My book? She blinked slowly. Of course. You silly ninnyhammer. Did you truly believe a gloriously golden stranger would be spouting on about you amidst Gipsy Hill? Then his words registered. Evelina. She gasped and glanced down. The stranger followed her gaze.
They dropped to their haunches as one and the street above disappeared so that only they remained. “Here,” he murmured and collected the aged leather tome. “Allow me.”
Justina stared wide-eyed as he dusted bits of gravel and dirt from the back of the book. “A lovely tale, is it not?”
This man knew Evelina? “You have read it, then?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from creeping into her question.
“The story of Evelina and her Lord Norville? Indeed.” The stranger, who she truly had no place speaking with, and certainly not without the benefit of introductions or a chaperone, returned his attention to the book, flipping through the pages and scanning the sentences.
Her own father and brother were too consumed by drink and women to ever notice something as insignificant to them as a book. “My governess once called the heroine an empty-headed fool.” Just as she and so many saw her.
“And what do you think of Evelina?” he asked, picking his head up.
Her breath hitched. No one asked for her opinion. Even the sister and brother that she loved, and who loved her in return, saw her more as a child to be taken care of. “Evelina is young and, in many ways, unknowing of the world, but I believe she is also remarkably clever and perceptive when it comes to making judgments about those around her.” His gaze bore deep with such a piercing intensity, it was as though he could reach inside and pluck the thoughts from her very head.
“Beautiful,” he murmured in hushed tones, muted by the loud cries of vendors hawking their wares.
Warmth unfurled in her belly. In a moment that defied logic and all sense, she wanted to remain down here with him, this man whose name she did not know. Say something, Justina. Say anything. “It is.” That is what I’d say?
He cocked his head at an angle that sent a loose golden curl falling over his eye. Her fingers ached to brush it back.
“Beautiful,” she clarified. “It is a beautiful tale.” The story of a lady, of shameful origins, who ultimately found the love of a distinguished and honorable nobleman.
“Yes.” He leaned close, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “But I was not speaking about the tale,” he said on a husky whisper that lodged the breath in her lungs. He shoved to his feet and held a hand out.
Without hesitation, Justina placed her fingertips in his large palm. He folded it over hers, dwarfing her smaller one. Even through the fabric of their gloves, a searing heat penetrated and sent delicious tingles radiating up her arm, and then he released her. He sketched a bow. “My lady,” he murmured, handing over the book. Then as quickly as he’d slipped into her life, he turned around and slipped out.
Heart racing, Justina stared after his retreating form until he’d disappeared in the distance. All the air left her on a slow exhale. How utterly silly to be so singularly captivated by a too-handsome stranger. And yet… She nibbled her lower lip. There had been something so wholly captivating about him. A man whose eyes conveyed a depth of feeling and emotion and who spoke so freely about literature…literature written by a female author, no less.
“Would you like it then, my lady?”
She whirled about. The old Rom gestured to her fingers. “Yes!” Justina exclaimed. “I will take it.” After her meeting with the glorious stranger on the street, how could she not?
As the gypsy neatly packaged the copy, she stole a glance about the streets for a hint of the gentleman, but he may as well have been nothing more than a whisper of a dream. Who is he?
The quality of his cloak and gleaming Hessians bespoke of a man of power and wealth. She searched her mind for a hint of having met him and, yet, had she seen him at a ton event, she’d not have forgotten. What had brought a man such as him, here? As her brother pointed out, lords and ladies didn’t spend their time in the southern end of London.
Exchanging several coins that brought the other woman’s eyes flying wide, with a word of thanks Justina collected her borrowed volume of Shelley and her newly purchased Evelina. Questions swirling through her mind about the man whose name she did not know, she resumed her walk through the vendors’ stalls.
Chapter 3
It was too easy.
If it had been any other woman, Nick would have, mayhap, felt more than this tiny, unwanted pebble of guilt. But it was this woman. She was linked by marriage and now family to the Marquess of Rutland. For that, her fate was sealed through her connection, just as his own family had thirteen years past.
