by Lenora Bell
But who was he to tell her not to ruin her life if that’s what she chose to do?
As long as he didn’t do the ruining. He cleared his throat and extricated his fingers from her hair.
Nothing irrevocable happening here. Nothing at all.
“I’ll post your letter at the next inn,” he said.
Eyes the color of raindrops hitting ocean waves searched his face. “You will?”
He nodded. “If that’s what you truly desire.”
A smile lit her eyes and curved across her lush lips. “Why, thank you.”
He basked for a moment in the approving light of her smile.
“Now see, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Her smile widened. “You don’t always have to be so disagreeable.”
Make another request. Anything. Ask me to ruin you in a completely non-theoretical way. Dalton drew a deep breath to chase away those thoughts.
Control. Stoicism. Disagreeableness. Because charm in this situation might get them both into trouble.
And none of this surreptitious touching. The burst of sensation that coursed through his entire body when his lips merely brushed her palm.
He edged closer to the opposite side of the carriage.
He had to find that center again. The still heart of vengeance. Razor-edged, single-minded purpose.
Trent had shaken him, made him doubt himself for the first time in years.
An enemy’s blade.
A moment of weakness in a carriage.
They were one and the same.
They both left telltale scars.
After helping Con tend to the gear, Dalton entered the inn in Chippenham fully intending to keep his promise and post Thea’s letter. But then he glimpsed her resting in an armchair by the fireplace in the great room. Shoulders hunched, hands folded, gaze trained on her red leather boots.
She looked lonely. Her oval face filled with uncertainty, brow wrinkled.
Informing her mother that she’d been ruined would change her life immediately. The societal stigma for fallen women of good breeding was severe. She’d be cut off from society. Unable to return to her family if she changed her mind.
What if she developed regrets? What if she wished to return to London?
A new thought struck him. What if her aunt didn’t want her to be there in Ireland . . . or what if her aunt suddenly passed? Then what would happen to her?
Disinherited. Friendless.
Alone.
The thought made his throat constrict.
She should never be alone. She was made for laughter. For everything good and sweet.
For love.
Dalton backed out of the room without attracting her notice.
On his request, a jolly-looking innkeeper who obviously enjoyed his porter of an evening brought Dalton pen and an ink pot.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the innkeeper asked.
“The lady in the great room, the one sitting by the fire. Bring her a cup of your finest drinking chocolate.”
The innkeeper’s eyes twinkled. “Admire the lady, do you, sir? Shall I tell her it’s from you?”
“No.” Dalton shook his head. “Tell her it’s from the cook.”
The innkeeper nodded sagely. “Of course, Sir.”
Swiftly, Dalton composed a letter of his own.
He refused to be the means of delivering Thea to a lifetime of doubt and could-have-beens.
He knew enough about regrets to know they ate away at you, hollowed you out, like termites attacking the inside of a fallen log.
One veiled threat from Dalton to the countess that if Thea were forced to marry Foxford, or another peer of his ilk, Dalton would make life difficult for the countess in society, as only a duke could, ought to do the trick.
And a few lines informing the countess that Thea . . . When had he started thinking of her as Thea? In the carriage just now?
Informing the countess that her precious daughter, Lady Dorothea, was unharmed and would be delivered safely to Ireland.
Though he couldn’t guarantee her safety past that point, since he’d be hunting O’Roarke.
He finished scrawling the brief note and handed it, along with Thea’s letter, to the innkeeper to post.
Strictly speaking, he followed Thea’s wishes.
He posted her letter.
He just happened to post one of his own as well. Which missive Lady Desmond chose to believe was entirely up to that humorless lady.
Chapter 9
Halfway to Bath now. Legs cramped from sitting on the carriage seat. Mind bent with guilt.
Had he done the right thing by posting the letter? No point in wondering that now. What’s done was done.
Thea hid behind one of the broadsheets she’d collected, which was probably just as well. Whenever they spoke to one another sparks flew. They’d start the carriage on fire if they weren’t careful.
The broadsheet crackled as it lowered, and blue-gray eyes emerged over the edge. “There’s an advertisement here for Duchess Cocoa, manufactured by your friend the Duke of Harland. I had some at the inn in Chippenham. I had no idea it was so very delicious.”
“James is dedicated to creating the finest drinking chocolate on earth. Now he’s managed to lower import duty taxes so even second-rate inns can afford to serve cocoa.”
If he kissed her right now, she’d probably still taste like the spices in Harland’s famous chocolate blend. Why did he keep having these thoughts?
Small, confined space.
Lovely, lovely Thea shimmering in fading afternoon light. He’d never seen her in the afternoon before.
To distract himself from thoughts like that, he asked her the first question that came to mind. “Have you had any contact with the Duchess of Harland since she . . .”
“Since she stole my intended?” Thea smiled. “I was banished to Ireland the day after I was supposed to have married the duke.”
“That must have been difficult for you.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t really want to marry Harland. No one seems to believe that, but it’s the truth. I’d never even met the man.”
“He’s a good man.” Far better than me, Thea.
“I’d like to see my half sister again some day.”
Dalton nodded. He’d done the right thing. She didn’t truly want to sever all connections with society. She didn’t want to be lonely.
