by Tamara Gill
Well, perhaps it was now.
She shook her head, more to herself than anything. She needed to centre herself right now. It wouldn’t do to go falling back into Dante’s arms again. It had taken two weeks of heartbreak to feel even slightly normal on her own. If she cracked, she would only be hurting herself.
“Come here.”
Taking her hand, he led her off once more, slipping into a dark room at the end of the vestibule—one that was usually used by the musicians during balls and suchlike. The curtains were drawn and sheets were poured over the table and chairs. A few ribbons of light slipped in between the drapes, catching on the gilded frames, making them sparkle and shine like precious jewellery.
She should have risked embarrassment and dragged herself away from him, though perhaps this was better. Now she could tell him in no uncertain terms that he was to leave her be without fear of people watching.
He tried to draw her close, but she pressed her palms to his chest. Dante’s arms remained around her but he wouldn’t force her, she knew that much. Dante Cynfell had likely never had to force a woman into his arms—and certainly not her. She’d always been more than willing.
His heart beat steadily beneath her palm, and a wounded look came across his face belying that stable thrum.
Lord, how those eyes that could be likened to that of a puppy dog’s tore at her chest. The need to smooth her hands over his face and tell him all would be well burned in her mind. How weak she was. She even felt the rigidness of her arms begin to relax. It seemed she had no control over her body where Dante was concerned.
“Dante, please...”
That green gaze pleaded with her, begged for her to stay and kiss him and make it all better. “Can we not talk about this?”
“I thought we already did.”
“I know you cannot possibly have wanted to end things like this, Josephine. It’s so unlike you.”
“How would you know what is and is not like me?”
“We spent over four years together, of course I know.”
Dante began to smooth his hands up and down her waist, creating a friction deep inside her belly. Yet again her arms drooped a little, allowing him that tiny bit closer.
“We spent four years together, yes, but I have changed in that time. You never noticed. You were too busy drinking, gambling, and generally being as rakish as possible to notice.”
“Now hold on a minute, I was not so very rakish.”
“If you tell me that I should be grateful for your faithfulness again, I shall scream until someone comes to drag you away.”
His eyes crinkled at that. “I will not. I shall concede that point was a pretty damn foolish one. A woman like you should never have to be grateful for a man’s loyalty.”
Josephine stilled at this. Dante admitting he was wrong? No, surely she had misheard him. She fought the desire to rub her ears hard lest some dust from the streets had become caught in them. She drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. At some point, she’d started smoothing her palms over his waistcoat and shirt, and that would not do, so she forced them still.
“I will always treasure our time together but as I said, it’s no longer enough for me. I have dreams, Dante, and they involve more than being in your bed.”
“I’m fairly certain we didn’t spend all of our time in bed.”
Oh no, now he was closer. And closer still. The air between them decreased by the second, and he wasn’t forcing her. She was letting him move in. The way his eyes darkened, how he said bed...it all worked to open up this great ache of need inside her. Her gaze flicked down to his firm lips.
Just one kiss. What would it matter? Just one kiss...
“We were so good together.” His hands caressed her back firmly enough so that she felt his touch through the boning of her corset. “So good. Don’t throw that away. I’ll be what you need, sweets. Just give me a chance...”
She almost breathed yes. Almost.
“Would you marry me?”
He stiffened.
“Then you cannot give me what I need. I’m sorry.”
She turned away and he let her but not before making her pause at the door by calling her name. “Josephine, marriage isn’t a fairytale. I have seen what it can do to two people. I would hate myself if I let that happen to us. But, mark my words, I can still give you what you need. I won’t let you give up on us so easily.”
She shook her head. “What makes you think you have a choice?”
Chapter Five
Dante felt a little like he was going cap in hand to his brother. He hated it. As much as he loved his brother, the marquess was the man who controlled whether Dante was left to rot on the streets or not. Thankfully, their father’s title had fallen to one of the smartest and most hardworking brothers. If Gideon or Jasper had been the eldest, they’d all be in the workhouse by now. But Julian ran the estate with quiet efficiency. In fact, before he had remarried, it was about all Julian did.
The coach drew up in front of Lockwood Manor with a crunch of gravel. Dante hopped out before it drew to a complete stop, his body stiff from the train journey from London and the subsequent carriage ride. The roads around his brother’s estate were not the best, and he never had been good at travelling, hence why he preferred to spend his time in London. The countryside, as far as he was concerned, was a bore. Who would choose to spend time with the same people over and over and suffer bumpy roads and country cuisine when there was so much on offer in London? Even Birmingham and Warwick couldn’t hold a candle to London.
His brother, however, preferred to spend his time in Warwickshire. Before marrying Viola, he’d been close to a hermit.
The butler permitted him entry and gave a deep bow. “Lord Cynfell is in the library.”
Of course he was. Where else would his brother be but buried in books and letters? “Thank you, Bramley.” He passed over his hat and coat. “How is everything? Is the new lady of the house treating you well or is she making you do some God-awful American things like serving the women before the men or something?”
“I shall have you know—” an accented voice came from the stairs “—that even we savage Americans stand upon ceremony occasionally.”
