Boundless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

  The boy scraped his new shoe along the ground. “No thieving and no gossip.”

  “I’ll amend that. No thieving unless I tell you. No gossip unless I tell you to repeat it.” How better to spread a rumor than to ask a servant to do it?

  He didn’t need Mickey’s cynical grin to tell him that double standards were involved here. All for a good cause.

  To his surprise he discovered his temper had melted away. He might keep the boy as his page and annoy the fashionable world full-time. That would certainly enliven his life.

  That would also happen if he married Livia. The Emperors tended to absorb the spouses that came into their fold, wrapping them into the powerful family that controlled so much. Adrian didn’t know how to live in a group. He was an only child, brought up by his dynastically minded grandfather rather than his largely absent parents, his nearest relative a cousin who was currently his heir.

  They did not share much of a social life. His cousin lived in another part of the country, only visiting occasionally to familiarize himself with the house and its methods, in case Adrian died in some duel, or in his mistress’s bed.

  So far neither had happened. He had increased his skill on the dueling field, and these days fought few to none. He had taken to having one mistress at a time. Doxies had lost their appeal a long time ago. What a sad rake he was turning out to be! If he didn’t do something soon people would think he had turned over a new leaf. That would never do.

  “Come on,” he said, infused with new purpose. “We’ll find a gambling hell. Let’s see what we can wreak there.”

  * * * *

  Lady Bradford had engaged a good crowd for her musicale, probably because she had promised the presence of the latest soprano to astonish the crowd at the Italian opera.

  Livia enjoyed a good opera, but tonight left her wanting. She could not understand why. Especially when the soprano appeared and made everyone understand why she was so very good. She even managed an English ballad with a creditable accent.

  After they passed through to the elegant salon where supper was laid out for them, they could talk. The room was crowded, people crushing close, but Livia wondered how much was from necessity and how much concerned their wish to overhear. She was only too aware that the current gossip centered around her and the Duke of Preston.

  “A refreshing change,” her mother said, “to have such a modest young lady with a truly excellent voice.”

  “The last song didn’t interest me at all,” her brother said, “but she sang it well.”

  And that was another thing. Marcus had come to town, bearing his wife, Viola, with a complete entourage to care for their precious baby. Livia was overjoyed, then dismayed. Viola had been the daughter of their land steward, and she’d belonged to their group of playmates. She knew Livia better than was comfortable right now, and Livia hated hiding her secret from her old friend. But not even Viola knew.

  Viola was standing at Livia’s elbow, watching her. Livia felt her perceptive gaze, warmth creeping along her left side as she forced her calm and interested demeanor. Her secret, dormant for so many years, threatened to rise up and drown her. She had thought it gone forever but recently everything she had done, every sight, had reminded her of her lost child. He’d be ten years old now. She refused to accept the alternative. Surely she’d have known if the baby had died?

  Viola touched her shoulder. “Are you quite well, dear?” She must have felt Livia’s shiver.

  “Perfectly, thank you.” Forcing a smile, Livia turned her head to meet Viola’s gaze.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the new entrant. Adrian—the Duke of Preston, that was—stood at the back of the crowded room, his rich blue coat a flag in the middle of a sea of pastel colors. Did he select where he would stand based on what he was wearing? Of course not. A man in somber black stood close to him, now she spread her field of vision to take in his surroundings. But Adrian sucked all the attention. Unless that effect purely affected her, that was.

  Her foolish heart leaped, and her pulse throbbed in her throat, making breathing evenly difficult. Unfortunately, in her low-cut gown, that could easily be perceived if she did not control her reaction.

  “Has someone attracted your interest?” Viola murmured.

  Livia hated lying to her friends and family. She rarely did so. “No.” But sometimes it had to be done.

  “A shame. It’s your turn, Livia.” Viola glanced up, meeting her husband’s gaze. They did that a lot—acted in concert, as if they were linked in some odd way. They adored each other, and Livia suspected they always had. But they hadn’t realized until recently.

  The duke made his way through the room to join her. Livia didn’t have to see him, she sensed every step. As he came closer, his voice murmured through to her, exchanging platitudes. He was much better at meaningless chit-chat than she’d imagined, especially for someone who claimed they had no patience for society and its ways. On the other hand, the nearer he came, the more she lost her ability to think rationally.

  She had to stop this nonsense. Not that she knew how.

  “Ladies, well met,” he murmured as he gave a perfect bow, but without the flourish at the end that many men preferred. Rising, he met Livia’s gaze directly. To hide her reaction, she bobbed a curtsy, but he knew. She saw the knowledge in his eyes when she rose and lifted her chin. “It is good to see you all in such good heart. My lady, I merely wish to report that there has been some progress in retrieving your trinket.”

  Her stomach plummeted to her toes. “Thank you, but you need not concern yourself any longer.”

  “You have found it?” His raised brow told her he didn’t believe her.

  Where was that blasted soprano? Surely she’d rested enough by now? “No, sir, I have not, but it is a mere nothing. Of no importance.”

  “A memento of your grandmother, you said.”

