Boundless

by Lynne Connolly

  “The possibility never crossed my mind,” he said. “Why, are you Lady St. Just? Do I have to meet your husband at dawn?”

  “No, though you might have to meet one of my brothers.” She grimaced. “Although they should learn to mind their own concerns.”

  That grin returned. “Ah. I sense irritation.”

  Turning away, he crossed the room, his tread surprisingly soft for such a large man. Of course, the rugs under his feet would help to cushion the sound. Was there any part of this room not covered in decoration of some kind?

  Without asking, he poured two tumblers of brandy and brought them back, placing one for her on the side table at her elbow. “Drink it,” he advised. “It will help you to recover from the shock. Were you hurt at all?”

  “A small knock to the side of my head,” she confessed, still stunned by her discovery of his identity.

  Immediately he was by her side, touching her head. “Hold still,” he ordered. “And get rid of that linen cap.”

  She’d kept her clothing plain today, knowing where she was going, so her cap was the kind maids wore, enveloping most of her hair and with pin-tucking rather than expensive lace. The ribbon under her chin had tightened into a thin string, and the bow was no more. “It’s in a knot. It needs cutting.”

  With a curse, he dived a hand into his pocket and came out with a small, but wicked-looking knife. “Hold still.” His teeth flashed in a feral grin, but perhaps he meant it as reassuring. Letting a man she barely knew hold a knife anywhere near her throat was a new experience and not one she was keen to allow. But she had no choice.

  Coming around to the front, he went down on one knee, a graceful gesture. Purely for practical purposes, of course. Livia swallowed. His eyes really were the most liquid she’d ever seen, such a dark brown they were close to black, but with little specks of gold near the center. That must be why they looked as if they were flashing when he turned his head. He had full lips, their coral pink a delightful contrast against his bronzed skin, which was so soft and velvety she wanted to touch it, to discover if the sheen on his skin was real or if she was imagining it. The brandy he’d just drunk added sweetness and a tang to his breath.

  Lowering his heavily-lashed eyelids, he concentrated on his self-imposed task, as if his life depended on getting it exactly right. His chest moved with his breathing, regular and deep. Something glittered when he moved, a diamond pin stuck deep in the folds of his neckcloth. Not so plainly dressed, then.

  The tiny snick when he slit the cord sounded loud in the quiet room. Despite the constant sounds of passing traffic and the tread and chat of passers-by outside, they seemed to be in a space of their own, untouchable and disregarded.

  “There.” He lifted his eyes and met her gaze.

  Staring so deeply into the eyes of this meltingly attractive man was probably a bad idea, but Livia didn’t care. When would she get the opportunity again? Despite his appalling reputation and the scorn he evinced for society and everyone in it, she caught sight of a vulnerability in the depths of his eyes. Not many people had ever seen that. He strode through ballrooms, on the few times he deigned to appear, with supreme arrogance and superior amusement. So many people wanted to bring him down that bets were laid in the coffeehouses on when it would happen.

  His lids lowered again and he got to his feet. When he turned back to her, that vulnerability had gone. Perhaps she had imagined it. Well no, she hadn’t, but he obviously didn’t want her to mention it, so she wouldn’t. Livia had spent much of her life watching, warily waiting for the wrong approach or criticism, and she had grown adept at discovering changes of mood or hidden emotions in people.

  The seductive expression was firmly back in place. A suspicion crossed Livia’s mind. Did he use that to frighten people off? Obviously it wouldn’t work with most men, but perhaps he used something else on them. Although she should not, a powerful urge to hunt out this man’s secrets hit Livia. Usually content to let people live their own lives, in this case she wanted to know more.

  He returned to her side in a couple of quick steps. “I must touch your head. Is that permitted?”

  Too late, he already had, and her skin still bore the imprint of his soft touch. For a rake, he certainly had respect. Because of that, she nodded. “By all means. I don’t want to bleed to death because you are too squeamish to look.”

  Gently he probed her scalp where she’d received the blow. “It’s hot.”

