The Love List

by Deb Marlowe

  —from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Rudd’s Print Works was no more. The doors were left swinging and the inside had been stripped. Even the hulking press was gone. Aldmere stood in the back room and frowned at the only thing left in the place—a finished order, boxes of broadsheet ballads stacked against the back wall.

  He picked up one of the pamphlets of historical ballads. Surely the destruction of his pet printer had not been part of Marstoke’s original plan. It was another sign of hurry, of adaptation and compromise. He acknowledged a certain amount of satisfaction at the notion, but a bit of trepidation as well. Hurrying Marstoke’s timing might not be an advantage. He turned to Flemming, waiting at his side, and begun issuing the first of many orders.

  A footman dispatched to the Rudd’s home found the place hurriedly vacated as well. No sign of Joe Watts had been uncovered. Aldmere sent the man to find what he could of the boy. He sent another ahead to Tru’s rooms, to warn Gorman and set other, specific plans in motion.

  He requested urgent meetings with several officials, none of which were granted. He personally knocked on paneled doors in Whitehall, but found only minor clerks and harried secretaries at their posts. The Regent and his coterie of visiting foreign dignitaries were back in London, it seemed, and occupying everyone’s efforts. It was to be a day of ceremonies, crowned by a visit to the theater, and it seemed all of London had joined in on the fun. The streets were awash with roaming, celebrating masses. Crowds of them had gathered outside the Pulteney Hotel, where the Tsar Alexander and his sister were staying and where several receptions were to take place.

  Damn it, if he had to thwart Marstoke entirely on his own, then he would.

  Or perhaps not entirely on his own after all, it appeared. Aldmere arrived home to find a forlorn figure awaiting him. Joe Watts, exhausted and full of righteous ire, had quite a story to tell. Aldmere listened carefully. When the boy had finished, he sat silent for several minutes.

  “Flemming!” he called eventually. To his harried secretary and an increasingly excited Joe Watts, he outlined his plan. “Go now,” he ordered. “And take a couple of men as reinforcements, as well. Watch the place closely, and if it looks as if Mr. Watts’ suspicions are correct, then be sure you make the switch in time.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve done exceedingly well—but the real danger may lie ahead. I hate to send you into this without me, but we’re left with no choice.”

  “You can count on me, your Grace,” Joe said fiercely.

  “I already have,” Aldmere returned with all solemnity. “This is an incredibly important task, gentlemen. I know of no one I’d rather entrust it too.”

  “We’ll be careful, sir,” Flemming assured him. “And we’ll look out for the boy.”

  Thus, in a flurry of activity, Aldmere plotted Marstoke’s downfall, cursing the marquess all the while, and keeping an eye and ear open for word from Brynne. He’d be damned if he’d let Marstoke manipulate him into hurting her. He’d be damned if he let Marstoke succeed in his plot. In fact, he’d be damned if he allowed Marstoke to see the next day from anywhere but a holding cell.

  At last all was in readiness and there was nothing to do but wait. He’d taken to pacing the house and staring out of windows. He stood in the hallway on the second floor, paying no heed to the occasional footsteps behind him, but as the afternoon slipped away, the hiss of a cautionary whisper finally caught his attention.

  “Step quietly,” an upstairs maid hissed to a footman. “His Grace has gone into a rare, vile brood again today.”

  He reared back. Brood? He wasn’t brooding. Merely waiting. And pacing. And perhaps barking at anyone unwise enough to address him. He sighed. He supposed he was brooding, after all.

  But he wasn’t worrying.

  He retreated to his study, where he could pace and not worry without disturbing the staff. The first hints of afternoon shadows had begun to creep into the room. He took up a stance at the window and waited.

  Right here. Here he had stood and glimpsed Brynne Wilmott storming his home, just days and a lifetime ago. She would do so again. Or perhaps send a messenger. But the Love List would arrive today. On that point his confidence never wavered.

