The Duke's Stolen Heart (London Scandals Book 4)

by Carrie Lomax

  With a final efficient scoop of cards and scoring of points, the three-game rubber was complete.

  “Lady Pembroke and Miss Lowry win.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Summervale stared, ashen-faced, at the red necklace winking in the center of an embarrassment of riches. A pirate would have blushed to see it. Antonia took no satisfaction in the damage she had wrought.

  She felt…empty. Not triumph.

  “May I keep the box?” whispered the chastened duchess. The loss had sapped her of vitality. She was an old woman, but the peppery personality had dimmed in an instant.

  “If it has sentimental value, then, yes. Of course.” Antonia felt sick. Her stomach rolled and her skin turned clammy despite the warm fire in the hearth.

  “There is a lock of her hair in the bottom.” The Dowager Duchess of Summervale leaned over the table to pluck the necklace from its nest. She freed it and pulled the velvet pillow out of the box to show the dark strand.

  Antonia shivered, thinking of the locket secreted in her bolt-hole. She had to make amends. If she had lost, Antonia would not have stolen the necklace. Malcolm had broken her ability to take from others without remorse. He had made her care about the impact of her actions on other people. For that, she didn’t think she could forgive him.

  Well. Anthony Lowe would be a right and proper businessman. Not a cheat in sight. All she had to do was…live a lie for the rest of her time on this earth.

  “Jenny?”

  The hair on the back of Antonia’s neck prickled. Sally. She was right that aristocrats never remembered the faces of those who served them—but she had forgotten that servants always recognized their colleagues. Arrogance on her part.

  “Do you know this woman?” the duchess inquired.

  Antonia’s heart leapt into her throat, but her instincts kicked in. The Heart’s Cry coiled easily in her grasp. The sharp planes of the faceted diamond bit into her palm.

  “Isn’t this Jenny from Miss Dumfries’ Girls? The agency?” Sally peered around as though terrified she had made an awful mistake.

  Under-butler Prosboscis’s features contorted with confirmation.

  “This is Miss Antonia Lowry, lately of New York,” sputtered Lady Summervale.

  “I think you had best go,” interjected Lady Pembroke. Her gnarled hands scooped up the deck of cards as if a crisis were not unfolding before her very eyes. A collective gasp arose.

  “I demand she give back the money.” Lady Woolryte pierced her with glare. Behind her pale visage was a pallor that could have been panic or anger, and was probably both.

  “I am leaving it all. I came to play fair and square. I have done so, and I will go. Good day, ladies.” Antonia strode out of the gaming parlor as though the hounds of hell nipped at her heels. By this evening, Antonia Lowry’s name would be blackened beyond repair. The sooner she became Anthony Lowe, the better. There was only one last thing she had to do. Deliver the necklace. Then, she could run.

  Chapter 20

  She hadn’t dared to darken the Duke of Havencrest’s door. No matter that she had left behind her winnings at the Dowager Duchess of Summervale’s. Having been caught lying about her identity to the most powerful women in England, Antonia had run to the one place she knew she would be safe. Her cold bolt-hole. She had used a bit of coin to send him a message via an errand boy. Waiting for his response gave her time to prepare. A tight hard knot had formed beneath her solar plexus.

  For the first time since her day in the pillory, Antonia felt humiliated.

  Now everyone she had spent months befriending knew she had been a fraud all along.

  It had been one thing to pretend she was above the frosty stares and social climbing when she was in the midst. Having lost it, though, Antonia realized that what she had most enjoyed about her time with the aristocracy was the feeling of belonging. It would take her years to rebuild that—if she ever could. After tonight, she was leaving. The pieces were in place for her to adopt a man’s identity. Forget ever sitting in a friend’s room exchanging innocuous secrets. Antonia thought of Margaret. Her eyes stung as she packed her gowns into a small trunk to be tossed into the river. Such a waste of fabric. What a misuse of her life.

  There was no going back now.