  She flinched and let out a sharp expression of dismay when he hit a tender spot.

  “Ah, I see it.” He separated her hair at the place. Her neat hair arrangement must be a complete shambles by now. “I won’t touch it again. It’s a cut and a lump, fairly small, but you will bruise there. If you get a particularly bad headache, or you feel drowsy, let me know. Or anyone who happens to be with you.”

  Once her older brother Val had tumbled out of a tree in the grounds of their family home. The blow he’d received hadn’t knocked him unconscious, but he was not himself again until the next day. Their mother had sat with him until she’d been certain the damage wasn’t more serious. She would take heed of his strictures. “I will, I promise.”

  “Be sure you do. There is a little blood, but it’s hardening now. Better leave it until you get home.” He smoothed her hair back over the sore patch. The touch calmed her, but he left a trail of interest in his wake, as if her body was reluctant to let him go. “Drink your brandy.”

  The firm order had her reaching for her glass and swallowing some of the fiery liquid. She’d drunk enough brandy to know a good one when she tasted it. This glowed down her throat, heating and sliding. She took another sip. “Do you enjoy giving orders?”

  “In certain circumstances.” He walked behind her this time, closer because there was no table on this side. “Your hair is like silk.” He said the last words as if giving her the time of day, or some other mundane comment. “It is the most glorious color. You should never hide it away.” He took a seat opposite her, closer than she felt comfortable with. To be honest, if he’d sat in another room he’d probably be too close for her liking. Considering her scarecrow appearance, he should not be looking at her as if she were a delectable morsel for him to consume.

  He’d probably gobble her up and walk away, hardly noticing the snack.

  “I don’t usually, but the color brands me.” For some reason his offhand compliment affected Livia far more than the more fulsome praise of society beaux. “I needed the cap and the hat in this area.”

  He frowned, his black eyebrows almost coming together. “What were you doing on your own in the street? Where is your maid, where are the footmen you no doubt have?”

  She glanced away, not willing to tell him or anybody else why she’d shot out into the street. “I intended to stay at the orphanage, but I wanted some air, so I left early. Mama is sending the carriage for me.”

  “What orphanage?”

  “The one on Brownlow Street.”

  “Wait here.” He got to his feet and left the room. A moment later a door slammed somewhere below, and voices carried to her, one male, one female. The door banged again, and the sound of feet on stone stairs reached her. He returned. “I’ve sent the maid to let them know where you are. Otherwise I daresay they’ll set up a hue and cry for you.” Smiling grimly, he added, “Let’s pray your servants are discreet.”

  “They’ll tell my mother.”

  “Not your father?”

  “Him as well.” When she got home, there’d be hell to pay. Here she was, in the house of a mistress of a notorious rake. That was enough to have her denied access to every ballroom in London.

  Retaking his seat, he propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his cheek on his hand, regarding her closely. Livia felt like a specimen in a jar, thoroughly inspected and found wanting. “Better they know where you are than they set up a search for yo
u.”

  She shuddered, clutching her upper arms. “Yes indeed.” As it was, she’d have to bribe the coachman heavily. Her maid she could trust. Finch had much to lose if Livia dismissed her, far more than the money a piece of gossip could acquire.

  “What were you doing at the orphanage?”

  She curled her fingers around her chair as she gave him a partial answer. “Trying to help. Since I’m destined to become an old maid, I might as well be a useful one.” Last year she had faced that reality. He could accept that, surely. A spinster turned philanthropist. London contained many of those.

  To her shock, he burst into laughter. “You? Why would you think that? Your dowry must be substantial, and your physical attractions are obvious.” Lazily he let his gaze wander over her, not at all constrained by societal expectations.

  Or hers. Nevertheless, warmth at his evident appreciation spread through her body, heightening her awareness of the parts of her she rarely considered, except to clean them and ensure they were well tucked away from view. She should be offended, affronted, but although she waited for it to happen, the emotion refused to arrive.

