by Darcy Burke
She curtsied. "Your grace."
Quince turned to Gideon to bid him good evening but was cut short by the earl saying, "I'll walk you out."
Once they gained the hallway, Gideon stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"Of course I am."
His friend gave him a grim look. "No one knows you better than I do, Quince, and I know that you are not all right. That was simply an invitation to tell me why."
"It's perfectly obvious why."
Gideon blew out a breath. "Much as I'm loathe to admit it, talking about it might help. I now wish I'd forced you to talk to me last month after the duel. I knew then that something was wrong."
Quince was irritated by Gideon's assumption that he could make him talk about anything. Besides, if it were true that talking about it would make him feel better, he knew there was only one person he wanted to speak with. And she would be here helping to protect his sister. "Don't worry about it, old man. When I need your help I'll ask for it."
Although he didn't look pleased, the earl let him leave without much further comment. Quince rode back to his townhouse in dark silence.
THIRTY-FIVE
After the men had taken their leave, Jack crossed her arms and looked at her friend. "Well, are you going to ask for the use of a carriage, or will you endeavor to sneak out without me seeing you?"
"I'm that transparent, am I?"
"As glass."
"I need to find out about the attempt on his life."
Jack nodded. "I understand that."
"Do you know anything about it?"
"No. I'm sure they think they are protecting us somehow, but it's more than a little irritating."
Sabre nodded. "More than a little."
"How do you feel about Robert's plan to have your father exiled?"
"Strange. I've never been close to father but I've also never had the issues with him that my brothers do. Apparently I didn’t know him as well as they."
"Charlie has issues with him as well? I've never seen that."
"It's a look Charlie gets when talking to him. Hard to explain but... Yes, Charlie has issues with him."
Not sure what else to do for her friend, Jack simply hugged her. "Please be careful."
"I'll try. But as you know, sometimes fortune favors the bold."
Jack shook her head. "Sometimes, Sabre. Just use the wisdom that I know you possess."
Quince stared at his bed. This was where the blackmail notes had been delivered. Someone had come into his home, his room, to leave messages of promised violence. It was a violation. Sabre was right that the threat would remain, like an axe over his head, until they found some way to neutralize it. What could be better than having a duke on a string? A duke liked by both the Prince and one of the most powerful men in the House of Lords. He had to find evidence against this man, this monster known as Draco. It wasn't too much to consider killing him outright. That wasn't something he had ever considered himself capable of doing, but now it seemed far more likely.
Was this how it started, though? Evil that could be justified? Certainly it seemed the greater good to simply remove a terrible person from society. By brute force, if necessary. But if he could consider such a thing, then perhaps he was more in need of Robert's ruminations on redemption than he previously thought. He had sinned already, taking a woman to his bed before marriage. He was considering a second sin so soon? And murder, no less.
He heard a light tap at the door before it opened.
"Your grace," Larkins said softly.
Quince turned to see his butler looking a bit out of sorts. He felt a thrum of anticipation. "Yes, Larkins?"
"There is a young woman here insisting to see you, your grace. She would not accept being turned out."
"Is she about," Quince held his hand level to his chin, "this tall?"
"Yes, your grace."
"Where is she?"
"I put her in the front parlor, your grace, I wasn't sure what else-"
Larkins stopped speaking as Quince pushed past on his way to dash down the stairs. His heart beat painfully strong in his chest. It had to be her. Please let it be her. He paused outside the oak door to the parlor, trying to gird himself for the disappointment if it wasn't her. If it wasn't Sabre.
Pushing the door open he saw a figure standing in the middle of the room, turned away from him, and covered head to foot in a dark cloak. She appeared to be studying the large portrait over the fireplace.
Leaning against the door frame he tried to discern from her height, the way she shifted her body... But was it just wishful thinking? "The portrait is of my father's first wife," he said.
"Quince!" She turned and hurried to him.
Oh, thank God. It was her. She was here. She wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed against his chest. He embraced her and felt the burn of unshed tears in his throat. But she shouldn't be here. It wasn't proper. It wasn't safe.
"Sabre, I thought you were going to stay at the Harrington's."
She tipped her head back to look at him, the cloak's hood sliding off her hair. "No one believed that."
He laughed. "I believed it."
"Then you're gullible."
"Don't be rude. I might have you thrown out."
She raised a brow at him. "I, on the other hand, am not gullible and I don't believe that in the least."
He couldn't stop himself. He had to kiss her. Had to taste that sweet, saucy mouth. He stroked her jaw and ran his fingers into the hair at her nape as he sank into the kiss. Lord, how he had missed her. Missed this. He knew that for her own safety he should send her back to Robert's or the Harrington's. If Draco were to discover what she was, how much she was worth to him... It didn't bear thinking. He would handle Draco. He must.
She broke the kiss and his heart plummeted as he thought that perhaps she was once again pulling away. Leaving. It had only been earlier this evening she had said she wanted to purge all memory of him and perhaps she really did mean it.
Sabre smiled up at him. "Isn't there some place more comfortable we could be doing this?"
