by Dawn Ireland
“Declan.”
“What?”
“I want you to use my Christian name when we’re alone.”
“All right, Declan, I’ll not be a prisoner. Until you can give me a good reason why I need lock myself away, I won’t do it.”
“Yes. You will.”
“No. I won’t.”
Declan raked the hair off his forehead and strode toward her, then stopped several inches away. She was forced to look at his broad chest. He wasn’t wearing his waistcoat, as was his wont this early in the day.
She could see the well-defined muscles still faintly visible through the fine lawn shirt. Her gaze crept upward to the thick column of his neck, swathed in its intricate cravat. By the time she reached his face, her breathing was shallow and fast. Fighting the urge to reach up and loosen the ribbon binding his shiny black hair, she tried to collect her thoughts.
“Yes, you will,” Declan said. The words were disjointed, as if he were struggling to get them out. With each syllable he uttered, his lips drew closer to hers, until the word “will” vibrated between their mouths.
He crushed her to him, pressing the breath from her body. His kiss made promises. Promises of long conversations, nights of passion and love.
Suddenly, he jerked away, his eyes filled with panic. The sound of his labored breathing filled the air. Sweat sheened his brow.
She didn’t know what she could do to help him. He was trapped in a well of his own making. His terror at loving a palpable thing.
“Declan, do you...”
“No, Alex, I can’t. I just can’t.” He turned and bolted from the room.
“I can’t” lingered on the still air, but she hugged her arms to her body and closed her eyes. Declan loved her. She was sure of that now.
It was just a matter of time before he realized he was running from himself. When she opened her eyes, Declan’s mother seemed to be smiling her approval. If it took years, she would wait. She wanted to be there the moment Declan admitted he’d loved her all along.
Chapter 18
“It’s not going to be getting any better.”
“What isn’t?” Declan knew what his friend was referring to, but wished he’d keep out of it.
“Your wanting to see her.” Morgan raised his glass, acknowledging the Earl of Cholmondeley with a tip of his head. The old man was a fixture at White’s, and it was a habit of Morgan’s to acknowledge the old guard. They seemed to love him for it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Declan tried to give his friend a warning look, but Morgan leaned forward on the polished wood table, practically coming out of his seat.
“Don’t you now. I know you’ve not been home before the wee hours of the morning in days, and I find you at my place before breakfast every morning.” Morgan sat back in his chair and gave him a knowing smile. “Just look at you. You’re even less well groomed than usual. Richards must be having a fit. You’ve got circles under your eyes. If I’d been meeting you for the first time, I’d assume you’re ill.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Perhaps, but at this pace, if you’re not, I soon will be.”
He studied his friend. Morgan did appear tired. Even the touch of deviltry in his eyes had dimmed. They’d attended more entertainments in the last four nights than he had in the last two months.
His friend had insisted on accompanying him. He suspected it was out of worry, but there was nothing to worry about. He was fine.
“I’m sure Lady Lochsdale would be wanting to see you. Your engagement ball is little more than a week away.” Morgan’s exasperated voice carried over the refined muttering so typical at White’s. It was expected that fortunes would be won and lost at the tables without the benefit of exuberant voices. He lowered his voice when he noticed the stares. “She must be wondering where you’ve run off to.”
He glanced down at his drink. The amber liquid reminded him of Alex’s hair. It was almost that exact color when touched by sunlight.
“Well, are you going to see her?”
“What?”
“You’ve not spoken to your betrothed in days, and I’m wondering why.”
“I’ve been busy.” In truth, he had been doing all he could to stay occupied. When he hadn’t been watching his own house, hoping for a glimpse of Alex, he’d been going over reports with Adrian. Hell, he’d even taken his place one afternoon in the House of Lords, and the high drama of the posturing Lord Ruthby nearly put him to sleep.
“So, I’m to believe you’re too busy to see the woman you’re about to marry.” Morgan appeared thoroughly disgruntled.
