by Maya Rodale
She choked on a sip of water as the truths burst upon her like a firing squad given the command to shoot.
The page that contained her column had been folded and pressed into her bodice. Where was it now? She wished to reach up and check, but she did not possess the strength and she could not give him ideas. And Wycliff was watching her. He couldn’t know. . . .
Eliza sank back into the pillows, willing herself to faint for the first time in her life. Willing the earth to open up and swallow her whole. Willing herself to fall asleep and wake again, in another time and place. But this moment was real, and she had to live it and all the ones that followed.
What did Wycliff know?
If she had been out there and now she was here, something must have happened. But what? And how had she made it home? And when did she begin to think of Wycliff House as home?
All these questions burned upon her lips. It mattered not that she was incapable of voicing them; she most certainly would not like the answers. Instead she was left to wonder What now? in mute, punishing silence.
“How are you feeling?” Wycliff asked.
Like a liar. A thief. A criminal. A sinner. An utter wretch.
She was glad she could not speak.
Instead of answering, she looked closely at him, taking note of dark circles around his eyes, inadvertently confessing to a lack of sleep. Had he been worried? Or furious?
Eliza glanced around for signs of his rage—shattered glass, empty brandy glasses, broken furniture—but there was nothing to suggest his anger. Except, perhaps, a tension in his unshaven jaw and a hardness in his gaze.
Yesterday she’d seen the heat of passion in his deep brown eyes, for her.
She managed to croak the words “What happened?” She might have been asking about whatever horrible situation she’d encountered yesterday, but her heart wished to know what had caused the heat to vanish from her eyes. She felt cold without it.
“It seems you were attacked, Eliza,” he replied, and there was a world of sensation in the way he drawled out the syllables of her name, as if he doubted them, or tested each one for its veracity. Funny how his doubt hurt. But she deserved it.
“Oh,” she whispered. She could remember that, mostly. But that didn’t explain anything.
At the moment, she would have given anything to know what the duke knew. But to ask was to admit that there was, in fact, something worth knowing. It was a risk she dared not take.
“I shall leave you to rest now,” he said. “And then I have questions for you later.”
Later
It turned out that by later the duke meant not the following day or evening, but even later than that. Later meant that Eliza suffered through two days on tenterhooks, desperately trying to glean any information from him.
In that time, as the minutes passed, she had dusted, drawn baths, cleaned bedchambers, and performed other chores while wondering what lay behind that locked door. And now, as she swept the great foyer, she wondered . . .
What did he know?
The question burned in her belly. The questions buzzed around her head like mosquitoes, always humming and nagging and never letting her forget. She had learned from Mrs. Buxby that the duke had brought her unconscious self back to Wycliff House: “Carried ya in his arms like a princess, he did. All hollering and stomping and commanding and the like.”
She assumed Liam had gotten to her. Evil, hateful man! But why had the duke been there to rescue her? This troubled Eliza enormously.
She made short, swift motions with the broom, gathering all the dirt from the marble floor.
He had to know.
Did he care for her? Perhaps, but did he care enough to overlook her deceit? No, they had shared naught but a kiss or two—though kisses that set her soul aflame. They had shared plenty of conversations, small intimate touches and smoldering gazes. They had something between them, something more than a man and his maid.
But it seemed that something was gone. Wycliff now locked himself in his mystery room, avoiding her entirely.
Fair enough; she had ruined his life with her writings. If love strong enough to overcome that existed on God’s green earth, then she did not know of it.
And yet, nothing soothed her like immersing herself in the vexations and drama of others. That, and sweeping. That, and she had a column to rewrite. Mrs. Buxby, Harlan, and ample amounts of whiskey-tea provided some intelligence that was more scandalous and salacious than her attempt to portray the duke’s noble deeds. Unfortunately, she simply didn’t have the time to set pen to paper. Someone asked for this and rang for that and there was one errand or chore after another. Still not fully recovered from her attack, at night she collapsed into a dreamless slumber.
With horror, Eliza watched the moments fly by until she knew it was too late. The paper would be at the presses, and it would be the end of her career as a Writing Girl. First, the rejection of something poorly written, and now the plain failure to write anything.
She pushed hard on the broom and her neat little dust piles went flying into the air, scattering and falling, and awaiting her broom again.
Even now, two days later, Eliza’s cheeks flamed hot at the recollection of Knightly handing her column back to her in front of all the other Weekly writers. It had never been done! Mortifying did not begin to describe it. Perhaps she had not been attacked—perhaps she had merely fainted with embarrassment.
But no, the memory of that altercation was scratched hard into her memory, like rude comments carved into pub tables by drunken wretches. Liam’s cold blue eyes and the pound, pound, pounding of her heart, and the sickly sweet smell of the chloroform—these things she now remembered clearly.
The soft swish of the broom’s straw against marble was constant and swift. Perhaps it was not a matter of what the duke knew, but what she would confess to.
She could never have the duke as her own, never be with him. Some things were never meant to be. Perhaps, if there had been even the most remote chance that she could allow her heart to feel fully without fear, if there was a speck of opportunity for them to be together . . . then she might tell him the truth and hope for his love and forgiveness.
