by Anna Bennett
Before he’d suddenly, tragically, become a duke.
Before he’d buried Emily.
And before he’d turned into the sort of man who scorned the notion of love, earning himself the name Duke of Stoneheart.
Tonight, he was just Nash, a man in search of a pint—and a measure of peace.
Chapter 2
“Fans are an excellent defense against sweltering ballrooms. But for flirtation, the weapon of choice is invariably a sultry gaze.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
After delivering her columns and Fiona’s sketches to the Hearsay’s offices, Lily acted on her earlier impulse, electing not to hail a hackney cab and immediately return home to her cozy bedchamber, the comforting pages of her journal, and her often frustratingly sheltered life. Instead, she wandered the neighborhood on foot, seeing the streets as she never had before—through the eyes of a delivery boy.
As businesses along the street locked their doors, workers gathered outside and sat on overturned crates, telling jokes and puffing on pungent cigars. In the alleys, women beat rugs and emptied dirty pots. Men spit tobacco near her boots. When a couple of rambunctious children playing tag nearly bowled her over, she scooped up the ball they’d been tossing and joined in their game for a bit.
Her foray into this part of town gave her a glimpse into another world—alive and real. As full of joy and pleasure as it was pain and sorrow.
Perhaps if she hadn’t been adopted by the Hartleys as a baby, she would have grown up in a place like this. It was odd to think how being abandoned on a doorstep in Mayfair could have so drastically altered the course of her life. Not that she had an inkling as to where she came from. All she knew was that someone had named her Lily and had left her in a basket—swaddled in a blanket and wearing one bootie with her initial embroidered on it. Fiona liked to imagine that Lily was descended from royalty, but that was the stuff of fairy tales. She’d always suspected she came from hardworking folk who, for some reason, couldn’t take care of a babe.
Lily tamped down an unexpected wave of sadness and resolved to take advantage of her evening. She longed to talk to some of the young women scurrying past but couldn’t risk compromising her disguise. So, she contented herself with observing from a distance, allotting an hour or two—no more.
She watched as women, some younger than she, flirted with brawny men. Sometimes the women rolled their eyes and laughed off their partner’s overtly appreciative glances, but just as often, they took control. Unencumbered by the ton’s oppressive rules, they made their own desires known with a sultry smile or the squeeze of a muscular bicep. Impressed by the women’s confidence and composure, Lily took mental notes. And she realized—not for the first time that day—that for someone who purported to be an expert on romance, she knew shockingly little of the world.
Sighing to herself, she resolved to go home and record all her new findings in her diary. But just as she began looking for a hackney, thunder rumbled and the skies opened. Torrential rain blanketed the streets.
Blast. Confident the deluge would soon pass, Lily ducked into a dingy tavern in a wholly unfamiliar part of town. It was the sort of rough establishment Miss Haywinkle had counseled her students to avoid at all costs—which made it exponentially more fascinating to Lily. This was her first time stepping inside a tavern, and she had no doubt the interesting locale and its patrons would provide more valuable material for her journal. Still, knowing she was in forbidden territory made her heart beat fast with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
Her palms clammy, she stole across the room and tucked herself into a dimly lit corner booth. When a tall, ruby-lipped barmaid approached, Lily ordered a shepherd’s pie and a glass of ale in as gruff a voice as she could manage—which was not nearly gruff enough. The barmaid narrowed her eyes at Lily before sauntering behind the bar to fetch her drink.
Gads. She would have to be especially careful now that night had fallen and the taproom nearly burst with ruddy-faced men.
With every pint the barkeep served, the conversation around her grew louder and courser. She and Fiona had been known to utter a curse on occasion—when they were alone. But eavesdropping on the lewd, unfiltered stories in the tavern was akin to translating a foreign language—one that was extremely enlightening. Equal parts sexual innuendo and graphic detail, the conversations made Lily’s cheeks heat, but she listened intently, committing the interesting parts to memory in case they should prove useful for future columns.
