The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  Xavier placed her luggage before the driver and handed him a coin. “Please see the lady safely home—”

  “To the Dog & Whistle,” she interrupted quickly. “I can find a new hack from there.”

  “As the lady pleases.” He inclined his head to the driver. “To the Dog & Whistle.”

  “Right away.” The driver picked up her trunk and began hauling it out to his hack.

  All that was left was Egui and herself.

  She picked up the wicker basket and took one last, long look at Xavier. Her voice trembled. “If I thought there was anything between us…”

  “There’s not.” His voice was flat.

  She sighed. “I know.”

  He held open the door. Icy wind rushed in.

  “I don’t judge you for what you did before.” Her chest ached as she looked at him. “I judge you for what you’re doing now.”

  His eyes darkened. “What, pray tell, am I doing now?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” She stepped out into the cold. “Like you always do.”

  He caught her arm. “I warned you, Miss Downing. I’m no hero.”

  She held fast to the basket to keep from reaching for him one last time.

  He held himself so still, his body fairly thrummed with intensity. She tried to smile, to pretend it was all right. He dropped her arm as if it had scalded him.

  “Safe travels,” he said curtly. “I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  Her smile cracked. “Even heroes make mistakes.”

  He stepped back into his cottage, and the door closed tight behind him.

  Chapter 18

  That night, Xavier couldn’t sleep.

  Or the next. Or the night after that. Nothing out of the ordinary for a monster like him, other than a new character having cropped up in his nightmares.

  Now, when he stared at the prisoners as the weight of a thousand keys rooted him in place, a soft female voice floated through the darkness.

  I don’t blame you for that. I blame you for what you’re doing now.

  What am I doing now?

  Absolutely nothing.

  He awoke bathed in sweat and spent the rest of the night glaring up at his shadowed canopy, his heart galloping wildly.

  The snow was gone. So was Jane.

  He wished he had them both back.

  Or, at least, her admiration. Her blind faith in him as a genuinely good person. He would never experience that again. He slammed his fist against the bedpost. Destroying her illusions about him had destroyed him, too.

  If only he could be the man she’d believed him to be. The man he’d always hoped he would become.

  A man worth believing in.

  He would never be that. With a sneer, he pushed out of bed and stalked over to the window. Although still tightly shuttered, dawn was sneaking through the cracks. The sun relentlessly rose, and so must he. No matter how he felt about it.

  He turned toward the basin to splash water on his face. It didn’t make him feel better. Nothing had, since Jane left. Everything had only felt worse. His shoulders tightened.

  Was she right? Had he changed, just by wishing to?

  He would never don regimentals again. Nor would he force anyone to do or say anything against his will. But could he ever atone for the past? Did he prove anything by giving up on his future?

  His back slumped against the wall. All he could think about was Jane. How much he missed her. How badly he’d hurt her. No matter how much he’d longed to, they should never have made love.

  But wasn’t that her decision, too? He hadn’t tossed her skirts over her head in a dark alley. She’d journeyed to his door with seduction in mind. They were both to blame.

  He gazed over at the empty bed. When he remembered the night they shared, it didn’t feel like something to be ashamed of. It felt like something to celebrate. She’d thought so, too. He was almost certain of it.

  Where was she now? What would happen to her? There’d been no missives, nor mention of her in the society papers. Perhaps she was back to being a quiet little bluestocking as if no part of their interlude had ever happened. He hoped she had. He hoped she could.

  She hadn’t been interested in marriage, but nor had she exhorted him to keep their affair secret. He would die before betraying her, but she couldn’t know that. She simply trusted him.

  He paced across the room. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her to keep his secret, either. He simply trusted her with the darkest parts of his soul.

  Why? He hadn’t confessed his sins to his best friends. They wouldn’t understand. What made her different?

  She could certainly keep a secret. To her, past mistakes were irrelevant, except for their impact on what lessons he learned from them. After everything he’d done, then and now… she’d accepted him as he was.

  And he’d let her go.

  Imbecile. He deserved what he got. He pulled off his nightshirt and stalked over to his closet.

  His housekeeper had returned a fresh pile of laundered clothes the night before, but he’d been too tired to put them away and too prickly to let anyone else in the room long enough to help him. He wasn’t used to help yet. Wasn’t certain he ever could be.

  Distracted, he picked up the topmost shirt. His arm was halfway through the sleeve before he noticed bright pink buttons had replaced the previous linen-covered ones. The bucolic row of brightly embroidered butterflies encircling the cuff, however, was impossible to miss.

  Jane.

  He brought his wrist closer to his face and squinted at her handiwork. His eyes widened in recognition. Not Jane. Egui. This was one of the many shirts Xavier had given up for dead after that damned cat ate all the buttons and sharpened its claws on the sleeves.

  Perfectly matched thread sewed those tangled ribbons back into a working sleeve. The butterflies were either there to draw attention away from the surgery—or simply because she could. It was her brother’s cat, he remembered belatedly. Perhaps the poor bastard had bunnies and butterflies scampering up all his sleeves.

  Just like Xavier.

