‘I’m sorry.’ She blinked, swallowing, trying to make her voice work the way it normally did. ‘I can’t think what came over me.’
‘As am I. Terribly sorry, I mean.’ Thomas still looked decidedly more conflicted than she had expected. He took a long, slow breath, still looking at her as if she had appeared by magic. ‘That was–’
‘Foolish.’
‘Very.’
‘Ridiculous, even.’
‘Quite. We haven’t seen one another for years. We’ve–we’ve only been in the same room for two minutes or so.’ A bubble of hysterical laughter travelled to Dorothea’s throat. ‘It’s–’
‘Silly.’
‘Tremendously.’
‘But…’
‘But?’
‘Nothing.’
It didn’t feel like nothing. At this precise moment, what Thomas wasn’t saying felt like everything in the world. Dorothea leaned closer, dimly aware that they were still holding one another.
Scandalous. Just be scandalous for a moment, you goose.
With a growl that shivered from the top of Dorothea’s head to the tips of her toes, Thomas took her in his arms again.
The kiss was deeper this time. Rawer–as if Thomas had made his decision and was committing to it no matter what. All Dorothea could do was sigh helplessly, lost in the flurry of tingling sparks that shot through her nerves at the feel of his mouth. Thomas Duke’s mouth, hot and clearly skilled despite her own lack of experience. Thomas Duke’s arms around her, taking every burden she had been unconsciously carrying around with her ever since her family’s tragedy.
When had she stopped holding her bodice-ribbons? It didn’t matter–now they were in Thomas’s hands, tightening and loosening in tandem with his clenching fists. Her garment was his responsibility now, just as everything else was, and Dorothea realised with a thrill of scandalised pleasure that she was happy about it.
The last threads of her reason were slipping away, leaving nothing but passion. A strong, frightening passion that she hadn’t even known existed within her, spurring her onward, making her want to do what shouldn’t, couldn’t be done.
He could do what he wanted. He could kiss her for hours here, hidden in the curtains. He could kiss her neck, her shoulders–her closed eyes. He could kiss away every line of concern from her brow–and he could loosen her bodice with his strong hands, loosen it until her dress fell to the ground in a brazen puddle of scarlet…
… and then he would see her in her underthings. See her–see her completely free of clothes, if things progressed. And the thing that had begun as a thrilling adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime lesson in seduction, would rapidly become excruciating in the extreme.
The gown was the only reason Thomas had forgotten himself to such an extent. It was the only reason she herself had decided to be so adventurous. Stripped of it, her absurd plainness would become more than apparent.
Thomas would be embarrassed at his loss of control over someone so very ordinary. Perhaps he would even be angry with her.
Best that she stop things now, even if the thought of it made her feel desperate.
She pulled away. Thomas’s deep frown, his harsh exhalation of confused frustration, didn’t make Dorothea feel better in the least.
‘Well.’ It was very difficult to speak when every part of oneself was aflame. She paused for a moment, wishing she sounded slightly less breathless. ‘This should–this should probably stop.’
Thomas blinked. He had the same expression of stunned incomprehension that Dorothea had seen on his face when he had been standing on the threshold of the door. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This.’ Dorothea vaguely waved her hand. ‘All of it.’
‘All of–’
‘What we’re doing. Time for it to stop.’ Now she just felt impolite. ‘You–you can’t possibly want to continue.’
Thomas frowned. ‘What?’
‘You’re–you’re very kind.’ Dorothea tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, wondering why her very reasonable thoughts sounded more and more unbalanced the more she spoke. ‘But I can’t trick you into–into something scandalous.’
‘Trick?’
‘The gown.’ Dorothea gestured to herself. Thomas watched, evidently more confused than ever. ‘It… it beguiles. I don’t.’
He was still holding her bodice-ribbons. If he pulled her to him now, she would forget every one of the very reasonable thoughts currently occupying her head… but Thomas was no rake, refusing to listen to what women said. She knew that in her bones, even if she had no evidence to make such an assertion.