While she sipped her ale and waited for her food, she witnessed manners that would have made Miss Haywinkle faint straightaway: drunken customers pawing at a barmaid’s breasts, a trio of scantily dressed women singing bawdy songs at the piano, and a skirmish that left one man with a bloody ear. For the first time that evening, a frisson of fear skittered down Lily’s spine.
Perhaps she was in over her head.
At least she’d already delivered the columns. She took comfort knowing they were safely at the Hearsay’s offices, especially since a few of the tavern’s patrons had stolen glances at her bag—as if they were curious as to the contents. She prayed they were not so desperate or depraved that they’d demand she hand over the few coins she’d brought with her. She’d thought about slipping them into one of her boots for safekeeping, but she needed the money to pay for her meal and her ride home.
By the time the barmaid plunked a pewter plate on the table in front of Lily, her appetite had evaporated. She speared a carrot chunk with her fork and moved it from one side of the dish to the other, scolding herself for her current predicament.
To make matters worse, she’d begun to suspect she was the only sober soul in the tavern.
Except, perhaps, for the man who sat in the corner opposite her. The stranger hadn’t bothered to remove his black cloak, but the fine wool didn’t conceal the considerable breadth of his shoulders. His light brown hair, still damp from the storm, clung to the edges of a face chiseled in stone. His slightly crooked nose, high cheeks, and strong jaw might have seemed harsh if not for the unexpected fullness of his mouth. Eyebrows a couple shades darker than his light brown hair slashed above eyes that seemed to glow like amber.
Something about him struck Lily as familiar. She couldn’t imagine that she’d met him before, for she surely would have remembered him. Indeed, his dashing good looks would have taken her breath away if he weren’t scowling over the rim of his glass. He’d been nursing the same pint of ale for the last half hour while his shrewd gaze lingered alternately on a high-stakes poker game, a melodramatic lovers’ spat, and her.
Lily’s heart pounded in her chest each time the stranger glanced at her, but her disguise had been good enough to fool others. The stranger couldn’t know she was a woman. He probably just thought it odd that a younger lad sat alone in a tavern at this late hour.
Still, his presence discomfited her so much that she resolved to leave at once, the storm be damned. She reached into her bag, slapped a few coins on the table, and slid out of the relative safety of her booth. Pulling the brim of her hat low, she prepared to navigate her way to the exit, which suddenly seemed miles away.
She’d barely taken two steps when a trio of rough-looking men blocked her path. The tallest poked her in the shoulder, hard. She stumbled backward but caught herself just in time to keep from hitting the filthy floor.
“Where are ye headed, lad?” the towering man spat, revealing a missing top tooth.
Dear Jesus. Lily’s knees wobbled, and her heart beat so loudly, she could hear it in her ears. But she schooled her features into what she hoped was a half-bored, half-annoyed expression and attempted to shoulder past the men without responding.
The middle man, a red-haired brute, grabbed her by the wrist and frowned as if he couldn’t reconcile her delicate bones with her boy’s clothes. Blast.
The third scoundrel twirled the end of his braided beard between his fingers and drawled, “Let’s have a look at that bag, shall we?”
“Good grief, ye sound like a lass. Next you’ll be pissing your breeches.”
The dimwits laughed as though the quip was the most humorous of the century. Good heavens. If she could just slip past the drunken oafs, she was certain she could outrun them—especially while wearing trousers. When the girls at Miss Haywinkle’s had raced to the lake and back, she had always come in first.
All she had to do was make it to the door. Before she knew it, she’d be in a hackney cab headed for the comfort and safety of her cozy bedchamber.
But she needed to keep her wits about her—and act quickly.
While the men still chuckled, she narrowed her eyes and looked over their brawny shoulders, focusing on a spot near the bar. When all three turned to follow the direction of her stare, she lifted her foot and brought the heel of her boot down on the toe of the man holding her arm. Hard.
