Chapter 19
. . . Lady G— was a vision in white at the R— Ball, it makes one wonder: If she is so beautiful at a workaday event, how will she stun at an event devoted entirely to her? It will be a lucky man who gets the closest look . . .
. . . Known as perhaps the Rogue Extraordinaire of Society’s rakes, Lord B— appears to be at risk of losing his rakish title. He was spotted climbing the steps to the home he now shares with his Lady and their three children, arms loaded with parcels and packages and something that looked suspiciously like a Christmas pudding—in April! . . .
Pearls & Pelisses Ladies Magazine, late-May 1833
Duncan stood in the dark gardens of Ralston House, the annual Ralston Ball beautiful and raucous behind him, waiting for Georgiana to appear.
He wanted to see her. Quite desperately.
He had meant to find her the previous day, after he’d resolved to get her out from under Chase’s thumb, but it wasn’t easy to find a woman who played two vastly different, secret roles in Society. Lady Georgiana had not been at Leighton House when West had seen Caroline home, and West no longer had access to The Fallen Angel to search for Anna, as his membership had been rescinded.
So, he’d spent the evening making arrangements for his return salvo in his war with Chase, a war that would decide any number of futures—Georgiana’s, Caroline’s, his sister’s, his own.
But he was no fool, and if all went well, his carefully laid plans would deliver him and Cynthia safety, and Georgiana and Caroline everything they wished. She would keep her secrets and get her husband. She would get the life she desired.
She’d danced every dance tonight, been partnered by some of the best and brightest in Britain. War heroes, earls, a duke known for his impressive work in the House of Lords. Every one would be a good match.
His papers—and he—had secured her a future. Secured her daughter a future. Georgiana would marry well—someone with a clean history, an unsullied title.
Perhaps even someone she could love.
He hated the bitterness that rose in him at the thought, the desperate desire to stop her from being with another. From loving anyone but him.
But he could not give her what she wished—even if he had a title . . . he could not promise her a future. Not one without fear.
And he would not wish that on this woman whom he loved so much.
If all went well, she would be returned to Society without a care in the world, without the shadows of her past looming, without the threat of a future without security. If his plan worked, she would be married within two weeks.
Two weeks.
The words echoed through him, the little agreement they’d made what felt like a lifetime ago. They were intelligent people. They should have known that their lives were too complicated for even two weeks of simplicity. Not that he would ever dream of calling their time together simple.
She was the most complex woman he’d ever known.
And he adored her for it.
And tonight, he would show her that, one last time—stealing one final moment with her to help her find happiness, whatever that might be.
But first, he would tell her his truths.
He heard her before he saw her—the rustling of her skirts like cannonfire in the darkness as she approached. He turned toward her, loving the way she was silhouetted by the ballroom behind. The light cast a pale golden glow over her white gown, cut dangerously, decadently low, revealing the swell of her breasts, and making him want to steal her away from this place, forever.
She stopped several feet from him, and he hated the distance between them. He stepped toward her, hoping to close it, but she stepped back. She lifted a gloved hand and brandished a small ecru square. “You left me yesterday,” she said, and the pout in her voice made him want her even more. “You cannot simply decide to summon me out of a ballroom into a dark garden.”
He watched her carefully. “It seems to have worked.”
She scowled. “It shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t be here. Our arrangement was supposed to bolster my reputation. This threatens to do the opposite.”
“I would never allow that.”
She met his gaze. “I wish I could believe that.”
He stilled, not liking the words. “What does that mean?”
She sighed. Looked away, then back. “You left me,” she said, the words small and soft and devastating. “You walked away.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me the truth.” He thought she laughed at that, but he couldn’t be sure—the gardens were too dark and he could not see her eyes. “And then I realized that you cannot trust me blindly. That you have been devastated before. You keep your secrets to keep her safe. You keep his secrets to keep her safe.” He paused. “I won’t ask you for them anymore.”
She came to him then, stepping forward, and he was overcome by the nearness of her . . . the smell of her . . . vanilla and cream. He wanted to pull her toward him and make her his here, in the darkness. For what might be the last time.
He wanted his two weeks.
He wanted his lifetime.
But he could not have those things, so instead, he would settle on this night.
“Why don’t you know how to dance?” she asked.
The question came from nowhere, and it shocked the hell out of him. He would have expected a question—something about his own secrets. His own past. Something about Tremley. About Cynthia. But he had not expected such a simple query. Such an all-encompassing one.
He should have, of course.
He should have expected her to ask the most important question first.
Of course, he answered it, his discomfort with the subject matter—with all the bits and pieces of his life that somehow were connected to it—making him more hesitant than usual. He started simply. “No one ever taught me to dance.”
She shook her head. “Everyone learns to dance. Even if you never learn the quadrille or the waltz or any of the dances they dance in there”—she waved at the house—“someone dances with you.”
He thought back. Tried again. “My mother danced with my father.”
