by Tessa Dare
Her eyes flared with alarm. “You can’t. We can’t.”
“No one will notice we’ve gone.”
“Of course they will notice we’ve gone,” she hissed. “This is London society. People here live to notice such things.”
He steered her back into the entrance hall. “Calm yourself. I’m not going to try anything untoward.”
“If you did try something untoward, you would regret it. I have three brothers. I know how to throw a punch.”
“Warning received. And heeded.” James smiled to himself. The more she challenged him, the more intrigued he became. He wasn’t afraid of a few prickly edges. In his experience, the thorniest flowers were usually the ones most worth picking. “Where’s your cloak?”
“The servants took it when I arrived.”
“No matter.” He shook off his tailcoat and wrapped it about her slender shoulders.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but I do.” He tugged the lapels, drawing the coat tight. “You might know all about London society, Miss Ward, but you don’t know me. When responsibility falls into my hands, I see matters through. Rest assured, your honor will remain intact. I’ll whisk you home, return before they’ve even finished supper, and explain to Lady Carville afterward.”
“But—”
“Anyone who dares to draw salacious conclusions will answer to me.” Her gown and her evening had already been ruined. He’d be damned if he’d allow her reputation to be ruined, too. “And I’ll make the situation clear to your father, if that’s your concern.”
“My father?” Her head jerked in surprise. “You mean to speak with my father?”
“Of course I do. If I’m delivering a young, unmarried woman home, I could scarcely do otherwise. Do you expect me to merely slow the team and heave you out onto the pavement as the carriage rolls past? Even I’m not that ill-mannered.”
She studied him. “I suppose you’re right. No one’s that horrid. Not even you.”
James was vaguely aware of the insult, but his attention was occupied elsewhere. She held the two sides of his coat together with one hand, and her middle fingertip worried a single brass button. Tipping it back, then forth, and then back and forth again. A subtle, unconscious gesture on her part, but one that set continents shifting in his chest. Somehow his mouth watered and his tongue dried simultaneously.
He’d promised he wouldn’t try anything untoward. He hadn’t said anything about not wanting to. If kissing her was anything like conversing with her, it would drive him mad in multiple ways.
After a pause, she straightened. “Very well, then.”
Well, hark the herald angels sing. It had taken her long enough.
James escorted her out into the brisk, wintry night. The carriage wasn’t standing at the ready. It wouldn’t be, only halfway through the ball. He led her down to the corner and around to the mews, where the horses and carriages waited. There, they faced down an endless row of black coaches. In this lighting, they all looked identical.
Damn it.
James shuffled forward in the dark, inspecting the side panel of each carriage they passed.
Miss Ward hunched next to him. She whispered, “Why are we creeping along like this?”
“I’m looking for my coach.”
“You don’t know what your coach looks like?”
“Of course I know what my coach looks like. It looks like a dashed coach. Black, wheels, sides, doors. At home, it’s the only one for miles around. I’ve never needed to sort it out from a crowd.” He moved on to the next carriage. “I’m searching for the one with the Thorndale crest.”
“I’ll help. What does the crest look like?”
James tried to remember. Was it two lions? A lion and a dragon? Good Lord, the crest could have featured a pat of sheep dung, for all he knew. “I’m not certain.”
“What kind of duke doesn’t know his own crest?”
“The kind of duke who was never supposed to be a duke at all,” he grumbled. “That’s what kind.” James often felt out of his element these days, but he seldom felt quite this stupid.
She tugged on his sleeve and pointed. “That must be it.”
He squinted. Yes, that one was his. He recalled it now. No lions, no dragons, no sheep dung. Just roses. Three of them, intertwined. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “Roses, Thorndale . . . They go together.”
Fortunately, his team was hitched—and impatient, judging by how the carriage jostled on its springs. Unfortunately, the driver was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s the coachman?” she asked.
“God knows.” Annoyed, James set his jaw. “I’ll go in search of him. Wait in the coach. You’ll be warmer inside.”
He reached for the door latch and flung it open, preparing to hand Miss Ward into the cab. However, when he pulled the door open wide, they were met with a startling sight—a bare arse, humping enthusiastically between a pair of fleshy female thighs.
“Close the bloody door,” the humping arse’s owner shouted. “I told you, you’ll have your turn at her next.”
Beneath him, the unseen woman moaned with feigned delight. “Ooh. Ooh. Come to me, you magnificent stag.”
James shut the door.
Good God. He blinked at his hand on the door latch, not knowing how to look at Miss Ward. He’d coaxed her away from the ball alone, vowing not to damage her reputation. And less than five minutes later, he’d led her skulking down a darkened alleyway and exposed her to a bawdy scene that would no doubt leave her shocked, confused, and possibly scarred for life.
“Oh goodness.” Behind him, she broke into giddy laughter.
Perhaps she was not quite scarred for life, then. The tightness in his chest eased. His anger, however, did not abate. James didn’t know how a proper duke would handle this situation, but the rough-mannered Northerner in him had a few ideas.
“Kindly face the other direction, Miss Ward.” He turned her by the shoulders to face a brick wall. “And cover your ears, if you will. Matters are about to get ugly.”