He released her, yelped, and bent over in pain.
Lily ducked and ran, scrambling around tables, chairs, and merry patrons oblivious to her plight. But halfway across the taproom, she slipped on the rain-slicked floor and landed so forcefully on her bottom that her teeth clattered. Her hat stayed on her head, thank heaven, but the brutes were upon her in an instant, all traces of their earlier amusement gone.
The bearded one grabbed her by the collar, hauled her to her feet, and shook her, his dirt-streaked face only inches from hers. “You’re a cocky little bugger, aren’t you?” Spittle sprayed Lily’s nose. “I’ll have that bag now.”
She swallowed and nodded stiffly. Let the thieves take the bloody bag and the few coins she’d stowed inside. She’d find another way home. Only two things truly mattered—maintaining her anonymity and escaping bodily harm. If she managed to do both, she’d thank her lucky stars forever.
With deliberate slowness, she reached for the bag’s strap that crossed her body and began to lift it over her head, careful not to disturb her cap.
“Leave the boy alone.” The command, low and lethal, turned Lily to a statue. Her head was bent with the strap halfway over it, but she knew without looking that the voice belonged to the handsome stranger. She’d been invisible to everyone else in the room for a spell—except him.
None too pleased, the petty thieves turned their attention to the man. The firm set of his jaw and the deadly look in his eyes said he’d rip them apart if he needed to.
And relish every minute of it.
The tall thug squared off against the stranger till their chests almost bumped.
For the moment, the nasty trio had forgotten all about her. She should run while she had the chance.
As if echoing her thoughts, the stranger with the molten eyes tilted his head toward the door. “Get out of here,” he ordered.
She settled the bag’s strap back onto her shoulder, but her feet remained rooted to the sticky floor. She knew she should flee, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon the stranger, leaving him to spar with the three thieves in a lopsided fight. “I’ll help you,” she said.
And then she smiled.
As she did, she may have momentarily forgotten that she was playing the part of a boy.
Dash it all, she’d smiled like a lovestruck damsel who’d been rescued by a devastatingly attractive prince.
And now, thanks to her, that prince was about to have the pulp beaten out of him.
* * *
Nash blinked, momentarily stunned. Something about the boy was off. His smile didn’t fit with the rest of him. It was too soft and warm and—
Bam. The heathen’s fist slammed into Nash’s jaw, almost knocking him off his feet.
Shit. He should never have taken his eyes off his opponents—especially when he was outnumbered three to one. The thugs stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a foul-smelling wall of muscle and flesh. They shuffled toward him menacingly, their snarls revealing both yellowed and missing teeth.
Nash cracked his knuckles and grinned. He hadn’t come to the tavern looking for a fight, but he was far more pleased at the prospect than he should have been. He worked hard to keep his anger caged. But some nights the rage inside him churned so violently, it rattled the locks on his soul. His fury needed someplace to go. He might as well unleash it on these three fools.
He started with the tallest—the one who’d thrown the first cheap punch. Nash grabbed him by the shirt, landed a blow to his nose, and tossed him onto the floor like last night’s cravat.
The ginger-haired bloke growled and hurled himself at Nash, but he picked up a stool as if it were a cricket bat and swung it at the man’s ribs. Howling, Brute Number Two clutched his midsection and landed on the floor, face-first.
The third fellow stroked his braided beard and circled Nash, his expression a chilling combination of bemused and calculating. With one slick move, the man pulled a knife out of his boot and held up the blade between them. “I never seen you here, so I’ll tell you how things work. We mind our own bloody business.”
Nash snorted in disgust. “When you’re not stealing from defenseless lads?” The boy still stood to the side, wide-eyed and wary. He clutched the neck of an empty bottle in one hand, as though ready to smash Nash’s foe over the head if necessary.
The bastard turned and spat on the floor. “Leave. Now. Before I cut you and your fine jacket into little pieces and feed you to the fish in the Thames.” He twirled the knife through his dirty fingers.