  A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Somberly, still garbed in the gown she had worn to play cards, Antonia answered it. “Welcome, Malcolm.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Hot tears threatened to fall. Antonia blinked them back. “I have delivered everything we agreed upon.” She held up the glinting halves of the necklace for which she had risked so much. Low lamp light reflected from the winking red gems seared her eyes, even when their image blurred with the salt of unshed tears. “The money.”

  Theirs had always been a nakedly economic relationship. More the fool, she, to pretend for even a moment that it could have been anything more.

  No, the Heart’s Cry curse remained intact. They had not broken it.

  Havencrest cradled the heart-shaped gem in his palms. It must be a trick of the light, but Antonia imagined for the briefest moment that it pulsed with life. He explored the back, finding the cleverly hidden catches that joined the heart-shaped top half to the teardrop lower section. Together, they spanned five full inches of wealth and heartache.

  “Your money is here. I have one final request.” Havencrest’s voice cracked on the last word. He swallowed visibly before continuing. “Would you wear the Heart’s Cry for a few minutes?”

  Unbidden, Antonia’s chin bobbed assent. “Yes,” she whispered. Why was she granting him this one final favor? Every second she remained in London put her further at risk.

  “I wish… I need to make a sketch. I had hoped to have the miniature repaired, but without a model and the original necklace, there was no way…” Havencrest trailed off. By now, Antonia recognized his embarrassment when she saw it.

  “This was never about owning the gem, was it?” she asked softly. Probing wounds to find their depth was a delicate endeavor, and one she had little practice with.

  “No.” Havencrest’s breath puffed as he held it out to her.

  Silently, Antonia accepted the gift. Havencrest rose in a fluid motion and moved to her back. She lifted her hair with one hand to let him latch the clasp of the first necklace about her neck. It took him two tries. The tremble of his hands against her nape sent a strange feeling along her nerves that became a somber ache in the pit of her stomach. The slide of rough hair and blunt fingers beneath her palms made Antonia shiver. Cold metal grazed her neck. It warmed quickly against her skin. Antonia dropped her hair.

  “Beautiful,” Havencrest whispered.

  Antonia felt it. A second later, he offered matching earrings. Antonia carefully plucked them from their velvet-lined box. “My ears are not pierced,” she said apologetically.

  “It’s all right. These are not the originals anyway. I can add the detail later. The necklace is all I need,” Havencrest replied quickly as if trying to dust away the awkwardness of this strange ritual.

  “Let me have the bracelet.”

  He held it out, and Antonia slid the bauble over her wrist.

  She rose up, channeling her mother’s weary dignity. Though it was for an audience of one, this felt like the most important role Antonia had ever performed.

  “I need you to sit. There.” Havencrest’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  Antonia obeyed. She settled into the chair Havencrest indicated. Her silk skirts whispered secrets. Soon they would be replaced with woolen trousers. With deception. A woman with money was suspect. A man with money was wealthy and powerful. Antonia had no delusions as to which future held better prospects. She could pass through the world as herself, and all it would cost her was her femininity. Her womanhood. Although her body would be the same beneath the layers of linen and wool she would use to hide her form, the thought that this was the last time in her life when a man would look on her body with worship in hi
s eyes cracked her heart.

  His pencils scribbled over paper as she sat in silence.

  Look at me, Antonia begged. A glance up. He sighed and made a modest adjustment to a line. Havencrest’s eyebrows knit and furrowed up and down. He sighed, cast the paper aside, and started afresh. Antonia remained rigid. Her back ached, but she dared not stretch or shift position. A painful itch began to throb above her right ear. Havencrest’s intent gaze flickered between her and the paper, so Antonia quelled the urge to scratch until the feeling faded.

  But as hard as he looked at her form, Havencrest’s focus was on the past. Antonia permitted herself a sigh of frustration.

  “One more minute,” he muttered. “I am almost done.” Lead scratched furiously over paper. Antonia’s back screamed for release.

  “Malcolm,” she said. “I need to stand up.”

