A Secret Desire

by Lane, Charlie

  Grayson’s palms stung. Without conscious thought, he had clenched his fists so hard, his nails bit into his skin. Familiar rage and grief swamped him. “You told me that day”— he took a breath, unclenched his fingers—“you told me she was marrying another.”

  Tobias shrugged. “She would have. She will, eventually. It wasn’t a lie. Exactly.” He sighed, stood, and strolled through the room, opening cabinets and drawers. “Surely they keep something to wet the whistle in a room like this. Ah.” He pulled a glass and decanter full of golden liquid from the cabinet and tilted them at Grayson. “Want a pour? It’s clear you need it.”

  “No.” Grayson ground his teeth.

  “There’s no hard feelings, surely, Lord Rigsby.” He poured the liquid into a glass and strolled back across the room toward Grayson, taking a sip as he walked. “What was I to do? A distraught future duke shows up demanding to see the woman whose heart he’s broken. Should I have let you speak with my sister?” He waved the glass casually above his head, but his voice cut the air, sharp as glass. The man took nothing serious but his sister.

  Grayson growled in frustration.

  Tobias prodded him with the half-empty tumbler. “Look, old fellow, why are you here?”

  To get the necklace. To propose. But not to Lady Willow. “It’s a house party. Why does anyone attend such a thing? To be entertained.”

  “Not what I mean. Why are you here in this room with me?”

  Because precisely one year ago, Grayson had dragged his battered heart out of mourning long enough to realize he couldn’t let the woman he loved walk away from him with no explanation. Yes, she’d left him alone after but a week’s engagement; she’d abandoned him at his deepest hour of grief and confusion, but he’d thought—known—she loved him, and he’d hoped to win her back. So, he’d shown up—a bit tipsy, yes—at her front door, begging to speak with her.

  And Tobias had answered the door and proceeded to shatter the remainder of his heart: Tough luck, old chap, a lot can happen in a month. While you’ve been grieving your brother and being the heir to a dukedom, she’s been courted and won. She’s engaged.

  Grayson remembered every single cursed word. And every single word had been a lie. He felt a compelling urge to leave a volley of fist-shaped bruises on Tobias’s face. He’d only survived the previous year by reminding himself daily, hourly, that she’d found a man without a title to marry.

  And if Grayson had to lead a miserable titled life without her, at least he’d know she would be loved. Who couldn’t love Henrietta? Grayson grabbed Tobias’s tumbler, sloshing liquid over the edge.

  “Careful, my lord,” Tobias warned. “Don’t waste it. It’s good stuff.”

  Grayson, throwing the liquid down his throat, barely heard him

  Tobias grabbed the tumbler back and refilled it, then downed the entire thing before pointing the empty receptacle at Grayson. “I’ll repeat myself, though I risk sounding a complete dunce, you know. Why are you here?”

  “Because you lied to me.”

  Tobias refilled the tumbler and took a thoughtful sip. “So, Henrietta’s not engaged. It changes nothing. You’re still heir to a dukedom. She’s still a tradesman’s daughter. You engaged her, then left her. You, I hear, are now almost engaged to another lady, a duke’s daughter. You’ll get your perfect duchess. Knowing Henrietta was never engaged”—he shrugged—“it changes nothing.”

  But it did. When she’d left him alone at Hill House, the letter announcing his brother’s death on the continent during battle burning a hole in his hand, he’d been confused but realized she was, too. He hoped. Everything they’d planned transformed around them into an unrecognizable mess. Even who he was, who they would be together, changed instantly. Of course, she’d panicked.

  He could forgive her for panicking. He had forgiven her for it. But when he’d discovered she’d promptly engaged herself to another man, a rich cit perhaps, then he’d known real heartbreak, real rage. Then he’d known she’d never really loved him.

  He’d lived with that heavy knowledge for a year.

  Now he knew it for the lie it was.

  Everything had changed. He no longer ended his courtship of Lady Willow because he still loved a woman who did not love him back; he ended his courtship to win back a woman who might still love him as he did her.

