“Can’t one make love in the dark?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so, but don’t you want to see him?” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “What am I saying? I don’t want to encourage you. I wish I’d never given you the address.”
“Where did you get it anyway?”
“My brother. I’m fairly certain Rexton meets his mistress there. You saw him, didn’t you?”
“I can’t say.”
Grace made a moue of displeasure. “All these secrets. I don’t think any good is going to come of all this.”
“Will you still love me if I go through with it?”
“Of course, but if he suspects, why not confirm the truth of your identity and see how things go?”
“I don’t expect you to understand the beating that one’s esteem takes after six years of watching others fall in love or make good matches that aren’t based solely on their dowry. I want a man who looks at me the way my father looks at my mother, the way Lovingdon looks at you. As though no one else was as important, was as treasured. My brother would die for you.”
“He almost did. But in the end, he lived for me, and that’s so much better, Minerva. Do you like Ashebury?”
“Very much.”
“I’ve never known you to be a shrinking violet. If you want him, go after him.” She smiled brightly. “That’s how I got Lovingdon. I’d wager money on you.”
“I wouldn’t wager much. The odds are against me. He could have anyone. But at least I know he fancies my legs.”
ASHE stood on the top step staring at the dark mahogany door that opened into his parents’ residence. It was silly to refer to it as such. They’d not crossed the threshold in twenty years.
With a sigh, he unlocked the door, released the latch, and gave the wood a hard shove. The hinges creaked and moaned as the widening gap revealed the entryway. Stepping over the threshold, Ashe closed the door behind him, sealing himself in with the memories.
Dust motes danced through the soft light filtering in through the mullioned windows on either side of the door. The air sat heavy, reeking of must and disuse. The silence was thick, a residence abandoned, unloved, unwanted.
It had been his mother’s pride and joy, a symbol of his father’s wealth and station. Even at eight, Ashe had understood the statement made by this exquisite building. Now every piece of furniture was shrouded in white, giving things a ghostly appearance.
His footsteps echoed over the black marble as he approached the stairs. As though he needed the support, when he stopped, he wrapped his hand around the newel post and stared at the sixth step up, the one upon which he’d been standing when he’d seen his parents for the last time, the one from which he’d shouted that he hated them and hoped they never came back.
The pain of remembrance was a sharp jab at the bottom of his breastbone. He imagined he could still hear the hateful words echoing through the entryway, bouncing off the walls and frescoed ceiling. Only they’d followed his parents out, circling about them. Sadness had been in his mother’s blue eyes when she glanced back over her shoulder, before his father ushered her out. What had his mother thought of him at that moment? Probably what he now thought of himself.
Pampered heir, spoiled brat, despicable child.
Those had certainly been his nanny’s words as she’d dragged him back to the day nursery.
He should sell the house, everything in it. Only that course felt like defeat. He was a man now, strong enough to face the past, to deal with it, to move on. This place represented part of his heritage, his history.
He should be grateful that everything he didn’t want to remember had occurred here rather than at the ancestral estate. Although it seemed odd now to think of them as being in London in November. His scoff disturbed the silence. What did it matter after all these years?
It didn’t. With a length to his stride and a quickness to his pace as though he could escape the demons of recollection and regret, he strode into the parlor and was greeted by white sheets covered in a fine layer of dust. It was here in the afternoons that he would be presented to his mother so he could tell her about his day. His time in the park, his riding lessons, his tutoring curriculum. He could still hear the tutor’s proclamation that he was not a bright lad, see the disappointment in his mother’s eyes. But he was bright enough to know that the numbers didn’t behave. When he tried to explain how they played tricks, she would give her attention to the birds fluttering about beyond the window. So he learned to hold his tongue in order not to disillusion her, not to lose her affection.
She would be sorely dissatisfied with him now, in his inability to properly oversee what had been placed in his keeping. So would his father. What he remembered most about the previous duke was his stiffness, the manner in which he could walk while hardly moving any portion of his body, the way he would arch a brow in censure. Ashe had always dreaded when the brow went up. It was usually followed with the words, “Find me a switch.”
He remembered the bite of it against his bare backside and upper legs. Still, for all the coldness and rigidity of his parents, he’d felt unmoored when word came that they were dead. He’d screamed, and wept, and promised to be good if only they’d come back.
But the best behavior in the world couldn’t undo what had been done.
As much as he fought it, his mind traveled to the last time he’d been in this room, standing vigil over his parents’ coffin. So little of them remained that they’d been encased together. Or so he’d been told. He’d sat stoic and silent while mourners paid their last respects. Too young, too numb to truly understand everything that transpired, all the ramifications, he’d been left an orphan, alone in the world, with no close family. Those who had introduced themselves as relatives were unfamiliar. He’d never again seen a single one of them after the burial. No one checked up on him to ensure he was well cared for. No one penned a letter to see how he was getting on. No one inquired as to his health, his safety, his well-being. No one gave a bloody damn.
