by Juliana Gray
“No! Not yet. I’m not even quite sure yet. That is, I am, but I’m not. Do you know what I mean?”
A queer pang struck Stefanie’s ribs. “Well, no,” she said.
“You must think I’m awful.”
Stefanie gathered herself and held her sister’s hands as tightly as she could. “You’re dreadfully wicked, and I couldn’t be happier. You beautiful thing. You broke free, you acted for yourself. Was it wonderful?”
Emilie leaned into her ear. “It was wonderful. He’s wonderful. I never dreamed it would be like that. Oh, Stefanie. And we haven’t . . . not since Yorkshire . . . and I miss it so. I miss him so. I want it all back. Isn’t that strange? And we have our engagement ball tomorrow, and I should be thrilled, and all I want is to go back to Yorkshire and . . . and sin with him.” She said the word sin with relish, in a way that made Stefanie’s toes tingle with longing.
The duke’s voice called out. “Five minutes.”
They looked at each other and burst into a sisterly giggle.
“I’m glad, Emilie. I’m so glad. And I’ll be an aunt!”
“Shh!” Emilie glanced at the men and back again. “Don’t say that. You’re scaring me to death. I can’t even quite believe it myself yet, and everything’s still so . . . oh God. I can’t think about it. Tell me about this fellow with you. What’s his name?”
“His name is James.” The word sounded strange in Stefanie’s ears. “The Marquess of Hatherfield.”
“And . . . ?” Emilie’s voice was rich with meaning.
“And what?”
Emilie nudged her. “And. Tell me about him. You can’t hold back now; I’ve just bared my soul to you.”
“Well, he’s beautiful. That’s what you notice first. Rather difficult to ignore.”
“And?”
“And . . . well, he rows.”
“Rows a boat?”
“Yes, a racing boat.”
“Scull or sweep?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. He rows a boat. With oars. Very fast. A sort of champion. That’s all I know.”
Emilie sat back, mouth agape. “You’re in love with him.”
“Nonsense. He’s beautiful, that’s all. Well, quite extraordinarily beautiful. And I suppose his figure is admirable, if one happens to admire that sort of brutish abundance of muscles. A needlessly impeccable physique, when you come right down to it, though only to be expected with all that tiresome physical exercise, rowing and rowing, up and down, over and over.” She paused. “Oh, and I suppose he’s honorable and all that, I’ll give him his noble character, a bit of the old-fashioned gentleman about him, really quite tedious to a modern thinker, as I am. And perhaps he drops the occasional witty line, when pressed, though he naturally expects a great deal of applause when he does. But no. I certainly haven’t fallen in love with him.”
Emilie burst into laughter.
“Two minutes!”
“Oh, Stefanie,” said Emilie. “I miss this. I miss you.”
“I wish I could be there tomorrow, to see you all dressed up and happy, on his arm.”
“Well, it won’t be like that, exactly. Olympia and Ashland planned the ball to . . .”
A shout rang out. “Hatherfield, secure the women!”
Stefanie half rose, just in time to see a blurred shadow race past the bench and into the bushes. In the next instant, a loud bang exploded the air nearby.
“Get down!” Hatherfield’s hand connected firmly with her back, pushing her into the ground next to the bench. Emilie stumbled next to her.
“Where’s Ashland? I’ve got to find him!” her sister screamed.
“Stay down!” shouted Hatherfield, planting his legs protectively before them, and even as he spoke the air filled with leaping shadows. He swung an expert punch into a jaw, whirled about, and delivered a fierce blow to another man’s gut.
“There’s too many!” Stefanie said. And too close—Hatherfield’s pistol was useless.
Her blood fired. Anger filled her: fury at this group of men, linked undoubtedly with those who had killed her father, who now threatened Hatherfield. Threatened Emilie.
She was just beginning to rise when a hand grabbed the back of her collar and jerked her upward. She craned her neck and caught a glimpse of a hard face, a scar above a thick eyebrow, before the arm closed around her throat and drew her up against a stone wall of a chest and began to drag her toward the river.