  Tobias plopped into a chair. “You can’t argue with facts. I made the right decision. I’ll do what I must to protect Hen. She’s a good girl, the best. I couldn’t have the cad who’d dropped her as soon as he got a title angling after her for her—fucking hell, Gray, why did you want her? To be your mistress?” To an outside observer, Tobias would seem all lazy informality, but Grayson noted the tick in his jaw, the edge to his words. And what words they were.

  Grayson didn’t control his emotions like Tobias. He couldn’t. He pulled the man from his seat by the cravat until they stood face to face. “You think,” he said slowly, keeping his tone in check, “I came to London last year on bended knee, pleading, in order to make Henrietta my mistress?” He hissed the last word. It became a knife blade he wanted to slide between Tobias’s ribs. When Tobias didn’t answer, Grayson continued. “I love her.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘loved’?” Tobias choked out.

  “I came that day to beg her to marry me.”

  Tobias, miraculously, still held the tumbler with but a sip left at its bottom. He downed that sip with a steady hand despite Grayson’s tightening grip on his neckcloth. “You’ll excuse me, being the gentleman that you are, if I call you a liar and a coward.”

  Grayson slammed him against a bookcase and stalked away, afraid of what he might do. “Me? The liar?” Behind him, books hit the carpet with a volley of soft thumps.

  Tobias’s cool voice seemed unphased. “You love Henrietta? Why did you reject her as soon as you gained a title, then?”

  “I didn’t.” He ground out the two words, the only words, that made any sense. Then he found three more. “She left me.”

  “And you let her go,” Tobias sneered.

  “Fuck,” Grayson hissed, then cringed. What would his father say to hear his heir use such language? “I have to talk to her. Right now.”

  Tobias sighed. “I do enjoy the rich diversity of language, and so it pains me to find myself shackled to the same words this evening. But, alas.” He sighed again, a dramatic sound capable of carrying across any stage and straight to the audience at the very back of the theater. “What use is talking with Henrietta about any of this? It changes nothing. Must I list the reasons why once more?” Tobias put a hand on Grayson’s shoulder, as if Grayson hadn’t been a twist away from choking the life from him. “Gray,” he said, and a mask dropped from his face, revealing searching eyes and a sorrowful mouth. “I’m sorry. We’re from different worlds. Before your brother died, a marriage between you and Hen made sense. But now …” He shrugged.

  “I lost my brother and Hen in one day. Apparently, I lost you, too. Or did you always look down on me, always think me so shallow?”

  The mask rose back up over Tobias’s face, and he lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. He placed the empty tumbler on a table and strolled toward the door. As he threw it wide, the opening notes of a waltz floated through. “I trust you’ll keep your distance from Hen. If you don’t, well, you know I have an uncontrollable impulse for dueling.” The waltz disappeared with Tobias behind the closed door.

  Grayson stared into the fire, thinking of his brother, of Hen. His body grew heavy, and if he hadn’t found a chair to slump into, he’d have sat with a thump on the floor.

  A soft knock on the door preceded a softer whisper. “Are you there, Lord Rigsby?”

  Was he present? Truly here? He felt very much like an automaton, thoughtlessly completing tasks. Become a good heir. Check. Ask a proper lady to marry him. Check. Find the family heirloom and gift it to his future wife.

  “Lord Rigsby?” The voice grew nearer, and he looked up into the curious face of Lady Wi
llow. “We should not be here alone together, but the waltz has started and I—”

  He rose. “Of course. Our dance. I’m so glad you’ve come to retrieve me. Slip back out into the ballroom now, and I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

  She nodded and did as he bid. Very biddable, Lady Willow. The perfect woman to be his duchess.

  “Fuck,” he said, deciding the profanity fit the situation, despite his father’s aversion to cursing. He’d never felt so confused. He rested his forehead against the wall beside the closed door, his brain trying to wrap itself around the truth. Tobias said nothing had changed, but Grayson felt a guttural shift inside. Something had changed. Everything had changed.