  “Yes. Of course.” He did not take his eyes from the gems at her neck as she stretched her aching legs and shook out the magnificent silk of her skirts. When he finally met her gaze, Antonia felt the full weight of the Heart’s Cry curse. Once a whole had been broken, the two halves could never be reunited. No amount of clever metalsmithing or lapidary polish could bring the facets together. That power belonged to the earth, to time and history stretching beyond mortal memory.

  “My given name is Princess,” she mumbled, embarrassed as ever. Worse than naming someone was letting them name you.

  “Apt.” Malcolm stood slowly, his large presence taking up all the space in her tiny room. He cupped her cheek in his hand. She nuzzled his palm, seeking comfort. “You have the bearing and the beauty of one.” His hand curled around the nape of her neck, drawing Antonia against his chest. “You deserve to be treated as one. You always did.”

  “Stop,” she pleaded. “You’ll make me cry.”

  “They aren’t worth a single tear.” Havencrest’s mouth found hers, and they were kissing, openmouthed and raw with need. “You, Princess, deserved to be kept in silks and jewels.” He brushed his lips to her forehead. “As you are now.”

  He lifted the hem of her skirt. Antonia wanted him, but more than their physical connection, she needed more. Give me a sense that you understand it was never about gold. “What I wanted, Malcolm, was freedom. When I was fifteen, my mama married. He never liked me, and I never liked him, either. I stole my first necklace that day. I was stupid about it and got caught.”

  Havencrest squeezed her breast through layers of gleaming silk. Antonia gasped and arched into him, ruching up her skirts to straddle his thigh. “What happened?”

  “I spent an afternoon in the pillory and had my arse switched.” Her hands had fisted around his lapel as she let the words out in a rush. “I was fortunate they didn’t brand me.”

  Havencrest tensed. His arms both caged and shielded Antonia. He inhaled in the scant space between their bodies. “That will never happen to you again. I swear it. I’ll see to it that Bow Street is called off. I’ll find a way to convince my grandmother not to tell them about you. Toni, my princess, I promise to keep you safe.”

  He stroked her, and Antonia shuddered with need. For touch, yes, but also for connection. Never, in all the fantasies she wove for herself in the years, had she imagined she would find it in the arms of an arrogant lord in a foreign land. But then, her life had always bent and twisted toward the incredible. Antonia had always pushed and pulled until it looked more like the one she wanted.

  But all she had made was a tangle of wires sharp enough to draw blood.

  “You can’t protect me from what I have wrought, Malcolm.” She arched into him as he pressed his hot, open mouth down her neck. Her curls unwound and draped over them in a curtain. The pathetic fire in the coal grate sputtered. The air crystalized with cold but it didn’t matter, because his long body was hot beneath hers. She loosened his cravat and flung it aside.

  Malcolm shifted back onto her tiny, sagging cot, his back against the cracked plaster wall. It was a travesty that they were doing this here in her bolt-hole and not in his sumptuous bed, yet in a way, it was felt right too. Familiar, if not comfortable.

  “I never expected to get as far as I did with my deceptions,” she confessed. One shirt stud popped free. Antonia set it on the windowsill. Chill air nipped her fingers. This felt important, now that she had scaled unimaginable social heights and dared to do the impossible. Or, at least, the highly inadvisable. “I have spent years believing I was one step from being caught. I barely stayed ahead of the magistrate in New York. When I forged my papers to come to England, I vowed to stop. But I never had enough money to afford it. Even while I stayed on with the Kilpatricks and then the Evendaws, there was a constant outflow for things like gloves and calling cards and ribbons that were never necessary but expected. I slipped back into stealing without meaning to. I had no choice.”

  Malcolm’s hands were busy beneath her skirts, unfastening loosening, stroking the outsides of her thighs while she worked his shirt free.

  “All I want is to stop running,” Antonia whispered as she placed the final silver stud beside its fellows and parted the placket. Beneath was a cambric undershirt, through which the pale, flat discs of his nipples were visible. He shifted forward. Muscles bunched and moved as he divested himself of the white linen. Antonia leaned back to let him move. Petticoats and stockings puddled around their bodies. Her loose dress slipped down over her shoulders, leaving her naked but for the skim of greige chemise down her body.