Swish, swish, swish.
She might even confess . . .
But he could not have her, would not have her . . . thus she, as ever, would need to make her own way in the world. Eliza rationalized that it was a matter of a roof above her head, food in her belly, and clothes on her body.
That reminded her of the ten thousand pound bounty on her head. Ten thousand pounds could set her up for life. Ten thousand pounds could send the duke and his envoy to Timbuktu, and back, in gold-plated ships. Ten thousand pounds could restore the Wycliff coffers—and all without His Grace needing to chain himself to Hades’ Own Harpy, Lady Althea.
Swish, swish, swish. . .
The soft tinkle of the servant’s bell cut through the foyer. Footsteps approached.
The duke wished to see Eliza.
Chapter 34
In Which There Are Questions
Eliza found the duke in his private study on the second floor. A fire smoldered in the grate, giving just enough light to throw a burnished glow on Wycliff’s impossibly high cheekbones. He sat comfortably behind the large oak desk. The surface was covered with maps of the wide, wide world, thick account books, the skull of a creature she did not recognize, a marvelous shell with a glossy pink interior and white spikes on the outside.
It was dusk. A soft violet light entered through the windows.
Wycliff’s hair was pulled back tightly in a queue. The gold of his earring glinted in the firelight. The white shirt he wore was opened at the neck, showing off a vee of tanned and tattooed skin.
Eliza swallowed, hard. Every nerve was thrumming. She wanted him, desperately. Never had she felt so far away from him.
He did not ask her to sit. So she bobbed into a curtsey, out of deference. She clasped her hands behind her back so that he wouldn’t see he
r wring them if she failed to restrain the urge to do so.
Buck up, she told herself. She was raised on the stage. She had made her choices and now had naught to do but brazen through.
“Eliza,” he drawled. She loved the sound of her name on his lips.
“Your Grace,” she murmured. He did not invite her to sit. Their familiarity was gone. He had to know everything. But even if he knew only the half of it, she was still in trouble. Big Trouble.
“It’s time we had a talk, you and I.” He gave her a torturous, knowing smile. Eliza tilted her chin higher.
Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes.
The duke stood and strode toward her.
Her heart beat hard.
He brushed past her; she did a slow turn and watched him stop at the sidebar and clink the cut-crystal brandy bottle against two glasses. He meant to get her drunk, did he? Well, she’d been keeping her secrets for a long time now, and it would take more than alcohol to ply them from her lips.
But, lud, did her heart beat intently in her chest, especially when he turned toward her. Was that a glint of mischief in his eyes, or a trick of the light?
The duke handed her the glass, fingers brushing hers, setting off sparks—or so it felt. His head tilted down toward hers . . . a kiss? No, just temptation. His eyes were dark, his expression inscrutable. Her gaze fell on that exposed patch of skin at the base of his neck. The inky black tattoos swirled beneath, peeking out, taunting her.
If this wasn’t the beginning of the end, then she wasn’t a Writing Girl.
The duke grinned and raised his glass. “To the truth.”
“To the truth,” she echoed, aware that her voice didn’t waver or sound hollow. Her mama would be proud.
“Where to begin?” he mused, thoughtfully sipping his brandy and standing close to her—much too close, as if he might intimidate her with his size and proximity. It worked. “I’m concerned, you see,” he said, and she felt her stance soften. “I’m not bothered that you took my knife.”
And suddenly there it was in his palm—silver blade flashing, the wooden handle gleaming. When she pilfered it from his collection, it had been worn, dirty, and dusty, which is why she took that one in particular. But now it appeared shiny and new, which meant that the duke had spent hours with that knife in his hands. The thought was unsettling.
He circled around her, knife in one hand, brandy in the other. He spoke in a low, velvety, voice. The lot of it was intoxicating.
“I might have thought it petty thievery, or even carelessness, but clearly you required it for protection.”
“Mmm . . .” she murmured noncommittally. She would say nothing unless absolutely necessary.
“You knew, Eliza, that someone was after you.” He was smart, this duke.
She bit her lip, perplexed. This was not the line of questioning she had expected. He was supposed to be livid that she was the author of his demise and sack her on the spot. He wasn’t supposed to discover she was in danger, and he certainly couldn’t be expected to care.
Around he paced, while she concentrated very much on remaining still.
“Who is he?”
Eliza paused, considering her options. It was damned hard to think with Wycliff nearby, gazing at her with his velvety brown eyes, and with those tattoos tempting her, reminding her of the muscled contours of his chest. The duke sipped his brandy. She ached to taste it on his lips.
Think, Eliza, think. What to tell him? That she was a Writing Girl . . . or should she tell the truth about Liam? Both secrets would ruin her in the duke’s eyes. If she hadn’t lost him already, then confessing either secret would do the trick. But if she wanted that ten thousand pounds Lord Alvanley was offering—and Lord, did she ever—then she’d have to tell the duke about Liam.
“His name is Liam,” she said.
“He’s a mean bloke,” Wycliff said, then sipped his drink as if to wash away the thought of him.
“Oh, I know,” she agreed passionately.