  And yet, was Tobias right? Grayson and Henrietta existed in two different worlds while he and Lady Willow had been bred to fit perfectly within the same social sphere. Was he destined to live the life he’d been bred for or could he choose his own path? And could Henrietta possibly be a part of that path?

  But first, he had promised Lady Willow a dance.

  She sat exactly where he’d left her, as if she’d not left the space to find him alone in a firelit room only minutes ago. He offered her a hand and she took it without word. He pulled her into the throng of swirling couples and joined the rhythm, holding her at the exact proper distance with the exact proper amount of pressure on her back and in her hand.

  She followed his lead expertly, despite her acknowledged lack of experience. “Why do you wish to marry me?”

  Her question shocked him, but she continued as if she had inquired as to the next day’s weather. “You’ve not proposed. Do you wish to marry me?”

  No. But he’d promised the duke not to let her know that.

  “Silence is not a good answer,” she said.

  He sighed, unable to find the words to convince her otherwise, unwilling to lie to her. “You are very charming, Lady Willow. We are, socially speaking, perfectly suited, but—” Across the ballroom, laughter lifted over the music. Grayson lifted his head to see Tobias teasing a group of debutants, perfectly at ease in his puce waistcoat. “But I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You make little sense, my lord.”

  “I’m not who my father, and your father, would like me to be. Do you have any siblings?”

  She shook her head.

  How did he not know that fact about her? If they married, both parties—himself and his wife—would be strangers to one another.

  “My brother died at Trafalgar,” he confessed.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “We weren’t very close. He was much older than I. But I loved him, no, worshipped him. He did as he pleased, everyone else be damned.”

  “How exhilarating.”

  “I used to do as I pleased, as well.”

  “Past tense? My. This does not bode well for our potential marital arrangements.”

  “Now I do as my father pleases. It pleases him I marry you.”

  They danced in silence so long, he startled when she finally spoke. “I’m not certain I want to be someone’s obligation, someone’s father’s choice.”

  She didn’t deserve to be an obligation. She should be someone’s joy, the way Henrietta had been, was, his. “Our fathers say our union is what is best for the dukedom, the tenants, the future progeny. You are a duke’s daughter, after all.”

  “Unfortunately so, I begin to think.”

  He studied her face. It shifted, a complexity of thought hidden behind a wax doll’s façade. He breathed a tight breath. “If I ask you to marry me, will you accept?”

  She looked away from him. “Yes. I suppose.”

  “Will you be happy to accept?”

  She shrugged. “Are duke’s progeny supposed to be happy?” She attempted a laugh, but it died with the final strains of the waltz.

  “My brother always was—happy, that is—but chasing happiness proved selfish. He got himself killed, leaving he dukedom without an heir.” He shook his head. “Irresponsible.”

  She snorted. “Are you not the heir, then?”

  “Yes, but …” He frowned. Yes, Grayson was the heir, always had been. As long as his brother lacked children of his own, Grayson was the next in line. Had his brother chosen to go to war knowing those he was responsible for would be taken care of by his heir, by Grayson? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Kingsley had been impulsive to a fault.

  But Lady Willow unknowingly made an excellent point. Perhaps happiness and responsibility weren’t antithetical.

  “You’re an interesting woman, Lady Willow. I wish I’d gotten to know you better.”

  “Am I interesting?”

  “I’ll need to speak with your father tomorrow morning.”

  “I assume it’s not to make a formal proposal.”

  “I—”

  “I don’t mind. Whether it’s a proposal or not doesn’t matter.” Her eyes drifted across the ballroom, as if already looking for a spectacle more deserving of her attention. “Have you ever been so utterly bored, you don’t care what happens next?”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “I’ve a premonition that’s how I’d feel if we married. I’m not certain I wish to feel that way. Now or ever. Besides, at least being jilted and fending off the gossips will be diverting.” She winced, a small ripple disrupting her usual composure. “I hope Father feels the same.”

