Chapter 11
Edward stood in his study, the sound of the front door closing still echoing in his ears. Was it only days ago that his life was…perfect? He grimaced. Perfect wasn’t the right word to describe his life. It implied a certain calmness, even happiness with one’s life. But he would never go so far as to say he was unhappy either. Maybe the correct word was ‘orderly’. Was it only mere days ago his life was orderly?
His whole life had structure. All expectations of him were known. Every relationship was identifiable; he had peers and those beneath him. There were very few people above him. He had his mother and family, and soon he would have a wife. He understood all those relationships, and none of them were supposed to change. Those were the foundations of his life.
Now he was a bastard. The woman he’d grown up thinking was his mother—wasn’t. Everything he had taken for granted: his life, his home, his place in the world, was all in jeopardy.
Because of her. Who the hell was she? He’d been stupid to believe that the blackmail would end. No matter how regretful she seemed or how much she promised this was the last time, he couldn’t believe her. It would be stupid to believe her.
And yet, rather oddly, part of him wanted to. Perhaps it was because she was as easy to read as a child. She had no mask to cover her feelings. If he had to guess, he would say that she did regret what she was doing, that if she could make this the final time she took things from him, she would.
But he also sensed a resolve within her, a steel hardness that she would back up with violence. He’d seen the way she prepared herself when he advanced towards her. She hadn’t even thought about it, her instinct was to protect herself. There had been no fear, no hesitation. In her face, he had seen confidence. In her stance and the way she held herself, he’d seen knowledge.
She knew how to fight.
What sort of life had this woman lived that her instinct was that if a man was coming closer to her, he meant to do her harm?
What was I going to do when I reached her?
He wouldn’t have hit her, that was for damned sure. He wasn’t that man. No matter the provocation. Not like his father was. Any excuse to beat some sense into someone. Especially someone who stepped out of line.
Everything about her was contrary to anything he had ever known. Her skin was perfect, her hair gleamed. Everything about her was different. Even her movements were unlike other women. The purpose in her stride and the directness of her gaze screamed her boldness. Her feelings were obvious. She did not try to hide them. Or if she did, she did a terrible job at it.
Two days ago she’d been a mess, and even then he’d known she was extraordinarily attractive. But now, clean and dressed, styled and confident…Edward had never seen a more beautiful woman. Everything about her was alive and exotic. As though he’d spent his life surrounded by roses, and she was an orchid.
She was a beautiful, shocking and morally bankrupt creature, and—he ran his hands through his hair, instantly regretting it—she wanted him.
She looked at him as though he were equally exotic, which was enough to make him laugh out loud. Rather bizarrely, she looked at him as though she had no concept of who he was. The title, the money, the history of his family. Even his place in the world. He could almost see her attempting to reason out just how important he was.
And some base part of him responded to her. To the mix of confidence and confusion that clung to her. When he had moved closer to her, it hadn’t been to hurt her. He had wanted to tame her. He had been perilously close to holding her still with his hands and his body.
Surely, he would have stopped himself. Right? There was no way he would have cradled her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. He would not in a million years drag her body against his and make her be honest with him.
He could barely focus on her words when she spoke to him, the sound of his pounding blood, the fury of emotion she unleashed in him came close to overriding every self-preserving thought.
She is destruction.
Being near her inflamed him. As if he were a piece of paper carried along with the wind, and she was the devil with a match. He wasn’t paper. He wasn’t weightless. He was rock and mortar, a pillar of English society. People’s lives depended upon him. She will ruin me, and she will laugh. She will destroy my family, and she won’t give a damn.
And yet he wanted her.
She made him hate himself. Hate his base self that became distracted from his duty and responsibilities, and thought only of lifting her skirts and seeing the rest of her legs before he captured her with his body, making her cease the detonation of his world by being inside of her.
Edward blinked, startled to see that he was halfway to his club. He’d left the house without a coat or a hat. He’d told no one he was leaving. His body was coiled and taut; he was half-hard just walking down the damned street.
This was unacceptable. He’d go to his club, work out his frustrations, and then he’d go back to being the man he was: Purposeful. Restrained. Even cold.
The antithesis of her.
Why the hell did she want to meet a gun-maker? He stopped abruptly, the sea of humanity parting to give him space, people flowing around him as if he were a boulder in the river. People did not touch a duke. He should have sent his businessman to get information on Roland Black before he left the house. He’d send a note when he reached his club.
Edward had given her a lot of money, and now she wanted weapons. Everything clicked together with a horrible rightness. Her cause was violent. The whole of Europe was either engaged in a revolution, or waiting for one to start. And she was no stranger to violence. Violence did not frighten her. If anything, it excited her.
She would not flinch from pain or harm. Maybe she even plotted death.
In his mind, he laid the facts on the table, like turning over cards in a game of chance. She was willing to do illegal things, i.e. blackmail. She was familiar with violence and was seeking out weapons. She had no loyalty to England. She was resolved to her course of action.
That was the sticking point.
Yes, she was resolved, but why? Was she being forced into this? Was that why she was used to men hurting her? If he took her to Roland Black and she secured a shipment of arms, which resulted in death, wasn’t he complicit in that? Did that make him a murderer as well, simply because he was willing to protect his place in the world at the expense of lives? Edward would not be responsible for the death of others.
But he could not destroy his family, either. Thus far, he hadn’t done more than give in. She wanted money, so he gave it. She needed to go to a ball, so he was taking her. He couldn’t let her call the shots. She had weaknesses; he just had to use them.
Someone bumped into him, squeaking out a stammered apology. Edward couldn’t stand still any longer—not on this sidewalk, and not for her blackmail—he had to do something to stop her.
A Lady Out of Time Page 11