The uncertainty in her voice cut him in two. He set the glasses on the nearest table, then pulled her to him. Her arms tightened around his torso as if only he could keep her upright.
“Help me understand,” he said.
With her forehead resting against his chest, Daphne released a woeful sigh. “I don’t care about the reticule either. But it contains my journal.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I’ve written things that would destroy my family and others. Personal things about my siblings and personal things about me. If it lands in the wrong hands, then my family is ruined, not to mention me.”
She suddenly pulled away, and the immediate sense of loss overpowered him. “I’ll find the boy and retrieve your journal.”
Pure panic radiated from her as her chest heaved wildly like a chimney bellows. “You can’t. Tait will accompany me. I’ll go back tomorrow and wait in the carriage for Garland to appear.”
“Let me point out the obvious,” he drawled. “Tait is the least competent person to retrieve your book. He couldn’t fight off a fly if it decided to attack. Besides, I’m familiar enough with the Reynolds staff and its patrons that I can quickly find this journal of yours while keeping you safe.”
Adorably, she bit her lip as she considered his logic. “What an excellent idea. With you beside me, we’ll be in and out in a trice. No one need know what’s inside my journal.”
“You can’t come with me. It would be inviting a scandal. If you’re discovered there, you’re ruined. Completely. We were lucky that you weren’t recognized tonight.” There was no way except for a month filled with thirty Sundays that Paul would ever consider taking her. On her own, she was fresh meat for the carnivores who prowled through the night masquerading as gentlemen.
Hadn’t he just described himself? No, he’d kissed her to save her reputation. But if he was truthful with himself, he wanted to spend this time with her. She was a delightful woman full of love and seemed to enjoy his company also.
“If you won’t take me, then Tait will.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest.
The pose had the unintended effect of lifting her breasts, like an offering on a platter. Like a starving man, he groaned and ran his hand over his face, hoping to tame the wild and edgy response of his body.
She smiled for the first time since she arrived at home, causing her face to glow.
Something shifted within him. A crack opened up, allowing a want to crawl out from the depths of his soiled soul and emerge, shaking every manacle free. He didn’t recognize it at first, but it was something uncontrollable. It resembled a yearning, a hunger that could consume him, and only she could satisfy it. If desire would destroy him, then he’d relish every minute of it. A lightness released within him that he hadn’t felt in ages, maybe never. Like a heavy-linked chain had loosened and he experienced freedom for the first time.
She and her haunting eyes and bewitching mouth had caused it.
No. It wasn’t lust.
It was more powerful. In that moment, he forced himself to breath deep. Ordinary scents of the library—leather, brandy, fire, books, paper, and ink—combined. Yet his nostrils flared, desperate to consume an exotic scent that wafted gently toward him.
Her innocence combined with the fragrance of lavender wrapped around him and squeezed. He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity that this woman might dare threaten his sense of self. Suddenly, everything surrounding him grew eerily silent. Even the crackling of the fire quieted.
She took a step toward him.
That’s when he caught it, the real power that could destroy him. The faint whiff of her essence, a woman desiring him, and her accompanying look—fleeting as it was—a pure, unfettered look of adoration.
He’d been desired before, but never with that look.
She thought him noble.
He stumbled back a step.
He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, desperate to recapture the scent. God, to have someone see goodness within him was a heady desire. Like a cold, sobering rain shower, reality intruded. All the hateful things he’d done to her family marched into his forethoughts—her brother, his longtime friend, he’d tried to ruin. He’d disparaged her sister-in-law, and the shame of it still singed his soul. He’d let her sister suffer.
But from nowhere, his true self, the selfish beast he’d nurtured for years, pummeled his last remaining brief hope. He was nothing but a rogue. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change. He only lived for himself.
Everything inside him roiled in revolt and pain. He had to escape now, or he’d find himself emasculated by his own wants. He’d not soil her goodness with his own rot.