The morose thoughts threatened to consume him. It was the reason that he’d not taken up residence here. It wasn’t a place of happy memories. Yes, he should sell it.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
IT was a lovely day for a stroll through the park. Minerva was grateful that when Lord John Simpson, brother to the Duke of Kittingham, had called on her, he had suggested they go out. It was a lovelier way to spend the time than sitting in the parlor, where her thoughts bombarded her with doubts. She hadn’t yet decided what to do about meeting Ashebury tonight. If she weren’t drawn to him, she would have no decision to make, but after last night, she found she wanted to experience all that he had to offer. While he might have suspicions regarding her identity, he didn’t know for certain. She rather liked his not knowing for certain.
“—you see.”
She glanced over at her strolling companion, who had seen all of nineteen years. He was fair-haired and tall, his side whiskers little more than peach fuzz. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “My brother and I have never gotten along. He’s mean-spirited, spiteful. Rather nasty, to be honest about it. He’s going to cut off my allowance when I reach my majority, which leaves me in a bit of a bother.”
“I can see where it would. But it’s quite acceptable for second sons to become members of the clergy.”
He grimaced. “The trouble there is that you have to always ask after people’s problems.”
“But I’m certain it must be extremely rewarding to provide comfort.”
He shook his head. “Not really my cup of tea.”
“Perhaps you could join a regiment.”
“Dreadful amount of work, marching about, taking orders.”
“Better than being forced to live on the street.”
His steps came a halt and he faced her. “I was hoping you would do me the honor of marrying me.”
She bit back a bubble of laughter. “I’m considerably ol
der than you.”
“As I’m aware, but it would get you off the shelf.”
“I don’t really have a problem being on the shelf. As a matter of fact, I’m rather liking the independence it affords me.”
His eyes brightened. “I wouldn’t take that away from you. It would be a marriage in name only. As the spare, I don’t require an heir. So you would have no wifely duties.”
“I have none now.”
“But now all of London knows you don’t. When we’re married, it would be our little secret.”
Her offers were getting more ridiculous. She needed to take out an advert in the Times, announcing that she was not in the market for a husband. “You gain my dowry. I’m at a loss as to what I gain.”
“You won’t be a spinster. You’ll be my lady. And you’ll have my protection.”
“I have protection now.”
“Your father isn’t going to live forever.”
“In his absence, I have brothers who will step in, plus I have a strong left hook.”
He blinked. “You would engage in fisticuffs yourself?”
“If need be, yes.”
With a sigh, he slumped his shoulders. “Is there nothing I can offer that would make marriage to me attractive?”
“Love.”
He looked positively defeated. “I love another girl.”
“Marry her.”
“Her dowry is a pittance. I was going to use yours to give her everything I can’t.”
“We should probably stop talking now before I introduce you to my left fist.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I mucked things up.”
He looked so young, and she felt remarkably old. “Consider the army, my lord. It’ll give you backbone.” Turning on her heel, she began the long trek home.
It was several minutes before he loped up to join her. “You won’t tell anyone about my offer will you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Thank you, Miss Dodger.” They walked in silence for a while before he said, “What if I can’t make a go of it on my own?”
“I have faith in you, my lord. It won’t be easy, but if you really love the girl, you’ll find a way. One that doesn’t involve someone else’s dowry.”
As they carried on toward her home, she wondered how her life had come to this. Last night had contained no disappointments. It had been only joy and pleasure.
She wanted another night with Ashebury—on her terms.
“YOU rang for me, Your Grace?”
Standing at the window in his library, sipping his scotch, Ashe watched as twilight crept over the gardens. He was going to miss the quiet, miss not slamming into memories every time he turned a corner. For hours, he’d roamed the familiar hallways of his youth, remembering a few times worth savoring. His mother spritzing him with her perfume, tickling him until he laughed and begged her to stop. His father tying thread around Ashe’s first loose tooth, securing one end of it to a doorknob, then slamming the door closed, jerking out the tooth in the process. Patting Ashe on the shoulder. “Good lad. You’ll do well as a duke.”
And Ashe never again telling his father when he felt a tooth beginning to wobble. Then no longer having the opportunity to tell him.
“We’re taking up residence at Ashebury Place. Have the servants begin preparing it for our arrival. I should like to be moved in within the week.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll have to take on additional staff.”
Because Ashebury Place was twice the size of this house. “We’ll make do with what we have for now.”
“As you wish.”
It wasn’t what he wished. Truth be told, he probably needed to let some of the staff go. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn them out when their only crime was having an employer who had fallen on hard times.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, that’s all for now, Wilson.”
“Very good, sir.” Wilson left as quietly as he’d entered.