Thea readjusted the broadsheet.
Creaking of carriage wheels. Sound of horse hooves on gravel.
He sifted through what he knew of O’Roarke one more time, to keep himself from staring at trim ankles encased in supple red leather.
By his mother’s account, O’Roarke had been a clerk in a shipping company and was now a wealthy merchant based out of New York. They should be able to find news of him and his shipping concern at Bristol Harbor.
Why had Dalton’s father never considered O’Roarke a suspect? Perhaps he’d never even known of his existence. His thoughts had immediately turned to all the men he’d ruined in the gambling hells.
A lowly clerk hadn’t made the list of suspects.
His father’s theory had always been that one of his enemies had followed him to Ireland from London and struck the very day they arrived.
But it could have been O’Roarke, lying in wait for years. Biding his time. Maybe he’d seen the old duke as a symbol of oppression. Stealing O’Roarke’s love away. Robbing the Irish of their ancestral estates.
“Ah . . .” Thea interrupted his thoughts. “Here’s something that should be of interest to the rake about town. The Hellhound struck again. Outside of the Crimson in Piccadilly. Says here he robbed Lord Trent of his winnings and left him bleeding in the street.”
Dalton had been the one left bleeding.
Don’t move a muscle. Don’t betray even the slightest bit of interest.
Or that might be too noticeable. He should make some inane comment. “The streets are more perilous than ever these days,”
he said with all the nonchalance he could muster.
Steer the conversation along new lines. “My mother hasn’t left Osborne Court for nearly a decade, can you credit that? She’s too afraid to venture into the streets of London.”
Thea’s mouth made a round, astonished shape. “She hasn’t set foot outside your house in ten years? I knew they called her the . . .” She stopped speaking.
“The Dowager Recluse. I know what she’s called.”
“I never did see her leave the house but I thought, well, I thought that perhaps she went out at odd hours, by the back entrance.”
Dalton congratulated himself on a successful distraction. “My father tried to commit her to an asylum but I wouldn’t let her be moved. They say she has anxiety of the most acute kind. She shrinks from the idea of leaving the house.”
“How infinitely sad.” Thea set aside the broadsheet. “Isn’t there anything to be done?”
“I used to try to coax her out of doors. I’d bundle her up in a cloak and carry her to the front door. She’d scream so loudly I had to return her to her rooms. Her mind is still resolute and strong, but she’s subject to bouts of despondency and fear.”
“She’s never been back to her home in Ireland?”
“Her sisters write to give her all the news, but she never visits them. And they’ve stopped visiting her. It’s too painful for everyone involved.”
“I’m sorry.”
He turned his face away from the sympathy in her eyes. “She’s not always unhappy. She likes to feed delicacies to her cats. And she takes exercise in the courtyard.”
“But never to leave one’s home? It’s as if she’s imprisoned.”
“It’s by her own choice.”
The carriage filled with silence.
Dalton traced letters across the cold, hard surface of the window. Stopped when he realized whose name he was writing. Alec.
Thea cleared her throat delicately and he glanced at her.
“They say the Hellhound is an Irishman,” she said cheerfully, probably thinking she was doing him a favor by changing the subject. “‘He spoke with a strong Irish brogue,’ it says in the paper.”
Dalton caught his foot tapping and stilled it.
Don’t betray too much interest. Not with clever Thea across from you.
Thea quirked her head to one side. “You frequent the gambling clubs, do you not? Have you ever encountered the Hellhound?”
“I only frequent the finer clubs. And the Hellhound is only a fiction invented to sell broadsheets.”
She shook her head vehemently, sending golden curls twirling onto her shoulders. “I know he’s real. I’ve met him.”
Dalton gulped. What in hell was she talking about?
“Well, not personally,” she clarified. “My eldest brother, Andrew, met him.”
Dalton searched his mind for a Mr. Andrew Beaumont . . . ah yes. That Beaumont. Bladdered Beaumont, as he was known at the club.
“Your brother is, pardon my frankness, a drunkard. I met him on several occasions years ago and he was never parted from his cups for long. Most likely had his pockets cleaned as he stumbled home and had to embroider a more impressive tale to save his reputation.”
An emphatic shake of that pointed chin. “That’s not it at all.”
Damn. Why hadn’t he tied her up and sent her home when he had the chance?
“The Hellhound saved Andrew from gambling away his entire portion. I think the broadsheets have it all wrong. I think the Hellhound is more guardian angel than thieving rogue.”
Dalton masked a surprised grunt with a cough. “If he’s real he’s a criminal. A marauding Irish scoundrel. They’ll catch him one day and he’ll hang, sure enough.”
Was that too much? He didn’t want to betray vehement sentiment of any kind. Something might give him away. A tremor. A nervous flinch. Arouse her suspicion.
“You’re wrong.” She shifted closer to him, clasping her hands, intent on convincing him of his error. “He’s noble. Andrew nearly gambled away his entire portion, plus a property in Bedfordshire. I came home from a ball early and he was sitting in the parlor with no candles lit, his head in his hands. ‘I nearly lost it all,’ he said, his eyes burning. ‘He saved me, Dorothea. He saved me.’”
