A slight twinge of pity for the young fop struck her. Yes, he had been entirely rude. No gentleman of any stature called a lady a cheat. But Lady Whilynn usually did cheat, and Mr. Jawlton had been the only one at her table unaware of that fact.
She shook her head. But to allow his fogged head to take over all proper sense and to say the things he had to a woman three times his age—well, he deserved to get tossed from the house.
The door slammed shut, and her eyes landed on the one person left in the foyer.
Toren looked up at her.
“Adalia.” His voice slithered up the stairs, chilling her. Never had she heard so much palpable rage vibrating through one word.
Blast it—no. Not after suffering the last weeks without him. Not after she had finally been able to breathe again. Sleep again. Imagine a life without him.
Not now.
It wasn’t fair.
“Your Grace, as always, your evenings are sparkles to my eyes.” The lilting voice fluttering happily behind Adalia made her jump, and she turned to see Lady Whilynn and Captain Trebont moving past her down the stairs, their arms entwined.
“Thank you, Lady Whilynn.”
Lady Whilynn didn’t even look Adalia’s way as they moved past—she was too engrossed with her captain at her side. “This one, oh, this one.” Her words continued, singsong, as she patted his arm. “Dueling for me. Like he did when our blooms were fresh. Oh, so very delightful. So strong.”
The captain, though, caught Adalia’s eye through the feathers sprouting up from Lady Whilynn’s cap. He gave Adalia a slight nod, gratitude evident in his crinkled eyes as he tightened a cloak about Lady Whilynn’s shoulders.
Lady Whilynn patted his cheek. “Still my hero, Captain.”
“Still my twinkling star, Buttercup.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
Adalia followed them down the stairs, realizing as her hand went to the railing that her palm was bleeding profusely from the smashed glass on the table. She wished she hadn’t taken off her gloves earlier. The silk alone would have stopped most of the glass from slicing into her skin.
Just seeing the blood sent pain shooting up Adalia’s arm and her head into lightness. Her arm dropped, and she quickly wrapped her hand deep into a fold of her dark skirt.
Lady Whilynn giddy, chattering away to the captain, the couple walked past Toren without a glance as he opened the front door for them.
Adalia hurried down the last few steps and across the marble foyer to catch the couple. Without daring a look at him, she stepped wide past Toren. He reached out to grab her arm, but she flicked out of his reach before he made contact.
Over her shoulder she braved a glance to him. The anger in his eyes thickened.
“No, I have to talk to them,” she whispered as she motioned with her head to the captain and Lady Whilynn. Scanning the street to make sure Mr. Jawlton had, indeed, been escorted far from the building, Adalia ran down the front stone steps to the sidewalk and caught the captain just before he joined Lady Whilynn in their waiting carriage.
“Captain, please, a word.”
The captain nodded to his footman, who closed the carriage door. As he took a few steps to the side, away from the coach, his voice went low, almost to a whisper. “Yes, what is it, Your Grace?”
“You had said it would not happen anymore.” In deference to the captain’s wish to keep the conversation unheard, Adalia hushed her tone as far as the firmness in her voice would allow.
“What is it that I said would not happen?”
Adalia fought back a groan. He knew exactly what she was reminding him of. “Our earlier three conversations we have had in the past year, Captain.”
“You will need to remind me, my dear.”
“The cheating. You had insisted last time that Lady Whilynn would cease her slips of the cards. I cannot continue to let her sit at the tables here if she insists on cheating every hour.”
The captain sighed, his gloved hand going to his sallow, sunken cheek and rubbing it. His ancient eyes closed partially, sad weariness taking over his face. “Please do not take this from her, my dear.”
“Take the cheating away from her?”
He nodded, his hand dropping from his face. “The day my Buttercup does not want to attend one of your nights, my dear—the night she does not try to hoodwink her way to victory—that is the night I know she has given up on keeping her mind in this world.”
