Inhaling, she mustered up her sweetest look. “That’s right. I do need your help.”
“With what?” he asked.
“I will show you when we get there.”
“How mysterious,” Lady Fayne murmured. “You mustn’t make the lady wait, Your Grace.”
“It is a matter of importance,” Glory said.
“And great urgency,” Fiona added.
“All right, all right.” His expression beleaguered and eyes amused, Hadleigh offered Livy his arm. “Lead the way.”
3
“This thing you require my assistance with is in the garden?” Hadleigh asked.
Having led the way to a secluded stone bench surrounded by flowering hedges, Livy turned to face him. The scene was set for romance: music drifted from the ballroom, jasmine perfumed the night air, and the moon glowed like a beacon for lovers. The silvery light limned her hero’s face, emphasizing the stern edges, the lines of experience enhancing his handsomeness. Above the crisp folds of his cravat, his mouth retained a faint curve as he regarded her.
It’s now or never. Do not be a wilting violet. Take your chance.
She took a breath. “I wanted to talk to you. In private.”
“Actually, I wanted the same thing.”
His unexpected reply gave her thumping heart another jolt.
“You did?” she asked.
“Indeed.” His smile curled her toes in her slippers. “We have not seen each other much of late, and I have missed your company, Livy.”
Mesmerized by his tender expression, she felt light-headed with hope. Had Hadleigh realized that he was in love with her? Had he missed her as much as she had missed him?
“Then why haven’t you called more often?” she blurted.
When her question snuffed out his tender expression, she wanted to kick herself. His long lashes briefly veiled his gaze before he spoke.
“I’ve had business to attend to,” he said.
“What kind of business?”
“Nothing of import, little one.”
“I am not little anymore,” she retorted. “I am a grown woman.”
“Right. How could I have forgotten?” Reaching over, he tweaked one of her artfully dislodged curls. “You are so ladylike these days. Not at all like the tree-climbing hoyden I once knew.”
Gah. She would not let him evade her question, however.
“Do these ‘matters’ concern Lady Fayne?” she asked suspiciously.
“No, I only met the lady tonight.” He drew his brows together. “Why would you bring her up?”
Because I have a silly, envious heart?
“No reason,” Livy muttered to the pebbly path.
“Well, I do have a reason for wanting to have you to myself for a moment.”
At the teasing note in his voice, she looked up and saw him take a box out of his pocket. Her brain did giddy measurements: was the box small enough to contain…a ring?
Don’t be a twit, she chided herself. That isn’t just putting the cart before the horse; it is putting it in a different field entirely. Be grateful that he thought to bring you anything.
“This is for me?” she asked breathlessly.
“No, it is for the other chit whose birthday ball I am currently attending.” He aimed his gaze heavenward. “Go on, take it. Unlike you, I am not a spry young thing. My arm is getting tired.”
“You are hardly in your dotage,” she rejoined. “And what is the point of gaining all that muscle if you cannot even hold up a jeweler’s box?”
“Vanity, of course,” he drawled.
She snorted. “You are the least vain person I know. You don’t care what others think.”
He gave her a true gift then: his rare, slow smile. As a girl, eliciting that smile had always made her feel as if she’d won a precious prize. Now her chest squeezed with longing.
“I care what you think, Miss Argumentative,” he said. “Will you just open your gift?”
“I am not argumentative…” Scowling at his grin, she snatched the box from him. “Fine.”
“Ladylike and gracious.”
She resisted the urge to pummel him in the arm and instead opened the box. Nestled in a bed of white satin was a golden charm. She lifted it out: the miniature crown swung gently from its fine chain, the pavé diamonds on its arches sparkling in the moonlight.
“Zounds. How lovely.” Reverence hushed her tones. “You had this made for me?”
“A little crown for my little queen,” he murmured.