Loud murmurs mercifully drew their attention to the Betting Book ensconced in its normal corner. It was surrounded by a group of lords, the lure of a bet drawing them like the promise of a performance by a particularly risqué actress. Several of them cast furtive glances in his direction.
“The word’s out about your pending engagement,” Morgan said. “Lord Somby informed me Lord Duprey’s entered a bet you won’t marry the Countess of Lochsdale. I hear he’s wagered quite a tidy sum.”
“The bastard.”
“He would be that, but you’re not going to let him win, are you?”
Declan took a long swallow of his drink and set it on the table with a decisive click. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I hadn’t any plans.”
“Would you like to attend Derby Day?”
“What’s that got to do with...?” Morgan looked confused for an instant, then understanding crossed his well-drawn features. “Oh. I’d be pleased. I take it Lady Lochsdale will be joining us?”
“Yes.”
A man hailed them from across the room. He held up a pack of playing cards. The leather mitten he used to protect his cuffs made his hand look like some macabre bird’s head.
“Lord Chesterfield is looking to lose at whist again.” Morgan shook his head. “You’d think he’d learn. Would you be wanting to play?”
“You go ahead. I’ve had the devil’s luck with cards the last few days.”
After Morgan left, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note. He smoothed the creases out on the table, running his fingers over Alex’s flowing script.
I asked you once if you would take me to Derby Day, and you told me my future husband would decide. As you are now in that position, I’m asking again.
Regards,
Alex
No hint about how she was feeling. What did she make of his absence? Richards had surprised him with the note this morning, but it told him nothing except she wanted to go to a horse race.
Declan smiled. She had never been shy about what she wanted; it was one of the things he liked about her.
At least she’d done as he’d requested and kept to the house these last four days. He had only caught glimpses of her at the windows and once in the garden. He’d felt like a stranger, looking at a scene he longed to participate in.
He stood and stuffed the note back into his pocket. Morgan was right. Staying away from Alex was foolish. It made him to think about her constantly, like the immediate hunger you feel when someone tells you dinner will not be forthcoming.
He needed to put his relationship with her in perspective. The horse race was the perfect opportunity to prove he could manage his desires for one slip of a woman. Just in case he faltered, it was a public place, and Morgan would be there. What trouble could he possibly get into?
It was going well. Aside from the brief moment when he’d handed her into the carriage, Declan had managed not to touch Alex. Hell, he’d not even had to work at conversation. Morgan and Alex had kept up a steady dialogue for the last two hours.
Alex peered out the carriage window, her jaunty green hat brushing the curtains. “I didn’t think there’d be so many people. Lord Derby only started this race a couple of years ago.”
Morgan’s voice took on a long-suffering quality. “An Englishman will always be finding a horse race to bet on
.”
“And the Irish don’t?” Alex raised her brows in Morgan’s direction.
“Ah, Wee One, I’m wounded.” His friend proceeded to grab his chest in melodramatic fashion.
Alex grinned, shaking her head, then resumed looking out the window. “Where are all the horses? I was hoping to get a look at them before the race.”
Declan realized she was right. There wasn’t a horse in sight. Brightly decorated booths marched side-by-side as far as the eye could see. All manner of wares were available for sale. He pretended to yawn in order to cover his smile. Leave it to Alex to be more concerned with horses than shopping. “They’re stabled on the other side of the hairpin track. We can visit them later. We’ll want to establish ourselves near the finish line. From that vantage, we can see the beginning, as well as the end of the race.”
The carriage lurched to a halt, and they descended into a mass of humanity. The subdued attire of the Ton created a sharp contrast to the vivid colors worn by gypsies and hawkers. A main thoroughfare led to the track, and they proceeded in that direction, dodging people and stopping to watch a shell game. A wiry little man with nimble fingers deftly slid the shells in a circular pattern, trying to confuse the observers. He succeeded. His portly victim chose the empty shell, much to his chagrin.