“But—”
“I know she is daft, Your Grace.” The captain’s eyes started to tear up, glistening in the low light from the gas lamp behind her. “She knows it as well, at times. But this—she has this.” He motioned up toward the light emanating from the drawing room windows above them. “She still has a semblance of normality when she’s here, up to her old tricks. There is not a thing she loves more in the world. Here she does not babble. Does not reach for things that are no longer there. Does not talk to people who left this earth long ago. Do not take this away from her. From me.”
Adalia’s chest tightened. Her lips drawing in, she nodded. “Please, just try and control her—or at least let her gamble only with those you know—she is notorious at it amongst her friends, as you recall?”
“I do, my dear. And I will.” He gave her a slight bow, tilting his top hat to her. “You are a princess among pirates, Your Grace.”
A half smile lifted her cheek, and she shook her head at the overt flattery. “Good evening, Captain.”
He took a step away from her before Adalia interrupted him. “Oh, and Captain.”
He turned back to her.
“She actually loves you more than anything in the world. I have seen it.”
A smile broke through the weathered lines on his face. “That she does, Your Grace. As I do her.”
Adalia watched as he got into their carriage, and she stayed in place, waiting until it rounded the far corner. She turned to the front door and jumped. Toren stood on the bottom step, silent, a stone statue staring at her.
Hand on her heart, she tried to still the madcap beating thundering in her chest. If she expired right here on the sidewalk from an exploded heart, it wouldn’t matter what had caused it—the shock of Toren’s appearance in London or the mere fact that his body was suddenly so close to hers—dead was dead.
She looked up at him, her neck craning because of the extra foot of height he had from the bottom step. “You—you didn’t have to do that upstairs, Toren.”
His jaw shifted to the side, seething. “That fop was about to be handled far too gently by your worthless guards. I merely made sure he was treated with the respect he deserved.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “My guards are not worthless.”
“Then why in the hell did I see you between a man with a sword at the ready and a man who rammed into you?”
Her fingers clenched, fists going to her hips. “No, Toren, no, you don’t—”
“What is on your hand?” He squinted at her left hand, moving off the bottom step to her.
Blast it. Her hand. She had forgotten. She slowly unclenched her fingers, the movement sending sharp pains vibrating up her arm.
Toren reached down to grab her wrist and held it in a sliver of light casting down from the drawing room above. “Dammit, Adalia, this is blood.”
She attempted to pull her hand away. “The glass on the table crushed under my hand. It is fine. Let me go. I need to wash it.”
“Glass? Damn, Adalia.” He spun and dragged her up the stairs into the town house. Inside, his stride didn’t slow, and he went up two flights of stairs, skipping the level with the drawing room and ballroom. “What the blasted devil are you thinking?”
At the top of the stairs, she twisted her wrist, still trying to free herself from the manhandling. “I do wish you would stop swearing at me.”
“It’s better than throttling you.” His grip tightened on her wrist as he stalked down the hall, flinging open the doors of the withdrawing rooms she had converted fr
om bedrooms when she first opened the Revelry’s Tempest. It wasn’t until the third door that Toren found an empty room.
Her mouth clamped shut. Toren would never hurt her—would he? She couldn’t imagine it, but she also never could have imagined him like this—with barely bridled fury raging through his body, so visceral that no mask of indifference could possibly hide it.
The door slamming behind them, Toren spun her onto a chair in front of the fireplace. Releasing her wrist, he stomped over to a dresser. Rummaging through the drawers, he yanked out a sheet and unfurled it before biting into the edge, his teeth tearing the fabric. He repeated the motion, ripping a second long shred free from the rest of the cloth, before he picked up the washbowl and pitcher and set them on the floor by the toes of her slippers. He splashed water into the bowl, the liquid sloshing over the side, puddling on the floor.
Silent except for his seething breath, Toren grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, then dunked her hand into the bowl of water and swished it. Words, harsh and punctuated, hissed from his mouth. “You reopened your gaming house?”