Somewhere nearby, Hatherfield roared. A hard thump shuddered through her, and the hand loosened. She wrested herself free and spun about. Someone reached an arm about her neck, and she snapped her head to one side and bit the outstretched hand just in time. A howl of pain split her ears.
Emilie was shouting something in a strangled voice. Stefanie spun about, trying to find her sister in the shadow-crossed darkness, and for an instant that beloved white face floated into view between a pair of shoulders, braced at the jaw with a large wool-covered arm.
Ashland’s massive body blurred past, swinging his fist in a fury. A loud grunt, and the man holding Emilie toppled backward. Ashland seized him with a knife to the throat—good God, how it glinted in the gaslight—and a hand closed around Stefanie’s arm, spinning her around.
She raised her fist to strike, and saw it was Hatherfield. “You’re all right?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
Bang.
In a flash, Hatherfield gathered her under his own body and turned her away from the river.
“Damn it to hell!” Ashland shouted. “To the carriage!”
Emilie screamed her name.
“She’s right here,” said Hatherfield. His arms were still snug about her. “Shot came from the river.”
Ashland drew out a pistol from his jacket. “Take the women to the carriage. I’ll cover.”
Hatherfield’s arms fell away. “Right-ho. This way.”
He urged her forward. She and Emilie ran hand in hand to the street, where a large four-wheeler stood waiting by the pavement. Another shot rang out. “Hatherfield!” she called, from her straining lungs.
“Right here,” he said, behind her. “Keep going, damn it!”
She pounded on, legs stretched to their utmost, almost flinging Emilie along with her. The carriage loomed before her. Hatherfield’s hand was at her back, his arm was reaching around her to spring open the carriage door.
“In you go,” he said, and he threw the two of them inside and braced himself above them like a shield.
“Get in!” Stefanie screamed, tugging him away from the door.
Emilie squirmed out from under her. “Where’s Ashland?”
“Here,” said the duke, swinging himself inside, and the carriage lurched forward, and Ashland lifted Emilie into his lap, and Hatherfield’s arms closed so tightly around Stefanie she could scarcely breathe.
A long and wordless moment passed, while the carriage jounced over the cobbles and the wet London houses flew past the windows. Stefanie breathed in the woolen scent of Hatherfield’s jacket, clutched the material between her fingers. His shoulder lay under her cheek. His solid knee knocked against her leg at every bounce, but she didn’t care. She hardly even noticed.
He was alive.
Emilie was alive.
“Where to?” asked Ashland quietly.
“The Brompton Road, if you don’t mind.” Hatherfield’s voice rumbled against Stefanie’s ear; she felt the words, rather than heard them. “I’ve got a hansom waiting there.”
“Have you got somewhere secure to take her? Somewhere that won’t give you away?”
What a voice the duke had, dark edged and baritone. Stefanie stole a glance at Emilie, who was curled up quietly against his chest, her hand on his lapel, as if she never meant to leave.
The carriage jolted around a corner. Hatherfield’s arms loosened a fraction as he settled her more comfortably against his side.
“I believe I’ve got just the place,” he said.
NINETEEN
The river fog had enclosed the row of boathouses so thoroughly, Hatherfield could only just make out the sallow glow of the lone gaslight outside his own club. He opened the window trap at the back. “This will do,” he said brusquely, and the hansom stopped almost on the spot.
Stefanie leapt to the pavement the instant the doors had sprung. Hatherfield followed and turned to the driver. “The usual time tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Smith? Say nothing of tonight’s doings.”
“Of course not, sir. Good night, sir.”
The cab clattered off. Hatherfield went to the door and pulled out his key. Behind him, the water lapped invisibly on the shore. Stefanie was shivering next to him, huddled inside her coat. She hadn’t said a word, the entire journey. The lock released at last, and Hatherfield put his hand to her back and urged her inside. “We’ll go upstairs,” he said. “I’ll start a fire.”