As such, Miss Justina Barrett served as nothing more than the means to a proverbial end.
From the cart where he stood, concealed from the lady’s direct line of vision, Nick studied her, without fear of notice. Near an age of nineteen or twenty, there was a youthful innocence to her heart-shaped face given to blushing. Her eyes revealed none of the world-wary cynicism that had invaded his own years earlier at the hands of her brother-in-law. After he’d freed his father from that self-made noose, Miss Justina Barrett’s innocence was one he’d come to despise. It had served as a mockery to what he and his own sister had been denied. How did Justina, with the misery she’d known as Viscount Waters’ daughter, manage it, still?
The young lady, even now stood, the wind whipping at her green velvet cloak, a dreamy smile on her lips, as she picked her way through the streets. Nick started after her, careful to keep distance between them. Occasionally, she stopped alongside a cart, sifted through the baubles there, and then continued at her unhurried pace. By the useful information he’d been handed by the Lady Carew, Justina Barrett was an empty-headed miss with a love for bonnets and not much more.
Yet what had held her enthralled hadn’t been a silly frippery, but rather a book. Nay, not just any book. Evelina. His gut clenched painfully. The Devil had a sense of humor, indeed. That the leather tome Justina Barrett lovingly stroked, should also be the last he’d ever read.
He gave his head a hard shake and as the kernel of guilt vanished, Nick recalled his purpose. He glanced about for the phaeton. Chilton sat in wait, a hat pulled low over his brow and the high collar up around his neck. Yes, everything was set.
Nick looked to the lady, once more. And cursed under his breath. Where in blazes had she gone? Frowning, he skimmed his gaze quickly over the bustling pavement where men and women haggled with the Rom vendors. Then he found her. She hovered on the edge of the cobbled road, one booted foot poised to step, the other frozen as she battled back the strings of her bonnet that the wind whipped about her face.
Nick took a step forward, when a small, bent figure moved into his path, halting him in his tracks. “Care to have your palms read, my lord, and have your future told?”
He silently cursed the old gypsy. “A man makes his own future,” he said curtly and made to step around her. But with a surprising agility, the aged figure intercepted his movements.
“Ah, we determine the paths, but our fate is already set for us,” she said in haunting tones that sent an irrational chill skittering along his spine. “Come,” she held her gnarled hands out and beckoned him forward. “Let Bunica see what lies in wait for you.”
He didn’t need a charlatan’s false prophecy. He well knew what awaited him. Vengeance. “I—”
Loud shouts erupted around the busy street and, the old gypsy forgotten, Nick whipped his stare to the commotion that had garnered the crowd’s notice. A screeching, bucking stallion galloped down the road, its rider dragged behind as the man frantically tried to shed his foot of his stirrup. Nick followed the path of the horse as it raced, making a beeline for a small beggar child who stood in the midst of the empty streets, frozen. A sharp cry went up and he followed the sound to Miss Barrett. Everything moved in a whir as the young lady bolted into the street for the boy, shoving him out of the way.
He cursed. What is she thinking? Nick bounded through the crowd, his heart pumping from his exertion. In one fluid movement, he knocked Justina Barrett down, startling a soft scream from her, just as the stallion’s hooves pounded the ground where she had stood seconds ago.
The rider managed to wrestle himself free and then made a grab for the reins. The skittish beast reared on its back legs and pawed at the air. Heart thundering, Nick rolled himself and the young lady out of the way so that Miss Barrett briefly sprawled over his chest. He quickly shifted her under him. Shoving up on his elbows, he shielded her with his body.
Her loose curls tumbled free from her chignon and cascaded around her shoulders in a shimmery, golden waterfall. And at last, the young rider wrestled control of his mount. The small boy scrambled to his feet, stared wide-eyed at Miss Barrett and Nick, then darted off into the crowded street.