“You left the girls by themselves?” Reaction without thought, her tone matched his.
His look whipped up to her as he lifted her hand from the water. “They are well ensconced in the castle. No one will touch them—you are aware I know better than most how to create an impenetrable cage for them. Yet you insult me by thinking I would put them in danger.”
She did know.
She knew very well he would never let danger near the twins. “You are right. I apologize.”
For an excruciatingly long moment they stared at each other, the water droplets plunking off her hand into the bowl the only sound cutting through the thick air between them.
His breathing heaved in anger. Her breathing heaved because it was too soon.
Far, far too soon. She couldn’t see him yet. She wasn’t ready.
She hadn’t been ready a week ago, she hadn’t been ready fifteen minutes ago, and she was even less ready now.
An exhale hissed from his mouth, and he looked down, dunking her hand into the water again, lifting it out, staring at the haphazard cuts across the butt of her palm. Poking at the cuts, he stretched the skin wide until more blood ran free. Stinging, she yanked her hand away.
He snatched her wrist before she could hide her hand along her body, and he held it angled to the fire. With thumb and forefinger, he attempted to pinch a tiny shard of glass from her flesh.
“What are you thinking, Adalia, opening the gaming house?”
Of course. That was what he was doing here. That was why he was so mad. He wasn’t here for her. He was here because she had opened the Revelry’s Tempest again. “You are upset it reflects poorly on you?”
He held her palm close to his eyes and yanked, setting a shard free from her skin. He flicked it into the fire. “Damn well I am—but even more so I am beyond irate at the danger you have put yourself in. I never would have allowed you to leave Dellon Castle if I had known you would sneak off to London.”
“I did not sneak. I had to change my plans once I saw Violet. Your guards have been with me the whole time.”
“But not only did you come to London—you opened this place, putting yourself directly in danger by being in public like this.”
He dunked her hand into the water again, the splash sending droplets onto her black skirt. He swished her hand vigorously, then pulled it from the water and held it close to his eyes to pinch at another piece of glass.
“I did not open this place for me, Toren.” She stared at the top of his dark hair. Despite how angry he was with her, his fingers around her hand were entirely delicate. “I reopened it for Violet. It is hers now, and I am just helping her. She is in dire straits, as her late husband had racked up monstrous debts—he even signed many of them to her name—and the creditors have been harassing her mercilessly.”
“There are other ways to handle the debt, Adalia.” His focus stayed on her palm.
“You were not there when I found her, Toren. She was near mental collapse with the fear and stress of it all. I merely suggested the gaming house as a path forward, and she latched on to the idea. There has been no swaying her from it.”
“So don’t help her. That would sway her.” He flipped another shard into the fire and set her hand into the bowl of water.
“She is my friend, Toren, and I love her. I would do anything to help her.” She couldn’t keep her voice at an even level, not that she was bothering to attempt it. “And if she needs this place running in order to stay sane, to pay off debts, to feel in control of her fate instead of getting crushed under it—then I am helping her with that, scandal to your name or not.”
He pulled her hand from the water, and his voice was quiet, measured, when he opened his mouth. “Why did Lord Pipworth allow you to use the dower house?”
“I leased it from him. He needed an influx of funds, as I well guessed from the mess his estate is in. And I needed the dower house for Violet. It is not a loss for him, as he wants nothing to do with this house since I already ruined it for all respectability. I did not know a house could own such a trait. But I apparently scandalized the house to ruin for him.”
Toren nodded, looking up to her as he released her hand. “Do you feel any more glass in your skin?”
Adalia held her hand up to the light of the fire, squishing her palm back and forth, waiting for more sharp irritations deep in her skin. There were none.
She shook her head.
“Good.” He gently took her hand and picked up a clean strip of cloth. His fingers began deftly wrapping it around her hand and wrist.