The caretaker’s room was exactly as they had left it a week ago, down to the slight wrinkle on the bed where they had sat, side by side. Hatherfield spared it a single glance and went to the grate. The small remains of the fire still sat there, a damp pile of ash and half-burned coal. He scraped it away and found new coal and kindling.
“Did you kill him?” Stefanie asked, in a clear and brave voice, not shaky at all.
He didn’t look up. “No. I wish I had.”
“I’m sorry. It was my fault.”
The fire had caught. He rose and turned to her. She was sitting on the very edge of the bed, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes were huge in her shadowed face, the blue faded to gray in the dim monochrome light. Her hat was gone, and her hair had come loose from its pomade, slipping around her face. She knit her hands tightly in her lap.
He went to her and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “It was worth it. You saw your sister, you saw for yourself she’s well.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I put you in danger. You might have been killed.”
“It’s not your fault that evil men want to hurt you, Stefanie. It’s my fault. All these months, I could have been hunting them down, your father’s murderers, and instead I did as Olympia told me and kept you to myself. I assure you, I won’t make that mistake again. Tomorrow morning, Stefanie, I hunt them down. I’ll meet with Ashland and together we’ll . . .”
“No! No, Hatherfield.” She slid down from the bed to kneel next to him, still holding his hands. She was so close, he felt her breath on his cheek. “You were nearly killed tonight, because of me. Killed. I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you put yourself in danger. If I’d known they wanted me, I never would have let you close. You’ve got to go away, Hatherfield, you’ve got to sever yourself from all this.”
“I can’t.” He kissed her hands. “I won’t.”
“Then we’ll both go away. We’ll go together. We’ll find a cottage somewhere, a dear little cottage, and we’ll live there and . . . raise vegetables . . . and grow old . . .” She was sobbing now.
“Shh.” He stroked her hair. “Shh. Don’t be daft. You know that’s not possible.”
“Never mind the vegetables, then. I’m rubbish in the garden, to be perfectly honest.”
“Christ. It’s not the vegetables. You’re a princess, Stefanie. You have a duty to your country.” He pressed her hands together within his. “As do I, one day.”
She looked up. “Listen to me. I can bear the danger myself. It’s what I was born to. But you, Hatherfield! I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. If you were hurt, or killed, because of who I am.”
I couldn’t bear it.
Her words burrowed through the wall of his chest to surround his leathered heart. She was so soft and willing in his arms, her skin like silk under his hands. His thoughts turned irretrievably to her warm female body beneath her clothes, her wet sheath pulsing around his finger a week ago. This ache of desire, this dull agony of longing, he felt it in every pore of his body.
Control yourself, his brain said sternly.
He put his hands to her cheeks and kissed her upturned mouth. Just once.
She moaned and burrowed her hands under the lapels of his overcoat.
Oh, very well. Twice.
She opened her mouth and caressed him with her tongue, while her hands attacked his buttons with nimble determination. The sensations came so fast and thick, he was helpless to do anything but kiss her in return, unbutton her coat, pull it from her shoulders, kiss her jaw and her neck, kiss the delicate hollow of her throat above her collar and her sweet-scented earlobe.
Somehow she had his jacket off, she was struggling with his waistcoat. At the touch of his tongue against her hammering pulse, she went still. Her hands fisted around his shirt, right against his skin, tightening and relaxing in a tantalizing rhythm.
He couldn’t do this.
Oh, hell.
He was going to do this.
He unbuttoned her jacket, her waistcoat. The blood sang from his heart. She had left off the linen binding around her chest tonight, and her breasts rose beneath the thin white linen, unchecked, uncontrolled, young and firm, oh God! Her marvelous breasts, so ripe in his palms, making his blood sing and his ears roar and his prick thicken into steel. The tips turned into hard nubs beneath his searching thumbs, and she cried out and ran her hands upward to the back of his head.
Her gaze met his, soft with love. “Hatherfield, you’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
You’re so beautiful, James. The old words echoed in his ears.
His limbs went stiff against her.