His chest heaving from the near brush with death, Nick looked down to unleash a tirade on the reckless chit’s ears. What bloody lady risked her fool head with such abandon? Their eyes met. The young woman’s mouth formed a small circle that matched her rounded eyes. “You.”
The stinging rebuke died on his lips. Adoration spilled from the lady’s expressive cornflower blue eyes and all words and thoughts stuck inside his head. The vibrant depths of her gaze were not unlike the Suffolk sky at summertime.
“Are you all right?” Justina Barrett’s question, rife with worry, brought him reeling to the moment.
What in blazes was he doing, staring at her like a lovesick swain? “Quite,” he assured her. “I—”
“You saved me,” she interrupted on a hushed whisper that barely reached his ears. But he heard it.
…You’ll destroy us…
Justina Barrett’s three words at odds with those ones uttered long ago by his father and, for it, bringing a greater satisfaction than the lady, soft in all the places a woman should be soft, now under him.
A means to an end. Nick shifted a hand between them.
“What…?”
“You have dirt, my lady,” he murmured, brushing a trace of mud from her cheek. A charge raced from the point of contact.
Her breath caught on an audible inhalation.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, quickly lowering his hand.
She shook her head wildly on the cobblestones. “You saved me,” she said softly. “And I do not even know your name.”
“Nick Tallings, Duke of Huntly,” he murmured.
“You are a duke,” she blurted. He braced for the greed to fill her eyes. When he was a young man scrapping together wealth through hard work, a lady such as her wouldn’t have given him a sideways glance. With the addition of his title and obscene wealth, every marriage-minded miss in the realm looked a little longer.
“Indeed,” he drawled, unable to quell the cynicism in that affirmation.
The young lady tipped her head, the joy fading from her eyes. “It would not matter.”
He furrowed his brow. What was she on about?
“Whether you were a duke or titleless gentleman.” She angled her head up, shrinking the space between them, so close their lips nearly brushed. “I would be equally grateful for your rescue, Your Grace.” Her breath, a delicate blend of apples and mint fanned his face and, unbidden, his gaze fell to her mouth. A potent surge of lust coursed through him, an unwanted sentiment, an unwelcome one for this woman.
“Justina!” That frantic shout from beyond Miss Barrett’s head shattered the moment.
A gentleman in a revolting orange cloak staggered to a stop and dropped his hands to his knees. He’d spied the man countless times entering Forbidden Pleasures, tossing aside good coin. Dangling two whores on his lap. The man would be as easy to ruin as the sister, herself. “Justina,” he rasped as he bent over, sucking in gasping breaths. “Are you…?” The young man’s words trailed off as Nick stood, unfurling to his full six-foot, three-inch frame, nearly of a height with the dandy.
Andrew Barrett.
Sister forgotten, the younger man dropped a deep bow. “You’re Huntly.” The same awe to have filled the sister’s eyes, matched this callow fool’s similar stare.
Schooling his features so as to not reveal the disgust at the dandy’s reaction, Nick bent and easily scooped the lady to her feet. A little sigh slipped from her lips as he lingered his hands on her generously flared hips. “None other,” Nick drawled.
Mr. Barrett blinked wildly and then, widening his eyes, he looked to his sister. “Justina, are you hurt?”
She opened her mouth.
“I saw Huntly thundering through the crowd to reach you.” The dandy stuck one of his bright pink leathered shoes out and swept his arms wide. “Not every day that one of the most sought after chaps in London rescues a man’s sist—oomph.” He shot an offended glance in the young lady’s direction. “Did you kick—? Oomph.”
Miss Barrett glared her brother into silence.
If Nick were a man intent on anything other than the ruin of the young lady, he would have been enthralled by her pluck. A silent battle stretched on between the siblings. With a sigh, Lord Andrew returned his focus to him. “Proper introductions, I expect, are in order, given your heroics this day, Your Grace.”
Now, that would be beneficial, to continue this whole farce marching forward.
“My sister, Miss Justina Barrett. Justina, His Grace, the Duke of Huntly.”