Now that his seething had ceased, the sudden urge to reach out with her right hand and sink her fingers into his hair washed over her, sending a shiver through her body.
How could he be so infuriating and delicate all at once? She wasn’t prepared for this, the wanting—aching—to touch him. Aching to feel his skin under her fingertips, his breath on her neck.
She had left Dellon Castle because she didn’t want to end up bitter, hating him for not loving her. As much as leaving had been the sane choice, it had done nothing to quell the burning in her core that had exploded when she’d seen him again. Did nothing to stifle her need to touch him. She wanted him more than ever, and denying herself him the past five weeks had only made that fire grow hotter.
Of its own volition, her right hand lifted slightly from her lap.
A knock from the hallway, and the door suddenly cracked open. “There you are.”
Her hand falling onto her skirt, Adalia looked to the door. Violet’s head bobbed into the room. “Violet.”
“What in heaven’s name happened? I was recording numbers in the office, and when I came out the place had broken into bedlam. Something about Lady Whilynn again? I have been searching for you everywhere. Who is this?”
Adalia wiggled in her seat, wanting to jump to her feet and go downstairs, but Toren’s grip on her fingers had tightened, a silent warning that she would be going nowhere. “Do I need to get to the ballroom?”
“No.” Violet waved her hand in the air. “Cass and Logan and the dealers are handling it. Mostly just gossip flying about now. I repeat, who is this?”
Adalia attempted to hide a preemptive cringe. “Violet, I present to you the Duke of Dellon.”
His hands still busy and bloody with wrapping her hand, Toren looked up at Violet, giving her a slight nod. A very firm mask of indifference was set upon his face, not the slightest wisp of interest or kindness or curiosity.
Until that very moment, Adalia hadn’t realized how masterful Toren was at hiding anything and everything from others. She had always assumed he did it mainly to her, and mostly to annoy her.
Violet barely glanced at him, her eyebrows arching as her lips drew into a tight line. “This is him? This is the bas—”
“Yes.” Adalia blurted the word, cutting her friend off. Violet’s hold on propriety had slipped in the
last weeks, so flummoxed she had been at the dissolution of her entire life. Slapping a smile on her lips when greeting someone she had an inherent dislike of was not one of the things Violet could yet manage. “This is my husband. I cut my hand earlier, and he is helping me. You should go below. I will tell you all about the skirmish later, but I imagine at the moment Cass needs your help in keeping the evening on an even keel.”
A frown settling onto Violet’s face, her arms crossed over her chest. She had a few more things to say, and Adalia knew they were not good. But to her friend’s credit, Violet nodded and moved toward the door. “I will talk with you later, Adalia.” Violet made sure the last thing she did before leaving the room was pierce Toren with a glare of death.
“Thank you, Violet,” Adalia called out across the chamber, breaking Violet’s stare.
Violet left the room, closing the door behind her.
With a sigh, Adalia glanced down to her hand.
“Your friend does not like me.” His fingers busy tying off the white strip of cloth, Toren did not look up at her.
“She is loyal to me, and she does not understand . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Understand what?”
She stared at the top of his head. “How you cannot love me.”
His eyes jerked up to meet hers. “You told her of that?
“Of course I did. She is one of my dearest friends.”
He tilted his head to the side, genuinely curious. “Why would she care?”
Adalia strangled back a growl. She wasn’t ready for this—wasn’t ready to have to validate every feeling she had to him. Especially not when a waterfall of opposing feelings was currently drowning her. “She cares because she loves me, Toren. She’s loyal. She thinks you’re blind. She does not understand how you cannot see what a wonderful person I am.”
“She gets to lay judgment upon that?”
“She loves me, so yes. Yes, she gets to judge that. I do not live in a world where there is only one person and that one person is me, Toren.”
Still on his knees, he leaned back, landing on his heels. “That is what you think?”
“That you live in a world that consists only of you?”
Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry's Tempest Novel Page 16