He grinned at the sight of his brother’s wife coming down the stairs in what could only be described as a sort of split skirt. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed Viola’s eccentricity. Apparently his brother didn’t mind it one bit. How these two got along was beyond him. But there was something about the woman that Dante couldn’t resist. He at least understood how easy it was to fall for her.
“You mistake me, dear sister,” he said as he brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Bramley might think these things are God-awful but I, for one, am quite in favour of progress.”
“Yes, you always have been quite the scandalous sort,” she agreed, “and not at all likely to follow the rules. But don’t blame poor Bramley. He is far more flexible than he looks.”
Dante glanced at the stern-faced butler and released a laugh while his sister-in-law led him to the library. He supposed, as wives went, Viola was a decent sort. Still, give them a few years and that would all change. Before long she’d be bitter like his mother and her friends.
Viola looped an arm through his and led him through the house to the library. “Julian is working as usual. I was about to take a ride, but I shan’t bother now.”
“Oh don’t change your plans on my account. I’m only here to discuss the house.”
“Oh yes, the London townhouse.”
“You know about it?”
“Julian tells me everything,” she confided as she pushed open the heavy oak doors to the library.
He eyed his brother who was sitting behind the carved desk, his hand thrust into his hair and ink splotches on his fingers. It was hard to believe that his grumpy brother would tell everything to his wife. After the death of his third wife, the man had practically stopped talking to anyone, including his brothers. They were all at a
loss as to what to do with him until Viola came along.
“Julian,” she called when he failed to look up. “Dante is here to see you.”
It took his brother several minutes to glance his way as he finished scrawling whatever it was. He opened a hand to his wife who came to his side and pressed a firm kiss to his lips before she settled in a chair nearby.
Dante tried not to be surprised at the way Viola had slotted herself into his brother’s life. Even in the dim, dingy library, full of old books and dust, she appeared perfectly at home.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Julian said, rising to open the drinks cabinet and pour them all a drink. Even Viola ended up with a glass of Scotch.
Dante cradled the glass and sat opposite. Gads, how he loathed this. He’d probably be better off getting on his knees and pleading with his brother for the house. In spite of looking very similar and being close in age, he’d never felt close to Julian. Loved him yes, but liked him...he wasn’t so sure. Julian had taken on the role of the head of the family long ago, and it was hard to forget that.
“I wanted to talk to you about the townhouse. The family that were in it have moved out now, have they not?”
“Indeed.”
His brother took a leisurely sip of his drink, and Dante had the distinct impression he was mocking him. His brother, the Marquess of Lockwood, mocking him? It didn’t seem right. He wasn’t sure his brother knew how to mock. Mostly he knew how to drink, be angry, and be serious.
“Julian, don’t be an ass.”
Dante couldn’t keep the smirk from his face at Viola’s words. He nodded his agreement and copied her. “Yes, Julian, don’t be an ass.”
To his astonishment, a bold grin crept across Julian’s face. “Yes, I know, you’re desperate for the place. I never quite understood why.”
Because it had once been his father’s. Because he could live right in the heart of London where all the excitement was and away from the dreariness of the countryside. His own apartments were on the outskirts of London, and it was a bore to take the carriage everywhere. How he looked forward to strolling to the clubs and not having to worry about his stomach growing queasy in a cabriolet after a few drinks.
“The house needs redecorating first...” his brother murmured.
“Hang the decorating, I can do that myself.”
Julian snorted. “Dante, I don’t think you’ve lifted a paintbrush in your life.”
A paintbrush. Did he have to say that word? Even now, in a place that seemed a world away from London, he imagined Josephine with a paint brush in her hands, smiling at him as she glanced his way. Coloured flecks would cover her porcelain skin and the scent of paint would be like an aphrodisiac to him.
Damn it, he couldn’t let her go that easily. He simply couldn’t.
“I could paint if I had to.”
He could do anything if he had to... probably. He wasn’t really sure. When his father had been alive, he’d been shown the ropes of what it was to be the marquess. Julian had been gravely ill at one point in their boyhood, and it looked as though he might have to take on the role. He’d seen so much of life that year. He’d visited towns where his father owned mills, gone to shipping yards, spoken with the tenant farmers, been taught how to do accounts, and any number of other skills.
His brother had recovered, and it had all been for nought.
Now he was a second son, with little to do but enjoy himself. If he could do nothing else, then at least he owed it to himself to do that well.
Julian sighed. “Give me three weeks to ensure the place is ready, and it will be yours.”
It was odd. Dante should have felt like punching the air or clapping his brother on the back. But instead, the victory felt slightly hollow. He’d been hoping for that house for years now only to be disappointed each time his brother had let it to another. He’d been offered one of the country cottages they owned, but who wanted to live in a cold, crumbling cottage?
“Thank you,” he said regardless.
“I suppose you’ll be moving Mrs Beaumont in. Or will you keep her in the other house?”
“Actually Josephine has ended our—” he glanced at Viola and recalled she likely knew everything about him if Julian really did tell her all “—acquaintance.”
“Oh well, I’m sure you’ll find another woman soon enough.”