  With his shot of laughter rocketing off the walls, she lifted her chin and lowered her eyelids, in a way guaranteed to quell the most importunate of her suitors. But he was a duke, and he was not a suitor. He met her expression with amusement. “You’re rallying. Good. A perfectly scandalous situation is averted.”

  Her sharp laugh made him sit up, and his eyes widen. “You think my family members are strangers to scandal? Do you know nothing about the Shaws?”

  Livia braced herself, ready for the prying questions. People always asked them things they wanted confirming. The truth about the Shaws was scandalous enough, and she had sketched the bare facts to him, but people loved to embroider on it, and invent even more outrageous stories. They generally ignored them loftily.

  He shrugged. “Tell me. Let me see if I can overtop it.”

  A person could find affinity in the strangest of places. “Since you insist, I’ll tell you. Scandal has followed my family like an unwanted guest. My brother Marcus married the daughter of our land steward. My brother Val was on the town for years. He fought duels, gambled a fortune away and won several more back. His twin, Darius, well, you probably know about him, although society has chosen to turn a blind eye to his passions.” Notably the lawyer Andrew Graham, who Darius was sharing a house with. And a bed, although they tried to be discreet.

  “My twin sister, Claudia, met her husband in a brothel that she owned. My other sister Drusilla wrote a book that lampooned most of the prominent members of society. Do you want more? My cousin Max, who married a woman from the City? My cousin Julius who is married to a lady who was once a governess and the daughter of a village vicar? Or my cousin Alex, who married a woman he met in one of the most notorious brothels in Covent Garden?” She glared at him, daring him to comment.

  A chuckle began low in his throat, a rumble that spread before he suppressed it. Only then did she hang her head in shame. She had carelessly revealed secrets her family had worked hard to conceal. The bit about Alex, for instance. She wasn’t even supposed to know that. And Claudia’s exploits, her own twin. Of course, she could do what everyone in her family did, and blithely ignore any rumors, or counter them with others. Or lie. That worked too, though only as a last resort, because, as her brother Marcus said, holding the truth of a lie was very difficult. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone a thing or reveal that you just confirmed what many people suspected already.”

  “Suspicion is one thing. If they grow bored, or if something even juicier comes along, they’ll forget it.”

  He waved his hand carelessly. “I have scandals of my own.”

  Too late, she remembered his wife, for the duke was a widower. The late duchess had created her own share of scandal, but Livia had never paid much heed. “I’m sorry about your duchess.”

  “Oh, yes.” He swallowed but showed no other signs of the grief he had displayed at her death. Probably he’d learned to control his emotions. At the time, five years ago, stories hurtled around the country that he had destroyed the contents of his house. Much, she assumed, as his mistress had destroyed the room upstairs. “She was astonishingly beautiful.”

  Livia nodded. “I saw her once. We did not move in the same circles.” That sounded bad, but it was true. The Gradfields were country gentry, but their daughters had been lovely enough to outclass all the other girls who’d made their come-out that year. Anna had been a treasure, a beauty beyond compare. Deep bosomed, with a head of dark, gleaming hair, a pair of fine blue eyes, straight nose, and rosebud mouth.

  The duke and Anna Gradfield were a perfect match, at least that was what people said at the time. Fast, scandalous, even worse than the Emperors, they had spent money as if it was going out of fashion. Society said she would ruin him before they were both thirty. Sadly, or fortunately, considering the way a person viewed these events, she died before she reached that age. And the Duke of Preston was still rich.

  Society would have welcomed him for that alone. Except for one thing, the scandal of his birth, and the risk any woman took in marrying him.

  His mouth twisted. “Indeed, you did not.”

  She glanced down at her hands, which had twisted themselves together.

  “They did hurt you,” he said gravely. “I am sorry for that.”

  And yet society did not mark him as a man of chivalry. He had certainly acted as her savior. She wouldn’t like to be at the wrong end of those fists. Or that cane. “You carry a sturdy weapon.”

  “The cane is probably beyond repair. But it was worth it.” A thin smile curved his mouth.

