by Anna Bennett
Damn it, of course he did. Ever since they’d kissed, he’d thought of little else. But if he tried to seduce her, he’d be just the sort of scoundrel she thought he was—and that wasn’t truly him.
On the other hand, maybe she preferred his rakish charade to the real person beneath. After all, he definitely hadn’t been acting like a gentleman when they kissed, and she’d seemed to like kissing. What he’d give to introduce her to passion. To watch her come apart in his arms.
But deep down, he knew she deserved more than a few nights of pleasure—and he was too heartless, too damaged to give her anything more.
“My relationship with Miss Lacey is none of your concern,” Alex said evenly. “But I would appreciate your help in keeping her—and my grandmother—safe.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Darby agreed, “but we’re fighting an invisible, unknown enemy. I wish the coward would just come forward and do the honorable thing—challenge you to a duel.”
“Believe me, so do I.”
* * *
Beth tried not to stare at the clock. Alex was out. He had not joined her and his grandmother for dinner, nor had he made an appearance in the drawing room afterward. Of course, he was permitted to spend his evenings however he liked, and he was certainly under no obligation to inform her of his whereabouts. He’d made no promises—either spoken or unspoken—about their budding relationship, and he owed her nothing.
But she did wonder where he was—and who he was with.
She told herself that her impatience stemmed from the need to consult him regarding an important element of the dowager’s redecorating plans. It had naught to do with the desire to see him—or to test whether the spark between them would ignite once again.
The duchess had retired two hours ago, but Beth still wore her dinner gown, thinking it would be more appropriate for a meeting with the duke than her night rail. But she’d passed the time reading the book on mythological creatures while sprawled on her bed, and now her slippers were off, her skirt was wrinkled, and her hair was coming undone.
Midnight was her deadline, she decided. If he wasn’t home by then, she would lock her door, undress, and climb into bed.
And in the morning, she’d advise the duchess to pick the wallpaper adorned with pink roses and turtledoves—the duke’s masculinity be damned.
Two minutes left. Sighing, she sprang off her bed, loosened the laces of her gown, and threw open the doors of her armoire with considerably more force than was necessary.
And then she heard the duke come in the front door.
Blast. She wanted to intercept him before he secluded himself in his study so she could avoid returning to The Scene of the Ravishment. Or ravishments, as the case may be.
With no time to tighten her laces, she plucked a shawl off of her chair, grabbed the dowager’s wallpaper samples, and dashed out of her bedchamber. As she glided down the staircase, she spotted the duke in the foyer limping toward his study—a lion retreating to his den.
But she would not feel sorry for him. Wounded or no, he was still a lion.
“Your grace,” she called.
His head snapped up, and he looked around, making sure they were alone. “Beth. Why are you awake?” At the sight of his disheveled hair, broad shoulders, and lean hips, her traitorous heart beat faster.
“I require a moment of your time. I’ve a question regarding your study.”
“So late?” His words felt like a slap to the face. Naively, she’d thought he might be happy to see her. Or that he might want to pick things up where they’d left off the day before. Pure foolishness.
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “You forget, I am all that stands between you and a study fit for a nine-year-old princess.”
He shot her a weary smile. “Fine. We’ll discuss the decorating crisis in my study.”
“I thought that perhaps we could meet in the drawing room,” she said.
He glanced down the corridor like it was a five-mile stretch of highway. “If we must.” Stoically, he began walking, dragging his left leg with each step.
“Very well.” Beth heaved a sigh. “The study will suffice.”
She followed him there and waited impatiently as he lit the lamp.
“Here we are,” he said, facing her and leaning a hip on the edge of his desk. “I am at your disposal, ready to deal with the emergency at hand.”
Scowling at his sarcasm, she handed him three samples and plopped into his leather chair. “Your grandmother has narrowed the wallpaper choices to these three.”
He shuffled through them, holding each at arm’s length. “I think we can rule out the roses and doves.” Recklessly, he tossed the sample over his shoulder.
Beth huffed in protest. “Have a care! I need to return those to the dowager’s escritoire in the morning—before she discovers they’re missing.”
He arched a dark brow. “I did not realize that this project would involve so much subterfuge.”
Pressing her fingertips to a temple, she asked, “I already knew that the floral wouldn’t pass muster. Which of the other two choices do you like?”
He shrugged. “Either is fine with me. You decide.”
Oh no. She’d waited for hours in order to solicit his opinion—and she would have it. “Surely you have a preference.”
Shaking his head, he tried handing them back to her. “They look the same to me.”
“Look again.” She shoved herself out of the chair, incredulous. “One of these will cover your walls from chair rail to cornice. It will determine the palette and set the mood for the entire room for at least a decade to come.”
He scratched his head as though thoroughly perplexed. “You really want me to choose one?”
“Why do I feel like I’m speaking in a foreign tongue? Yes, you must choose. The whole point of this foolish exercise is for you to maintain a modicum of control over your surroundings. You may not abdicate the decision.”
“But I trust you. And I confess that I don’t really care about the wallpaper … as long as you’re near.” He laid the samples on his desk, as if to signal the conversation was over.