She kissed his lips, the corner of his frozen mouth. “Please, Hatherfield. Take me to bed. Now.”
Now, James. Take me. Do it now.
He sprang to his feet.
She fell forward, catching herself with her hands just in time. “Hatherfield?”
The word tore another hole in the leather of his heart. His skin felt raw, as if he’d physically ripped himself apart from her. He stood and stared at her confused face, her short hair falling about, her open jacket and waistcoat and the tips of her breasts holding up her shirt.
By force, he turned himself away and fumbled for his buttons. His fingers would not obey him. He gave up and found the stack of blankets at the end of the bed and handed them to her. “Go to sleep, Stefanie. I’ll keep watch downstairs.”
She was on her feet, blazing. “You will not! What . . .”
“We will not do this, Stefanie. We can’t.”
“I can!”
He picked up his pistol from the table and slid it back into his jacket pocket. “And I can’t. I’m here to protect you, Stefanie, not to ravish you. So go to sleep and let me do what I’m meant to do. Keep watch. Keep you safe.”
He turned and strode to the door, and the sound of her whispered Oh, Hatherfield! echoed in his mind all the way downstairs, where he bent his forehead into a wooden hull and closed his eyes and wept.
For half an hour, Stefanie sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the red coals in the grate.
This pain she felt, the pain in her chest, squeezing her ribs. It wasn’t the sting of his rejection. That had been sharp and brief, and it had ended when the expression on his face changed from disgust—horror, even—to . . . well, what was it? The hollow shape of his eyes, the clench of his mouth. It was torment.
Hatherfield was in pain.
She felt it herself. How strange, that you could feel another’s pain as if it were inside your own body. If only she could relieve his suffering by taking it upon her soul, but suffering didn’t work that way. Pain didn’t exist in finite quantities that could be transferred to someone else. Pain was elastic, it stretched and grew. It found another host, another heart, and replicated itself there.
Like love.
Love, the opposite, the antidote.
The room was still chilly, still damp, but Stefanie felt a warmth stealing across her skin. The warmth of purpose. She slid off her jacket and her waistcoat, she p
ulled off her trousers and drawers, until she stood in her shirt and nothing else. She folded her clothes and set them on a chair, and she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and left the room.
She found Hatherfield among the boats, leaning his sturdy shoulder against the wall, staring out the narrow window to the river. He said, without turning, “Go back to bed, Stefanie. There’s nothing for you here.”
She cleared her throat and tightened the blanket at her shoulders. “I only wanted to say something. Explain something. When I say you’re beautiful, Hatherfield, I don’t mean your face. You’re a terribly handsome man, of course, but you know that. It’s too obvious to be said, really. I expect you’ve heard it a thousand times, from a thousand women. What I mean is your soul. You are beautiful. When I kiss you, when you touch me, I feel your . . . your radiance down to my bones.” She paused. There was no reaction on his face, no sign that he had heard a word. “I just wanted to make that clear.”
Not a movement, not a single blink of his eye.
Stefanie stamped her foot. “And also. You broke your promise.”
He came alive at that. “What?”
“You promised you wouldn’t jump away next time. You promised to remember I wasn’t her, whoever she was. You promised not to be an ass.”
“I’d be an ass if I did take you to bed, Stefanie. Not by resisting my animal urges.”
She stamped her foot again. “You can’t do this. You can’t flirt with me and make the entire world think we’re lovers, and then when we’re together, alone, you pull away. I realize I haven’t come to you innocent, but I’m not defiled, for God’s sake, I’m not some penny strumpet . . .”
“No! For God’s sake, don’t say that.” He leapt away from the wall and paced down the cold length of the room. “It’s not you. I’m defiled. I’m . . . God, if you knew.”
“Tell me. Tell me. Do you think I won’t understand? Haven’t I told you there’s nothing about you, nothing you could tell me that would make me think less of you?”
He stopped and spoke to the wall. “This would.”
“Who was she, Hatherfield?” Stefanie spoke quietly, afraid to say the wrong word. “Who did this to you?”