  Livia enjoyed that smile. She could spend time winning it from him, except, she reminded herself once more, she would never see him again. “You were my savior.” Imitating the more demonstrative of her peers, she pressed a hand over her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. If she’d had a fan, she’d have wafted it, or hid behind it. But that had gone with her pocket.

  In the mêlée, someone had lifted her skirts and cut the cord that she used to tie her pocket around her waist. The thought made her shudder, of someone she didn’t know touching her so intimately, bearing a knife.

  The duke waved his hand, curling it in an elegant circular gesture, reflecting her mocking gesture. “You are entirely welcome, my lady. So riddle me this. Why did you leave the orphanage early? Come, my dear, truth now.”

  Turning her head, she winced when the sore part caught the wing of the chair. “Because,” she said steadily, not meeting his eyes, “the place appalled and frightened me in equal measure. Since it is likely that I will never have children of my own”—she swallowed, hiding the sorrow that always flooded her when she reminded herself—“I thought I would help those less fortunate than myself. I wanted to see what I could do. Some ladies take lessons at these places, help the girls in particular to read, write, and learn a skill other than the life many are headed for.”

  She glanced around. “Not many ascend to these heights.” For his mistress was one such, had dragged herself up from the stinking streets. “But they clustered around me and they all spoke at once, and oh, you will think me a superficial fool, but they smelled. The whole place stank. Cabbage and sweat and damp, a noxious mixture. I suppose I could have accustomed myself to that, but not the children. So I left early. The carriage was to pick me up, and I asked the driver to give me two hours. But those thieves attacked me.”

  He didn’t speak immediately, but his expression turned hard. His mouth flattened and his eyes became as sympathetic as hard, black pebbles caught in the backwash of a tide going out. “So the lady bountiful discovered that life is not all sweetness did she?”

  Damn, she sounded like the worst kind of spoiled society miss. But she could not tell him the real reason she’d shot out of that place as if the hounds of hell were after her
. She could still taste the panic and the sheer, pounding horror as she’d run her finger down the page of the admissions book and discovered—nothing.

  Where was that blasted carriage?

  As if she’d willed it into existence a shadow fell over the small parlor as the traveling carriage rattled over the cobbles and drew to a halt. Hastily, Livia got to her feet as the footman, thankfully not in livery but definitely one of her family’s, rapped smartly on the door.

  Preston was already on his feet, crossing to the door and opening it for her. As she passed through, a maid was gawping at her, mouth open. “Sir, I thought…”

  “No,” the duke said firmly. “And you did not see this lady, Jane.”

  The maid, a disheveled little thing that Livia’s mother would not have allowed upstairs, bobbed a curtsy. “No, sir.”

  Livia did her best to ignore Preston’s wink. “You may go now, Jane. I’ll see to the lady.”

  “Yes, sir.” The girl scuttled off downstairs and a door slammed far below.

  “I’ll keep her happy,” he said, obviously meaning a few coins.

  Before she could curb her tongue, Livia said, “I’m sure you will.”

  Oh no, oh damn and blast. She shouldn’t have said that. London society considered this man dangerous and scandalous. The Shaws had earned their reputations. This man was a scandal all on his own. Riling him was not wise, from the stories she’d heard.

  Still, what harm could one tart retort do? She would likely never see him again. He didn’t frequent the same ballrooms, or any, come to that, or the same social circles.

  When he opened the front door air and light flooded in, giving respite from the small, cramped house and all its contents.

  Stepping outside, she smiled at the footmen, feeling on firmer ground for the first time in hours. She turned to face the duke with a smile. “Aren’t you worried that people will gossip?”

  “Why should I care?” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he swung her to face him.

  Astonished, she stared up at him, eyes open wide, lips parted. He gazed back down at her, a wicked gleam in his black eyes. Since she’d entered the house he’d seemed like a sensible man but not now. The recklessness he was famed for came out to play and Livia tried to recoil. But he held her firm. She hadn’t seen that expression before, as if something inside him had come to life. His personal devil, perhaps.