He let the ribbons flutter free. Dorothea took a clumsy step backward, the soft candlelight in the room almost blinding as she pushed the curtain aside.
‘I’m sorry.’ This was all her fault. Even if she had done the right thing, she was no doubt ruining any chance of a civil association after this moment. ‘So very sorry.’
‘But I don’t understand what on earth went–’
‘You will, once you have recovered yourself. I assure you.’ Dorothea gathered the gown to her, not wanting to turn around. She didn’t want to stop looking at him, even though she knew she had to. ‘Now–now leave. I’m going to make myself presentable.’
Thomas’s voice hummed with confused longing. ‘You are more than presentable as you are.’
‘I know.’ Dorothea smiled, but it quickly faded. ‘That’s… that’s the problem.’
It was as if she were speaking a different language. The words were perfectly normal as she spoke them, but became incomprehensible as they travelled to Thomas’s ears.
They stared at one another for a long, tense moment, the remnants of their brief encounter hanging in the air.
Then, with a swift, harsh nod of assent, Thomas left the darkness of the curtains. He moved past Dorothea with commendable speed–but not quickly enough to conceal what Dorothea had once heard Charlotte refer to as a gentleman’s excitement. Dorothea turned away from him immediately, the shape of his arousal indelibly impressed upon her vision.
‘Forgive me, Miss Radcliffe.’ He still sounded confused. ‘I hope you have a pleasant evening.’
‘Oh–I will.’ How strange that they were attempting to have a normal conversation. She still couldn’t look at him. ‘Likewise.’
A gentle rustle of Thomas’s shirt came as he bowed. His gentle footsteps sounded loudly in Dorothea’s head as he walked out of the room, leaving her alone.
Well. If she could just stop her heart beating so terribly fast, everything would be normal again. Yes–if she just pretended that, all would be well. That’s that.
The gardens of the Pembroke country residence weren’t considered to be the finest in England, lacking the studied informality that every newer house affected. The formal gardens were too formal, the woods free of follies and the lake far too full of ducks to present a tranquil view. But the lawns, the long plain of soft green grass that stretched from the façade of the house to the distant ribbon of river, were widely regarded as the best in their class.
Thomas Duke didn’t notice them at all as he tramped over them. The sun was barely up, a small group of the early-rising guests huddled near the hothouse as coffee was prepared, but he paid them no mind. Not after looking at them intently, spotting Dorothea’s face among the sparse crowd and abruptly turning away.
He could walk all morning, especially with his brother alongside him. Robert was a more carefree walker, wandering and pausing while Thomas grimly tramped, but the man could take his mind off the night before. Specifically the part where Dorothea had run away from him, leaving him hard, agonised and swathed in curtains.
What had come over him? It had felt like a localised flood, drowning him of all good sense. But it hadn’t gone away in the night–not at all.
He had barely tasted the food at breakfast even as he was putting it in his mouth. Only out here, on the endless green lawns with Robert at his side and everyone else far, far away, could he
begin to breathe again.
Had a woman ever stolen the breath from his lungs before? Had a woman ever made his heart beat painfully fast as he lay in bed thinking of her, dreaming of her, remembering her…
He had never thought of Dorothea Radcliffe as a conscious adult before yesterday. He had remembered her in an abstract way, as a part of his rambling childhood–but she had always been an auxiliary figure. A supporting character to his life, just as his brothers and parents had been as he had decided to build his fortune. A distressing, bleak thought to suddenly have in one’s head, that he had forgotten people who had been so very important.
Now, after the previous evening, Dorothea Radcliffe felt like the principal protagonist of his life. Every thought, every seemingly unrelated experience led to a memory of her; every sensation linked to the passion he had felt the previous day. A passion that had surprised him, shocked him with its vehemence.
There were hundreds of memories. They had been locked up tightly somewhere inside of him: Dorothea laughing, Dorothea skipping stones on the river, Dorothea dancing in a broken fountain on Carbill Street, the water cascading down onto her dark hair and filling it with sunbeams…
‘You’re quiet this morning. Are you well?’ Robert looked at him with a frown as they walked. ‘You look pensive.’
