by Gayle Eden
“It’s not for you, lad,” Sascha finally said with arid humor. “I’ve been celibate so long; a good breeze would have the same effect.”
Those rosy cheeks turned redder, but after he had finished, the measuring tape over his shoulder, the young man handed him a card. “Half Moon street. It is in the cellars, under the printer’s shop. You present the card and they’ll know you ain’t there to buy stationary.”
“A brothel?” Sascha started to hand it back.
The man’s eyes moved from him and looked around as if to make sure no one could hear. He muttered before leaving, “No, my lord, it’s called Far East Exotics.—But Madam Maude sells condoms of all sorts too.” Clearing his throat the man said, “Always pays to be prepared. You look the wondering type to me. Wouldn’t want to leave any bastards behind. Aside from that, if you meet a woman—shall we say, with a liking for the—exotic, there’s plenty there of interest.”
Sascha kept the card.
He ordered his evening and dress coats and capes, in black, his snug trousers and riding breeches in black, and though silk shirts made up the pile, he bought more linen ones. He also added several common fishermen’s jumpers. He would have to leave sometime during the season and travel to his estate and start repairs there. It was suffering from lack of upkeep and an absent landlord.
Boots, he got in deep wine and black. Gloves were simple; white for balls and the opera, black and brown suede/leather for riding and casual ware. He detested neck cloths, but choose white silk for the formal black clothing, a deep green one on impulse, along with other necessities; umbrella, shaving kit, handkerchiefs, and the like.
After going to the tobacco shop, he stopped by Jackson’s to renew his membership and chat with a few males whilst absently watching those in the ring. Leaving there, Sascha went to a coffee house, ate, then reminded himself to get a horse for use in London, and made other mental lists.
He ended his evening out and headed to Whites, expecting to see the Marquis there. Although they had not kept in touch, Edmund had relayed news, and Sascha knew the Marquis understood his position when he left.
Sascha entered Whites and spotted the Marquis of Hawksmoor at his usual table. He gave over his coat and headed to the rear, sensing and yet ignoring the speculative gazes that followed him.
Ever the suave and handsome man, Alexander did not look a day older. The Marquis’s lavender gaze moved over him before he stood, a smile of welcome on his handsome mouth. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Whitford. By God, but you look hearty.”
Sascha laughed softly, “That’s a tactful way of putting it.”
One black brow rose as they sat. The Marquis ordered coffee and brandy. He said, “It is a compliment. I expected changes, but you have seasoned, come into your own. A man can see that on you.”
“I certainly hope so.” Sascha nodded to the waiter. They sipped before he added, “My green days of young manhood are something I hardly cherish.”
“Yes. We can all relate to that. I made more mistakes than I can recall and was self-indulgent beyond what I can fathom at this age”
Alexander sat back and regarded him. “The duchess, Edith wed, you know. Some poor pup still wet behind the ears. Provides her stud service, no doubt. One hears she keeps him on a short leash. Haven’t seen them about town as yet—and hope not to.”
“My dealings with her are done.” Sascha’s palms bracketed the cup and he met the Marquis’s eyes. “She dared not challenge anything once she had my lawyer to deal with. I have my estate cleared. Although I haven’t been there, the steward and solicitor have kept it limping along.”
“You’ve done yourself proud all the same.”
“I righted a mistake.” Sascha shrugged.
“More than that. Archard kept me informed, as did Edmund. You may not realize it, but you are more than you may have been, with or without the mistake, because you took control of your destiny. I have the utmost respect for any man who does not let fate blow him like the wind. Too many of our set haven’t the arse to think or do for themselves.”
Those lavender eyes seemed to measure him, and for many reasons Sascha allowed it. The man went on, “Either myself or Edmund would have helped you, but you refused, and took control of things. I can see by looking at you, that it was more than account books and clerking.”
“More than that, certainly,” After a moment, he intoned, “I would have sent a note around, but I wasn’t sure you’d meet with me,” Sascha nodded to the waiter who refilled a cup of steaming coffee for him.