Relief washed over him. "Perhaps I could find a place." He held his elbow out to her and as she wrapped her arm around his and he looked down into her smiling face he realized that even the poorest, most common man must feel like a king when the woman he loves looks at him adoringly.
He took up a candle as they walked through the hallway and led her up the grand steps to the ducal suites. He opened a door that he hadn't opened in a long time and indicated that she should precede him. She entered, looking about her with interest in the limited light.
"This isn't your room, I take it?"
He set the candle on a table. "No, this would be the duchesses' suite."
"Thank goodness it's in far better shape than the one at Belle Fleur was."
Quince smiled, remembering the amusing picture she had made with an oversized apron tied around her waist, her hair in a kerchief, and covered in dust. When had he started loving her, he wondered. Had he loved her since the first moment he saw her and everything else had only helped to reveal that to him? He wasn't sure. It didn't even matter. She was here. She was his.
Looking at him again, she tilted her head. "Why are you so quiet?"
He smiled and walked towards her to take her hands. "Aren't I always quiet?"
"Not always. Sometimes. When you're thinking. What are you thinking about?"
He kissed her hand. "You."
She smiled but said, "What else?"
"There is nothing else. There may never again be anything else."
She giggled but drew back from him as he bent to kiss her neck. "No, there is something else."
Quince looked around the room for a brief moment. "It's just been a long time since I've been in here. I'm sure we can find something more interesting to talk about." He laced his fingers through hers and led her towards the bed. "Or do."
"Why did you come in here at all before?"
<
br /> He sighed and began unbuttoning the cloak. "I never knew my mother. As a child I assumed she was dead, so I would visit her rooms to try to get a sense of her. To feel closer to her."
"That sounds lonely."
He paused in his work, looking at her. "I suppose it was, but it didn't occur to me to think that at the time." He gave her a self-deprecating smile. "And I don't think I have the need to be with others like some do. I don't interpret solitude as loneliness."
Sabre chuckled. "I suppose I don't know much of solitude."
"No, I suppose you wouldn't. My father often wasn't home as I was growing up and I was actively discouraged from playing with the staff. By the time I got to school I wasn't much for playing, really. I was like a very small sixty year old man." He laughed, and then furrowed his brow. "Although I didn't... approve of my father, I did love him in my way. He was all I knew of a parent. When he passed I was more distraught than I expected. I still remember being out in the country and sending Gideon a letter to announce my father's passing, desperately hoping that he would see the inherent invitation and come."
"Did he?"
"Of course. But before he arrived, within a day of father's passing, there was a tremendous disturbance in the front hall. I had been in the study at the time, wondering what on earth I was supposed to do. And I heard a woman's voice, clear and distinct as a bell. I will never forget what she said. 'No one will keep me from my son now that the old bastard is dead.' I couldn't believe it."
Sabre grabbed his hands. "Oh, Quince."
"When I came out to the hallway I found her and ten of her footmen. They seemed ready to do battle. As soon as I saw her it was clear that she was my mother. We look too much alike for there to be any doubt. I felt all my blood rush to my head and it's a wonder that I didn't pass out from the shock. She must have just as easily recognized me and pushed through the staff to get to me. I can't tell you what that felt like, Sabre, to think that I had lost everything and then there she was. To me, back from the dead. She wrapped her arms around me and kept saying 'my baby' over and over. I was too numb to do anything."
Sabre wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close without saying anything.
Quince sighed, embracing her. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because I asked."
"You asked me what I was thinking, and I wasn't thinking about that. I really was thinking of you."
She pulled him over to the bed and encouraged him to sit. "Was that all of the story?"
He shrugged. "Mostly. She spent some time with me there. After Gideon arrived it soon became clear that I needed to keep the two of them separated. Once Gideon and I had the ducal accounts mostly settled I went out to Bath to see her again. She has a lovely townhouse and holds a salon for freethinkers and intellectuals."
Smiling as she removed the cloak from her shoulders, Sabre said, "She doesn't like Gideon and holds salons? I think I'm starting to like your mother already."
Quince leaned back on his hands, admiring again how the poppy red ball gown complimented her figure and coloring. "Yes, I'm sure you would get along."
"Is the townhouse hers or do you own it?"
"It's hers. I'm somewhat shocked that my father made that concession."
She paused in folding her cloak. "You consider that a concession?"
"For him, yes. It would not only bother him on a moral front, it's actually legally complicated to give a married woman property of her own. The rights to the property were much clearer with his death."
"I was," she said softly, and then steeled her voice. "I was hoping you would gift me with Belle Fleur."
THIRTY-SIX
Quince felt a frisson of worry go through him. "Are we discussing terms?"
Sabre lifted a chin a notch, looking both ferocious and vulnerable. She clutched the cloak to her midsection in an unconscious gesture of defense. "Yes."
"That doesn't align with my plans for Belle Fleur," he said. He saw her expression go blank and knew that perhaps he should rush to explain. "I had been thinking to foist the title on my brother and ask him to give us Belle Fleur."