Chapter Six
When the Duke of Thorndale issued his command, Louisa promptly disobeyed it. Not only did she not cover her ears—she turned to peek over her shoulder, too. She wasn’t going to miss out on whatever “ugly matters” might happen next.
“Get the fuck off her.” The duke reached into the carriage and yanked the coachman out by the collar of his livery, tossing him to the ground the way laborers slung bushels of coal. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, you rutting swine? And in my coach, no less.”
The coachman’s lady love slipped out of the carriage, gathered her rumpled clothing about her, and scurried off down the alleyway. Louisa hoped the woman had demanded her fee in advance.
“Y-Your Grace.” The man scrambled to right himself and hike his lowered breeches—two activities that did not lend themselves to being accomplished simultaneously. “Let me explain. I . . . We was just—”
The duke only had to nudge him with the toe of his boot to send him sprawling on his bare backside again. “What you’re doing is getting out of my sight, you reeking bastard. I advise you not to return. It won’t go well for you.”
The coachman stumbled off, holding his breeches up with one hand and clutching his aching ribs with the other. Louisa struggled not to laugh.
Then the duke turned, and she whipped her head around so as not to be caught spying. As she did, her cheek grazed the fine wool of his tailcoat. The warmth was a welcome balm for the air’s frosty bite—and oh, the coat smelled heavenly. Not of any cologne or fussy pomade, but simply of soap and the night wind. The scent of a man’s embrace when he came home from a journey in cold weather, charging through the door red-cheeked and stamping his boots.
Drat. She had to stop thinking like this. She didn’t want to accidentally like him, in even the smallest degree.
He peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the cab. “At this rate, I’ll owe your father
a great many explanations.”
Yes, Thorndale owed Papa a great many explanations, indeed. Such as why he’d so cruelly called in their debt, with years upon years of interest, ignoring the wishes of his own uncle. And when the duke delivered her home, he would be forced to enter their house and confront the kindhearted, honest man whose entreaties he’d ignored for months. Then he could offer whatever weaselly excuses and explanations he wished. In person.
“I’ll have to find another carriage to take you home,” he said. “I’m not placing you in a cab that’s been defiled that way. It smells like cheap scent and the pox.”
“We can take a hackney,” she said.
“A hackney? I’m not taking you home in a hackney.” He made an impatient noise. “Surely we can do better than that.”
She stiffened. “A hackney is how I usually travel. My family doesn’t keep a coach and team. I know you’re a wealthy duke. One who doesn’t have to worry about the costermonger’s bill coming due. But not every family in London is so fortunate. My father is a third son. No inheritance. He’s done better for us than anyone could expect. I’m not ashamed of my family or our circumstances.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He put his hand on her lower back, brusquely guiding her down the alley. “We should do better than a hackney because you deserve better, after this farce of an evening. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Well, with that she would not argue. Her entire family deserved better treatment from his quarter.
“I’m a second son myself,” he went on as they ambled down the alleyway. “I wasn’t raised with the promise of an inheritance, either. In fact, I had no expectations beyond the life of a gentleman farmer, until . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Until your brother died,” she finished for him.
If he was a second son, and now he was the duke, that must mean he’d lost an older brother. Perhaps that fact shouldn’t pull at her heart, but it did. People died. Most of her friends had lost a sibling, if not two—some in infancy, some later. But the Ward family had been blessed with good fortune, and Louisa had never known that pain. She couldn’t imagine the desolation of losing one of her beloved brothers or sisters. She wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.
The duke was her worst enemy, and her heart ached for his loss anyway.
She allowed her arm to touch his. “I’m so sorry.”
A brusque nod was his only reply.
Louisa was left to wonder how grown men found the smallest words the most difficult ones to say. “Thanks,” “please,” “sorry” . . . From the way their tongues tripped over the syllables, you’d think those words were Latin names for species of exotic fungi. When it came to “love,” some of them lost the power of speech altogether.
They reached the main thoroughfare at the other end of the alley. A few hackneys passed by, but none of them slowed at Thorndale’s signal.
“At this time of night, I suppose they will all be occupied,” she said.
“There must be something.” He pushed his hand through his dark hair, dislodging a flurry of white crystals.
“Oh,” Louisa breathed. “It’s snowing.”
She raised her arm and watched as twirling snowflakes came to land on the dark sleeve of his tailcoat. The sight sent an irrepressible, childlike happiness through her. She’d always loved snow. They seldom saw it in London this time of year.
She arrived at a sudden decision. “I’ll walk home.”
“What?”
“Truly, you’ve made every attempt at gallantry. I’ll release you from the rest of it. You should return to the ball. You will leave the rest of your partners—and their mothers—disappointed indeed. Never mind me. I can walk on my own.”
Louisa truly could have walked home on her own. She knew Mayfair. She loved Mayfair. A walk through falling snow would be a bittersweet farewell to the place she’d always called home.
However, a solitary stroll wasn’t quite what she was angling for at the moment.
“Walk on your own?” he echoed. “Don’t be absurd.”
“My house isn’t so very far from here.”