Well, it wasn’t.
She snatched up one of the papers and waved it in front of his face. “The blue-gray scrollwork on a cream background is elegant and understated.”
He crossed his arms and smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “If you like it, it’s fine.”
“We’re aiming for something better than fine.” She waved the other paper—a subtle silver and white brocade. “This one would provide more of a blank canvas, allowing your artwork to make more of a statement.”
She’d no sooner uttered the words than they both turned their heads to gaze at the painting of Phyllis.
“So,” she said, still staring at the freakishly large-headed horse, “the blue-gray scrollwork it is.”
“That was shockingly easy. I told you that you didn’t need me,” he teased.
“Indeed.” Exasperated, she gathered the samples and collected her shawl from the chair. “In the future I shall endeavor to refrain from bothering you with such trivial concerns. Good night.”
But before she could manage to take two steps toward the door, he tugged on the laces dangling at the side of her gown, halting her in her tracks. “What if I told you that I like it when you bother me? That I live for the moments when you bother me? That the last quarter of an hour has been the best part of my entire day?”
Beth’s breath hitched in her throat. “You have an odd way of showing it, your grace.”
“Alex,” he reminded her, winding her laces around his fist. As he slowly pulled her closer, his brown eyes promised all sorts of wicked delights. Her belly did a cartwheel in response.
“Tell me,” he said, “did anything more than wallpaper bring us together this evening?”
This was the flirtation she’d craved—but she’d sooner die than admit it. “The dowager did mention a new carpet. I thought it best not to overwhelm you.”<
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“Thank you for taking pity. The wallpaper almost did me in.”
He continued to hold her captive, looking at her mouth very much like he wanted to kiss her. Much to her relief—or was it disappointment?—he didn’t.
It would be so easy to lean into him and let desire take over. But as much as she longed to kiss him, she didn’t want to be one more conquest. For all she knew, Alex could have spent the entire evening in the arms of a beautiful widow or skilled courtesan. He could have come directly from another woman’s bed—and the thought was more than Beth could stomach.
“I should go,” she said firmly.
Reluctantly, he released the laces. “I understand.” Surprise and hurt flickered across his face. “But before you leave, I have a favor to ask.”
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Between his aching knee, his skirmish with Darby, and a would-be murderer on the loose, Alex was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Thinking he’d spare Beth his foul mood, he’d spent the evening at his club and returned home late. Like a schoolboy out past his curfew, he’d tried to sneak into the house undetected.
But she’d caught him—and he wasn’t half as dismayed as he should have been. Indeed, his pulse raced at the sight of her.
Now, after he’d endured a boring and seemingly endless conversation that he’d engaged in just to keep her near—about wallpaper, of all things—she was ready to bolt. The moment that she’d solved her dilemma of scrollwork versus brocade or some such nonsense, she was going to leave—and just when he’d been on the verge of kissing her.
He wasn’t ready to let her go.
“A favor?” Instantly on her guard, Beth crossed her arms. “What is it?”
Alex grinned. “Will you pull off my boot?”
“Your boot,” she repeated, dumbfounded.
“My valet has no doubt retired for the night, and my knee’s too swollen to bend.” An understatement—his leg was about as flexible as the trunk of an oak tree.
“I’ve never removed a man’s boot, but I can’t imagine it’s very difficult.” She pointed at the leather armchair. “Sit.”
He hobbled to the chair, fell into it, and raised his leg onto the footstool.
Standing with hands propped on her hips, she cast an assessing glance at his leg. “Is it going to hurt when I pull?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, gripping the arms of his chair. “Do your worst.”
Tentatively, she reached for his boot heel and raised it. “Ready?”
“Fire away.”
She gave a gentle tug, and when it failed to do the trick, leaned back and yanked with all her weight.
His boot shifted, but his leg was like a sausage stuffed in a too-tight casing. The leather squeezed like a vise.
“Am I hurting you?”
He scoffed as though it didn’t feel like a thousand pins were stabbing his leg. “Of course not.”
Her cheeks turned pink from the effort of pulling, and when the boot didn’t budge, she let go of the breath she’d been holding and carefully set his leg on the footstool. “We might need to cut it off.”
“I hope you’re talking about my boot and not my leg,” he quipped, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“Then you might want to refrain from vexing me in the future.” She leaned over and inspected his knee more closely, feeling the area around the top of his boot. “I can’t even slide a finger between your leg and the boot.”
“Try one more time?” he asked.
She shot him a skeptical look. “Fine. But it this doesn’t work, I’m fetching my shears.” Lifting his leg again, she said, “On the count of three. One, two, three.”
Bracing himself with his good leg, he pulled himself backward while she tugged on the heel of his boot. Slowly, the leather inched downward, squeezing the flesh around it. “Almost there,” he said through clenched teeth. “Don’t give up.”
She didn’t. Indeed, she tugged so hard that he almost shot out of his chair.
And just when he thought the situation hopeless, the boot popped free like a champagne cork.
He slammed against the chair, and Beth staggered backward, crashing into a small table and landing sprawled on the carpet.
