“Jesus!” Although he knew Henry had better sense, he still had to ask, “You’re not, are you?”
“Of course not, but good luck convincing Elmwood of that. He demands satisfaction.”
“You could apologize,” Florian suggested.
“That would imply I’m guilty, which I’m not.”
Fair point. Florian tapped his fingers on his desk and considered his brother. “When are you supposed to meet?”
Henry sighed. “I’m not sure. Apparently Elmwood has left London on business. He didn’t say when he’d be back, but he insisted I be ready.”
“Good. That gives us some time to get to the bottom of this—find out who started the rumor and put an end to it.”
“Do you think it has something to do with the threats against you?” When Florian didn’t reply, Henry said, “I thought perhaps the person behind it might have learned of my investigation into Armswell’s poisoning and forged a plan to remove me from the picture.”
“Well, if that’s true, then it means we’re following the right lead by questioning Armswell’s footman.”
Henry nodded and stood. “I know you have a lot of other things on your mind besides all of this, so I’ll head over to Armswell House and take a closer look at the rest of the servants.”
“What about your club?”
Henry paused in the doorway. “It doesn’t open for another couple of hours, so I have time.”
As soon as he’d gone, Florian wondered if he ought to tell his brother about the resemblance between Mr. Mortedge and Bartholomew. He shook his head. The more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. Perhaps the similarities he’d observed at the Hawthorne Ball had simply been the result of too much champagne. But if that was the case, Florian couldn’t for the life of him understand the threats. He had no other enemies that he knew of, so it made no sense.
A knock at the door brought a nurse into the room. “This just arrived for you,” she said, handing him a letter and departing once more.
Florian tore open the seal and read the missive.
Blaire never arrived. We’re in dire need of help. Please come quickly.
Haines
Florian’s nerves twisted into a riotous mess as incomprehension took hold. It was followed by anger and a jarring need for answers. Pushing himself to his feet, he snatched up his jacket and shoved his arms into the sleeves. If Mr. Blaire, the physician who’d been tasked with reporting updates from the quarantine ship, had betrayed him, the man would have to pay.
“He’s not here,” Mr. Blaire’s manservant told Florian half an hour later. “He and his wife have gone out for the evening.”
“Where to?” Florian asked, aiming for a sense of calm he did not feel in the slightest.
“The King’s Theatre.”
Thanking the man, Florian rushed back to his waiting carriage and gave the driver directions before climbing in. The carriage lurched and began rolling forward. Staring out at the starting rain, Florian tried to think of one single way in which Blaire’s actions might be acceptable. And failed. The physician had turned his back on his duty without bothering to inform anyone, which was unforgiveable.
When the carriage pulled to a halt minutes later, Florian leapt from the conveyance and entered the theater. Without breaking his stride he marched across the foyer and took the steps two at a time. He was furious—absolutely livid—so much so he feared the blood vessels next to his eye might pop if he did not calm himself soon. But doing so was going to be damnably difficult. So he hastened onward until he found the box he sought and tore open the door without knocking. The second half of The Marriage of Figaro was already underway, the soprano and baritone of the singers rising and falling in waves.
Not pausing to listen, Florian bent close to Mr. Blaire’s ear and spoke with the chilling venom he felt in his veins. “Where have you been?”
The man did not even deign to look him in the eye, his attention fixed on the stage below. “Out of town.”
“Where?”
Blaire’s wife, who sat beside him, served Florian a disgruntled look. He tilted his head in her direction and swiftly apologized for the intrusion before returning his attention to one of the best physicians in St. Agatha’s employ. “Well? You were supposed to check on the ship and did not do so. I just received a letter from Haines postmarked three days ago. In it, he asks for assistance that should have arrived if you had been doing your job.”
Blaire’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. “It comes down to money, Florian. Mr. Mortedge offered me the sort of salary a man like me cannot walk away from.”
Florian’s head began to spin. He’d been wrong to doubt his instincts. Mortedge was Bartholomew. He had to be, because no one else would go to such lengths to ruin Florian’s plans for St. Giles.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
Blaire frowned. “It happened so fast I barely had enough time to pack. Mortedge needed me to accompany him on a business trip. He suffers from terrible pain because of his gout.”
For a second, the idea of reaching out and strangling the man presented itself until Florian managed the resist the urge. “People have probably died because of you,” he hissed.
“I’m sorry,” Blaire muttered.
“The devil you are,” Florian clipped.
Straightening, he glanced out over the crowded theater, his gaze drawn directly toward a spot on the far side where Lady Juliette sat staring back at him. He deliberately held her gaze, allowing her presence to bolster his strength before telling Blair, “I hope I never have to speak with you again.”
The insufferable man muttered something which Florian did not wait to hear.
Instead, he exited the box as swiftly as he had entered it and made his way along the hallway and toward the stairs. Heart hammering on account of his rage, not only with Blaire and Bartholomew, but with himself for not realizing sooner this had happened, he clicked his heels angrily against the marble floor as he went. Christ, what a fool he was to entrust such a vital task to another. And Haines . . . What the hell would he say to him when next he saw him? No apology was good enough to suffice.
