by Lenora Bell
Con glanced behind him. “Trent,” he whispered. “Been asking about you at the club. Said he’ll pay you a visit. Maybe tonight.”
“Damn it!” He couldn’t risk Trent seeing the slash on his jaw, yet he had no taste for hiding like a rat in a hole.
Dalton made a split-second decision. Better to be on the road, away from the threat of exposure. “We leave now. Tonight. I can’t risk discovery.”
Con nodded. “The traveling coach is ready.”
“Traveling coach? Where are you going?” a soft voice asked.
Dalton spun. Lady Dorothea had snuck up behind him. She gave meddlesome a new definition. “That’s none of your con—”
“Why, love, didn’t His Grace inform you?” Con ignored Dalton’s frantic silencing gestures. “We’re off to the green shores of Ireland.”
Dalton groaned. Why, oh why, hadn’t he sacked Con before now?
Lady Dorothea’s eyes lit. “You’re going to Ireland? You didn’t mention that. Why? Why would you go there? Are you visiting Balfry House?”
Too many questions. “Con, escort Lady Dorothea to the door.”
“Who’s after you?” she persisted. “A jealous husband?”
“Precisely right. A jealous husband. Dangerous fellow. Loose cannon. You have to leave. Now.” Dalton attempted to herd her to the door.
“But why Ireland?”
“Because”—he searched his brandy-and Lady Dorothea–addled mind—“of a widow,” he finished triumphantly. That ought to send her running back to Mama. “A lovely, lonely widow with flaming red hair and emerald eyes. She’s pining for me. Happens all the time, you know. Poor thing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Pining for you from across an ocean?”
“Her rose trellis wants climbing.”
There was a strangled noise from Con, who was watching their exchange with a gleeful expression, as if he were watching a holiday pantomime.
Lady Dorothea advanced until her eyes were inches from his chin. “Take me with you. You owe me an escape route, if you won’t repair the damage you caused.”
“I don’t owe you a damned thing.” Dalton retrieved her cloak and threw it around her shoulders.
She drew herself up, all five petite, curvaceous feet of her, her eyes flickering with blue fire, like the heart of a gas flame. “You refuse to make me unpopular, and you won’t take me with you. Very well then. It will be more complicated, but I’ll find my own way back to Ireland tonight.”
She couldn’t be serious. “With what funds? In what conveyance?”
“I have some pin money here in my reticule.” She drew the small velvet pouch from her cloak pocket. “I’ll buy a ticket on the mail coach. I’m sure there’s one leaving in a few hours.”
The mail coach? She couldn’t travel by coach. She was so achingly beautiful and innocent.
And far too trusting. She’d climbed on top of his naked torso, for God’s sake. The lady obviously had no idea of the dangers inherent in scrambling into rakes’ beds.
There were highwaymen, fortune hunters, jewel thieves, and cutthroats just waiting for naïve young heiresses with eyes as wide as an ocean crossing.
“You can’t travel by mail coach. Not with all that”—he gestured helplessly toward her luxurious curls—“and those . . .” He waved at her full, pink lips, having lost the ability to speak in complete sentences.
Con snorted. “Chalk it down, Duke. A lady can’t travel by coach. She’d be a target.”
Right now Dalton felt as though he was at the center of an archery target. And she’d pierced him. Straight through the conscience he hadn’t even known he possessed.
Every second they stood here arguing could mean Trent arriving at his doorstep, asking questions, making demands.
A warrior never ran from a fight, but by staying he would risk everything.
Seemed it came down to a contest between facing Trent or traveling with Lady Dorothea. At least she was of a more manageable size. And there’d be no danger of her uncovering his secret. She had no idea he was anything other than the careless, pleasure-seeking, wager-happy rake society believed him to be.
Con winked at Lady Dorothea. “We’ve plenty of room in the traveling chariot, isn’t that right, Duke?”
Thea glanced askance at Con. She’d never encountered an insubordinate old reprobate thinly veiled as a servant.