Dalton remembered that night well. He’d been gambling at the same club, in his rake’s guise, and he’d watched Beaumont lose half his fortune in the time it took to shake the dice box and spill doom upon the green baize.
Still young, but already going to seed, developing a paunch, with the red-rimmed eyes and juniper breath of a devoted drunk, Beaumont had grown increasingly reckless. When he’d left the club, shouting that he’d damn well try his luck at Old Crocky’s next, Dalton had followed him outside.
Shed his evening clothes. Become the Hellhound.
He knew the darkness and the drink would mask his identity, and Beaumont had posed no threat.
Soft. Helpless.
Dalton hadn’t even had to try. One growled word of warning and the fellow had started blubbering.
“He was ashen-faced, shaken,” Thea said, her voice low and urgent. “He nearly spilled the glass of brandy he held, his fingers were trembling so. He isn’t loquacious, my brother, but that night . . . I think he needed to tell someone, and I happened to be there.”
She stared out the window. “He lost three thousand pounds in ten minutes. It was too horrible to be believed.”
The man had been close to losing a lot more than three thousand pounds.
“Oh, look. We’re nearly to the Bath turnpike.” Dalton pointed to the signpost but she didn’t even look.
Her mind was fixed firmly on his secrets.
“Andrew told me that one moment he was outside, catching his breath, and the next there was an elbow around his throat and he was up against a brick wall, a giant monster pushing his cheek against the brick. The Hellhound warned Andrew that next time he wouldn’t be there to save him.”
“How’s that noble, exactly? Sounds brutish to me. Pushing your brother against a wall. Making threats.”
“His methods may be unorthodox,” she said primly, “but they are effective. Andrew never gambled again. And he stopped drinking as well. After he saved Andrew, I began to take an interest in the Hellhound’s activities. I’ve been following his exploits in the papers for some time now.”
Not good. Not good at all. “It looks as though the rain might be letting up,” Dalton said desperately.
“There are patterns. He never attacks women or children, always men. And usually wealthy, corrupt men. And sometimes he saves poor souls like Andrew.” She smoothed her skirts.
She gazed dreamily out the window. “Sometimes I wonder if Andrew imagined it all, because he needed to believe in something larger than himself. But no.” She shook her head. “I believe the Hellhound’s real. And I think he’s heroic. Like Robin Hood.”
“Imaginary,” Dalton grated out. “He’s definitely imaginary.”
“He’s noble.”
“I hate to tell you, but you’re wrong. There’s no champion who can cure society’s ills and defend the powerless. He’s only a myth.”
“You’re the one who’s wrong.” She waved the broadsheet at him. “The Duke and Duchess of Harland champion the powerless, rescuing destitute young girls and providing training and occupation. That’s noble. Why haven’t you ever considered doing something like that with your fortune?”
She’d provided the change in topics this time, thankfully.
“As a matter of fact, I have quite an enormous sum invested in their charitable institution. Harland’s my best friend. I believe in what he and Charlene are doing.”
“Your Grace.” She turned shining eyes on him. “I had no idea. How wonderful.”
“It’s nothing, really. I have friends who are better than I’ll ever be. They make it easy for me to find a good use for my fortune.”
“Well, if the Duke of Osborne, heartless rake, can invest in helping
save powerless girls from the streets, then I definitely believe the Hellhound saved my brother.”
What? Dalton nearly burst into a coughing fit. The lady had a narrowly focused mind and now she’d used both his titles in the same sentence.
Must distract her. Must create a diversion.
And so he did the only thing he could think of to stop the clever, inquisitive beauty from enumerating any more theories or making more comparisons.
He gathered her into his arms . . . and kissed her.
Well. This is unexpected, Thea had just enough time to think before the surprise of his firm, sensual lips meeting hers.
My very first kiss.
Which she’d always imagined would be an unmitigated disaster. She’d erupt into giggles.
Or knock her teeth against his chin.
Or . . . in an extreme nightmare she’d imagined during her first two seasons . . . vomit upon the gentleman’s polished Hessians immediately following said kiss.
Yet Thea did none of the above. She simply . . . relaxed. Unwound. And allowed herself to thoroughly enjoy the foreign experience.
His lips were gentle, yet demanding, moving over her as a brush slid across a canvas.
She felt his kiss spread all the way down to her leather-encased toes, like a drop of Prussian-blue watercolor paint touched to a wash of water to create a hazy, cloud-strewn blue sky.
His lips demanded something very specific . . . and even more unexpected. They wanted her lips to open. They brushed and nudged until she complied and then, oh, was that his tongue sliding inside her mouth, unlocking a hidden portion of her mind that had been waiting for the answer to this question . . .
Why all the fuss? Why all the love sonnets?
Ah. This.
Powerful arm hooked around her waist. His other hand fumbling with bonnet ribbons and then flinging her bonnet aside, his lips never leaving hers.
Enormous hand surrounded the nape of her neck, tilting her head into the kiss and issuing more demands.
Tilt a little further back. Wrap your hands around my neck. Use your tongue as well. Talk to me without words.
Ever widening circles of bliss rippling through her body.