“Florian!”
He almost turned on his heel with the intention of fleeing in the opposite direction the moment he saw her. Dressed in a golden gown and with her hair loosely fastened at the nape of her neck, Juliette looked like a dream. Which was not a good thing at all if he was going to continue resisting her charms.
“What is it?” His tone was harsher than he’d intended, brought on by his anger and his increasing need for her.
Slowing her pace, she approached him more hesitantly. “I saw you arguing with someone and came to see if you were all right. You look extremely distraught, Florian.”
He gritted his teeth and glanced around. The hallway was empty, so they could speak privately, but he feared the moment someone appeared and spotted them there together without a chaperone. “You should not be here, Juliette. Your reputation is at stake.”
When she stubbornly remained where she was, he caught her by the hand and urged her toward an alcove where sofas provided theatergoers with a comfortable place to relax during intermission. Entering ahead of Juliette, Florian ensured the space was empty before pulling her inside and away from the immediate gaze of anyone who happened to go in search of the retiring room.
Once inside, Florian released her hand and gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit?”
“Not especially.” Her eyes were wide with unappeased curiosity. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Florian puffed out a breath. “The man with whom you saw me speaking is Mr. Blaire.”
“The physician you charged with checking up on the quarantine ship.”
“Yes.” He felt all the muscles in his face contract with displeasure. “Except he did no such thing. Instead, he went to work for someone else. I received a letter from Haines earlier this evening, informing me of Blaire’s absence, except several
days have already passed since he sent it, which means any number of things could have happened by now.”
“Good Lord!” Juliette’s concern was visible. “He asked for help, didn’t he?”
“He did indeed, except none has been provided.” Conscious of the failure for which he was responsible, Florian pushed his hand through his hair, scattering his locks while accommodating himself to the situation at hand. “I have to go to him at once.”
“But—”
“No, Juliette, you will not try to dissuade me from this.”
“I wasn’t going to try. I was merely going to point out the late hour and suggest you leave in the morning instead.”
“As wise as that might be, I am reluctant to do so when Haines may be in dire need of assistance. Making haste is the only reasonable course of action. If I leave now, I ought to arrive there by dawn and save a day in the process.”
Understanding filled Juliette’s eyes, bringing out the green in them. “You are a good man, Florian. Your patients are lucky to have your commitment.” She glanced away for a second before meeting his gaze once more. “I shall worry about you endlessly, however, until you return home safely.”
The confession was the closest she had ever come to admitting an emotional attachment to him, and the knowledge that she cared for him deeply enough to concern herself about his well-being was touching. It filled his heart with warmth and something foreign he could not define.
“You needn’t.” It was all he could think to say in response to the strange discomfort her words had evoked. Because alongside the gratification of knowing she was fond of him, he worried where such feelings might lead. “As you already know, I ought to be immune.”
“Ought to be does not reassure me.” Her expression had gone from calm to panicked. “If there is any chance you could get infected, then . . .” She dropped her gaze and turned her shoulder toward him.
“You were going to suggest I not go?” The concern she was expressing, the angst and the visible pain, made it impossible for him not to reach out and touch her. His hand settled gently upon her shoulder, startling her enough for her to look up at him with watery eyes that undid him in a heartbeat.
Without considering consequence, he drew her into his arms and held her. His face pressed softly against the top of her head so the slightest movement she made caused her hair to tickle his nose. It smelled as though freshly washed with chamomile soap, the herbal scent mingling with her signature peony perfume. The concoction was potent yet calming and so very her.
“To do so would be futile,” she murmured against his chest. “I know this and yet I still wish you did not have to be the one tasked with putting your life at risk.”
Her honesty was humbling. If only he could be equally honest with her. But the fear of what Bartholomew might decide to do, the threat he posed to her safety, held him back. “While I can offer you no guarantees, I do believe I would have contracted typhus by now if I wasn’t immune. My close contact with the sick people of St. Giles while examining and treating them prior to their evacuation should have ensured it.”
She relaxed against him as he spoke, which meant he’d had the calming effect he’d hoped his embrace would evoke. It was time to pull back. Except she still held him tight, as if she dreaded letting him go.
“Juliette?” Unsure of what else to do, he smoothed his hand along her back, reminding himself of her femininity and the extent of his need for her the moment she purred in response.
Damn, but this was not going to end well. Least of all if someone saw them like this. So he lowered his hands to her waist and tried to ease her away, only to have her tilting her head back and looking up. They were close, so close he could see flecks of gold shimmering in her eyes. Her lips parted and only one thought echoed through his brain.
For God’s sake, lower your mouth and kiss her!
A myriad of overwhelming emotions had assailed Juliette during the last few minutes. She’d gone from curiosity, to despair, to insatiable need. The urge to convey how she felt about Florian, the physician, the duke, the man, welled up inside her with inescapable force. Since seeing him last she’d prepared to do whatever it took to make him understand how much easier life would be, if they only allowed their attraction to bloom.