  A quick perusal indicated that not one, not two, but all of his undershirts and most of his cravats had been similarly “rescued” from the bin.

  He laid them out atop his bed in disbelief. One of his waistcoats was even monogrammed with his initials… as a rainbow menagerie of ducks and squirrels frolicked along the hem.

  What on earth was her fascination with woodland creatures? The fall of his best breeches even boasted a chirping robin beside each button.

  He burst into helpless laughter. Even when she wasn’t there, Jane still managed to surprise him. And to have the last laugh. He selected the worst offender and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Nothing for it. He wouldn’t be going to Town, which meant for the next several months, he would be wearing designs better suited for a nursery.

  He grinned at his sleeves. Incredible. He wished Jane were there right now so they could laugh together and he could hold her close.

  His chest ached. Foolishness. This was reality. He pulled on a pair of breeches and sat to buff his Hessians.

  Then again, why bother? There was nowhere to go. No one to stay home with. Just him and his house.

  He tied a flowery cravat about his neck and scowled at his reflection in the glass. He looked ridiculous. Jane should absolutely be there to see it.

  Zeus, he missed her.

  Restless, he strode into his library. It didn’t feel half as appealing without a fire burning and Jane sneaking chapters of Fanny Hill at the other end of the chaise longue. It wasn’t the same without her.

  His heart was cold. He touched his flint to paper and lit the hearth. Nothing would make him warm again. He threw himself down onto the cushions and closed his eyes. It didn’t help.

  All he could think about was her reciting the Odyssey, and how she’d forgotten the Trojan horse because she’d—

  God’s teeth, there wasn’t any part of his house that didn’t make him think o
f Jane. The bed where they’d made love. The dining table where they’d drank and gambled. Even his cursed nightstand with the basin of water she’d used to bathe his skin. It was hopeless.

  He wished he had memories of her all over England. She’d said she loved the violin. He wished he could take her to hear all of her favorite orchestras and arrange private concerts at home for the two of them. He wanted to spend every evening brushing out her hair while she read aloud to him from one of the books in their library. Even if it was eighteenth-century erotica.

  Lord help him. He rubbed his face and stared at the ceiling. He was in love with her. His shoulders tensed as he considered his next move.

  Now what?

  He sat up and peered over the back of the chaise longue at all the books they had yet to read. At the house that could be a home. He was ashamed of taking her as his lover, but he wasn’t ashamed of her. The real question was whether she’d give him another chance. He shot to his feet.

  Their relationship didn’t have to be secret. If she was willing, he’d like to make it permanent. To make her his. Forever.

  He should never have let her walk away.

  Even heroes made mistakes.

  His hands went clammy. What could he do about it? He didn’t even know where she lived. He could ask Grace or Oliver, but not without providing some sort of explanation.

  And then there was Jane’s brother to contend with. Xavier could scarcely barge in the front door and demand access to the man’s sister. Xavier had no wish to duel with Isaac Downing. The rotter was likely to bring Egui as his second.

  He needed to meet her on neutral ground. Talk to her. Beg her. Find her. If only he—

  The play. She was going to be at the Theatre Royal in less than a sennight. She’d told him so herself. His lungs tightened.

  He’d have to be there, too.

  Chapter 19

  Jane stepped out of the carriage onto blustery Bow Street and took her brother’s arm. They were running late, but at least she wasn’t alone.

  She ducked her head against the brutal wind and hurried into the Theatre Royal. Grace and her family would already be up in Ravenwood’s private box, eagerly awaiting the opening chords of Cymon. Jane couldn’t cry off.

  A part of her wished Xavier could be there. Another part of her dreaded the idea of confronting him face-to-face—and being unable to do more than curtsey and inquire about the weather.

  Both were ridiculous worries, of course. He was in Chelmsford, not London. And there he planned to stay.

  She held fast to her brother’s arm as they strode across the empty lobby. The greatest advantage to arriving late was missing out on the usual crush of fashionable well-wishers, all of whom consistently met her for the first time.

  Her throat clogged. She was tired of being nobody. Of being dismissed upon sight and just as quickly forgotten. Why was she incapable of forgetting past encounters? Try as she might to forget Xavier, every stolen moment was burned indelibly upon her soul. He would be part of her, forever.

  She pressed her lips together in a tight line. There was one definitive advantage to the rampant Janenesia afflicting the ton. Any other woman in all of England would have been accosted by friends and neighbors and old finishing school acquaintances every step of the illicit journey.

  Not Jane. She had even been forgotten in the back of a hackney carriage during her return journey. She’d fallen asleep, and the driver had simply kept driving. If it weren’t for Egui clawing out of his basket, who knew where they might have ended up?

  Isaac had returned home a few days later, exhausted from his journey but delighted to see his sister and his cat.

  Egui, of course, had been the perfect picture of feline docility. Jane did her best to portray the same image. No mad dashes to Essex here. No forbidden nights in the arms of an ex-soldier. No trampled heart, shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Just Jane. Lost in a book. Boring as ever.

  She hadn’t ventured out of the house since returning home. It wouldn’t have been seemly without her brother’s chaperonage, but even once he’d returned, she hadn’t felt like socializing. What was the point? None of those men were the one she wanted.