“Nonsense.” The urbane Marquis shrugged and picked up his own cup after it was topped off. “I was on your side in the whole business. You know that. I admire the fact that you did clean up your own mistakes and make something far better out of it.”
Sascha sipped and waited, knowing there would be more.
Alexander lowered the cup, keeping his fingers on the rim as he looked around and then back. He supplied evenly, “I may have had every sympathy with my daughter’s frustration—though I could have guessed by experience and taking your measure, that things were coming to head with you and the duchess. I still found you completely responsible for engaging Jo’s feelings when you knew it was going to come to nothing. Or rather, you knew, you should not, until things were cleared up.
I can admire your choices and still wish to call you out. No man who meets my daughter can help but see she is a spirited and passionate creature. Indeed, that is what draws them. I have no idea how far your…. clandestine meetings, with her went. But enough so that you confused her and quite rightly angered her.”
Sascha could not deny it. He did not. He also was aware that Alexander was not asking him for answers, merely giving him his viewpoint on it. It was a father’s right. Playing obtuse to whatever went on, was insulting them both.
Sascha never expected to meet Johanna. He never expected to feel such a fire in his blood. However, he had not stayed away from her. No matter how many times he tried.
The Marquis further said, “I consider you a friend, Auttenburg. That has not changed. I respect you and no man of any honesty can hold another’s mistakes against them. As I say, I have quite a few myself to keep score of. Nevertheless, as the father of Johanna, I say bluntly that you either keep the lines of friendship clearly drawn, or if you feel that your passion for her is too much a temptation, deal with her like the man you have become.
Jo can make her own choices. Nevertheless, you are a fool if you do not understand that her feelings were engaged before. To stir those again and offer nothing in return, is something I cannot overlook.”
There, that was it, Sascha mused and sat back, his own gaze going to a group of bucks carrying on by the bow windows, and then back to Alexander. The Marquis, being the astute man he was, managed to relay his opinion in both friendship, and as Johanna’s father. In the way of mature men, it was a show of respect rather than the opposite.
No matter what, Sascha was relieved for it. It was said, man to man, giving credence to the changes in Sascha’s life and the more equal relationship.
Sascha said finally, “I intend to have her. I left as much for that—as for the mess I’d made. I respect your honesty as much as I value your friendship, my lord. Consequently, let us both be equally so. The very things that drive a man to passion with Jo, can drive him mad. I am not so much a fool that I think she will be easily won, for it is that very spirit and passion, which makes her headstrong and stubborn. As you say, she is a grown woman. Edmund has kept me in news of her, I know (how) she took my leaving and how she perceives my…attentions…to her beforehand. All that I can promise you, Alexander—is that I will do all in my power to have her.”
Watching that black brow cock, those lips pull slightly, Sascha finished his coffee before he added somewhat grimmer, “I’m not the young man I was when I left here. Either fortune makes a man weak, or he becomes stronger — because he has been tried, tested and seasoned. Nothing prepared me for the life I sa
iled into, but I was given nothing I did not earn. There was nothing admirable in titles and bloodlines I went with, rather it was a disadvantage. My life before was soft compared to it, and my troubles, as bad as they were, were nothing also.”
“I can see that.”
Sascha supposed he could. The seas, the work and labor, the grueling tests of strength and responsibly, the failures—and unknown, had rasped away his soft edges. In America, he had spent numbing days traipsing over miles of woodlands and forests, working on a very short timeline. However, that, in the whole scheme of changing one’s entire world, was just a scratch on the surface.
He said tense but emphatically, “A lesser man would not do for Johanna. Any more than a man without passion could win her. I’ll risk everything—” He held that gaze, “including our friendship, to have her.”
After a long string of moments Alexander chanced, “As you have changed, so too has she.”
“I assumed so.”
“As much as I can observe, see, and believe, it isn’t me you have to convince, ole boy.”
Sascha relaxed enough to almost smile. He bloody well knew that better than anyone. He said though, “I’m up to the challenge.”