  Malcolm’s hot, dark gaze glittered brighter than any diamond. His hands cradled her upper arms as she kissed him openly. Then, it was her turn to explore him with her mouth and tongue and inhale the scent of leather and the hint of bay rum that lingered on his skin. The scattered hair on his chest was rough against her tongue as she licked her way down his bare chest. Confronted with the barrier of his trousers, she sat back on her heels. Malcolm leaned back against the cold wall that barely separated them from the howl of wind outside. The long edge of the cot pressed into her stomach as Antonia stroked his cock. Thick thighs supported her forearms as she unfastened the flap of his trousers.

  “Toni,” he groaned as she freed his stiff member from its nest of wool and small clothes. His cock was so thick her fingers could hardly close around it. Already slick with desire, she ached to be filled. They had one opportunity to be together like this, and she was determined to make it last. She tapped the head against her lips. Malcolm spasmed. His hands came up as though to push her away, but instead he buried them her hair. Softly encouraging without forcing.

  Antonia parted her lips and swept her tongue over the head as she grasped his length and stroked. A hoarse grunt told her how much he liked it, so she did it again before angling her mouth over his tip. His stomach contracted interestingly. Antonia placed the palm of her free hand over his belly button and pulled him all the way into her mouth. Deeper. Muscles worked, and a fascinating wet sound filled her ears in an echo of pleasure yet to come.

  She popped off to give her aching jaw a rest. Malcolm’s eyes had half closed in blissful agony. Satisfied, she rocked back onto her heels again.

  “Come up onto the bed.”

  “It won’t support us.”

  “Then we’ll crush it,” he declared huskily. “Let it break.”

  Silently, she passed him a square of paper. Wordlessly, Malcolm applied the sheath. When he had finished, his hand disappeared beneath the hem of her chemise to position his cock at her entrance. Antonia settled herself over his hard length, paused, rose up, and took him all the way inside with a harsh gasp of satisfaction. Malcolm’s hands were hot iron bands at her waist as Antonia sank down over him again and again. A minute shift of her hips to find the right place, and—

  There. She clamped her nails down on the triangular muscle that ran between his neck and his shoulder above his collar bones. “Harder,” she begged.

  A sly smile touched the corner of his mouth. “How is this?” His palm slid over her low belly until his thumb stroked down the ap
ex of her sex to the bead.

  “Yes,” she exhaled as pleasure tightened a hard grip on her core. A few quick strokes, and Antonia’s breath came in jagged pants. Unbidden, her back arched and she cried out.

  But he wasn’t done. The rough burr of his voice in her ear was accompanied by the texture of stubble against her cheek. Teeth closed over her earlobe. Antonia closed her eyes and tried to gather the tattered bits of reason.

  He kissed her, and Antonia’s head dropped to meet him. Their tongues met, and teeth clicked as he drove into her again, this time pounding her from below. The bed creaked in rhythmic protest. Pressure gathered and tightened. His thumbs found the undersides of her breasts. Then the tips. A tug and a roll between pinched fingers, and she was slamming her hips frantically in time with his while wild sounds emanated from her throat. Half syllables burst out of her as everything wrenched at once in a pulse that overtook her entire body. Malcolm swelled within her, lost control.

  When their pleasure subsided, Antonia found herself cradled in his arms, spent. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead in the crook of his neck. One big hand stroked the back of her head.

  “See? The bed held up just—”

  Crack.

  Antonia felt a drop and unwanted, abrupt separation of their bodies as the cot collapsed beneath them. Malcolm winced and rolled her over onto the mattress with him. They laughed, chuckling into the gloom of her bolt-hole apartment as they laid tangled together.

  “I have one final favor to ask of you, Antonia,” Havencrest said as he lazily stroked her shoulder with the pad of his thumb.

  “A favor? What makes you think I am willing to do any such thing?” Antonia teased.