Their little group thrust forward through the multitude until the smell of fish and chips wafting on the air made his stomach grumble. “Would you like something to eat?” He touched Alex’s shoulder to get her attention. She started.
“I’m sorry. What did you ask?” Alex’s voice was almost lost amongst the lyrical calls of the hawkers and excited chatter of the crowd.
He leaned closer to her, speaking as distinctly as possible. “Nothing of importance.” He might as well not have replied. She was already looking back at a toy vendor, her eyes wide, as she watched the vendor demonstrate one of his marionettes. The man’s movements were smooth, but the sharp angles of his face reminded Declan of one of his creations. He manipulated the strings of a small marionette, a jester clothed in a multicolored doublet, causing it to dance to an imaginary tune. At the conclusion of the performance, the little wooden jester gave a formal bow and blew a kiss to the audience.
Alex clapped, almost jumping up and down in her excitement. As soon as he could tear her away from the entertainments, he negotiated them to the edge of the crowd where they could at least hear each other.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” Alex said. “I’ve never been to the races. Aside from a Season in London, Grandfather and I rarely left the estate.”
Morgan smirked at Declan. “Ah, Wee One, it’s happy I am Worthington suggested we come. He’s been missing you something fierce.”
Before he could open his mouth, Morgan excused himself and joined one of their mutual acquaintances. Declan had half a mind to drag him back by his elegantly tied cravat, but Morgan and his friend quickly blended into the press of race enthusiasts.
He was left alone with Alex, if you could call standing in the middle of a crowd alone.
It seemed like they were rooted to that spot, Alex looking at everything but him. Minutes stretched. He felt like his neck cloth was choking the life out of him and reached up to adjust it.
“Oh look.” Alex attempted to move past him, toward some unknown goal, but in the crush, she was thrust against him. He put his hand on her waist to steady her. The innocent contact gave rise to the memory of Alex naked in his arms. A memory he’d been trying desperately to forget.
She looked up into his eyes, her lips slightly parted. He wanted to answer the longing and desire he saw lurking in her emerald gaze, but to do so would mean he would no longer have a choice. She would become a part of him—the best part.
A part he could no longer cast aside.
He brutally forced himself to look back at her with no emotion. A mask he’d perfected to cover the hurt his father had inflicted on a regular basis.
He’d become good at his ruse. She turned away, sucked into the throng, her bowed head no longer visible. He closed his eyes, willing his breathing to become even. When he felt in control again, he scanned the crowd for Alex, moving several feet in the direction she’d disappeared. She couldn’t have gone far.
Why did he let her go off alone? He always seemed to do the wrong thing where Alex was concerned. Seeing a flash of dark green velvet ahead, he let out a deep breath. Thanking God his momentary lapse hadn’t cost Alex her safety, he quickened his pace.
She seemed engrossed in something at the last booth on the lane. Of course it was a weapons vendor. When he finally caught up to her, he didn’t let her know of his presence. He watched as she picked up a bone-handled throwing knife, testing the grip for her small hand.
The knife vendor was occupied with a comely serving wench at the other corner of the booth. The vendor smiled at the girl, but his black teeth and stringy shoulder length hair didn’t have the needed appeal. The girl gave him a look of disgust and walked away. Disgruntled, the man turned toward Alex as she fingered the edge of the blade.
“Watch out there, that’s sharp. You’d best look at something more suitable.” The man snatched the knife, but when he got a good look at Alex, his voice took on a persuasive tone. “A mite of a girl like you couldn’t possibly know nothin’ ‘bout throwing knives.” He straightened his spine until he reached his full height, just slightly taller than Alex.
“If you really want to be learnin’ ‘bout throwing, I could show you. There’s all manner of things I could be teachin’ you.” The man showed his rotting teeth as he tossed the knife from one hand to the other, his lecherous gaze on Alex. “Wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you hurtin’ herself.”
Alex’s back went rigid.