  A gasp told Livia that her mother had got the gist of the discussion. “That little brooch? Goodness, Livia, you need not make such a fuss about it.”

  “I happened to mention it to his grace, but I didn’t mean to put him to such trouble.”

  Lady Strenshall furled her fan, examining the glittering pattern on the sticks before addressing Preston once more. “Indeed, it is wrong of my daughter to request your help to retrieve it. It is true, the object is of sentimental value, but I’m sure if we speak to Kirkburton he will find something of our mother’s to replace it.”

  “Oh, but…” Livia bit her tongue. Her mother knew the true value of the brooch, and how important it was that nobody understood its significance. “Yes, of course.”

  Preston would not have missed her small protest. He was entirely too quick for her liking. “I insist. Lady Livia did not ask for my help, but she mentioned it in my presence. What can a man do?” He spread his hands in a gesture of despair. “London is devoid of amusements. Pray allow me to fill my time with something a little more diverting than the usual distractions.”

  “You do not mean this charming evening, I am persuaded,” Livia said, wickedness and a strong desire to get her revenge invading her.

  “Naturally.”

  “The soprano is delightful. The toast of the Italian opera. Did you come to see her?”

  Maybe he was looking for a replacement for Ophelia. The singer’s dark hair and flashing eyes would provide him with the best diversion. Her protestations that she was a respectable woman would not last long in the face of this man’s determination.

  He gave her a bland smile. “No, I came to see you.”

  A few people sucked in a breath, not only the family but the others crowding close. He had equated her with the soprano? Well, it was her fault, after all. He’d turned her sally right back at her. She could do nothing other than smile and deploy her fan. “Thank you, sir. You know how to flatter a woman,” she said, keeping her voice f
lat.

  His smile, far too intimate, attacked that warmth inside her. If she wasn’t so well-bred, she’d have squirmed under his perceptive gaze. “I do my poor best.”

  A movement from the door revealed their hostess, indicating they should return. The crowd moved slowly toward the exit, but Livia found an arm hooked firmly around hers, holding her back.

  Patiently, she waited until everyone had filed out. Her mother turned, glanced at them and her eyes narrowed. “Five minutes,” she said.

  “You know,” Livia said when everyone had left, leaving only Livia, Preston, and a few servants clearing up the mess the guests had left behind, “if you insist on hovering so close to me, people will get the wrong idea. And we will be forced to a position neither of us wants.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, gently turning her to face him. “I’ve been thinking that might not be a bad idea. Are you so averse to it?”

  She blinked. “We are talking about the same thing, are we not?”

  Not at all put out, he inclined his head, bringing his mouth closer. “A betrothal. Shall we set London by its collective ear?”

  “Such address that you have!”

  He laid his hand over hers. She hated that she couldn’t control the trembling. “Why not? I will take the greatest care of you.”

  “You don’t mean it. You’re joking me.” He could not do this. She could not do this. “I decided many years ago that I should remain single.”

  “Why? Why must you? You cannot shock me, Livia.”

  “Your grace—”

  “Adrian. My name is Adrian.”

  Swallowing, she dared to lift her head and meet his calm gaze. “You merely look for another scandal, Adrian. Please, leave me alone. The brooch is of no consequence.”

  “Livia, you are lonely and troubled. I don’t wish to leave you to this.”

  She said the only thing she could. “Sir Jeffrey Creasey is back from the army. We are old friends.”

  “Is he more than a friend?”

  She nodded. “We grew up together.”

  “And you prefer him?” He sounded much steadier than she felt.

  Around them the subdued clink of servants stacking plates and flatware kept her grounded. “We are childhood sweethearts.”

  “But you are not sweethearts now. I did not hear you say that. And until you do, I will not leave you to his mercies.”

  He straightened and stepped back. Already she felt his absence. She could not go on like this, pining for the wickedest man in London. In the country, most likely. She had to send him away before he tempted her beyond reason.

  Already she was having thoughts and notions she must not. He was leading her into a place where she had firmly closed the door years before, showing her glimpses into a world she could never have.

  “I don’t like your Sir Jeffrey. He assumes you are his for the taking. Are you?”

  Numbly, she shook her head, realizing a fraction too late that she should have nodded. Sent him away. “You only want me because I resist. Because you can’t have me.”

  “I did at first, I admit. I sought to amuse myself, without compromising either of us. I never thought to marry again, but I never met anyone I could stomach for more than a few hours at a time.”

  A smile curved his lips, altogether different from the cynical face he showed to the world. This one revealed warmth, true humor and kindness. This was the man she could not resist. Seeing him like this made her understand how dangerous he truly was. “So no, my lady, my Livia, I will not go away. Not until I discover what you are hiding and what that brooch truly means to you.”

  Lifting her hand, he kissed it, never letting his gaze leave hers. His caress was as intimate, as meaningful as any she had ever received. Like the sealing of a vow, that kiss marked a turn in their relationship.

  From what and to what she did not know. But something had changed between them.

