by Tanya Wilde
Claire shot him a glare. This was beyond pale. The man had no right airing her business to his friends as though it was nothing but today’s gossip.
“Where was this, Dalziel?” Ashford asked, his features now clouded by darkness.
“I believe the address was—”
Claire wanted to kick the fiend, but luckily for her (and him), dinner was announced at precisely that moment. Sadly, it was announced along with Mr. Hunt.
“Claire,” Mr. Hunt said, surprised, clearing his throat when all eyes turned to him. “Miss Northrup,” he corrected. “Forgive me, I was not aware you were acquainted with the Duke and Duchess.”
Oh, bloody hell.
If she’d been able, she’d have laughed at the irony. Was this the universe’s way of punishing her for her lie? It certainly appeared so.
Ashford’s head tilted to the side, his gaze boring into hers. “And I was not aware you are acquainted with Hunt,” he drawled.
There was no missing the ice lurking beneath his calmly spoken words. Something in his voice, the way he enunciated Mr. Hunt’s name . . . her heart stuttered.
Claire turned, plastering an innocent expression on her face. “I run a shop, your grace; it is only prudent for me to become acquainted with an officer or two.”
“Prudent, yes,” Mr. Hunt said, his eyes flicking between the pair.
Mr. Piers snorted.
“Well,” the Duchess interrupted, “I, for one, have never met two more efficient men as Dalziel and Marcus.”
“What about me?” her husband protested.
“You are only efficient when it suits your purpose,” the Duchess murmured, smiling up at the duke.
Claire listened only half-heartedly as the conversation steered to belligerent husbands and disobeying wives. Ashford did not say a word, seeming to brood in silence, while Mr. Hunt cast her curious glances. Mr. Piers just looked, well, something between disapproving and amused.
But even more unsettling was the way her mind, and her eyes, never strayed from Ashford for longer than a moment. His lips, even in their displeased frown, beckoned her. How she longed to sift her fingers through the silky strands of his dark hair once more. How she desired to be in his arms, his body pressed against hers.
How had this happened?
But Claire knew how. By accepting the invitation, she had not held firm to her resolve to remain detached. She ought to have walked away. She ought to have never looked back.
Now, it may be too late.
Chapter 14
Something was going on between Claire and Dalziel. They hadn’t stopped sending each other veiled glances when they believed no one watching. Looks that even he, the master look-interpreter, could not decipher. And Roland did not like it.
It set him on edge. It made him want to act out in a childish manner, like shoot peas at them with his fork. Sadly, their first course consisted of soup. And then, of course, there was Marcus Hunt, who made up the party of look-casters. When Claire was not eyeing Dalziel, she was casting hooded looks at Hunt. An interloper, not a friend. Well, Roland conceded, Dalziel’s friend, perhaps even Blackcress’s, but not his. Not while he was ogling Claire. And when had she given the man leave to call her by her Christian name?
To hell with leave. He’d call her by her Christian name, too.
If he had not known Claire had been an innocent, his hands might have found its way around the Bow Street Runner’s throat. However, a week was still enough time to form an attachment. To seduce.
He ought to know.
Roland was not referred to as a scoundrel because he followed the rules. So why, pray tell, was he abiding by them now? It was pure torture to draw breath in her presence, listen to her voice, watch the candlelight dance across her skin, and not drag her against him, kiss her until they both went up in flames.
Blackcress, on the other hand, was enjoying this too much. The man was all but preening with delight. He should have known that Blackcress’s invitation had not been to aid him in his endeavor to win her back into his bed. If the looks his friend cast his wife were any indication, Blackcress meant for them to become more than just bedmates. Much more.
Ludicrous.
Marriage had completely ruined his friend.
“Miss Northrup,” Dalziel began, and Roland’s eyes flicked to him, “how do you know my dear friend, Ashford?”
This ought to be interesting.