  He patted her hand where it lay limply on his forearm. “You will not find yourself the object of gossip. I promise. I will do all in my power to make myself out the devil and you the angel of this debacle.” He escorted her back to her seat at the side of the ballroom. “Can I get you any—”

  “Leave. Please. I’m perfectly fine.” She waved him away and guilt sliced him through. He should apologize, but her attention had already drifted away from him, so he drifted into the crowd surrounding the dancers. He found the stairs leading to the guest rooms. He would speak once more with the Duke of Valingford tomorrow, but now the only voice he wanted to hear belonged to the conveniently unengaged Henrietta Blake.

  Chapter 13

  Henrietta had not expected the hallway to be so crowded on a night all guests reveled in the ballroom. Of course, her hallway companion wasn’t exactly a guest. Lord Rigsby’s valet crept behind her, as he had all evening, despite her attempts to lose him.

  Why did he follow her? His master had ordered him to, clearly, but there she butted up against another “why?” Did Lord Rigsby wish to ensure she handed over the necklace should she find it? His sort didn’t trust her sort, after all.

  She sighed, lifting her candle higher to see farther down the hall. She was being unfair to Lord Rigsby. She’d never known him to hold the same prejudices against her class that all of his class seemed to hold. But then, he had jilted her as soon as he’d become the future duke. Damning evidence against him, that. Either way, he had no right to send his valet trailing after her.

  She’d put it to a stop immediately.

  Henrietta turned and straightened her shoulders. “Willems, may I help you?”

  Willems dodged behind a nearby chair and table, unable to hide his tall frame entirely.

  “I see you, you know. I’ve seen you since you started trailing me in the conservatory. No use hiding.”

  He stood, straightened his clothes, and pierced her with a direct stare. “Good evening, Miss Blake.”

  She offered him a polite smile. “Could you please desist? I’ve my own shadow, you know, and do not need another.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I assume this is Lord Rigsby’s doing.”

  No answer, though he needn’t provide one.

  “Of course, it is Lord Rigsby. Well, why ever your master put you up to this, you can stop. Now.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She huffed, and the candle flickered dangerously. “Listen here, Willems—”

  “It’s all right, Willems. I’m here now. You can retire to bed as you please.”

  The valet backed away, relief
evident in the hunch of his shoulders. As he disappeared from the glow of candlelight, Lord Rigsby appeared within its yellow circumference. “And thank you for watching over Miss Blake.”

  “What are you doing here?” Henrietta demanded.

  He stepped closer to her, and her breath caught in her chest. The candle threw shadows on the hard planes of his face. He looked forbidding with his lips set at such a stern angle, but she caught a curious glint in his eye. Why ever he stood before her, he had a purpose; she recognized determination when she saw it.

  He stood so close to her now, she could reach out and touch him. But his hands remained impassive at his sides as he stared down at her through the candlelit darkness. “We need to have a little chat, Henrietta.”

  Mercy. She had to say no. She had to turn away. She’d suggested the plan to search the rooms during the ball purely because it kept him away from her. She couldn’t be trusted around him. Her body wanted him too much. She swallowed the wanting and clutched her own determination. “It’s not the right time of day for a chat, Lord Rigsby. Perhaps in the morning.” She turned and strode away.

  But he didn’t let her go. His fingers wrapped gently about her wrist, and he whispered her name.

  Closing her eyes, praying for strength, seeking out the anger that seemed to melt in his presence, she turned. Where had it gone? “Hm?”

  He took the candle from her, then folded one of her hands in his own. A lightning bolt shot through her. They sat, and he placed the candle beside them, leaving one side of his face cast in light, the other in darkness. The black hallway tightened around their huddled bodies. She had to speak or she’d kiss him. Again. She’d kiss an engaged man again. Shame should have flooded her.

  Her mind went completely blank, drained of everything but his lips, including shame.

  She pulled him forward and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t hesitate to pull her into his lap, never breaking their kiss, as if bringing her home after centuries apart. Why did it feel like coming home?