Dear God. He dove to her side. “Are you hurt?” Brushing a stray curl off her cheek, he turned her face to his.
She blinked, shifted her weight, and pulled a book from beneath her back. Setting it aside, she sat up. “Thank goodness it was nothing fragile.”
His heart still pounded with worry. “You didn’t answer me, Beth. Are you hurt?”
She smiled, as though his concern amused her. “A little embarrassed, but otherwise fine.” With a sigh, she glanced at the toppled table, a candlestick and flint box that had fallen off it, and his boot.
“Thank heaven.”
“We did it,” she said proudly. Then she looked down at his bootless leg. “You should let the doctor examine that again tomorrow.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?” He stood on his good leg and pulled her to her feet. “I should never have asked you to help me. You’re not a valet.”
“I didn’t mind. I rather like being needed, if you must know. Besides, if I hadn’t helped, you would have had to go to bed wearing one boot. Shall I help you with the other one?” she offered. “It’s bound to be easier.”
“No. Thank you though.” He sat on the stool and easily removed it. “Why do you like being needed?”
“Doesn’t everyone want to feel useful and … necessary?” She righted the pie crust table and bent to pick up the items that had fallen.
“Leave them,” he said curtly. “You needn’t go to any more trouble.”
One hand on the book, she froze. “You don’t understand—I can’t leave things strewn about the floor. The disorder would keep me awake.”
“I believe I’ve already mentioned the cure for sleeplessness. Brandy or—”
“I remember,” she said, quickly straightening and dusting off her hands. “Very well. If you don’t need me…”
He did need her. Not for what she could do for him, but for the way she made him feel. With each day that passed, he realized it more.
But he couldn’t tell her that—it wouldn’t be fair to her.
“… I shall retire. Good night, your grace—er, Alex.”
“Good night, Beth.”
Halfway to the door, she hesitated. “Will you be able to manage the staircase?”
Ah, hell no. It might as well have been Mount Olympus. “I’m going to sleep here.” He pointed at the ancient leather chair.
Frowning, she said, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your bed?”
He shot her a wicked smile. “Are you propositioning me, Miss Lacey?”
Blushing prettily, she crossed her arms. “Merely offering to help you upstairs.”
He considered this for approximately two seconds. If she helped him, they’d be walking hip-to-hip, with his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist—all while in the vicinity of his bedchamber. Decision made.
“I accept your generous offer.”
She approached cautiously. “We’ll take it slowly,” she said, as if she could be referring to any number of things.
“Any way you like,” he agreed. Just as he was about to wrap an arm around her shoulders, she ducked, and dashed behind him.
“One moment,” she said, scooping the book and other fallen items off the floor. “I couldn’t leave them there.” She set them neatly on the table she’d righted, then retrieved his boots and stood them beside the footstool.
He arched a brow. “Feel better?”
“You have no idea.” Taking her place beside him once more, she held him firmly around his waist, the wallpaper samples in her free hand. “Don’t be afraid to lean on me.”
If only it were that easy. The truth was, he didn’t like to lean on anyone, either physically or metaphorically. But he would make an exception tonight—for her.
They walked through the otherwise sleeping house in silence, muffling their laughs when he almost tripped on the skirt of her gown. His progress up the stairs was slow but less awkward and painful than he’d anticipated.
He suspected Beth had everything to do with that.
Even though she thought him unscrupulous, cold-hearted, and morally corrupt, she’d seen his pain and wanted to help. She liked to fix things. And it just so happened he needed a lot of fixing.
Having his arm around her shoulders felt natural and right. Her long, lithe legs occasionally bumped against his, and her shapely hip pressed against his upper thigh. They seemed to fit together perfectly. But Alex knew better.
Even if he could convince her that his reputation as a philandering rake was undeserved, he couldn’t reveal who he really was or what he’d done.
Besides, she would eventually learn that he’d coined the name that had caused her, her sisters, and her Uncle untold pain. And when the truth came out—as it was bound to—she would be hurt all over again.
And yet, he craved her company. Without even trying, she chased away the shadows of his past and brightened his house. He wanted whatever part of her she was willing to give, and if that made him a greedy monster … well, he’d been called worse.
They reached the landing at the top of the staircase and made their way down the corridor to his bedchamber. He could have easily limped the rest of the way to his room by leaning against the wall instead of her, but he’d have to be the world’s greatest idiot to send her away.
When they reached his door, she sighed in satisfaction. “Here we are. And you shall rest much more comfortably in your room.”
His arm still around her slender shoulders, he leaned close to her ear. “Maybe we should ask my grandmother to install a bed in my study.”
“Why? I do hope you’re not planning on making these types of injuries a habit.”
“No. But you never know when a bed might come in handy.” Damn it, spouting innuendo came so naturally that he couldn’t turn it off, even when he wanted to.
Though the darkness made her face impossible to read, he imagined she rolled her eyes. “If you wish to plop a bed in the middle of your study, it matters not to me. However, that is a conversation you will have to have with your grandmother yourself. Now, if you don’t require anything else…”