She frowned. "Can you even do that? Give up your title?"
"Just because something hasn't been done doesn't mean it can't be done. And then," he reached out to take her left hand and caressed his thumb over her ring finger, "there would be no impediment to us being married."
She became brisk, pulling her hand away and setting the folded cloak on a chair. "Don't be ridiculous, your grace."
"Quince," he said.
"When you are being ridiculous it will always be 'your grace'."
"So you do not wish for me to give up my title to marry you?"
She crossed her arms and shook her head. "No. You shouldn’t give up your title for anything."
"And to be my mistress you would only ask for Belle Fleur?"
Her lower lip quivered and she caught it between her teeth. Looking down at the floor she finally said, "I would ask for nothing."
"You're a bit worse at negotiation than I would expect."
Her eyes flashed as she looked back up at him again. "This isn't a negotiation! Don't sully it like that."
Stubborn as she was he suspected this was as close as he would get to her revealing her feelings for him. There she stood, prickly and proud, and oddly that endeared her to him even more. He sighed.
"I love you, Sabre. I would gladly give you everything I have if I could. That was true from the first moment I saw you. But as Belle Fleur is the only unentailed property left, yes, you may have it. You have only to tell me what you want and I will get it for you. Even if I have to beg, borrow, or steal it."
She had wrapped her arms around her middle while listening and he heard her make a muffled sob. He rose to embrace her.
"Quince," she whispered, "all I want is you."
He kissed her temple. "I guess you did warn me of that in the beginning."
She gave a watery laugh and he hugged her close, pulling her to sit in his lap on the bed. The passion from earlier had settled into an intimate closeness that he wasn't sure he wanted to disturb.
After a few moments she shifted. "Quince?"
"Yes, my beloved?"
"I could use some help getting out of this dress."
His body reacted instantly to her suggestion. "Yes, that is help I will always be willing to give you."
She stood and he followed her, hands on her hips as he couldn't keep himself from touching her.
"And..." she added softly, "could we go to your room?"
"Yes," he said, surprised, "but why? I thought your goal had been to claim the duchesses' suites."
"I like it when my pillow smells of you."
He ran his hand over her hip in an intimate, possessive caress and pulled her closer. "You could solve that by sleeping on top of me."
She giggled and kissed his chin. "You aren't nearly as soft."
He sighed, took her hand, and picked up the candle, leading her to the connecting door. "It will be as my lady wishes."
"You make me feel demanding."
"No, you are demanding and I'm just not polite enough to avoid pointing it out."
She laughed and said, "You are the rudest man I know!"
"That may well be true. But a duke is privileged with being able to say what he likes and you have missed your chance to change that."
Once in the ducal bedroom he set the candle on his bedside and began removing her dress. Within moments she was in her shift and slippers, the red dress laid aside on a settee. "I do love you in red," he said, kissing her shoulder.
She shivered in response to his light kisses. "Then perhaps we shouldn't have removed it."
He pushed the shoulder of the shift down, stroking his hand over her skin and then nibbling where the side of her throat met her shoulder. "I love you even more in nothing at all."
She gave a soft moan and tried to push his jacket off his shoulders. The tight evening jacket barely budged.
Laughing he said, "This may be significantly more difficult to remove than your dress. Shall I summon my valet?"
"No," she said with determination. She walked behind him and, placing her hands just so, peeled the jacket back off his shoulders.
"You would make a more than reasonable batman. Should I be concerned that you know how to get men out of their clothes?"
"Brothers," she said simply, tossing the jacket aside to join her dress.
He knelt to remove her shoes, pausing to kiss the side of her knee. Once standing again he kicked off his own shoes and unfastened his cuffs as she removed his cravat. He leaned forward to kiss her briefly. "We have too damn many clothes."
"You had at least a full hour before I arrived," she sniffed, "you could have undressed then."
He pulled his shirt off without unbuttoning it, throwing it aside.
She gasped. "Oh, Quince!"
He had honestly forgotten how horrid the bruises looked. "Not now," he said. "Please? I need you."
She nodded but he could see tears at the corners of her eyes. He pulled her close and began kissing her again. She relaxed into his embrace and kissed him avidly, but seemed afraid to put her hands on him.
Breaking the kiss he cupped her face in his hands. "Sabre, please touch me. I need you to touch me."
She tentatively stroked over his arms and shoulders. He set his forehead to hers with a contented sigh. "Thank you."
As he expected, her touch became bolder. She tipped her head to resume their kiss and he sank into the sweet pleasure of her lips. He broke the kiss again for a moment to remove her shift and reveled in the feeling of her soft skin pressed against his. As he caressed her back and sides, her questing fingers went to work on unbuttoning his breeches.
"Impatient," he murmured in her ear before trailing kisses down the side of her neck.
"Yes," she admitted.
He scooped her up, making her laugh in surprise, and deposited her on the bed. He stood watching her, enjoying her flushed cheeks and bright smile. "Are the pillows to your liking?"
She pulled one to her nose and breathed deeply. "Perfect." She waved her hand at him. "You still have on too many clothes."