The Marquis soft laugh however gave him pause. Alexander arose and pat him on the shoulder. Before leaving though, generously, dropping the hint that they would be at the theater two days hence.
Chapter Three
“You look amazing.” Jo came up behind Megan as they were prepared to leave for the theater. Her cousin wore a lovely white silk gown, V-neckline with quarter sleeves. That cinnamon hair had pearl pins in it. With elbow length gloves, a lace wrap, pearls in her ears; she would certainly turn heads.
“I can’t get used to it.” Megan wrinkled her pretty nose. “But I like it.” Although she’d put some face powder on, there was no hiding her peach freckles entirely, and in Jo’s opinion, they were attractive. With those eyelashes darkened and lip salve on, yes. Although in the country all fresh and dewy, Megan was still a handsome woman.
Jo laughed and tilted her head. She wore a black silk and emerald lace gown herself, her hair pulled up with pens, leaving long spirals over her shoulder. “Did you see Aric’s eyes the other morning when he stopped by? He didn’t even recognize you.”
“Yes.’ Megan grimaced. “I didn’t know to be flattered or otherwise.”
“Flattered. I do not think he is easy to impress. Unlike that cousin of his…”
“Roth. Oh, lord. An original, to be sure.” Megan, giggled as they headed out. “I think he was quite taken with you.”
“Humm. He is handsome, in a romantic way. Quite a rogue by all accounts,” Jo said. “And I suspect he’s a good lover too.”
“Jo!”
Walking down the stairs Jo teased, “Come now. Even you know the difference between a man with that something….and the colder fishes.”
“Yes of course. I grew up with brothers. But… Oh, all right. Yes, he is the tempting sort. Nevertheless, he is obviously young and enjoying a variety at the moment. I don’t mind flirting, but anyone with sense watches their heart around that type.”
“Um. Yes.” They entered the foyer. Alexander was waiting.
“Father, you look handsome.” Jo took in his formal black, the white gloves, pristine neck cloth, and an opera cape over her father’s arm. He held his walking stick in that same hand. Since the Marquis never tied his silver hair back, that mane only provided the perfect contrast to his elegant formal clothing.
“Thank you. I’ll be escorting the two most beautiful ladies in England tonight.” He winked at them. “Megan, m’dear, I am ever startled at how stunning you look. I rather think we did an excellent job enhancing your assets, don’t you.”
“Yes.” Megan took his arm laughing. “I’m still getting used to it, but I keep thinking, if Ma and the brothers could see me, they’d be floored.”
“Proud.” The marquis corrected. “Most certainly proud. Although, never let me allow that you do not look just as fetching in trousers or your get-ups at Hawksmoor.”
“A diplomat, to be sure.” Megan laughed.
Jo muttered, “A Rakehell.”
Chuckling, Alexander said, “That is former— Rakehell, m’dear.”
They exited, and then entered the waiting coach. The trip to the theater was filled with pleasant talk whilst traffic flowed at some points, congested at others.
It would be there—and not at some ball, that Jo finally saw Sascha again.
Oddly enough, her mind was not on him that evening. She had not prepared herself in any way for the possibility. Nevertheless, fate had never been particularly generous to the Marquis “brazen” daughter.
The arrival, then settling in her father’s box, was taken up with acquaintances, some of her father’s circle stopping by to welcome them to London, before the duchess arrived.
Sonja, looked stunning in deep bronze, an absolutely eye catching fashionable gown that enhanced her tall and graceful build. She wore a silk wrap in bronze and cream stripe. Her raven hair was up in Grecian style, drawing attention to her stunning bones.
Jo noticed, as did Megan, how the Marquis reacted. In the middle of greetings, insisting she sit with them, Jo saw her father’s unguarded gaze go from head to toe and then linger on Sonja’s profile. It was such an intimate look mingled with other concealed thoughts, that Jo felt flushed witnessing it. She looked away, but not before, as assisting the duchess into a chair, she saw Sonja looking at her father in that head to toe manner, before masking it. It bloody well felt suddenly hot and thick with tension in the box afterwards, no matter how polite and friendly the conversation between them was.