Whether or not he would ever care for her, as deeply as she cared for him, was uncertain, but she knew one thing: she’d met and danced with every eligible bachelor in London and none had provoked the depth of emotion she felt for Florian. She wanted him, even if she had to make him surrender to the ever-present desire glowing in his eyes when they were together. It was there right now, bright and impossible to ignore even as he did his best to fight the course she insisted on taking.
“Whatever your doubts,” she whispered while looping her arms securely around his neck, “whatever your reasons for always pushing me away, I cannot let you go without this.” Rising up on her toes, she prepared to steal the kiss she longed for, but not without giving him the chance to end things between them for good. “If you truly want to avoid this, then now is the time to stop me.”
His breath came roughly as he placed one palm to her cheek and spoke with gruffness. “My power to do so has fled me, Juliette. You are like the sirens Odysseus feared.” Upon which he closed the distance between them and captured her mouth with his.
The feel of his lips against hers was soft and warm, the sensation both unfamiliar and wonderful at once. Relief swept through her, bringing pleasure in its wake. It felt . . . incredible. More so when he pulled her around and away from the entrance to the room, his body maneuvering hers until she was pushed up against the wall. Pressing into her, his hands roved over her shoulders, her arms, her waist and her hips. “Dear God, Juliette.” The murmur vibrated through her, provoking a sigh that parted her lips and gave him access.
Shivering tendrils of heat shot through her the moment he deepened the kiss, the sensation so utterly exquisite she had to cling to him for support lest she lose the strength to stand. She was in his power, surrounded by his masculinity and answering to it in ways she would never have thought possible. The yearning to feel his hands all over her body was likely to drive her mad. As was the increasing need for more than what a kiss could offer.
“Yes.” She whispered the word when he disengaged from her mouth and kissed his way along the length of her neck. Instructed by instinct, she arched toward him, offering herself to him like a pagan princess on a sacrificial altar of desire.
“You push the bounds of my restraint.” The words ghosted across her skin, erased by the heat of another kiss. “The things I would do if we were elsewhere, preferably ensconced behind locked doors.”
Her hands clasped at his head, her fingers threading their way through his hair with the frantic fervor of a woman in whom awareness of carnal pleasure had just been awoken. “Tell me.”
Muttering an oath, he met her mouth again with greater insistence. The act drew a wanton moan from deep inside her chest, the intimacy of his uninhibited effort to taste her, encouraging her to squirm against him. Trailing a smoldering path toward her ear, he carefully tugged at her lobe with his teeth, sending a flare of heat all the way to her toes.
“I would worship every inch of you until you would not recall your own name.” His hands gripped her hips, holding her to him with firm deliberation. “You play with fire, Juliette. Best stop now lest one of us gets burned.”
Before she was able to adapt to what he implied, he’d released her and stepped away, leaving her feeling deprived and horribly unsatisfied.
“I must be off.” He spoke the words as if trying to remind himself of what he’d intended to do before she’d distracted him. “Go back to your family, Juliette. Enjoy the rest of the opera.”
Gathering some semblance of control over her still-quaking limbs, she quietly asked, “Will you call on me when you return?”
He stared at her for a long hard moment, then said, “It would probably be best if I sent you a note
. This . . .” He clenched his jaw and glanced away, and in that moment, Juliette’s happiness crumbled in response to the obvious regret he attempted to hide. “We cannot keep letting this happen.”
“Of course not.” Her words were marred by irritation and unrelenting sarcasm. “Why on earth would we allow ourselves to succumb to mutual desire?”
“Because there is much you do not know,” he said with equal amounts of aggravation. “You think I choose to save you from marrying me on account of some silly, pointless reason, no doubt. But I tell you my reasons are real and noble and only intended to keep you safe.” He was breathing fast, his hair falling over his forehead in distraught disarray. “If I were someone else, someone better and someone purer, I would ask for your hand in a heartbeat. But to trap you in a union you are bound to regret would be heartless.”
“How can you possibly know I would regret it, Florian, and how am I to make an informed decision with regard to my future when you refuse to disclose all the facts?” Reaching out, she placed her hand on his arm. “Confide in me. Please.”
His chest rose and fell with agitated movements. “Once I do, there is no taking it back. It could change your impression of me forever, and for that reason, I cannot allow myself to do it.”
“Not even if I promise not to judge you?”
He winced and she dropped her hand. “You cannot do so, Juliette. It isn’t possible.”
Watching all hope slip away between her fingers, she made one last attempt to grasp it. “Of course it is. My affection for you would not allow for anything else.”
His eyes met hers with vast degrees of heartache and, worst of all, pity. “If only I could believe that.” He bowed before her even as her heart was breaking. “Good evening, my lady.”
He was gone before she could wish him a safe journey, the sound of his footsteps fading into the background until only silence remained. She’d gathered her courage and risked both her heart and her pride by telling him how she felt. In return, he’d spurned her for reasons she could not begin to comprehend. All she knew was that it hurt, more than anything else ever had.
The Illegitimate Duke Page 20