  Why? Because he knew her. Knew that beneath that fragile, fey exterior lay courage and honesty, loyalty and steel. It wouldn’t be easy. She was going to have to trust him when her every instinct would be warning her not to, when she truly hadn’t a good reason to. But he knew Brynne Wilmott, and she would never selfishly keep the List while his brother’s welfare rocked in the balance.

  No, it wasn’t worry that had him pacing, but knowledge. The realization that she knew him nearly as well as he knew her. That she was the first person in years to look beyond the duke to the man beneath. She’d pushed boundaries, asked questions. She’d seen parts of him that no one had. Angry, resentful bits whose existence no one else suspected. And still she accepted him with such ease. Gave him back simple faith and amusing banter, not to mention a blazing passion that seared his soul.

  Yes, it was knowledge that had him turning away, pacing again. Knowledge that Marstoke, by forcing Brynne to choose between her own needs and his, might have already won the most important battle of all.

  He paused at the mantle, caught by a distant sound. The door-knocker? Just as he’d done days ago, he crossed quickly to his desk, picked up a folder and blindly opened it.

  A discreet knock, and the door swung open. “You’ve a . . . messenger, your Grace.” Billings’ eye twitched.

  She’d come herself. Pushing back the hood of her cloak, she entered.

  Confusion reigned within him. In so short a time, he’d come to expect the quiet, to count on the sense of peace her presence brought.

  She’d left it behind today.

  He shifted his stance. He stood immobile behind his desk, yet she threatened to knock him off balance and forced him to put out a steadying hand. Eyes wide, he stared.

  It was Brynne Wilmott before him, and it was not. Something had been done to her. Her complexion glowed alabaster smooth, her cheeks and brows faintly accented by someone with a dab hand at cosmetics. Her glorious dark hair had been most gracefully arranged—and then mussed the slightest bit. Her slightly open cloak showed the creamy skin at her throat and shoulder.

  She was delicate, disheveled elegance. A girl who had been readied for the ball, but elected to stay for a tumble with her lover instead.

  Aldmere felt like he’d been struck with a hammer.

  Billings withdrew and she tossed back her cloak. His gut tightened further. Not done up like just any doxy, instead someone had dressed her like a courtesan of the highest order, with fine embroidery and quality fabric cut just the smallest bit too tight and too low. This was a woman to tempt princes and kings.

  Or a duke.

  From the folds of the cloak she produced the List. Sauntering over, she dropped it onto the desk. She pursed her lips and waited.

  He couldn’t respond. Her mouth. She’d painted it a dark, subtle crimson. The promise that lived there—the covert temptation of that kiss, his kiss—remained a secret no longer. It shone like a beacon, there for everyone—every man—to see.

  He tore his gaze away, focused on the stack of papers. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat.

  She didn’t answer. Only that kiss spoke, silently beckoning.

  He shifted. “I know that this was difficult for you. There was no need for you to bring the List yourself. I do appreciate the effort, however. And all of your help, of course.”

  Her chin elevated.

  “It does seem odd to say that I’ve enjoyed our association, under the circumstances,” he continued. He was dancing on damned eggshells, trying to dismiss her without sounding dismissive. “And yet I have, truly.” His fingers ruffled the edges of the List. “I shall be sure to send around a note, to report once Tru is safe and sound.”

  She put her hands on her hips. Her gown, a rich ivory
that contrasted grandly with her dark hair, was adorned with elaborate crimson embroidery at the bodice. The color exactly matched the glossy paint on her mouth. Together they delivered two quick, successive punches to his gut.

  “Is that to be it, then?” she asked.

  He steeled himself. “I’m afraid so.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’ll be damned if it is.”

  “Good God!” Annoyed to be feeling defensive, he swept a hand, indicating the painfully tempting length of her. “Well, if there’s to be more, then why don’t you start by explaining . . . this?”

  “This is because I suspected you would be difficult. So I made a few of my own plans.” She raised a brow. “Don’t look relieved. I’m not letting you escape so easily.” She reached out and planted her hand on top of the List. “I’ve brought you the manuscript, but it comes at a price.”