“I don’t care if it’s a distance of ten paces,” he said with gruff impatience. “I won’t allow you to walk home unaccompanied.”
Oh, I know you won’t. In fact, I’m counting on it.
“But, Your Gra—”
“Stop arguing. I told you, when I’m decided, I am decided.” He took her by the wrist and drew her arm through his. “If you insist on walking, I’m walking with you.”
She sighed theatrically. “If you insist.”
Inwardly, she cheered at the small triumph. She curled her fingers over the crisp linen of his shirtsleeve. His forearm was hard as rock, but perhaps there was softness in him somewhere.
Like Papa, Thorndale was a younger son. He’d known the pain of loss. He had some measure of generosity in his character. Of course, offering a lady his coat was one thing, and forgiving a debt of several thousand pounds was quite another. But even though he had refused her father’s written petitions, maybe—just maybe—the duke might be persuaded to reconsider face-to-face. It was almost Christmas, after all.
Knowing his poor opinion of London ladies, Louisa didn’t dare explain the situation and plead with him outright. If she tried, Thorndale would think their ballroom meeting was some kind of ruse. He would accuse her of lying and scheming to achieve her own ends.
But if she could make him understand, in even the smallest part, what their home meant to the family, and what Mayfair meant to her . . . Perhaps by the end of their walk, when he met with Papa, his stony heart might be moved.
Perhaps.
Louisa knew she was piling all her eggshell-fragile hopes into one last duke-shaped basket. But this was her only remaining strategy. She couldn’t give up without trying, no matter how small the odds.
From the outset, she had known it would be tonight, or never.
Well, tonight wasn’t over.
Not quite yet.
Chapter Seven
For once, the city was quiet. Empty. Cold swept through the streets like a broom, leaving the air clear and fresh. No fog or choking soot.
Looking around, James could almost deem this small corner of London pretty.
Then again, perhaps it only seemed pretty because Miss Louisa Ward was nearby.
As they walked, James found his gaze drawn to her, no matter how he attempted to train his eyes elsewhere. He couldn’t help himself. The chill made pink cheeks pinker, red lips redder, and bright eyes brighter. She’d looked fetching in the ballroom, but now he felt dangerously close to . . .
Fetched.
He gave himself a little shake.
She glanced at him. “Do you want your coat back?”
“No.” James recoiled at the mere suggestion. He’d eat a Christmas dinner of pickled slugs before asking a lady to return his coat. “What kind of gentleman do you take me for?” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Don’t answer that.”
“I only asked because you’re shivering.”
“I am not shivering.”
“Oh please. It’s cold. There’s no shame in saying so. No use denying it, either.” She ran her gloved fingers over his exposed wrist, where every last one of his hairs stood on end. “I can feel your gooseflesh.”
That’s not from the cold, love. “I’m a North Yorkshire man. This is tropical for me. What I can’t comprehend is why you want to walk home in this weather.”
“It’s my last chance to enjoy Mayfair in the snow.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving London for the remainder of the winter?”
“I am leaving London for the foreseeable future. Perhaps forever.”
Forever?
That was quite a word to leave dangling without explanation, but James wasn’t the sort to pry. He despised gossip. Unless she chose to share them, her private family matters should remain precisely that—private.
“I’m envious,” he said.
He scowled. “What can you find to like about it? It’s filthy, it’s crowded, it smells. One can’t see the sky. I can scarcely breathe—not in the streets, nor in a ballroom. My only purpose in coming was to complete some business. I have a few properties to sell, a few matters to settle. Then I can go home to Yorkshire having rid myself of all ties to the place. I intend to leave this city without looking back. I could never feel easy here.”
Perhaps he should reconsider that last part of his statement. He was feeling easier by the moment. It was a relief to unburden himself of his thoughts, after weeks of being polite.
“You only hate London because you don’t know it,” she said. “It’s more than balls and parties and teas. So much happens. Museums, parks, concerts, the theater. To judge the city so meanly on so little experience . . . Well, it’s stubborn and ignorant.” She bit her lip. “I warned you, I was raised to speak freely.”
“Yes. That’s why I’d rather be here with you than back in the Carvilles’ ballroom.”
“In my experience, most gentlemen don’t appreciate a lady who voices contrary opinions.”
“In my experience, ladies of the ton don’t offer opinions, contrary or otherwise. You can’t imagine how much ‘oh yes, Your Grace’–ing I’ve endured in recent weeks. It’s driven me mad with boredom. When everyone hops to agree with you, conversation is dull indeed.”
“I suppose I’m never boring, at least.”
He chuckled. “Certainly not that I’ve seen.”
She lapsed into silence, and he took the opportunity to gaze at her. As many glimpses as he’d stolen, he was becoming a habitual thief. Every time they passed under a streetlamp, her skin glowed like a Dutch artist’s masterpiece.
“So you claim to appreciate argument,” she said, “but are you open-minded? Are you willing to let your opinion be swayed?”
“On rare occasion,” he admitted grudgingly. “But only when presented with sound reasoning and compelling evidence.”
“That’s settled, then.” Her chin lifted. “I’m going to present my most compelling evidence, make my soundly reasoned argument—and prove that you’re wrong about London.”