Roland glanced at Claire, who didn’t even possess the good grace to blush. Instead, she took a sip of wine and smiled sweetly.
“Well, Mr. Piers, if you must know, I met Ashford today after he and the Duke happened upon my shop.”
“And this happenstance prompted an invitation to dinner?”
Roland leaned back in his seat, watching as Claire’s eyes flashed with indignation, though she hid it well. The woman knew how to evade a question. Dalziel, however, was like a dog with a bone.
“That, Mr. Piers, is a question better directed at the Duke, do you not agree? I myself am delighted to discover that some men still possess a measure of generosity over the festive season.”
“Ah, yes,” Dalziel said, his eyes narrowing. “Blackcress is known for his soft heart over Christmastide.”
“How fortunate for me.”
Blackcress chuckled but stopped when his wife shot him a disapproving frown. An uncomfortable silence stretched as Claire’s tartly-mouthed words hung in the air.
“And you share no prior acquaintance?” Dalziel pressed.
“Dalziel,” Roland warned. His friend’s interrogation had gone on long enough. At this rate, he would be fortunate if Claire spoke to him again, what with Dalziel on the verge of betraying a confidence. He made a mental note never to tell his friend anything remotely private again.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Claire piped up, her eyes flicking to him before returning to Dalziel. She appeared not at all flustered by the inquisition, almost as if she had expected it. “London is a big city, Mr. Piers. I may have encountered Ashford a time or two; however, not in any instance that is so memorable that I can recall it from the top of my head.”
Roland choked on his soup, the warm substance burning his throat.
“Quite right, Miss Northrup,” Dalziel agreed, amusement brightening his face as he shot a meaningful look at Roland. “A big city indeed.”
This time there was no holding back Blackcress’s gurgle of laughter.
The Duchess leaned forward, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere, and asked, “Where did you say the burglary occurred, Dalziel? Nasty business, that.”
Hunt cleared his throat.
Then Claire’s gaze jumped to Dalziel and once again a glimmer of suspicion settled into Roland’s bones. His friend’s face flushed, which he found curious. In all the years of their friendship, he had never seen the slightest ruffle in Dalziel’s features.
Something was going on between Claire and Dalziel.
And Hunt.
“We are not at liberty to discuss the details of the case,” Hunt answered in a clear voice, shooting them a sharp look.
“Claire,” the Duchess said hurriedly, picking up on the sudden tension that gripped the table, “Sebastian tells me that you sell all sorts of fashionable items? I must visit you and have a look. I do so love discovering new shops.”
“That would be marvelous, your grace,” Claire responded in kind.
Roland stifled the urge to snort. Tonight was supposed to be about enlightenment, to become acquainted with one another. But mostly, it had been about discovering what it was about her that had captured his undivided interest. Also, to determine whether she held the same amount of intrigue for him. Instead, Claire had done her best to avoid him, had even dressed like a milkmaid and spent the entire evening conversing with everyone except him.
He felt on edge again.
Part of him wondered why the hell he even bothered. She had made it clear she wouldn’t tread down the path that would lead to becoming his mistress.
But considering tonight’s actions, it appeared that neither did she wish to renew their affections, even for just one night.
Then why was she here?
A fair question indeed.
“Tell me, Miss Northrup,” Roland murmured. “What use do you find for a Bow Street Runner? It seems to me the city is not as big as you might think.” He watched as she cast a furtive glance to Hunt and Dalziel.
“I can think of many uses,” Hunt said, his teeth gleaming.
“Of course,” Claire murmured in agreement. “Moving furniture, for one.”
“Ah. Well, beds are heavy, I agree,” Hunt murmured, sending her a wicked smile.
With visible effort, Roland forced his fingers to remain unclenched. He imagined them together, Claire and Hunt. It provoked something fierce and dangerous in him. Claire’s face had fired up to a deep red, and she was now staring fixedly at her soup as if it were the most exciting thing in the room.