  Chapter 6

  What was he thinking? He had shown her more than he intended. Her sweet face, her eyes fierce with tension she would not admit had called to her, demanding his help. Her words had said otherwise.

  As Adrian left the house, not bothering with the second half of the evening’s entertainment, he strode up the street, heading for the less salubrious and far more enjoyable parts of the city.

  Entering into society again had proved interesting but snared him more than he wished. However, he had discovered the one woman who would not bore him. For the foreseeable future, at least.

  He could promise nothing, but perhaps he’d found the woman who could keep him for long enough. He could make a child with her. An heir. After Anna had died, he had turned his face against marriage. They had torn through London, turned the city into their playground. He led the way, and she’d followed, but that way he could keep her at the correct distance. He’d imagined when she tired of their play they would breed, but she wasn’t ready. Now she would never be.

  Reaching Covent Garden, he gazed at the scene with mixed emotions. This place had provided distraction enough over the years. He’d brawled here, whored here, gambled in a cozy den not far from here, at the back of Maiden Lane. That was where he’d decided to go tonight.

  The square was alive with people, whores calling out for business, bullies roaring outside gambling dens, lights everywhere, as if beeswax was free. Usually he loved the sight, a welcome change from the careful manners of the fashionable salons, but tonight he felt none of the excitement. That had all gone.

  Having won the other night, despite the house being against him, he needed to lose a few thousand pounds. Throw it away heedlessly, donate it to the wickedness of the city. Get that temptation out of his system. He might even find a comely whore or two, although after Ophelia’s spectacular tantrums, he was in no mood for careless swiving.

  Only drawn by the allure of a perfectly respectable woman of fashion. That above all. His desire for her was running out of control, and if he did anything in this life, it was to make his lesser appetites serve him, not the other way about.

  A few men nodded to him, and women swayed toward him, but he did not stop until he reached the door of the gaming hell. The paint was faded and peeling, the door rotting where it stood, but sturdy timbers were nailed across it. He knocked, recalling the specific tattoo he would need to use in order for the place to be opened.

  A bully slid the door open a crack, grunted, and opened it wide enough for Adrian to enter. The glow of candlelight and the scent of beeswax greeted him. In this area a person would think that cheaper tallow would be the order of the day, but this den catered for the wealthy, and provided the amenities they expected.

  As he descended the stairs, the hum of voices made themselves apparent. This was one of Adrian’s favorite haunts, but he had none of his usual sense of homecoming as he entered the large room created by knocking together several cellars belonging to the houses above. He knew all the exits, and the signals, but the authorities tended to leave them alone. Rarely did they create any trouble.

  A waiter hailed him. “What is your pleasure tonight, sir?” Titled gentlemen rarely went by their real names in this place. Unless they volunteered the information, they were never asked.

  He waved a hand. “Whatever you consider interesting.”

  “The loo table is lively tonight, sir.”

  He nodded. “That will do.” A pure game of chance would give him time to think about other things and try to calm his tempestuous thoughts.

  As he took his seat, he swept a disinterested glance around the table, not allowing his attention to linger on anyone.

  Not even Sir Jeffrey Creasey, who sat regarding him, turning a golden guinea around in his fingers.

  Adrian favored him with a cool nod. He inclined his head. “Welcome, your grace. I take it I am dealing you in?”

  Using his title was in dire
ct contravention to the rules of the house. Sir Jeffrey could have used “Preston,” or “sir,” but he had chosen to go with Adrian’s honorific. Adrian said nothing but let his eyelids droop in an expression of disdain. He did not care who knew his name, but others might. The implied disrespect niggled at him.

  Seven men sat at the table, all of whom Adrian knew, at least by sight. He let the slur pass. Digging in his pocket, he found a handful of guineas, which he stacked next to him. In a better-furnished establishment they would have a table with recessed dishes for the money.

  A waiter took his money and exchanged it for counters. Adrian understood the reasoning well. Players would throw these bone discs into the pool where they might hesitate if they had golden guineas before them. But they had to cash in their winnings before they left, because the tokens became worthless if they were taken out of the house and brought back in again.

  That was also understandable but another win for the house. He found more guineas and had them exchanged. Soon he would move to notes of hand, all of which he would honor. Perhaps recklessly throwing his money away would help to cure the nagging feeling deep inside that he was waking up, turning into somebody he didn’t know. Threatening to get out of control.

  They cut for dealer, and the gentleman three away from Adrian won. He accepted his hand of three cards, glancing at them before laying them back down before him. He would pass, even though this hand was good. He wanted to see how Sir Jeffrey played.

  He played well.

  Over the next few hands Adrian watched him, aware that he was being scrutinized in turn.

  Lord Blackburn tossed a counter into the growing pile in the center of the table. The last hand had gone unclaimed, so they were playing on. “Of course you have that gorgeous creature, Ophelia d’Arblay, in tow.”

  Adrian handed the girl a guinea—a real one. The woman made a show of biting it and tucked it into her pocket. She could hardly put it into her bodice, since that item of clothing was virtually nonexistent. Sir Jeffrey beckoned to her. “Come here.”