He closed his eyes and groaned. “There’s only one solution. I’ll take you, and together we’ll find your journal.” For liquid courage, he downed one fingerful of brandy then reached for the other. “Do you mind?”
“No, be my guest. I’m not thirsty.”
God almighty, he was. “Parched” didn’t even describe his thirst. What in the devil had he gotten himself into?
“I want something in return.” Wasn’t that always his creed? Think of himself first. “I want to mend my relationship with your brother. You can help me.”
“How?” She laughed. “You made quite the mess of it all by yourself.”
“That’s true, but a fine upstanding sister such as yourself would have a lot of influence.”
“What are you about?” she scoffed. “He forgot me. How much influence is that?”
“I’d never forget you,” he said sincerely.
She rolled her eyes.
“I never have.”
“Please. Spare me the trite words,” she said dismissively.
All his bad acts had come home to roost. He really wanted to give her a compliment, and she threw it in his face. “I’m serious. I promised my brother that I’d repair my broken friendship with Pembrooke.”
“Why would you make that promise?” she asked.
“I think Robbie was worried I wouldn’t have anyone except for my friend, Devan Farris.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe Robbie wanted me to cleanse my soul.”
“I can understand a brother wanting to protect his sibling. The only thing I can promise is I’ll try,” she said hesitantly. “But you must help me with the Reynolds.”
This was not the way to mend his broken relationships with the Hallworth family, particularly Pembrooke. But when had Paul ever done the right thing? Certainly not when he wanted something. He was living proof that you couldn’t change a tiger’s stripes to spots.
Tonight, the only thing he wanted was her.
But he couldn’t have her.
“Agreed. Now I must be on my way. I hope you have a lovely evening.” Without another word, he walked briskly toward the door.
“Paul, stop. We need to discuss the arrangements in greater detail.” The sound of relief and hope in her voice was pure and sweet like music.
He heard her cry out for him to stop again, but he kept walking, his boot heels clicking against the black and white marble tiles like a drum sergeant ordering him forward. He made quick work of retrieving his own coat and hat. Her steps followed his.
Paul forced himself to lock gazes with her. Before she could utter a word of protest, he nodded once. “Good night, my lady.” He didn’t look back as he rushed out the door.
Otherwise, he might change his mind and do the only proper thing—refuse to take her to the gambling hell.
Only when his carriage was safely away did he let his desire have free rein. He wanted what her look had promised—a life with a woman who could love him.
Yet he knew the truth. He could never earn her love or risk his heart. For he wouldn’t be able to bear the utter revulsion in her liquid silver eyes when she discovered how dissolute and disreputable he truly was.
Chapter Eight
Devan took a drink of whisky, then shook his head. “That’ll clear the cobwebs. Today proved Dante didn’t know what he was t
alking about.” He exhaled a sound very much like exhaustion. “There are no circles of hell—it’s a straight path, and I took it today in the company of my brother. But it can wait until later. Now you have my undivided attention.”
The devilment in his friend’s voice irritated Paul, but after he’d been so bemused last night, it helped to tell the incredible tale to his friend. Once he’d retired for the evening, he hadn’t fallen asleep until hours later, as visions of Daphne Hallworth stole his every thought.
“I found Lady Daphne at the bloody gaming hell.” Paul eased his body into his favorite chair in the library, a massive armchair covered in leather with scrollwork details and carved spiral uprights that his great-grandfather had commissioned. Paul had personally brought it down from the attic as a tribute to his father. The ornate piece was out of place in the room decorated in the neoclassical design his father favored. If his father were here, he’d roar his disapproval and rail at Paul’s lack of taste. For some odd reason, the simple act of placing the chair in a position of prominence pleased Paul to no end. “We went out the hidden kitchen door. You know the one?”
Devan nodded, then took another sip.
“One of the Reynolds whores was servicing a man on her knees.”