Declan stepped forward and put a warning hand on her arm. He knew the moment the vendor noticed him. Black teeth flashed a welcoming smile, but wariness draped the man like a shroud.
“My lord, might I show you a pistol?”
Declan found the man’s ingratiating voice, as well as everything else about him, annoying. How dare he treat Alex with such disrespect!
“Perhaps you’d like to see a rapier. From the look o’ you, I’ve no doubt you’d know wot to do with it.”
“I’m really interested in throwing knives. The one you're holding, in particular.” His strongest desire, at that moment, was to see it sticking out of the vendor’s gut.
“A wise choice, my lord.” The hawker held it up, running a tentative finger along the blade. “Right sharp, nice balance. You’ve got a good eye.”
“How much?” The question was out of his mouth before he realized what he intended. It infuriated him that someone would deal with Alex in this manner. Hell, she could probably out-throw the half-wit.
He could feel the tension in her arm and knew it was taking all her control not to berate the ingrate, as he deserved.
“Two pounds, me lord. An’ a bargain at that.”
“I’m not sure.” Declan turned toward Alex. “As this will be a gift for you, Lady Lochsdale, I’d like to know what you think.”
Declan was amused when the vendor went red in the face and his jaw dropped open. He was half tempted to let Alex show the idiot what she was capable of, but there were entirely too many witnesses from the Ton in the crowd.
The muscles in Alex’s arm relaxed. She turned toward him, a light of deviltry dancing in her eyes. “The workmanship seems solid.”
She took the knife from the vendor’s limp fingers, turning it back and forth in her hand. “It’s good steel. The chip carving on the handle has been smoothed to ensure an easy release when it’s thrown.” She gave a little shrug and handed it back, her voice laden with disdain. “It will do.”
Smothering the desire to laugh, he considered what he was about to do. Hell, her grandfather used to buy her rapiers; surely he could buy her a paltry throwing knife. “I’ll take it.”
The vendor had the sense to sheath the knife and hand it to Alex after Declan paid for it. De
clan gave the man an icy stare. The vendor dropped his gaze first and began to fidget, organizing the wares spread before him.
Alex slid the knife into a pocket. They moved away from the booth, Declan’s hand in the small of her back, propelling her toward the track.
“Thank you.”
“For the knife? It’s nothing.” He didn’t want to talk about his gift to her.
Alex stopped and turned toward him, then put her hand on his arm. “The knife is beautiful, yes, but I really wanted to thank you for defending me. You acknowledged my skill with weapons and asked my opinion. No one’s ever done that before.” She dropped her eyes and studied the spot where her hand rested on his arm. “I know Grandfather was humoring me when he bought the rapiers I’d selected. He meant well. Most men act like the knife vendor.”
“The man was a fool.” Declan gazed down at her and shook his head. “And I’d be a bigger fool if I didn’t recognize your abilities. Come on, the first race will be starting soon, and there’s still plenty to see.” He wanted to show her all of it, all the wonderful things she might have missed, all the things that had seemed ordinary until today.
They stopped by several more vendors, and Alex insisted on buying him a small statue of a horse carved from obsidian. It had a small chip in the base, but Alex pronounced it a perfect likeness of his stallion, Knight. He had it in his pocket, along with the fischu she’d purchased for Eleanor, and a wager. Alex had given him a pound and asked him to put it on Edward’s Folly. If they’d let her, she would have placed the bet herself.
Making their way to the finish line, they slowly nudged toward the fence, until they could make out the turf course, its eighty-foot expanse meticulously groomed.
“We can’t see the other side from here.” Alex stood on her tiptoes to try and get a better view, but a hill blocked everything but the starting line on the other side.
“There’s a hundred-foot climb in the first half-mile and then an abrupt turn on the downward slope called Tattenham Corner,” he said. “You can just make out the sharp turn from here. If they get past that, the race becomes a question of speed. Look over to the right. They’re lining up.”