‘Nothing.’ Telling any of his brothers about Dorothea seemed impossible. Any form of higher feeling was often cut down with ruthless mirth. ‘A brain full of thoughts, as usual.’
‘Has something fallen out of order in London?’
‘No, no.’ He’d become so obsessed with work that even his brothers believed it was the only thing that could move him. ‘Nothing. A lot of people here.’
‘I know. Entirely too many.’ Robert sighed as they viewed the distant crowd of people on the lawn. ‘I don’t know how that woman gained such a reputation for skilled social management. I feel like I’m in a pig-pen.’
‘That woman?’
‘Miss Charlotte Pembroke.’ The irritation in Robert’s voice seemed entirely disproportionate when it came to the lady in question. ‘I’ve never seen such a fashion plate in my life. She makes me want to smoke.’
‘Was that description meant to be an insult?’
‘Of course it was. What else would it be? Good things don’t make me want to smoke, and they never appear in fashion plates.’
‘Yes.’ Thomas didn’t know if it was his new-found perception of sentiment simply working too hard, but his brother didn’t seem irritated by Miss Charlotte Pembroke. If anything, he seemed excited. ‘Well.’
‘I just don’t know how on earth she manages to make all of these friends. She can’t know half of these people from Adam.’ Robert shook his head. ‘Lady Beatrice Acton, for example. What a harpy! It was a shock to see poor Miss Radcliffe trailing after that old bat.’
A spontaneous mention of Miss Radcliffe felt like a chance that Thomas had to take. It was a chance to look at her openly at least, not glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He stared over at her distant figure, swathed in grey that reflected the morning clouds that hung over the lawns, and tried to sound neutral as he responded. ‘Yes. Speculation can blight lives.’
‘It could have been far worse for her. The loss was total, or so they say. Lady Beatrice may have vinegar for blood, but she has enough money to house and feed Miss Radcliffe in relative dignity.’ Robert shook his head. ‘That’s far more than many young ladies receive.’
‘It just… it seems a shame.’
‘It is. A terrible shame. Just think—she was richer than us! But half of the people we grew up with have suffered tremendous changes in fortune, us included–there’s shame and luck all mixed together.’ Robert shrugged. ‘And Miss Radcliffe is young. Her fortunes could change again.’
‘In what way? Would she be left something as an inheritance when Lady Beatrice… well…’
‘Lady Beatrice is one of the cruelest, most grasping old sticks I’ve ever had the bad fortune to come across.’ Robert tutted. ‘I doubt the poor girl will be left a bean.’
‘Well, what about her marriage prospects?’
‘I wouldn’t have any idea.’ Robert turned to him, a slight frown of confusion on his face. ‘What about marriage?’
What about marriage? Why on earth was he asking about marriage in connection to Miss Radcliffe, a woman he had devoted regrettably little thought to until the day before?
Precisely because of that. Because he hadn’t thought of her for far too long, and now she was all he could think of. All he had dreamed of during a night of fitful sleep, and considered over a hastily eaten breakfast. Every memory of Dorothea, every fact he could recall about her, had suddenly become the most interesting parts of his existence.
This was an infatuation. As bright as a candle flame and about as long-lasting, he was sure. But how could any gentleman have looked at her in that scarlet gown, felt her body pressed against his in the seductive darkness of the curtains, and not lose his head completely?
‘Well. If I were to tell fortunes, which I’m not in the habit of doing when it comes to ladies I’m not moved by, Miss Radcliffe’s marriage prospects are decidedly complicated.’ Robert shook his head with a low whistle. ‘Very complicated indeed.’
‘Complicated? Why not simply say poor?’
‘Because they’re not poor. She’s from good stock, to use an unpleasant but accurate term–many would look past her change in fortunes. There are gentlemen who don’t need a lady to bring a full reticule into a marriage.’ Robert paused reflectively. ‘But it must be difficult to cross the boundary between rich and poor again if one has already done it.’
‘We’ve done it. We’re managing.’
‘By the skin of our teeth.’ Robert smiled.