Her heart thumping, she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. She felt their connection: the unbreakable bond that had been forged in the icy waters of Scotland, that had grown stronger in the intervening years, and that now pulsed like a magnetic force between them. His unique wood-and-spice scent curled in her nostrils. Setting her gift on the bench, she took a step closer to him.
“Thank you, Hadleigh,” she said.
His eyes were as deep as the night. “It is just a trifle, but I am glad you like it.”
“Not just for the necklace, but for saving my life. If it were not for you, I would not be having a birthday,” she said tremulously. “You have given me far more than I can ever repay.”
“There is no need—”
“Even so, there is one more thing I would ask of you.”
“Anything.”
His immediate reply thrilled her heart.
“If it is within my power to give it to you, it’s yours,” he said solemnly.
Since it was easier to demonstrate what she wanted, she gathered her courage and rose onto her toes, pressing her lips to his. This being her first kiss, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. She just slid her gloved fingers into his thick hair and smooshed her lips against his.
For so long, she’d dreamed of kissing him, and the reality was even better than her fantasies. Everything about him felt right. Familiar yet new and exciting. The texture of his lips, hard yet velvety, made her feel swoony. She had a hint of his taste: darkly male and tantalizing. Oh, she wanted more. Overcome by giddy desire, she instinctively licked the seam of his mouth. He made a muffled sound, his arms closing around her like iron bands.
Their kiss caught fire, the new sensations incinerating her capacity for thought. All she could do was experience: the heat melding their mouths, the powerful sweep of his tongue, the intoxicating flavor of him saturating her senses. Squished against his hard chest, her breasts felt full and sensitive, the stiff tips chafing against her corset, setting off tingles of delight. Molten need gathered inside her. Mad with wanting, she moaned, rubbing herself against him, trying to get closer…
In the next instant, she was thrust aside. Her head spinning at the abrupt motion, she stared dizzily at Hadleigh’s stark features. His eyes blazed in the moonlight.
“What the devil was that?” he ground out.
She blinked, trying to clear away the haze of passion. He was…angry?
“You…you said I could have what I wanted,” she stammered.
“Bloody hell, Livy.” He dragged a hand through his hair, glaring at her. “Is this some sort of game to you, kissing unsuspecting men in the dark?”
“Of course not. I haven’t kissed anyone before. You are the first…the only one I want to kiss,” she said in a small voice. “I love you, Hadleigh. I’ve loved you for years. I want…I want to be yours.”
She realized then that she hadn’t truly seen Hadleigh surprised before. His gaze widened, and his jaw slackened in a way that would have been comical if her future happiness hadn’t been hanging in the balance. His chest heaved as he took a deep breath, then another.
Finally, he spoke. “You do not mean that.”
“Yes, I do—”
“No, you do not,” he said firmly. “You drank too much champagne, and it went to your head, that is all. We will forget this happened.”
“I only had half a glass of champagne. And I will never forget our kiss,” she vowed passionately. “It was everything I dre
amed of…and you do not seem, um, unaffected.”
Although her cheeks burned, she directed her gaze to the front of his trousers, the crisp tailoring ruined by a rather large and interesting bulge. A virgin she might be, but she was not without knowledge of essential facts. Having spent time on her Aunt Violet and Uncle Richard’s stud farm, she understood the mechanics of mating and how offspring were produced.
Unfortunately, Hadleigh did not seem impressed by her worldly knowledge. He bit out an oath and tried to pull his coat over his protruding part…which he could not, since he was wearing a tailcoat. Swearing under his breath, he turned his back to her. His hands braced on his hips, he appeared to be staring out into the distance.
She wondered what he was thinking.
She didn’t have long to wonder. A few moments later, he turned to face her, and it was clear that he had regained control.
“Livy, listen to me.” His voice was stern. “What happened tonight was a mistake. I understand what it is like to be young and impetuous, and while you may think you know what you want, you do not. You are a young lady, with your future ahead of you. One day, you will find a gentleman who is deserving of you and who will give you what you want—but that gentleman is not me.”