“What I’m interested in is what the likes of such scum could want with you?”
“I do not know . . .” Eliza answered. She didn’t want to lie anymore. Like a knitted shawl with a loose thread, one hard tug could unravel everything. If she answered one question, it wouldn’t be long before she was confessing things that she’d never told anyone.
The duke drained his brandy and set it on the desk, along with the knife.
“It was not a random attack,” he stated flatly. “No one carries around cloth soaked in chloroform just in case they might be beset upon by young ladies in the street.”
In other circumstances, she might have cracked a smile at that. But not when he was hammering away at the truth of the matter. Knowing him, he probably knew everything already and was just playing this cat and mouse game with her for a spot of amusement before he pushed her out on the doorstep. Someone was probably packing her things now.
“I wonder how you knew to expect him,” the duke said, leaning back against the desk.
So politely worded. Yet it was a command all the same.
He waited.
Eliza gazed at him hard, searching for answers or at least some clue as to what he knew. His mouth was set, his jaw tense. But his eyes . . . perhaps it was wishful thinking but she thought she detected concern and care. Or she had before, and she wished it was so again. Perhaps it was the scent of the brandy and the pleasure of being near him, with his attention fixed upon her. Perhaps it was the fear of being chased again and the lingering remnants of a chloroform haze. Perhaps he did care, and maybe he would come to her rescue. A girl could dare to dream.
“It was not the first time,” she said plainly. She was resolved; she would tell him everything about Liam. But nothing else.
Wycliff’s hand tightened around the glass of brandy, clenching so hard he thought the thing might shatter in his grasp.
She was a lying, scheming vixen.
He was not supposed to care. God above, he did. She was so slight and delicate, which made him want to gather her in his arms and never let her go. Except perhaps to fight off her foes.
She was ridiculous with her chin tilted so defiantly. Especially when she bit her lip nervously. That little quirk nearly undid all his resolve to ferret out her secrets. But he had to know. He lifted his glass of brandy to his lips to clear his head and toughen him up, but he scowled to find it empty.
He reached out and took hers, again touching her fingertips, which made him think of her fingertips caressing the lines of his tattoo, which made him think of her betrayal, and the lot of it reminded him of his plans for this interview.
“Tell me, Eliza. I want to help you,” he said, because he wanted her to confide in him.
“It started at . . .” she said, and faltered. “I thought I saw him the week before the attack.”
“What does he want?” Wycliff asked. He thought if he focused on a specific problem, he wouldn’t think about her and his feelings, dear God.
“I think he wants money. I don’t know. But I haven’t any money . . .” Eliza let the words trail off, and he wanted her to finish them with because I am a housemaid or because newspaper writing pays rubbish, or both.
As far as he knew, this was all true. Although, she was now worth ten thousand pounds. She would have to confess to everything, or start spinning an intricate web of lies that would only catch her in the end.
He handed the brandy back to her. Nefarious, yes. Tried and true method for gleaning information? Yes. She took a sip.
He reached out to her, cupping his palm at the curve in her waist. With only the slightest pressure of his fingertips on the sensitive small of her back, he urged her toward him. One, two, delicate tripping steps across the carpet and into his arms.
She returned his smile. They were of one mind, he was sure of it: a good, deep kiss would put an end to this excruciating conversation. It was about a villain who had attacked her. But it was really about the big lie she kept from him—t
he one about ruining his reputation and prospects with her writing—the one that made any future impossible.
All they had was this moment. And a relentless, all-consuming desire that knew no reason.
She took from him. He wanted her. She was warm and pliant under his palms.
Wycliff lowered his mouth to hers.
She returned his kiss, hesitant at first. Then he teased her open, teased her into being bolder. He tugged her flush against him and slipped his fingers into her hair, cradling her head so he could kiss her thoroughly and improperly. Eliza tasted of brandy, of secrets, of passion. He kissed her hard and she kissed him back with the same intensity.
They went on like that for a moment, or an hour or however long—he knew not—but some time had passed and he could feel her defenses lowering. Unfortunately, he could also feel that his determination to remain hardhearted was fading. Instead, his cock was hard and he wanted to ravish her right there on the carpet.
So he tugged his mouth away and whispered in her ear, “Who is he, Eliza?”
“Mmm,” she murmured into his kiss. His tongued teased and tangled with hers. Mmm indeed.
He slid his hands down to her bottom. It was the perfect fit in his palms. Pity that she was such a traitor, because he could really fall in love with her.
She gasped as he pressed her against him; she had to know, to feel, that he was aroused.
He nearly groaned. If his plan was to seduce her into spilling secrets, he would have to take this further. There were worse things, he supposed. She was going to get it in a deliciously wicked way.
With a tantalizing slowness his hands explored her. He felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, and he felt the pace quicken as his hands inched higher. He leaned in to whisper in her ear: “Who is he?”
A simple question. A world in her answer, should she deign to voice it. While Wycliff waited, he kissed her, savoring these last precious moments before she confessed and everything changed irreparably. He wanted as much of her as she was willing to give. He closed his palm around her breast, thumbing the peak. He felt it harden through the fabric.