A footman came to fill their wine glasses.
With some measure of amusement, he noted the entire party polished off their wine with about as much grace as a sailor wolfing down a tankard of ale, himself included. Thankfully, Blackcress and his wife quickly took over the conversation, sensing that the night was heading into perilous waters. By the time dinner came to an end, the relief on the women’s faces mirrored the weight of tension lifting from the men’s shoulders.
Lifting his gaze, Roland found himself staring into the crystal clear eyes of Claire. There it was again, the feeling of drifting off into the abyss. The attraction was instant and seemed to serve no purpose other than to rob him of his sleep at night. It was a problem, one far beyond his experience, and he didn’t know how to address it. In truth, he wasn’t even able to dive deeper into the issue. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. What he did know was that ever since he could remember, he had led a life of debauchery, and suddenly, in the span of one week, it had become intolerable.
Damn inconvenient, that.
Chapter 15
Claire glanced at Ashford from beneath her lashes. He had been uncommonly silent for the entire carriage ride back to her home. Brooding. She presumed the night had not gone as he’d expected, but neither had it for her. It had been, in one word, a disaster. Had she known Mr. Piers and Mr. Hunt were friends of the duke, she would have sent her apologies. Honestly, she really must call into doubt the professional means by which Bow Street managed their cases given Mr. Piers’s toying with her tonight.
But that wasn’t her biggest problem. Oh, no. Her biggest problem sat opposite her, staring out the window, a vein ticking in his jaw. She wanted to ease the lines on his forehead. But it was not because she had formed an attachment to him, she told herself. He had been her first lover and thus, inspired a degree of sentiment.
Claire inwardly sighed. While his motivation still puzzled her, her own thoughts were more troubling. The smolder of his gaze, the heat of his touch, and the security that radiated from his presence, it all tempted her into a forbidden entanglement.
All these years, she’d never settled because she was waiting for love. She’d not find such a thing with a rake like Ashford. And even if he could reform, they were from entirely different tiers of society. He was a duke. They’d never marry. It was an insurmountable obstacle.
And she wouldn’t give up her independence for an affair.
Walk away, Claire.
Splendid idea. But one she no longer truly entertained. At least, not without some understanding first. She was too curious—why had he sought her out?
Best to be blunt about it.
“Thank you,” Claire began, and he turned to set those imposing eyes on to her. “For escorting me home. I am, however, still at a loss. What is it you’d wished to accomplish?”
He stared at her a long, hard moment. Then, amusement flashed in his gaze. “Damned if I know, Angel.”
“Well, you must want something,” she persisted. “Or is it that I’m the first woman not interested in continuing an affair with you?”
“I will admit that no woman has ever broken it off with me before.”
Claire snorted. “I suspect they are too flattered by your attention. Nevertheless, we only spent one night together; there is nothing to break off.”
“If that were true, Angel, then you would not have felt the need to say anything.”
His calm, seductive tone annoyed Claire. “I’m not accustomed to dealing with matters such as these,” she snapped. “You arrived on my doorstep out of thin air and then bullied me into dinner. Something had to be said.”
“However it came about, Angel, we share a connection—something exceptional—and I wish to explore it more fully.”
There it was. The reason.
Devil take it.
The man was going to give her heart hope with talk like that.
Walk away, Claire.
The prospect of abandoning the lure of his words squeezed at her breast. Indeed, she must disentangle herself from his bewitching spell and an allure so profound that each moment in his presence made it harder for her to withdraw. Being with him kept her wanting, desiring things she could never have. At least, not with him.
“I do not think that is wise.”
“Why?” he countered.
“Because we don’t belong in each other’s worlds.”
The carriage came to a halt just as Ashford opened his mouth to reply. The heated look he cast her sent shivers of awareness up her spine. Then he disappeared through the carriage door, and when he did not reappear, Claire shifted to exit on her own.
“Stay where you are, Claire,” Roland’s voice whipped through the air.
