But the Duke and Duchess of Buckland had complimented her on the colour, which matched their paper hangings, and so with the full weight of their approval behind her, Cordelia had set the room alight. Gentlemen strived for her attention, ladies now envied and Lord Oakdean glowered from the corner.
“Cordelia?” The males parted – one of the advantages of being a duchess. Aideen had found that although the ton may stare in prejudice from behind their fluttering fans at an Irish upstart, not one of them dare make comment about the ruthless duke’s wife. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her friend smiled, accepting another glass of champagne from a besotted swain. “I decided to no longer be a sheep, and I have even laughed loudly…twice.”
“Er, wonderful. Has Oakdean spoken to you yet?”
“No.” She frowned and took a large gulp. “I no longer think he cares.”
Aideen wasn’t so sure. A blaze roared in Oakdean’s eyes that looked far from uncaring, but she nodded and left Cordy to her admirers.
Wandering the edges, she caught a glimpse of her husband’s ebony tailcoat disappearing towards the mirrored hallway – where was he going? Another mission?
She really shouldn’t. He had made it patently clear that his concerns were his own, but the anger and dissatisfaction which had marked her days caused her feet to follow nevertheless.
If a soirée was the only place to catch him alone, then the fault was his.
The hallway presented a splendid affair as supposedly inspiration had come from Versailles – albeit on a smaller scale. Mirrored in sections from floor to ceiling, it reflected the light from the chandeliers to a flickering crescendo, and tens of Rakecombes strode down it, all of them handsome and lean, the damn bugs.
Silently, she watched as he halted and scrutinised his attire, flicking a non-existent piece of lint from his jacket. He swiped a hand over his eyes, as she’d often seen him do – a sign of weariness, she’d learned.
Why wouldn’t he allow her affection? He was so deuced stubborn.
Having talked – well, interrogated – his mother, she had a feeling it had something to do with his sister, but Meghan had become tight-lipped and said it was Alex’s story to tell – and didn’t that say it all.
But how could she ask him anything when he was never at home. ’Twas like living with a ghost – the lingering scent of chocolate in the breakfast room, the infrequent hat left on the table, the occasional footstep and sloshing noise from his bedchamber…
Another couple entered the hallway and she observed Rakecombe slip through a door to the left. Was he working or just hiding?
The couple took some while admiring the mirrors, and themselves, but finally departed, and she snuck over to the same door, twisted the handle and stepped through.
He glanced up as she closed the door behind her, surprise etched on his hawkish features.
Instead of discovering him on the pry, however, he stood with a glass of brandy in one hand and a book in the other.
The room appeared to be a small library with comfy sofas and decanters to hand. His jacket had been discarded over a desk, his upright form slender and fine-looking. How like him to make himself at home in someone else’s house.
Unsure what to say or do, she wandered over. “What are you reading?”
With a careless shrug, he showed her the book. William Blake poetry. Rather depressing, she had always thought, and an engraving within depicted a dying red rose.
He surveyed her with hard eyes and tight lips, and she felt as if she didn’t know this man, had never traded barbs with him, never felt his body inside hers, his fingers trailing her skin with tender reverence.
A distant stranger.
“Your Grace,” she purred, drawing close, “I would like to be clear about our marriage.” Those lips of his constricted yet more, and her heart stuttered. “You said we would deal well together but it seems we do not deal at all.”
“You are free to do as you please,” he replied, turning his back to place the book on the table. “In fact, you probably already have.”
Aideen narrowed her eyes. He was baiting her, and she would usually bite without hesitation, but for once, she tamped down her ire. “Why don’t you dine with me? Or talk to me? Do you dislike me so very much?”
His head snapped around. “I do not dislike you, Aideen. But I never wanted to be married. No to you or anyone.”
“And yet you proposed.” He didn’t twitch a muscle as she circled him, gown grazing his breeches. “I’ve no doubt you could have bundled me off somewhere if you’d so wished.” Aideen leaned up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “So why did you propose, Alexander?”
He swallowed, although no brandy had passed his lips.
“The begetting of an heir,” he finally answered. “So, it didn’t matter who. You were convenient.”
His answer caused a clench in her chest, but something wasn’t quite right. “Well,” she replied, “locking our adjoining door tends to prevent any begetting.”
A mocking smirk covered his lips. “I have an aversion to faithless women.”
Ah, so the Miltons’ masquerade was the bone of contention. She smiled, widening her eyes in innocence. “Jack says you trust him, so it cannot be he that you so grossly accuse.” She put a finger to her lips. “Lord MacDougall, I have only met tonight.” She leaned close, smelled leather and Alexander. “That only leaves…fy cariad aur.”
His posture could not have become more rigid, and she raised his hand to her lips. The faint claw graze adorned his knuckles still and she brushed it with her mouth. “If you play with cats, Your Grace, you must expect to be scratched.”
“You recognised it was I, yet never said a word?” he growled.
