“I’ve heard.” Ash returned her knowing gaze. “I’ve also heard the countess is in debt to every shopkeeper in London. And being an excellent businesswoman, you undoubtedly sought relief elsewhere.” He adjusted a mirror atop the counter so he could keep one eye on the door. “I have it on good authority that his widow is expected here within the hour. Lady Stone comes, I understand, quarterly. Always on a Tuesday, between six and half-past. She leaves without making a purchase.”
“Perhaps I have sought relief.” Marie’s mouth pinched. “Silks are not free, your grace.”
“No, indeed.” He inclined his head. “Nor have you any reason for raised hackles. Your collection strategies are none of my concern. I am offering to pay the admiral’s debt.”
“And in return?”
“A quarter hour of privacy in your dressing room. I wish to speak with Lady Stone.”
Marie’s eyes went wide.
“I intend nothing untoward.” At least not here. Not yet. “I wish only to personally express my condolences.”
Marie’s expression cleared. “If you wish it, it will be done.”
“My thanks.” A mask of indifference concealed the pace of his heart.
He was So. Damn. Close.
“I will send the Admiral’s bill to your secretary.”
“You needn’t mark it as the admiral’s debt.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.” Marie’s eyelids swept down. “This way to the dressing room, if you please.”
Paying debts Octavius accrued in pursuit of the countess may have been unfair, but watching the numbers decrease gave Alicia a sense of satisfaction. She’d always suspected Octavius’s accusation that she overspent had been false. Now she had proof. She could economize. She hadn’t much, and, if the countess took the income from Octavius’s estates, she’d have even less, but she had proven she could live within her means. And she could do it while decreasing his debt.
Her freedom had been hard-won—the expense, Octavius’s life. Octavius had only been thinking of his country, of course, but she vowed not to take his sacrifice for granted.
She thought of the funeral procession and shivered. She did not wish to think of that day. She especially did not wish to think of the handsome stranger who had witnessed her at her most vulnerable, and then offered his assistance.
She silenced her thoughts and concentrated on following Madame Marie to her dressing room. For the first time since she began making payments, Marie had requ
ested she wait. A gossip-inclined client was to arrive any moment, Marie explained. Lady Stone did not wish to make known her husband’s debts. And, of course, her presence could only cause speculation.
Alicia reluctantly agreed.
“I will be with you as soon as possible.” The modiste hesitated, her gaze moved toward the far end of the room. “And if you need anything, I will hear you call.”
Alicia frowned at Madame’s back. Curious to be asked to wait, and more curious still, to insinuate she may need assistance.
She set down her reticule and unbuttoned her coat, glancing askance at the red velvet couch, and then around the room. Multiple hooks lined burgundy walls adorned with mirrors reflecting every angle. The opposite of the room contained an over-large privacy screen.
She rolled her shoulders, discomfited by the blatant eroticism. Truthfully, the room reminded her of a brothel. Though she’d never been inside a brothel, her small island had its share of those who lived and loved on the wrong side of propriety.
The most successful had resided together in a house with windows that looked out to the sea. When a ship came in, they donned ill-fitting gowns far too outrageous for their corner of the world before welcoming wave-weary men into their rooms. Some nights, as Alicia passed by in the shadows, she heard sounds of laughter and lust.
Oh, she knew those ladies’ lives were not all gaiety. Sometimes children came months after the ship had departed. Sometimes disease.
But still, the sounds coming through windows open to the night breeze were sounds of pleasure. Whenever she heard such sounds, she’d been rendered curious and hot, imagining what her first time would be like.
What a terrible disappointment the marriage bed had been.
Octavius preferred his wife to remain quiet, still, and fully clothed. In fact, he’d been adamant that anything else would fail to keep her pure. Judging from the scandalous concoctions hanging from the hooks, he’d expected something far different from the countess.
She reached out to finger a dressing gown. Heavenly. And the color! Pink. Not just any pink, but rose, light as an innocent’s blush. She placed her hand beneath the fabric. Even in the low light, the fabric was so thin she could make out the lines in the crook of her hand. Octavius’s voice seemed to travel through the years. ...There’s an M in your right hand. That means you will be married.
Her Duke at Daybreak Mythic Dukes Trilogy Page 3