Her throat constricted. “Why can’t it be you?”
“I am too old for you, to start with. I have done and seen too much to believe in the kind of love you seek.” He exhaled. “Keep your dreams for the man who will cherish them, who will cherish you.”
Her pain was a physical thing, a rough tearing in her chest.
“But I don’t want anyone but you,” she whispered. “You are the only man I could ever love. If I can’t have you, then I won’t marry at all.”
He closed his eyes briefly. When his eyelids lifted, Livy found herself staring into sapphires bleeding with darkness.
“That shows how innocent you are,” he said quietly. “You think you know me, but you do not. If you did, you would not want to waste yourself on a man like me.”
“I do know you, and I’m not innocent.” Prodded by desperation, she blurted, “I saw you with Lady Foxton.”
He froze, his stillness that of a cornered beast of prey.
In for a penny.
“It was last year at Aunt Bea and Uncle Wick’s house party,” she confessed. “I was looking for you to see if you wanted to play a game. I ended up at the stables.”
A muscle stood out in his jaw, but he said nothing.
“I heard strange noises coming from one of the stalls,” she continued in a rush. “I went over to investigate, and there was a hole in the stall door, so I looked through it and saw you. With Lady Foxton. You had her bent over a bale of hay, her dress lifted up, and you were…spanking her.”
A harsh breath broke from him, and his gaze was grimmer than she’d ever seen it.
“I wasn’t hurting her,” he said roughly. “Not in the way you think.”
“Oh, I know you weren’t,” she reassured him. “Why else would she have been, um, begging you for more?”
His expression was pained. “Goddammit, Livy—”
“Eventually, she pleaded for you to…to do something else to her.”
Livy swallowed. As bold as she was, she couldn’t force herself to say the words that had cemented themselves in her deepest, darkest fantasies. Fuck me, Hadleigh. Put that huge cock of yours inside me. Master me like the splendid beast you are.
“I knew then what I wanted from you,” Livy said, her voice trembling. “I wanted you to touch me, kiss me. To be with me the way you were with her.”
“You do not want that,” he snapped. “Lady Foxton meant nothing to me, nor I to her.”
“And I do mean something to you?” Livy said hopefully.
“Ah, Livy.” He drew a ragged breath. “You know you do.”
Rejoicing, she said, “Oh, Hadleigh, I knew—”
“You are the sweet little sister I never had. That is how I think of you.”
Each soft word struck her heart like a hammer.
“And that will not change.”
She stared at him. His face was carved from granite, his body rigid. Her hopes dashed against his implacability like a bird against a glass pane.
His little sister. That is how he sees me…how he’ll always see me.
“But I love you,” she said brokenly. “I will always love you.”
“You think that because you are young and innocent. When you see more of the world, you will find a better man. One who will give you everything you deserve…or he will have to answer to me, hmm?”
Hadleigh’s gentleness somehow hurt more than his firmness, a feather-tipped arrow that struck into her tenderest core. She had always known that she had his protection and care. If she could only have his love and desire as well, then she would have had…everything.
But you don’t. Despair seeped through her. You never will.
“Come, dry your eyes, silly chit,” he murmured. “Then I had best escort you back inside.”
She realized that he had pressed his handkerchief into her hand and wetness was trickling down her cheeks. His concern was more than she could bear.
“I can see myself back in,” she said stiffly. “Good-bye, Hadleigh.”
“Livy…”
She dashed toward the house without looking back.
4
You hurt Livy, you bastard. She is like your sister, for Christ’s sake. The only good, pure thing in your life, and you’ve ruined everything—again.
The sound of the gong cut through the maelstrom of Ben Wodehouse’s thoughts.
He opened his eyes, returning to the Spartan room. Dimly lit by candles, the walls were bare and the floor covered in mats of woven bamboo, from which his fellow attendees of the nightly contemplation session were rising. The crowd was a mix of Chinese, Lascar, and Spanish sailors, as well as a few Englishmen who had found their way to Master Chen’s clinic in Whitechapel.