  Anger and annoyance surged. “I had thought better of you, Miss Wilmott. What is it to be? A letter of recommendation?” He leaned toward her, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Shall I open my kitchens to any urchin with a token? Or perhaps donate a country house for your orphans?”

  She perched herself on the edge of the desk and leaned right back toward him. She laughed, but it emerged soft and nearly as raspy as a purr. “Oh, no. I’m afraid the price shall be much higher.”

  He shot her a warning look. “Name it.”

  She only raised a brow.

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “What? Have you come to seduce me? Do you think that since your name will be blackened in any case, that I might as well take advantage? My God,” he spat, “you don’t think much of me!”

  “I admit it crossed my mind,” she said on a sigh. “It’s what Hestia subtly urged me to do—to take what happiness I could from a bad situation. I seriously considered it.”

  “And did you consider that I would have a say in it?” He reached for her chin, grasped it and forced her to meet his eyes. “By God, you are damned lucky that I am a man of honor.”

  “A man of honor, yes,” she breathed. He could feel the excited beat of her pulse beneath his fingers. “But also a man with too many secrets, too many reasons to keep the world at bay.”

  He let her go. “I don’t care how many tight dresses you borrow, I will not make you my mistress.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Though it would be heady, wouldn’t it?” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, an action which strained both her décolletage and his resolve. “As you once said, there does exist all that excitement and desire between us. To give it full expression? To indulge ourselves with the freedom to talk and laugh as we like, to kiss and . . . touch when and where we wanted?” She cracked an eye at him and he struggled to contain his racing pulse and wayward mind. “It would be heavenly.”

  He silently agreed while his insides vibrated in anticipation and need.

  “And then it would be awful, miserable, once we had to part.”

  He swallowed. “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t bear it—the pain and the loneliness. I’m not strong like you. I fear it would destroy me, to be forced to wall myself up, to close myself off and live alone with my pain.”

  Like him. Denial ripped at his chest, fighting to get out.

  “Since none of that is acceptable, I began to look at the situation as a puzzle, a problem to be solved, as I am wont to do. And I have to say, once the distractions are stripped away, the solution becomes obvious, if somewhat terrifying.”

  He couldn’t see a solution. And he felt only dread at the thought of hearing hers.

  She smiled at him with all the patience of a saint. “The answer is for me to at last ask for what I really want, not just what I think I might have. To dream, Aldmere. To summon my courage and ask for all of it. The whole thing.” She drew a deep breath. “For you. All of you.”

  Horror must have shone of his face. “You haven’t a clue—you don’t know what you are asking.”

  She sighed. “No, I likely don’t. It would cause a horrid scandal, wouldn’t it? The great Duke of Aldmere married to the princess of the broad sheets—the girl who courted her own ruin? Such a furor. And likely a hundred ramifications we can’t foresee.”

  “Damn the scandal. It’s the aftermath that you don’t know enough to predict.”

  She shrugged. “Yet here I am. And I will tell you what I do foresee.” She pointed a finger at him. “I know you won’t be easy. You are taciturn, close-mouthed and have a shell like a lobster.” Her gaze softened. “But you are so damned tempting, with your broad shoulders and your thick hair that I don’t think ever can be mussed. You have a quick mind and a wicked tongue. You know how to laugh, even if you only do it on the inside. You are observant and attentive. And secure enough in your own strengths to allow me mine.”

  His heart pounded. Though how it should do so when it also ached so awfully was beyond him. He wished she were mocking him, but she was right—and oh, so incredibly wrong. They were two of a kind, but they could never be one.

  She climbed off the table, rounded it, and came to stand before him. “I want complicated,” she said in a whisper. “I want impossible. I want you—always. And I want you to want me, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t.”

  Regret made him abrupt. “You’ve run mad.”

  She dropped her head, biting back a smile. “You don’t disappoint, your Grace. But I’ve learned a few things in the past months, not the least is how to value myself.” She stepped close and tension hung thick, almost visible between them. His skin flushed, fever hot, when she placed a tiny, soft hand on his chest.