  Nothing could compare to the evenings she’d shared with Xavier. Her stomach turned. She’d never realized how deeply it would hurt to love a man who didn’t want her.

  Isaac slowed as they reached Ravenwood’s private box. The usher swept the thick velvet curtains aside and motioned them in to take their seats.

  “Hurry,” whispered Grace, clapping her gloved hands in excitement. She didn’t tear her eyes from the stage. “The orchestra is about to begin.”

  Jane flashed a weak smile at Lord Carlisle and Grace’s mother, then took one of the empty seats. Her limbs were heavy with disappointment. Of course Xavier hadn’t come. She’d known it was improbable. She hadn’t even really wanted to see him.

  So why was her throat dry and her shoulders heavy?

  She crossed her arms over her twisting stomach and forced herself to stare at the parting curtain.

  The orchestra began just as her brother Isaac slid into place beside her.

  Life went on, she told herself. She wasn’t alone. She had her stalwart brother. Her best friend. A shared opera box on loan from a duke. Her lot might not be what she wished, but it wasn’t horrid. Just a fortnight ago, she’d believed her life would be perfect, if only she had the memory of a night of passion to keep her warm.

  Well, now she did. And her heart was cold as ice.

  She stared dully off the balcony as Cymon and Urganda took the stage. She should at least feign interest in the play. There were worse fates than an evening spent with friends and family. She glanced at her brother. She was grateful to have him beside her. It wasn’t his fault she was awash in misery. Isaac loved her. Trusted her. He believed he knew what kind of person she was.

  He was wrong, of course. She averted her gaze. Did his false belief in her goodness and purity change who she was? She hated to deceive Isaac above all others, but blurting the truth about her duplicity and fallen state would not benefit either of them. Although, even if Isaac were disappointed in her… he’d love her anyway.

  Heat pricked her eyes. Nothing was better or worse than unconditional love.

  She froze. How had Xavier felt when he’d confessed his secret? Worse than before? His rejection had stung so badly, she’d been thinking more of herself than of him. She’d responded with logic, not love. Dismissing the depths of his guilt. Deriding him for not standing up for himself, for what they’d shared, for her. Was she right to discount him for his failure to fight to keep her?

  Or should she have tried a little harder to stand up for him?

  Her heart clenched. She knew she loved him. She’d also failed to mention it. Before Xavier could be expected to turn his life upside down, he needed to know she would be there by his side. That she understood who he had been, and accepted him for who he was now.

  The power of unconditional love came from the knowledge that one possessed it.

  Yet she’d left him without so much as a backward glance.

  She rubbed her arms. A rustling went through the audience. She let out a deep breath and tried to focus on the play.

  The first act appeared to be over. The actors had quit the stage, and the orchestra had taken their seats. She frowned. No wonder the audience was confused. It had to be time for intermission, but the curtains had not been closed. Something unexpected was happening.

  The theatre manager walked onstage and motioned one of the violinists up from the orchestra pit.

  Scattered applause rose above the murmurs. Perhaps they were being treated to a solo by a rising star. Jane leaned forward eagerly as the violinist began to draw his bow across the strings. The melody was low and hauntingly romantic. A hush fell as every guest became transfixed by the sound.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the theatre manager called out to the crowd. “Tonight we have an unexpected publi
c announcement from one of our most infamous heroes—Captain Xavier Grey!”

  Jane’s heart stopped. She couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t move. It was as if the world had ceased turning, and had trapped her right along with it.

  There, before her eyes, Xavier strode onstage. Not in his fine red regimentals, but in devastatingly rakish attire, spoiled only by a blinding proliferation of over-bright embroidered butterflies and prancing squirrels along the hems.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

  He was the most impossible man she’d ever met. And the most dashing. His black hair was freshly trimmed, and he held himself like a captain. Tall, confident, and heroic.

  “Miss Jane Downing,” he called out, gazing straight up at their box.

  She couldn’t breathe. Two thousand shocked faces turned toward her in unison. Flickering light from the overhead candelabra reflected in the lenses of hundreds of opera glasses.

  Her heart thundered. This couldn’t be happening. Her friends and brother stared at her in equal surprise.

  “Miss Downing,” Xavier repeated, his voice carrying in the vast silence. “I see you. I understand you. I feel your presence even when I don’t have you before me. You haunt my dreams, and you haunt my days. My life is nothing without you in it.”

  She gripped the edges of her chair to keep from sliding out of it.

  “You’ve stolen my heart. And my ability for rational thought. Without you, I am nothing. But with you, I become so much more than I could ever be on my own. You make me a better man.”

  The audience was so still, they must’ve been able to hear the hammering of her heart. She couldn’t move.

  “I love you, Jane. Now and forever. This is me, proclaiming my love from the rooftops.” He flashed a wobbly grin as the melody from the violin soared softly in the background. “I want you in my arms and by my side for the rest of eternity. Come dance with me if you feel the same.”

  Her ears roared. Blindly, she pushed up from her seat and raced down the stairs, up onstage, and into his arms.