Chen was a Chinese healer who specialized in the treatment of opium habits. The drug’s tentacles reached all strata of society and could pull you into the depths of oblivion, no matter where you came from or the color of your skin. Even a title and wealth were no protection; Ben had found this out the hard way.
Two years ago, after a visit to an opium den in Whitechapel, he had been ripe pickings for a gang of cutthroats. They hadn’t been satisfied with taking his money; they’d wanted to punish him, a well-dressed nob, for daring to tread through the streets they considered their own. Lying half-conscious in that filthy alleyway, agony radiating from broken bones and torn flesh, Ben had been certain he was going to die, slowly and painfully.
A part of him had felt he deserved it: a miserable end to a miserable life.
As he had awaited the final blow that would deliver him from his pathetic existence, a masked figure had emerged out of nowhere. It had moved like a figment of feverish imagination. Through swollen eyes, Ben had made out the bodies of his attackers hurling through the air, thumping with a groan against the alley walls. He had heard curses and retreating footsteps before blackness claimed him.
When he had awakened, it had been in this clinic. His injuries had been treated, and he had met his rescuer, the man who approached him now. Chen, whom many of the men respectfully addressed as shifu, or “master,” was the founder of this center. The practitioner of Chinese healing arts had made Ben see his opium use clearly for the first time.
“It is not a mere habit if you cannot stop, Your Grace,” Chen had said. “Opium rules you, not the other way around.”
Chen’s treatment of Ben’s noxious cravings had involved cleansing the body and the mind. With the master’s help, Ben had wrestled free of opium’s grip. He had purged his demons—the ones involving opium, at any rate—and come out stronger. Yet he never forgot how close he had come to succumbing to that abyss. The sensual and inexorable gravity of that despair. Nor did he forget the debt he owed to the man who had pulled him from those abominable depths.
“Gor, guv, that were the longest ’our o’ my life.” While the others had filed from the room, a lanky, ginger-haired lad remained. He approached Ben, cracking his neck and grimacing. “Watching grass grow would be a sight more interesting.”
Peter Watkins, also known as Pete the Pinch, was a relative newcomer to the clinic. At sixteen, the barest hint of fuzz upon his chin, the lad was an accomplished pickpocket whose budding career had been compromised by his opium use. The drug had hampered Pete’s reflexes while inflating his sense of invincibility, and he’d been beaten half to death by a brute he’d tried to rob. After Chen had nursed the boy back to health, Ben had taken Pete under his wing.
Privilege had buffered the impact of Ben’s need for opium. He could afford to use the drug until it killed him, and being titled and rich, his use would always be viewed as “recreation.” Pete’s drug use, however, was seen as a vice and evidence of moral failure amongst the lower orders, even though Ben knew that he and the lad had more in common than many would think. Class differences aside, he, too, had been a brash youth, a neck-or-nothing whose impulses had led him to trouble time and again. He wanted to steer Pete in a better direction than he himself had gone.
“Contemplation gets easier,” Ben said.
Pete shook his head. “Not for me, guv. Makes me right twitchy, it does. Where I come from, you don’t stay still ’less you’re crippled or dead.”
It was the harsh reality of Pete’s life as an orphan of the slums. While Ben’s own background had been far more privileged, he understood the feeling of restlessness. He had been a hotheaded rakehell at Pete’s age.
“Have you thought about my offer?” Ben asked.
“Right kind o’ you to give me a job in one o’ your mansions, guv, but that life ain’t for me.” Pete shrugged his shoulders, his grin cocky. “My skill be in pinching silver, not polishing it.”
“You could try to learn a reputable trade,” Ben began.
“I’ll think on it. For now, the theatres are closing, which means pigeons are returning ’ome to roost. No be’er time to pluck some fine feathers.” Pete winked. “Good evening, guv.”
Olivia and the Masked Duke Page 3