  “Blame yourself,” she said gruffly, “since you had a large part in it. But I’ve been worrying about something since my mother died. A worry so deeply etched that I almost wasn’t aware of it. Until I accidentally discovered the place I belong, I hadn’t realized how badly I’d been missing it. And the bad news, Aldmere, is that I belong with you.”

  He drew breath, but she wasn’t finished. “I’ve been so afraid of feeling helpless, and I thought that needing help, or anyone, was giving in to it. But I was wrong. I’m only giving in if I don’t ask for what I need. So I’m asking. And I won’t be leaving without a promise—or a damned good explanation.” She cocked her head. “And I’ve learned enough about you to know which of those things would be more difficult.”

  He paled and wished he’d got away with buying her a house. Instead she was searching for something far more dangerous—and it felt like a betrayal. He’d trusted her not to ask.

  “We both know what lies between us,” she said. A note of shyness crept into her voice. “Yet you don’t want me as mistress or wife. At the very least you are going to explain why.” Her other hand strayed up to her hip again and he blanched. “I suggest you begin by telling me about your friend with the bottle green coat.”

  White hot rage roared up inside of him. He wanted to push her away, to slam his fist onto the desk and shout at her, have her tossed from the room. If anyone understood the magnitude of such a question, she did. Damn her. When he’d given her the weapon of confidence he hadn’t expected her to use it against him.

  “We had an agreement,” he answered tightly. “None of this has any part of it.”

  “It’s time for a new agreement.” She gripped his arms. “Come, Aldmere,” she wheedled. “I’m not asking for anything I’m not willing to give. Do you think it’s easy for me to stand vulnerable before you like this? I never thought I would give anyone this sort of power over me again.”

  “A wise thought—you should have listened.”

  “I can’t help it. You’ve ruined me.”

  He bit back a snort. “I’m trying not to ruin you.”

  “It’s too late, damn you! Now, I’ve brought you the List and I’ve bared my soul. It’s your turn. Grab your manhood with both hands, if it helps, and tell me about that green coat!”

  He spat a filthy curse and turned away from her. He would, damn her to hell and back. He would tell her
the sordid, sad tale, though it would be like cutting open old wounds with dull glass. And at last she would understand that she was asking for the impossible.

  He stepped away, needing space and a measure of dignity. Wiping a hand over his mouth, he crossed behind the padded chair in the corner, leaned on it with both hands and hoped the shadows in the room hid some of his pain.

  “Aldmere?” she coaxed.

  He should have taken her when he had the chance. He could be running his hands over those curves instead of eviscerating himself. But she’d been so damned brave. And she was right about one thing. As neither of them was going to get what they wanted, she at least deserved to know why. And when she heard the truth, she’d realize how damned fortunate she was that he hadn’t taken her up on her offer.

  “It’s a long tale.”

  She settled back onto the edge of the desk. “We have time.”

  He took a few moments to gather his thoughts—and to fight against the restrictions of a lifetime. “We visited Russell Abbey when I was a child,” he began. “The ducal seat. I believe I told you I was fond of my grandfather.”

  He saw her cast back. “The sweets in the drawer, yes.”

  “I was just a boy. The Abbey was lovely back then, thriving and ripe with all of my grandfather’s care. I enjoyed our visits. I especially enjoyed escaping from Tru and the nursery staff to explore the forests.”

  He sighed and stood straighter. This was the easy part. “When I was at the great age of nine years, my particular favorite was to play the heroic bandit a là Robin Hood. I had a sturdy bow I’d constructed of willow and twine, and I shot all manner of wicked twig knights during that visit. I was busy one day, constructing my sturdy woodland hideaway, when a real arrow landed but an inch from my foot.”

  She made a shocked sound.

  “The real surprise was to see the shooter. He was my age, and yet near a half a foot shorter than I. Strong, though, as he proved when we proceeded to pummel each other.”