All her anger came flooding forth in one massive gush. “Do you think me so stupid, so fickle, so damn daft not to know my own husband as soon as he opens his bog mouth?” She flung her arms about with a derisive snort. “Pretending to be a Welsh lover. Of all the ridiculous–”
“I told you not to go and you disobeyed. Did you enjoy provoking me, Aideen?” The cords of his throat strained, eyes dark. “Did you think to toy with me like a mouse? Well, I’m afraid I am not that type of man.”
He yanked her into his arms, lips slanting upon hers, crushing, and she wondered how she’d so lost control of the conversation. She was the one supposed to be irate for his deception but instead an intense rage seemed to have erupted within him.
But despite his mood, she also sensed a desperation as his hands roved her buttocks, dragging her close as though he would never release her. She responded. How could she not? But as an equal, pulling his hair and clashing their mouths together.
This passion they shared wasn’t reticent or gentle but powerful. Ferocious.
Distantly, she heard a clock strike the midnight hour and with a sudden groan, he tore away.
“I can’t…” he whispered, turning on his heel and before she could utter another word, he’d gone.
Humming to herself, Cordelia Greenwood, now slightly blunted diamond but thoroughly pleased with herself debutante, wandered down the mirrored hallway, admiring the many pretty reflections of her peony red dress in the candlelight.
A man blocked her path – or lots of men, depending on one’s view.
Not again.
But this time, she felt more confident, buoyed by her success this evening. “I wish to pass, Lord Oakdean.”
Lazily, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall of mirror. “What did your mother say about that dress, Miss Greenwood?”
She glared with her best Aideen glare. “I am old enough to choose my own clothes.” And she caressed a hand down the lovely silk.
Lord Oakdean’s eyes slitted, following the movement. His nonchalant posture unfolded, and he strolled towards her. “Are you?”
“Yes.” No stutter, and of that she was proud.
“So, you know what a dress like that does to a man, do you?”
He stalked close and that muskiness overwhelmed her again. “I said man,” he whispered in her ear, “not boys.”
Oh. She gulped and then almost shrieked as he spun her, spine meeting his solid chest.
They both stared at their reflection, his face over her shoulder. A bare hand toyed with the ribbon under her breast and her breathing shallowed. He was so large, smothering her delicate frame with…largeness.
“A woman who wears such a dress must have her wits about her. Must realise the effect she has. Then she can take the appropriate action should the need arise.”
“Should what need arise?”
His grey eyes flashed in the mirror as he smiled languidly, and she gulped again as that bare hand came up and cupped…yes, cupped her breast.
She couldn’t breathe.
“I have been very patient, Cordelia.”
“Have you?” she whispered, trying not to moan as his fingers brushed the tip. His hand looked so very broad there – darker than her own skin with blunt fingers and neat nails. It all conspired to do something exceedingly fluttery to her insides.
“Your mother told me you were guileless, unworldly, but I still wanted you. She warned me away. Said I was too…hot-blooded for her naive little girl. But money talks and your father listened. However, I promised myself I wouldn’t frighten you.”
Cordelia wished her mother would stop interfering with her life. Unworldly? No wonder she was a bit of a goosecap at times, being brought up by someone who wanted to preserve her at twelve years old.
Thank goodness Father had always been a greedy gut.
“I think… I think you should have talked to me and not my mother,” she muttered, feeling curious tingles catapult through her – was that normal?
They both watched his hand meander to her other breast. “Does this frighten you?” he asked.
“No. I like it,” she told his reflection and his eyes flickered, a storm brewing in the depths. But a question plagued… “Why were you at the Miltons’ ball, Lord Oakdean? Were you with a woman?”
“No. Pilkington’s leaving spree. He’s off to the Continent and we decided to combine the two.”
“The jeers and clapping?”
He nodded, hand still caressing. Oakdean appeared to be watching her face for any traces of displeasure – he wouldn’t find any. She was having a delightful time.
“And the female I heard in some form of distress?” she asked.
His cheekbones flushed. “No idea. I was trying to find an empty room, but I knew we might stumble upon…activities, hence the covering for your eyes.” He pulled her tight. “Cordelia, I have not looked at another woman since you ambled into the Landowns’ ball dressed in godawful white frills and what looked to be a chicken in your hair.”
“Dove. But you kissed my forehead when we became engaged. I hardly felt wanted.”
“I was trying not to frighten you. Your mother said–”
“My mother is a bit odd, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She spun in his arms, hands on his broad chest. He felt so very solid – like a stone wall, but they were cold and lumpy and Oakdean was anything but lumpy…although. No, it couldn’t be. Impossible. “I wrote poems about being a sheep to my music tutor’s shepherd when I was sixteen, do you mind?”
“Did he touch you?”
“No. It was all somewhat metaphorical.”
“Then I don’t give a bloody damn. I also don’t want a three-month engagement.”
Cordelia stared into her betrothed’s eyes and saw that same burning expression she’d noticed in the duke’s every time he observed Aideen.
“Why?”
He pulled her all the more closer and she felt every flex of his powerful body.
“Because I love you, Cordelia Greenwood, and I don’t want to wait a moment longer to begin my life with you.”
Goodness.
“What would you suggest?” she purred. No really, she did, and linked her arms about his neck. Positively wanton.