“It’s only twenty hours to Bristol,” Lady Dorothea said, by way of attempting to convince Dalton to stuff her in his carriage.
Damn it. He was going to regret this. He opened his mouth to reluctantly agree, but the lady cut him off.
“If you don’t provide an escape for me I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” She curled her small hands into fists that wouldn’t leave a dent in the ripe insides of a cantaloupe. “I’ll camp outside your front door and explain to anyone who arrives that you’re taking the Great West Road to Bristol.”
Mother of God.
Dalton thudded his fist onto the sideboard and brandy snifters jigged precariously. “You, Lady Dorothea, are a plague and a pestilence.”
“Then you’ll take me!” Her lips curved into a masterpiece of a counterfeit smile. “Thanks ever so, Your Grace.”
Con smirked. “The duke would never refuse a damsel in distress.” He dropped a courtly, flourishing bow that Dalton had no idea Con even knew how to perform. “Your carriage awaits, my lady,” he said in a nasally British accent, a far cry from his usual lilting brogue.
“Why, thank you,” Lady Dorothea replied, lifting the hem of her gown and cloak and sailing across the carpet looking every inch as imperious as her formidable mother.
“I’ll just follow your servant down to the carriage, shall I?” she asked, turning back toward Dalton. “I’m sure you need to do something about that.” She waved a hand in the direction of his face. “And . . . those.” She flicked a disdainful glance at his bare legs, visible beneath his dressing gown.
The two of them left, clearly conspirators in a war against his sanity.
Dalton was left sputtering, clutching a half-empty glass of brandy and cursing himself for an addlepated fool. He downed the rest of the brandy in one fiery, fortifying gulp.
What had just happened? Had he actually agreed to escort an innocent young lady to Ireland? All because of the execrable crime of waltzing with her?
It made no sense. None whatsoever.
He surveyed his chamber dolefully. Since Con was his only manservant (bad, bad idea, that) he’d have to collect the necessary items himself.
What he required: non-ducal clothing, since he’d be traveling anonymously. His knives. His pistol case.
What he did not need: a runaway wallflower in his carriage with theoretical ruining on her entirely too clever and nimble mind.
It seemed he hadn’t solved the Lady Dorothea problem at all.
He’d only made it worse.
Chapter 6
Thea followed the duke’s unconventional manservant out to the stable yard, shivering in the cold, damp air.
Here she was, fleeing a forced marriage in the dead of night, all because of one seductive smile in a ballroom that she hadn’t been strong enough to resist.
If only she hadn’t danced with the duke she would still be a failure.
Her plans for an uneventful final season and an unnoticed exit from society would still be intact.
Now she had no time to plan her escape. She’d wanted to bring certain items back with her when she returned to Ireland.
A carriage-full of books for her young friend Molly, the daughter of one of the tenant farmers on a neighboring estate, a voracious reader who couldn’t afford a library. They’d forged an unlikely alliance while Thea was in Ireland. Books kept Molly out of trouble. She was the type to get into scrapes if her quick mind wasn’t kept occupied.
Ah well. Thea could always purchase books for her in Dublin. Or there was the duke’s library at Balfry House. A grand affair with towering ceilings and breathtaking expanses o
f leather-bound spines.
First the paintings . . . then the books, Thea thought with a smile.
She certainly had her work cut out for her on this journey.
But she’d wear him down.
She must.
She glanced back in the direction of her house where her mother slumbered in her lonely bed, dreaming of her daughter becoming a duchess at long last . . . and at any price.
Thea was an heiress with the promise of a very large portion when she married. She couldn’t imagine any other outcome from this precipitous departure except . . . disinheritance. Perhaps she’d never even see her father’s town house again.
“Not thinking of changing your mind, are you, my lady?” the duke’s unusual manservant asked, noting the direction of her gaze.
“Never.” Wrapping her cloak closer, she trudged after the man’s huge, lumbering frame.