The lady sank into a flawless curtsy. With the wind tossing her long, golden tresses about her face and shoulders, she had the look of Botticelli’s Venus. “Your Grace,” she murmured in sweet, modulated tones. “Please, let me thank you for coming to my rescue.”
Nothing could have been further from the truth where his actions toward this one were concerned. Nick sketched a deep bow, moving through the Social pleasantries expected of them. After all, the image he’d presented to Society, charming, affable rogue, had all been part of the scheme that led to this very meeting. “It was my honor, Miss Barrett.” He held her gaze for a long moment, eliciting another audible intake of air from the lady.
Lord Andrew hooked his thumbs in the waist of his pants and looked back and forth between them, grinning like the village lackwit.
The lady worried at her lower lip, a question in her eyes. A question that asked if she’d see him again. A look that said she longed to.
And she would.
Nick retrieved his hat from the ground and snapped the flat brim back into shape. “Miss Barrett,” he murmured again as he doffed his black Aylesbury. With that, he started down the street and left the Barrett siblings staring after him. A hard grin formed on his lips.
It had begun.
That was the Duke of Huntly?
The rogue most sought after at every ton function? The man whose name was written about in the papers for the ease and charm he possessed. And he’d saved her. That was the manner of romance every young lady read romantic verse and fairy tales for.
Standing beside her brother, Justina watched after the young duke’s retreating form. Nearly half a foot taller than the passersby on the street, he stood easily above the rest, moving with a sleek, panther-like grace. When he’d at last disappeared from view, her entire body sagged.
Years earlier, when she was just a girl, she’d read the tales of the Duke of Bainbridge’s heroic rescue of the now Duchess of Bainbridge after she’d crashed through the ice at the Frost Fair. As a young child, she’d eyed those pages, wistfully, dreaming to know just that. The love. The romance.
Only to be rescued, four years later, by a duke who, with his smile and honorability, put lesser men to shame for things that had nothing to do with his rank.
“Not every day a young gel’s saved by a duke, eh?” Andrew jabbed his elbow into her arm.
She winced and massaged the sore flesh. Having her feet literally and figuratively restored to the earth, she noted the details that had previously escaped her. The sharp ache of her lower back from where she’d slammed into the grou
nd. The twinge in her hip. “No. It isn’t,” she said with a little smile playing about her lips.
Andrew jutted his elbow out. “I gather this was enough excitement for you today.” He leaned down and whispered. “And everyone else,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. Jolted to, she took in the people milling about the street staring at her.
Those onlookers held their hands up, shielding their mouths as they spoke. No doubt, tales of the duke’s heroics were even now circulating the streets of London and would find their way into every parlor and ballroom.
Unbidden, Justina did another search for him.
“Wouldn’t mind having a chap like that for a brother-in-law,” he said too loudly and heat exploded in her cheeks.
“Hush,” she said from the corner of her mouth.
“What?” He bristled. “I’m merely saying, you could certainly do worse than landing a man swimming in lard.”
Justina groaned. “Can you not speak in the King’s good English?” It should be a crime that these dandies corrupted speech in such a way that a person couldn’t make heads or tails of what in the blazes they said.
“He’s rich as Croesus,” Andrew simplified. “Lucky fellow’s distant cousin up and died, and he found himself a duke.” He sighed. “Some men have all the luck.”
What was it with lords and ladies and their dreams of wealth and power and nothing more? Even her brother. “Yes. To be so lucky as to find yourself with a title and wealth because some childless duke had the misfortune of dying.”
“Exactly,” Andrew muttered, failing to detect her subtle sarcasm.
They reached the carriage, with her brother still prattling on about the duke’s horseflesh and townhouses and outrageous luck at the gaming tables. Followed by grousing on his part about his own ill-fortune at those same tables.
She accepted the servant’s help, climbed inside the carriage, and settled herself on the bench. Andrew followed behind, taking the opposite bench. As much as she’d long abhorred his penchant for following the gossip in the scandal sheets, now she wished she’d paid a tad more attention herself.
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