The lights were still up. Jo was fanning herself, looking over a boisterous crowd, the well-dressed moving amid boxes, kissing cheeks, bowing, rubbing elbows. She had leaned up a bit, her gloved forearms resting on the rail as someone entered their box. Only half listening to her father greet them, she kept feeling Megan poke her with her fan in the side.
“Jo,” Megan whispered. “Psst. Jo.”
“What?” Jo stretched her neck to get a view of the royal box.
“Jo!”
She turned her head, frowning at Megan who leaned toward her. “What’s….”
Eyes rounded, Megan jerked her head toward the Marquis, her face comical as she tried to relay something.
Following that direction, Jo was wearing a confused smile—until her gaze landed on Sascha. Eyes moved without permission up his long body, over his undone jacket, neat waist, too bloody broad shoulders, to his face. He stood between her father and Sonja’s chairs.
She felt as if someone slammed into her chest.
God in heaven. Oh—bloody hell. She mentally cursed, prayed, and chanted in her head, dear lord, repeatedly, whilst registering the changes. At the same time another voice wanting to shout, he is bloody here, right here, and I am not bloody ready!
His skin was darker, which made those lime eyes lighter, Lord, but where he was handsome in that aristocratic way before, he was—harder, a great deal harder. There were squint lines, faint at the corner of his eyes. Rugged came to mind. His face was a man’s visage, mature and enigmatic. That arrogant nose…
“Johanna…”
She blinked, her hand tightening on the fan while she watched that sensual mouth form her name. He said it with a cool tone and slight nod of his head.
How dare he even speak to her!
Jo set her lips a bit tighter, nodded, and turned back to the crowds. Soon as she did so, she closed her eyes, sucking in air through her nose, deep breaths. She could hear Megan muttering something that sounded like Gaelic curses—, which at any other time would have been hilarious. Now, she was too stunned to appreciate it.
Leave. Go away. She mentally ordered, whilst opening her eyes again and endeavoring to find some distraction. But, no. He was conversing with Megan, engaging her in dialogue. Megan, bless her, was answering in half stutters, obviously aware Jo was….what? S
tunned, barely described the riot of emotions suffocating her.
Suddenly Jo’s back straightened. She rose from her chair. Leaving the wrap behind, she said to no one in particular, “Excuse me a moment.” Head high, she exited the box and pushed herself through a crush that only a lunatic would brave.
The bloody door felt like miles away. She choked on perfume, sweat, the dense heat of too many bodies, before finally exiting. Ignoring looks, whispers, a few sly raised brows from the men, she blindly strode to the nearest shadows.
A low wall gave Jo something to fall back against. Yanking off her gloves, her hands damp, she wanted to stamp her feet, curse, kick something. Not only had he caught her off guard, she had acted like a…well, she had not been the cold and haughty, whatever she had wanted to be.
A match flared.
She lifted her lashes, already knowing what she would see.
He was lighting a cheroot, standing in front of her, a foot away. The glow of the Lucifer illuminated his face until he shook it out. A draw from the cheroot, then he lowered his hands, smoke releasing from his nostrils, his lime eyes slightly narrowed—and on her.
“It is not safe to be out here alone.”
“Bugger you,” she snapped, too breathless still to make it stingable.
His white teeth flashed before he covered it by drawing on the cheroot again. This time, he murmured in a voice deeper than she remembered, less accented too, “I’d certainly let you.”
Lips parting, she hissed, “Don’t be vulgar.”
“I’m not the one who brought it up.” Sascha’s gaze was clearly going down her, back up, slowly. “You’re the only woman I know, who can reveal more, and tempt a man twice as much, in a gown certainly more modest than the nipple teasing ones I remember.”
“Am I supposed to respond to that? I please myself.”
“Did I sound displeased?” He smiled languidly. “On the contrary.”
“I’m not interested in pleasing you. I came out here obviously, to get away from you.”