Running away would be seen as the ultimate betrayal.
Worse than years of disappointing society appearances.
Worse than speaking the truth that day in the church with the Duke of Harland.
But living under the suffocating control of her grandmother and marrying the gentleman she chose based on rank and social position, with no consideration for basic human decency, was simply not an option.
Somehow, Thea felt that her unconventional half sister Charlene would understand the choice Thea was making. Not for the first time, Thea wished she could talk to Charlene, seek her advice, but she was in Surrey with the duke and her newborn son.
They owned a cocoa manufactory, of all things. And Thea had heard the manufactory doubled as a sanctuary for destitute young girls. She’d also heard that lessons were taught to the girls in how to defend themselves against unwanted advances from men.
Thea might need lessons of that sort . . . if she were to live alone with her aunt forever in Ireland. Someday . . . well, perhaps she could go and visit Charlene. And if Thea ever did come by her inheritance someday, she’d be proud to invest in her charitable ventures.
“What’s your name?” Thea asked the duke’s servant as they approached a waiting carriage.
“Everyone calls me Con, my lady.”
“I’m in your debt, Con. Thank you.”
He may be gruff, unkempt, and unmannerly, but if it weren’t for him, she’d have been thrown out on her ear. She’d be eternally grateful for his aid.
He ducked his head and the ends of his graying red beard disappeared into the upturned collar of his coat. “Don’t be thanking me, now. You needed an escape route. We happened to be going your way.”
Glass-paned lamps mounted on either side of the front windows of the sleek, black carriage cast a brave yellow glow in the darkness.
Thea caught Con’s eye. “His Grace made it quite clear I’m unwelcome.”
Con reached for the brass door pull. “Pay no attention to his grumbling. Has a shell tough as a walnut, he does. What he wants is a good cracking. And a good—”
“Servant who isn’t openly insubordinate.” The duke’s bass voice startled Thea as he appeared from behind the carriage, setting her heart beating faster. “That’s what he wants.”
A challenging look passed between the duke and Con, signaling that they clashed often and never knew who would emerge the victor.
Con had implied the duke might be soft and sweet inside.
He obviously had it all wrong.
In the lamplight, Osborne’s face was formed from obdurate angles and foreboding shadows, as if the playful cleft in the middle of his chin had wandered there from someone else’s visage and lost the way home.
His attire was as brooding as his expression.
Tall black boots, dark brown breeches, a black greatcoat, and a simple black beaver hat with a curved brim. Everything clearly of the finest quality, but rugged, unpolished, and a far cry from his fashionable ballroom attire.
The carriage didn’t bear his crest, Thea noted.
Perhaps the sober clothing and unmarked carriage meant he wished to remain incognito to evade more possessive husbands.
Could be scores of jealous rivals to elude.
Everyone knew he burned through mistresses as if they were kindling and he aimed to start a bonfire large enough to incinerate London.
“Last opportunity to change your mind, Lady Dorothea.” Osborne slapped a pair of black leather riding gloves against his open palm. “I’ll have a groom escort you safely home to your doting mother and your safe featherbed.”
Hardly doting, her mother. Not when Thea had turned out to be such a disappointment.
She wouldn’t let the duke intimidate her with those mocking midnight eyes.
And he most certainly wasn’t going to make any decisions on her behalf.
Thea lifted her shoulders higher. “I’m afraid you’re saddled with me for the journey, Your Grace.”
“And I was afraid you’d say that, Lady Dorothea.” He crumpled his gloves in one fist. “Then let’s be off. I’ve no time to waste.”
Con offered his hand. “Up you go, my lady.”
Thea mounted the carriage step, but where there should have been a floor to receive her there was only a . . .
“Bed,” she said in bewilderment, staring at the striped blue-and-cream-silk cushions plumped cozily together atop a flat, angled wooden surface. “It’s a bed.”