Devan emphatically shook his head. “I believe the proper term is ‘Cyprians weaving their magic.’ The establishment doesn’t employ your everyday light-skirts. Those women are beautiful.”
“I agree,” Paul said. “However, I never fancied how they were treated.”
“The Reynolds takes advantage of those women.”
Paul nodded. “There’s more. Lady Daphne saw everything.”
His friend’s eyes grew wide, then he let out a bark of laughter. “I wish I could have seen the two of you together. The consummate Lothario and the wide-eyed virgin bearing witness to a cock being serviced.”
“A ‘Lothario’ implies that I deceive women. Is your opinion that low of me?” Paul asked.
Devan shook his head. “Never. You don’t deceive anyone. You’re too busy seducing. A more innocent description for you is ‘a rake.’ Will that satisfy your honor?”
The teasing in his voice grated Paul’s somewhat frayed nerves.
“They should have been taking bets inside the Reynolds as to who had the wider eyes, you watching the delectable Lady Daphne watching such a scene or her at the shock of what she saw,” Devan offered.
“Oh no, my friend, it’s worse.” Paul set down his full glass of champagne, then started to pace. “Martin Richmond saw me outside and had the audacity to approach. I had my back to him. She told me to kiss her, and frankly, I froze. All of a sudden, she kissed me. I went along with it. If Richmond thought I was out there with a whore, it was worth the chance he’d leave us be.”
“That’s smart thinking on her part.” Devan studied his glass, concentrating as if it were a crystal ball with all the answers. “So, how does the fair Lady Daphne kiss?”
“Sometimes you’re so juvenile. Or are you just foxed? Why I entertain your nonsense is beyond me.”
“Because you know I have your best interests at heart.” Devan’s demeanor changed from humorous to grave. “Must I beg? Give me a prurient bone. It’s been at least six months since I’ve even had a scent of a woman, let alone a kiss.”
“Enough of the jokes.” Paul’s humor at Devan’s shenanigans faded. There was serious business afoot. “He wants to meet her.”
“Lady Daphne?”
“Moonbeam. That’s what I called her tonight, so others wouldn’t recognize who she was.” But the real reason was because when he’d first seen the soft light kissing her cheeks she looked as ethereal as any celestial body in the sky. If he shared that with Devan, Paul would never hear the end of it.
“Moonbeam?” Devan claimed the closest chair and howled in laughter. “Good God, this gets better and better, Your Grace.”
“As a man of the church, you’re not supposed to blaspheme.” The arrogant arse was begging Paul to plant a facer.
Once Devan fought his laughter under control, he smoothed a hand down his waistcoat and wiped his eyes. “There’s a special dispensation during the holidays.”
Devan’s perfect delivery of a pious expression caused Paul to roll his eyes.
“Everyone’s heart overflows with love for our fellow man and the holy spirit.” Then his friend pursed his lips like a cat’s arse, and his eyes flashed with laughter once again. “But ‘Moonbeam’? Your Grace, where’s the suave seducer we’ve all come to love and respect?”
Without giving a tinker’s damn, Devan laughed again.
Paul stopped his pacing and returned to his champagne. The bubbles rushed to meet him. At least the beverage held some respect for him. He ran a hand over his face to clear his maudlin mood. Now he was attributing human emotions to a glass of wine. He downed the glass without coming up for air. “You’re supposed to be my friend, my spiritual counselor.”
Devan walked to him and grabbed one of Paul’s shoulders. “I am your friend. But you need to see the humor in this situation. She twisted you into a homemade noodle.”
Paul opened his mouth to argue, but Devan put up his hand to stop him. “Why was Moonbeam there?”
Paul briefly debated how much of the story to tell, then decided he’d share everything. He had the utmost faith in Devan’s discretion. “A boy, who works as a runner for the Reynolds, stole her private diary, a journal where she’s recorded her private thoughts. I promised I’d help her find it.”