Nash rubbed his jaw as if he were actually considering his options. In truth, he knew precisely how this scene would end. Could see it play out in his head with utter clarity. He never backed away from a fight, and he had plenty of anger left to fuel this one.
“Fuck off, Blackbeard. I’m not going anywhere.”
When the idiot lunged at Nash, he was ready, whipping the man’s knife-wielding hand behind his back and pulling it up till it cracked. The pirate-reject let out a wail, but Nash wasn’t finished with him. He hoisted the man by his jacket collar and threw him several yards.
Just as the scrawny lad bolted in the same direction.
The boy’s eyes turned to saucers, and he squealed as the force of the impact sent him flying like a rag doll. Smack into a table.
Holy hell.
Nash leaped over the pirate and dropped to his knees beside the lad.
Only, he wasn’t a lad. He was a lass.
Shit. The young woman’s cap had fallen off, revealing a tangled mass of dark, glorious curls that spilled over her shoulders and across her pale face. Delicate brows arched above eyes fringed with black lashes. Nash had launched a man twice her size at her like a cannonball, and now she was unconscious.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he cradled her head in his hand, leaned close to her parted lips and felt a faint breath upon his cheek. By some miracle, she was alive. But she was so still.
Desperate, he looked around the crowded taproom which had grown eerily silent. “Does anybody know her?” he shouted. “Can someone send word to her family?”
A concerned barmaid weaved her way through the onlookers and peered down at the injured woman. “She ate alone. Didn’t say much. I ain’t seen her before—neither in her disguise nor out of it.”
Nash swore under his breath and made a split decision. “She needs a doctor. I’m taking her with me.”
The barmaid turned her attention to the ailing trio of bullies who had the good grace to look ashamed for pushing around a woman.
At least they hadn’t almost killed her.
Nash shrugged his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped her in it, taking care not to jostle her head more than necessary. He carried her out of the godforsaken tavern to his curricle and held her steady as he drove through the dark, damp streets toward his town house as fast as he dared.
Chapter 3
“Dreams are where we may safely train for real life—where we may exchange heated glances with earls and sneak forbidden kisses with dangerous rakes.”
Nash carefully carried the injured woman from the carriage house to the back door of his Mayfair town house, where Stodges appeared instantly—as if he’d been anticipating his return.
His faithful butler’s incredulous expression, however, said he had not been expecting Nash to come home holding the frighteningly limp body of an unconscious woman. Dressed as a boy.
“Your Grace.” Stodges frowned at the soaked, bruised, pale person in Nash’s arms. “Who is that?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
“I don’t know.” Nash angled past the butler and headed for the stairs. “There was a fight. She struck her head on a table.” After he’d shoved an ox of a man in her direction.
Stodges leaned forward, squinting his wise old eyes in order to better examine her face. “Is she … alive?”
“Yes.” At least Nash thought so. She had to be. “I’m taking her upstairs to the guest bedchamber.”
“I’ll send a footman to fetch Dr. Cupton at once,” Stodges said, already striding toward the servants’ hall.
Nash nodded his thanks as he headed for the stairs. When at last he reached the landing, he walked down the hall, kicked open the bedroom door, and laid the woman across the bed’s pristine counterpane. He gently lifted her torso, removed the bag that was still strapped across her body, and settled her head on the pillow. She didn’t so much as moan or flutter an eyelash, damn it all.
Hoping that the bag held some clue as to her identity, he lifted the flap, turned the satchel over, and gave it a good shake. A few coins and hairpins tumbled onto the mattress, but nothing more.
He pulled a chair close to the bedside and studied her. A heart-shaped face with dark, arched brows, a gently sloped nose, and sinfully full lips. It wasn’t exactly gentlemanly of him to stare while she was unconscious, but damned if he could help it. She was average height for a woman and thin—although he detected curves beneath her rough trousers. He’d been an idiot to believe for one second that she was a boy.