‘And there are some aspects of Miss Radcliffe’s new life that make it easier. Her rapport with Miss Pembroke, for instance–they seem very good friends.’
‘Ugh.’ Robert shook his head, his smile fading. ‘That woman. She looks at me as if she’s measuring my head for the guillotine. But yes, despite her many faults she’s a friend to Miss Radcliffe.’ His voice darkened a little. ‘That may make it worse.’
‘How so?’
‘Because Miss Radcliffe, if the sparse memories I have of her are accurate, is a noble sort. It’s clear from her choices so far–she’s chosen to do thoroughly unpleasant work to earn a wage rather than do the far simpler task of asking her wealthy friend for money. She could live quite well as a poor relation in this place.’ Robert took in the grounds with an expansive gesture and a quiet sigh. ‘But she doesn’t. She’s chosen not to. Which means that if some leery-eyed gentleman came to her and asked for her hand as a simple transaction, she could very well refuse it.’
‘Why on earth would she do that?’
‘As I said. Noble.’ Robert looked over at Dorothea’s distant figure. ‘She probably believes in a true meeting of souls, and all that nonsense. She certainly wouldn’t choose a marriage of convenience, however convenient for her it would be.’
Noble. Thomas turned to look at Dorothea again. She was darker in the morning night, more solid–less of a dream as she walked behind Lady Beatrice, her brown eyes fixed on the grass.
‘And as looks go, she’s hardly angelic.’ Robert spoke with a kind of genteel pity. ‘Not fashionable in the least.’
Thomas spoke without thinking. ‘I don’t give a damn about fashion.’
‘Well… no.’ Robert raised an eyebrow as Thomas turned. ‘But what do you have to do with it?’
There lay the crux of the matter. What did he have to do with it? Nothing at all, as Dorothea had made abundantly clear. The way she viewed what happened between them was a frustrating mystery–but not unsolvable. If she had considered their encounter to be serious in nature, she would have stayed.
No. She wouldn’t have. That was his own need for her clouding everything, making his reason murky and reliant upon instinct. But Christ Almighty, why did he need her now
after years of not thinking about her at all?
Escape. He had escaped with Dorothea in his arms. For a rich, glorious moment he had broken the bonds he had set around his own wrists: work, wealth, responsibility. He had felt pleasure and freedom that hadn’t come to him naturally since childhood–as well as pleasure that was unmistakably, perfectly adult.
But she had run from him. Mental escape on his part and physical escape on hers didn’t lead to a promising union.
‘I want to help her.’ That was true enough, and inoffensive enough for Robert not to grow suspicious. ‘Her situation angers me.’
‘You’re not normally the angry sort.’ A faint flicker of suspicion shone in Robert’s eyes before his habitual good humour won out. ‘I’d pick an easier object of charity. She won’t accept any sort of aid from us, I imagine–she’s too proud.’
‘But she has to see sense.’
‘No one has sense when it comes to money. We think we do, but we don’t.’ Robert shrugged. ‘She’ll be all the more irritated if she knows you pity her.’
‘I don’t–I don’t pity her.’
‘It sounds as if you do.’ The suspicion was back. ‘Is there something that needs to be said, Thomas?’
‘I… no.’ Lord, he would say it if he wasn’t careful. ‘No. I–’
‘What are you two doing over there at the other end of the lawns?’ Charlotte Pembroke’s soft trill rang through the gardens. Robert grimaced as Thomas inwardly rejoiced. ‘Is an escape being attempted?’
‘If only.’ Robert muttered under his breath as he turned. ‘I’d swim the bloody river if I could.’
‘I must point out that you’re turning back.’ Now that the immediate danger had passed, Thomas felt his sense of mischief returning. ‘You don’t have to listen to her. You could pretend not to hear.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
Evidently his brother was irrational when it came to Charlotte Pembroke. Irrationally irritated, perhaps–but it could be something else. ‘Duly noted. But–but I must leave you to deal with her alone.’
Sinful in Scarlet: The Brothers Duke: Book One Page 3