She balanced atop the step, not quite certain what she was meant to do. Surely it wouldn’t be proper to mount into a traveling . . . bed . . . with a duke.
There’s nothing proper about any of this, she reminded herself. You’re leaving proper far, far behind.
“What’s all this, then?” the duke asked in an exasperated tone.
His huge presence loomed behind her as he bent to survey the inside of the carriage.
“In you go, my lady.” Con gave her hand a quick tug, setting her off balance, and she lurched unceremoniously into the carriage. “Aren’t these traveling chariots ingenious?” He slapped the wall of the carriage. “Fold-down panels for nighttime journeys.”
It was difficult to tell under those whiskers, but Thea was certain that was a sly smile on Con’s face.
The duke surveyed Thea as she righted her bonnet and reordered her skirts after the precipitous entry.
Abruptly, he backed away. “Change it back to a seat,” he barked at Con.
“Too late. No time. We must leave immediately.”
“I’ll ride out, then.”
“Can’t. Someone might recognize you.”
The duke swore under his breath and flung himself into the carriage, landing beside Thea with a thump that shook the entire wood-and-steel structure.
Con winked at Thea and slammed the door shut.
By the ominous furrowing of his brow, she could tell the duke was in no mood for further provocation.
He could only be described as thunderous. With a strong chance of lightning and torrential floods.
But nothing was going to drown the exhilarating surge of hope Thea experienced as the horses began to trot and the wheels to turn.
Back to Ballybrack Cottage.
Where the humming of the bees in her aunt’s woven dome basket hives filled the air, and pots of orange-and-honey marmalade bubbled on the range, filling the air with spice.
She’d wasted enough time attempting to be perfect and then castigating herself when she fell short. In Ireland she’d have the liberty to determine who she was, not who her mother ordained her to be.
And Thea already knew she’d choose to be flawed and tart and imperfect, like the coarse orange marmalade with only a touch of honey to temper the bitter fruit peel.
Thea settled onto the cushions in as dignified a manner as possible, tucking a red plaid woolen blanket around her legs and untying her bonnet.
The duke sprawled on the cushions, his long legs stretching all the way into the hollow boot of the carriage.
The swaying of the carriage over the city streets nudged them closer together, and Thea ha
d to hold on to the curtains in order to stay firmly on her side.
He could still decide to pitch her out on her ear.
Best to give him some breathing space, at least until they left London. Then she could renew her campaign to persuade him to unveil his art collection.
There had to be another painting by Artemisia somewhere in that attic, she just knew it.
A lost work of genius.
A painting so heart-wrenching and lush that historians would be forced to grant Artemisia a more prominent place in the canon of art history.
And if it turned out to be a self-portrait, Thea would finally be able to meet her favorite painter, in a fashion.
She had a day in the carriage to Bristol, and then another day on a ship bound for Ireland, to make the duke change his mind. At least she could convince him to see the Sleeping Venus for himself, before he absolutely forbade further discovery.
It should be sufficient time to crack his resolve.
It would have to be.
Thea glanced at the duke from the corner of her eyes. If the force of his presence was overwhelming from across a ballroom, it was devastating in this tiny space.
Thea shivered.
“Cold, Lady Dorothea?”
Thea met his hooded gaze in the gloom of the carriage. “A bit.” She wrapped her blanket tighter. “I was just thinking about your manservant. He’s quite . . . singular.”
“I’d choose another adjective.” Osborne glared out the window, obviously imagining several slow, torturous deaths for Con. “He does enjoy his little pranks.”
“Has he been properly trained as a gentleman’s gentleman?”
“There’s nothing remotely gentlemanly about him. I would think you could have discerned that by now.”
“Where on earth did you find him?”
“He’s . . .” The duke shifted toward her, propping himself up on one elbow. “He’s really none of your concern.”
“I’m sure there’s no hope of making you see why I’m doing this, why I need to leave London. Why I won’t submit to my grandmother’s governance and marry a man of my family’s choosing.”