A cold frisson of terror gripped her.
Despite her fear, Claire could not just sit and do nothing. It was her shop. She deserved to see what had happened to it. She followed Ashford out, her breath of relief audible when she stopped beside him. Nothing appeared remiss. Well, except for one small detail. Leaning against her blue wooden door, with arms folded over his broad chest, was Mr. Hunt.
Ashford pinned her with a dark, accusing look.
It was unclear whether he suspected the truth or something else entirely. Well, there would be no concealing the truth now, Claire thought.
With a resigned sigh, she marched forward. “Mr. Hunt, I trust all is well.”
“Claire,” Ashford growled in protest. He followed on her heels, his body almost pressed up against her back. Surely he did not believe she’d taken Mr. Hunt for a lover? It would be an absolutely absurd idea given the amount of time that had passed.
Hunt’s eyes left Roland’s to land on her with effortless charm. “Yes, I am supposed to stay the night, but if you rather I leave…”
Oh, dear Lord. She had completely forgotten about that!
“Of course not!” Claire exclaimed, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. And wished she hadn’t. The muscles in Ashford’s jaw had firmed at Mr. Hunt’s words.
He pegged her with steely eyes, his expression darkening. “What the hell is going on?”
Claire cast a hopeless glance in Mr. Hunt’s direction before once again facing Ashford. His face was a mask of stone and his hands were planted firmly on his hips.
“Mr. Hunt is here on business,” Claire murmured.
“What business could he possibly have—” he barked out and suddenly paused, his eyes narrowing on both of them. “It was your shop that was invaded?” His eyes widened suddenly, connecting the pieces. “Someone made it to your bedroom?”
The reminder sent a shudder through Claire.
This was, however, exactly what she had wished to avoid, to be seen as a helpless girl who required the protection of a man, giving Ashford the perfect opportunity to plaster himself to her side. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel obliged toward her and stick around with gentlemanly duty as an excuse.
“Yes, but Mr. Hunt and I have everything well in hand,” she said and marched to the door.
Then the final piece
fell. “You hit the intruder with a fire poker?” Ashford asked, shock coloring his tone.
Well at least he didn’t think her entirely a helpless damsel then.
“Is that so surprising?”
Ashford stared at her for a moment before finally shaking his head. “No.”
She nearly smiled at that.
“But if Hunt is staying the night, then so am I.” His tone brooked no argument.
Claire shot him a frown over her shoulder. “As much as I appreciate this display of lordly outrage, that won’t be necessary. As I’ve said, Mr. Hunt is here on business.”
She entered her shop, feigning disregard as to whether both men followed her in. But in truth, a small thrill shot through her at Ashford’s insistence on the matter—she tamped it down. She could not indulge such things. Down that path lay only danger, heartache and disappointment.
Both men entered the shop.
Claire forced herself to ignore their presence and continued up the stairs to her bedchamber. With a shaky breath, she sagged against the door once it shut behind her and lowered her lashes. The events of the night, the excitement of what had transpired over the last two days, washed over her.
Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
Suddenly, Claire found herself filled with anger, fury at the stranger who had invaded her home. And for Ashford, who refused to leave her mind. And also for Mr. Hunt, who reminded her of what she ought to want and just how ridiculous it was to lust after a titled lord. But most disturbingly, it reminded her that she had settled for the next best thing, that she had not held out for the first thing—love.
It also made her path with Ashford clear.
Their acquaintance ended tonight. It had to. Before she compromised her future or what she truly wanted for herself even further.
She would ask Mr. Hunt to escort him out.
Just as soon as she caught her breath.
Just as soon as her heart settled once more between her ribs.
Claire inhaled deeply, opening her eyes. Glancing at the bed, she blinked. It was only then that she noticed the coppery smell that drifted to her nostrils. She inched forward, approaching the bed with caution, her spine stiff, and her eyes fixated on the center.