“I am hopeful it’s only temporary. I’m keeping the house in case she decides to return.”
“Yes, I thought I saw a bill for the rent only last week. You really think she’ll return to you?” Julian leaned against the desk.
“Why wouldn’t she?”
Julian shared a look with his wife. “Dante, you’re my brother and I love you, but you’re a damn fool at times.”
He snorted. “Says you.”
His brother scowled at him. “Let’s just say I have learned a few lessons of late.” He reached over and grasped Viola’s hand. The way they glanced at each other should have turned his stomach but instead he found himself...envious. How bloody bizarre.
“If Mrs Beaumont has left you, there’s likely a good reason behind it, and if I know you, you intend to try to seduce or shower her with gifts or some such to get her back.”
Dante lifted a shoulder, unwilling to admit his brother was right. So far the seductions hadn’t gone quite as planned, in spite of Josephine’s continuing attraction to him.
“I think what my husband is trying to say,” Viola put in, “is that you might be better moving on. You’re a charming and handsome man. No doubt some other woman will be more than happy to take her place.”
Charming and handsome. He sighed. Once that had seemed enough. He couldn’t be a marquess. He couldn’t be the smartest man in the family. Hell, he couldn’t even be the fastest or the strongest. But he could be the most charming and popular. Now, he wasn’t so sure. But if he wasn’t charming and popular, what else could he be?
And if those things wouldn’t win over Josephine, what else could he do?
She wanted a husband. A steady life. A sober, starch-collared bore most likely. Well, he would never be any of those, but he could be serious. He wasn’t the cleverest Cynfell brother but nor was he stupid.
“I’m not sure I want another woman,” he admitted quietly, quite surprised by the way the words tripped out of his mouth.
“Well, then you shall have to think of some other way of winning her back,” Viola said.
Dante flicked his gaze to her and narrowed his eyes. How did the woman do it? He swore his sister-in-law saw straight through him. Bloody canny creature. No wonder his brother had fallen for her.
Slowly, an idea came to fruition. He couldn’t do marriage. The word only made his stomach churn. But he could prove to her that he was something more than a rake.
“A job,” he said slowly, testing the word on his tongue. “I think—” he lifted his head and eyed his brother straight on to see the startled look on his face “—I need a job.”
Chapter Six
Many people, Josephine supposed, would say she now lived too close to the docks. Indeed, even Diana had stated her proximity to the bustling area of town made her nervous and her friend now preferred to meet her at one of the hotels for tea rather than at her new home. However, being so close to the docks had been part of its appeal when she’d been considering leaving Dante.
She stepped off the doorstep and drew in a breath of coal-scented air. Her street was very pleasant indeed, and she had many respectable neighbours. It was not perhaps, as well-to-do as her previous lodgings, but they were hers. She was paying for them all by herself. For the first time in her life, she was taking care of herself.
Josephine avoided the rougher parts of the area and stuck to where she could promenade along the riverfront in relative safety. As much as she enjoyed seeing the ships come and go, being too close to the dock workers would not be a good idea—as Diana liked to frequently remind her as if she were some kind of foolish child.
That was the problem with her friends—and even with Dante. No one seemed to believe she knew her own mind. As a widowed woman of seven and twenty had she not seen enough in life to understand what she wanted?
But the truth was, even though her heart throbbed with the loss every time she even uttered his name in her mind, the independence revived her like a breath of fresh spring air. Admittedly, the air was not fresh here but the scent of hard-work and industry invaded her lungs, bringing with it inspiration and anticipation.
Here, at the forefront of England’s shipping industry, she found her artistic side drawn forth. People, scents, and scenery mingled to create an atmosphere that couldn’t fail to inspire. As she strolled along the riverfront, her hand skipping over the iron bars that prevented a fall into the murky water, she eyed a masted ship making its way down the Thames.
Several children stood upon the iron railing to view the frigate and their smiles brought one to her own lips. If she let herself, she could almost forget Dante.
Dante.
She stilled. No, it couldn’t be. She hadn’t seen him in five days. Josephine surmised he had given up, that her message had finally broken through. Why would he be in the area unless he was coming to see her?
But he didn’t appear to be searching her out. He strode along in a brisk manner and had a—she squinted—Gladstone bag in his hand. Why did he look as though he was on his way to perform important business? What business could Dante possibly have here? She wasn’t at all sure he’d even held a bag before. After all, he had servants to carry his luggage for him and business didn’t appeal to him one bit.
She held her breath as he turned on his heel and began in her direction. Freezing, she debated her options. Turn and scurry away? Stride past him? Wait until he approached. To her astonishment, she didn’t have to do either. A well-dressed gentleman stopped in front of him and greeted him with the tip of his hat before motioning in the opposite direction of her—to the docks. Dante followed him and Josephine had to stand on tiptoe to keep him in sight as he was swallowed up in the crowds.
What was he doing? Oh Lord, she hoped he was not up to something illicit. What if she had driven him to do something foolish like prize-fighting or some sort of gambling of the worst kind? For all his faults, Dante had always dabbled in the most harmless of vices. A few drinks here, a couple of wagers there. Nothing illegal or life-threatening.