“What you’re doing for her is a kind thing,” Devan said. “She’s rightfully concerned that someone will find this journal and use it to harm her or her family. If The Midnight Cryer gets wind of this diary, she’ll face ruin.”
Paul nodded in agreement. “She’s bloody terrified. I know I promised her, but I shouldn’t take her. Besides, it’s in my character to break such a promise.”
Devan shook his head. “You’d be miserable if you did.”
“But I should try to talk her out of going. She can’t risk going to the Reynolds.” Paul began to pace, hoping it’d clear his thoughts. “I’ll get the damned thing for her and return it. She doesn’t need to be involved.”
Devan lost all signs of his earlier mirth. “Did the thought ever occur to you that she doesn’t want you to see what’s inside?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Every single one of us has a dark side that battles relentlessly for supremacy. Perhaps she writes to cleanse herself, like her own personal communion.” Devan tilted his head slightly in a signal that usually preceded a lecture. “You above all others should understand that desire. You’re constantly seeking an easy way to purify your soul.”
Paul put up his hand for Devan to stop. “Not tonight, please. I’m in no mood for a sermon.”
Ignoring him, Devan continued, “If Lady Daphne writes about her demons and desires, then all the more power to her. It makes no difference to any of us. So, if she writes about plotting murders by poison or perverted tales that would make the devil cringe, I say, it’s her business and no one else’s.”
“I don’t care what she’s written.” Paul stopped his pacing, then turned his full attention to Devan. “I’m the last person to think ill of anyone else.”
“I never said that you did care. But this is something very personal to her. From what you’ve described, she’s going to go with or without you. If you’re with her, then you can assist if she needs help. Her brother will be undoubtedly grateful.”
Gratitude wouldn’t be Pembrooke’s reaction. Pure unadulterated fury would most likely be the marquess’s response once he learned of Paul’s attention to Daphne while she was alone in the city. “I told her I’d help her if she’d help me mend my friendship with Pembrooke.”
Devan shrugged. “Quid pro quo. I see the wisdom in that. You’re both invested in the outcome.”
There was more to it than that, but he wouldn’t share it with Devan. When he’d held her in his a
rms, he’d experienced a connection, a closeness that had been missing since Robbie’s death. Perhaps it was worth the risk. Their closeness was something that he’d never experienced before. His friendship with Devan represented a bond, a familiar one at that, but nothing like the friendship he experienced with Daphne tonight.
“Friendship”—such a curious word. The thought that he and Daphne were friends punched him in the gut like two schoolboys showing affection toward each other. The truth was that he needed her much more than she needed him. If there was one thing he lacked in his filthy rich and obscenely blessed ducal life, it was friends and family.
Such a revelation proved there was only one thing to do.
It would be his honor, as a friend, to accompany her to the Reynolds. If she needed help, she’d not have to rely on a stranger. She could rely on him. At least he could assist her until her brother returned, and why shouldn’t he do it? Though a debauched rake, he could act appropriately when needed.
He and Daphne were friends after all.
* * *
When Daphne dressed, her thoughts were consumed with Paul and their sensuous kisses. He was not the type of man she should trust, but last night he’d been a charming ally and, frankly, a valiant accomplice who wanted to help—never mind the fact that he was an expert at kissing.
Whether the night was memorable because of the passion they’d created together or because she’d been alone with him at a gambling hell made little difference. Either way, he was like a forbidden fruit, and she’d just taken a bite out of the poisoned apple and survived.
It wasn’t too far-fetched to say that she wanted more.
For once in her life she had chosen something for herself—a night with someone unacceptable in almost every conceivable way. He was a man her family didn’t approve of, and he was wicked in so many ways. But for her, the simple reason that Paul was helping her recover her journal in return for her assistance in repairing his friendship with her brother made her even less leery. Why would he spend his evening with her unless he truly felt something for her? She wasn’t naïve enough to believe he’d changed completely. Based upon Alex and his friend Somerton’s comments, they thought he’d never change his dissolute ways.
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 9