Ashe pressed his fist to the window, leaned his forehead against it. He didn’t want to keep reliving the memories that had visited him today, but it was as though he were trapped in a barrel that was rolling down a hill. For the first time that day, he smiled. At Havisham, they’d once taken turns climbing into a barrel and being rolled about, so he was very familiar with the sensation. He’d taken pride in being the only one not to cast up his breakfast.
The thought about his pride brought him to his photos, which brought him immense satisfaction. Following that thought was an image of Lady V lying across the bed with legs revealed, waiting for him to part them, to bury himself between them.
He needed her tonight. He desperately hoped she’d be there.
Chapter 11
SHE was three minutes late, one hundred and eighty seconds past the last gong that marked the witching hour, and he’d already found a replacement for her. With her heart clamoring and bitter disappointment settling into her breast, she stood transfixed in the doorway leading into the parlor of the Nightingale Club and watched as Ashebury nodded and smiled at a woman wearing a deep purple mask and elegant evening gown. It barely occurred to her to wonder why the lurid female wasn’t dressed in the simple attire of every other lady in the room.
Instead, she was more concerned with why she thought she’d meant something to him, why she’d given any credence to his invitation, to the pleasure he’d brought her, to the exceptions he’d claimed to make where she was concerned. Lies spouted from his luscious, deceiving mouth like that of every other man who had ever deemed to give her attention. When she was out of sight, she was out of mind. She. Lady V.
She castigated herself. Had she really thought that a woman who visited a place like this was going to be revered and hold a man’s affections for more than the time it took to bed her?
Then he was striding toward her, his smile broadening, and it occurred to her that it had never been for the woman in purple. That it had been for her the second she’d stepped through the doorway, and he saw her.
She had been three minutes late. It wasn’t even a minute later, and he was at her side.
“Seems you’re not wanting for a partner this evening,” she said, hating the churlishness in her voice, striving not to reveal the full extent of her irritation and disappointment by shaking off the large, warm hand that he had curled over her shoulder, offering the touch she had planned to welcome with every aspect of her being.
His smile dimmed slightly, his gaze held hers commandingly, not allowing her to look away. “Lady Eliza is the proprietor. She was reassuring me that everything I asked for had been seen to.”
“What did you ask for?”
He glided that cupped hand along her arm, took her hand, and lifted her fingers to his mouth. She was aware of the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips. “Do you want me to ruin the surprise I planned for you?”
The tightness in her chest unfurled like a rose blossoming at first light. “What if I hadn’t come?”
“I’d have left here a broken man.”
A corner of her mouth curled up. “I doubt that.”
“Well, perhaps not broken, but very disappointed. Shall we go up?”
The time had come. While her nerves threatened to jump about, she took a deep breath to calm them. She would not—could not—back out again. She’d made her decision to come here, to meet him tonight, because she wanted to be in his arms. He was the one, the one she yearned for, the one she wanted to take her more deeply into the realm of pleasure. She trusted him. He could have taken advantage before, could have pressured her, could have been angry when she changed her mind. But all along, he’d been patient, understanding, gentle—even though he’d told her that he liked it rough and hard. The kiss against the door had no doubt been a sampling.
It hadn’t frightened her then, the thought of it didn’t frighten her now. She wanted to be with him. For tonight, she relished the fantasy that he yearned to be with her.
She was shimmering with anticipation as he unlocked it, shoved it open. This time, after she passed over the threshold, she wasn’t surprised when the door slammed in her wake and she found her back against it, her hands shackled over her head, his mouth hungrily and greedily devouring hers. This time she welcomed him without hesitation, without reservation.
“You were late,” he snarled.
She laughed. “All of three minutes.”
She’d almost not come. She’d climbed into the carriage, climbed out of it. Back in. Then she’d had the driver drop her off a few blocks from the Nightingale, sent him on his way, and prayed he’d say nothing to her father. But why would he? He didn’t know her final destination or the mischief she was getting into.
“Each one was an eternity of agony,” Ashebury ground out.
The joy spiraling through her only increased when he latched his mouth back onto hers. He wanted her, yearned for her, desired her. He made her feel beautiful and elegant. He made her feel as though she mattered to him.
“Take off the mask,” he demanded, his mouth hot against her throat.
“No.” Tonight was fantasy, the dreams of a homely girl who had never known the heat of passion, who had never been made to feel desired. Who had thought she’d be destined for a cold marriage until she’d decided she’d rather hold her head up high as a spinster than bow before a man who couldn’t love her.
Leaning back slightly, he peered through the small openings of the mask into her eyes, bracketed his hands on either side of her throat, skimmed his thumbs along her chin. “After all we’ve shared thus far, why won’t you reveal yourself to me?”
“Because it will change everything.”
“Could change everything for the better.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll become self-conscious, uncomfortable. Probably won’t go through with it. But I want very much to be with you.” She cradled his jaw. “Still, I need the mystery.”
Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) Page 14