“We could go to Gretna Green or get a licence?” His face remained serious and fierce.
“A kiss might help me decide.”
Achingly tender, his lips brushed hers, bestowing light touches, and then he drew away. She pulled the hair at his nape. “Kiss me properly,” she implored.
So he did. A slow, deep kiss that rolled the senses and made her ache in a truly unladylike way. She returned his kiss, copying his movements, heard his moan.
“I love you, James,” she breathed against his mouth, feeling his arms tense. “I don’t care where we go, as long as it’s together.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mirror, mirror on the wall…
Queen Street was no place to hasten in daylight hours, let alone the dead of night.
A few swaggering bucks wandered the streets, looking for trouble, but he ignored their drunken hoots, aware he was late for his assignation with Bluey.
The night had grown cold, even keeping the fog at bay, yet a damp still choked the lungs if one breathed too deeply.
Rakecombe buttoned his old greatcoat before plunging one gloved hand into the large pocket, the other maintaining a tight hold on his cane.
Anger still crawled in his belly and yet if someone had asked him why, he was aware he had no answer.
It felt as though he’d been angry forever but had sought to quash it, only keeping it hidden under a mien of self-control: a kindling of flames that had never really been doused, solely awaiting favourable conditions. A gust of soft Irish wind from the west and now the conflagration had grown beyond its confines.
Anger at Lord White for steering him to espionage whilst at Oxford.
Anger at Gwen for being so bold and thoughtless.
Anger at himself for being so bloody green as a youth.
Anger at the monster who’d spilt his family’s blood…
The only person he didn’t feel anger for was Aideen.
She’d known it was him at the Miltons’ masquerade. Of course she’d damn well known. No one would ever fool his wife; it was one of the reasons he adored her so.
Scowling, he picked up speed as a bitter gust chilled his skin.
Perhaps he should visit her bed again. Unsated lust still burned within and her toying with him at the Miltons’ and the kiss tonight had simply made it worse. The fact his desires weren’t uniquely for her body, but also her tender voice and caring eyes, he refused to consider; those desires would take what he could give and be content.
The corner of Queen Street came into view and he narrowed his eyes.
His wife also needed to learn he wasn’t some callow stripling to be taunted. Playing with a raging inferno got you bur–
A harsh cry from the street ahead and he broke into a run.
The night was murky and shadowed but a few doorways held dim lanterns, and in the distance a man lay on the ground, surrounded by another two kicking him in the guts.
Harrowing grunts echoed around the narrow dwellings, but no faces peered from the windows or called for the night watch.
“Hey,” he shouted, rushing on.
In an instant, he’d yanked the pistol from his greatcoat and aimed as one of the men drew a knife, arm hauling back for the throw, but the wielder fell with the slam of his bullet, the sound ricocheting, smoke curling, and the rat clutched at his bloodied shoulder, scrabbling desperately in the gutter for his fallen weapon.
Dropping the pistol and shoving his cane to the loop on his greatcoat, Rakecombe drew his own blade hidden beneath his many layers.
The other lowlife had a dagger and flipped it from hand to hand as villains were wont to do in a display of pitiful bravado.
Black hair flopped over the pug-nosed man’s forehead, and Rakecombe noted that although his clothes were down at heel, they were not the common blackguard variety either.
Groaning came from the filthy cobbles,
but he concentrated on the dagger in front of him which flashed then hid as a lantern shuddered in the breeze, casting dark shade and flickering light.
He waited.
The villain struck, impatient as they always were, and Rakecombe veered, slicing out before swirling around, readied in a curved stance.
“Fils de pute,” pug nose spat, and dread snaked in his stomach. It could be no coincidence that a Frenchman stalked this same street on this night.
Now it was Rakecombe who’d little patience, and diving forward, he deftly grabbed the man’s thin wrist whilst striking him fully in the face with the hilt of his dagger. He needed this Frenchman alive.
A tinge of pain grazed his own arm but ignoring it, he slammed in another clout and twisted pug nose’s wrist until he shrieked, knife clattering to the ground, and Rakecombe was forced to release him.
“Morceau de merde,” the whoreson cried defiantly, kicking out before scuttling away, tugging his accomplice with him.
Another chilling groan prevented Rakecombe from giving chase, the agonised voice recognisable, and he kneeled in the grime to tend to the fallen man.
“Bluey?” With desperation, he grabbed his collar. “Can you hear me? Where are you hurt?”
“Stomach… Can’t…”
Rakecombe cursed, not able to see the wound in this dimly lit street, but well able to feel the warm liquid seeping over his fingers. Depending on where the knife had entered, a gut wound could be fatal, and he unwound his cravat, stuffing it in wherever he could feel and then binding it tight around his midriff.
“Take me to…” Bluey reached out a bloodied hand and pulled Rakecombe’s head near, whispering, “Charles Street… Drury Lane. Six…find Harry–”
Nothing could be done here, so he hauled him over his shoulder as gently as he could, Bluey grunting in pain nevertheless before falling as a dead-weight – probably for the best as Drury Lane was a fair distance over someone’s shoulder with a wound to the gizzards.
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 14