She did not speak, letting him tell his story. Letting him find his way. It was a memory long forgotten, dredged from some dark corner where he’d sent it to die. “My father died when I was four, so it is a surprise I even remember it.” He paused. “Perhaps I don’t remember it. Perhaps it’s a dream, not a memory.”
“Tell me,” she said.
“We lived in a cottage on a large estate as tenant farmers. My father was large and ruddy-cheeked. He used to lift me in the air as though I were featherlight.” He paused. “I suppose I was to him.” He shook his head. “I remember him by the fire in the cottage, twirling my mother around and around.” He looked to her. “It wasn’t dancing.”
She watched him carefully. “Were they happy?”
He struggled to remember their faces, but he could remember the smiles. The laughter. “In that moment, I think they were.”
She nodded, reaching out for him, sliding her hand into his. “Then it was dancing.”
He clasped her fingers tightly. “Not like the dancing you do.”
“Nothing like the dancing we do. Our dancing is for show. For circumstance. A way to show our plumage and hopefully find favor.” She stepped closer, near enough that if he lowered his chin, he might graze her forehead with his kiss. He resisted the urge. “Your dancing was for fun.”
“I wish I could dance,” he whispered, as she looked up to him. “I would dance with you.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you wish.”
“By the fire in your home?” The whisper nearly slew him with memory and want.
“In another place. Another time. If we were other people.”
She smiled, sadness in the expression, and slid her left hand up to his shoulder, placing her right hand in his. “What about here? Now?” He wished they weren’t wearing gloves
. He wished he could feel her touch as well as her heat. He wished a great many things as they moved, slowly, circling in slow time to the music spilling into the darkness.
After long moments, he pressed his lips to her curls and spoke. “I’ve watched you dance a dozen times . . . and I’ve been jealous of every single one of your partners.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“I have stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching you, Poseidon watching Amphitrite.”
She pulled back to look at him, tilting her head in question. He smiled. “I, too, know about Poseidon.”
“More than I do, apparently.”
He returned his attention to their movements. “Amphitrite was a sea nymph, one of fifty, the opposite of the sirens . . . the saviors of the sea.” They turned, and her face was cast in the glow of the ballroom. She was watching him, “On a night in late summer, the nymphs gather on the island of Naxos and danced in the surf. Poseidon watched.”
Humor flooded her gaze. “I imagine he did.”
He grinned. “Can you blame him?”
“Go on,” she urged.
“He ignored all the Nereids, save one.”
“Amphitrite.”
“Is this my story or yours?” he teased.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” she replied.
“He wanted her desperately. Came out of the sea, nude, and claimed her for himself. Vowed to love her with the passion of the surf, with the depth of the ocean, with the roar of the waves.”
She was not laughing anymore, and neither was he. Suddenly, the story seemed incredibly serious. “What happened?”
“She ran from him,” he said, the words soft and serious, punctuated by his kiss on her brow. “She ran to the farthest edge of the sea.”
She was silent for a long moment. “She was terrified of his power.”
“He wanted to share it with her. He followed, desperate for her, aching for her, refusing to rest until he found her. She was all he wanted. He was desperate to worship her, to marry her. To make her goddess of the sea.”
She was breathing heavily now, as was he, lost in the tale. “When he could not find her, he became lost, refusing to rule the sea without her by his side. He neglected his duties. The seas rose up, and storms devastated the islands of the Aegean Sea, and he could not bring himself to care.
“When Amphitrite realized what Poseidon had offered her, what she had refused, how he had searched, she wept for him. For the love he had for her. For his passion and desire. For what she had lost.” There were tears in Georgiana’s eyes now, the story taking on a new meaning. New power. “Her tears were so many that she wept herself into the ocean. She became the sea itself.”
“Lost to him, forever,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “No. With him, forever. His strong, tempestuous partner. His equal in every way. Without her, there is no him.”
The music in the ballroom stopped. He pulled back from her. “You run from me.”
“I don’t,” she said, and they both knew it was a lie. She pulled away, took several steps back, putting space between them. She tried again. “Yes. I do.”
“Why?”
She took a breath. Released it. “I run from you,” she said, sadness in her tone, “because if I didn’t, I would run to you. And that can never happen.”
He kissed her then, because he did not know what else to do, savoring her taste, beauty and life and scandal and sadness. It was the sadness that stopped him. That had him pulling back, waiting for her to speak.
“Who is Tremley to you?”
She surprised him with her directness. Of course, he should not have been surprised by her. She was not one to shy away from difficult conversation. “He came to me last night.”
He went cold at the words. Cold, and furious. “Why?”
“He nearly killed his wife. She fled to the club, searching for sanctuary.”
“Christ,” he said, falling back a few steps. “I did that.”
She met his gaze, anger and betrayal showing. “We. We did it.”
“Is she—”
“She will heal,” Georgiana said. “She will heal and she will triumph. We will find her a place to live out from under his thumb.”
The words made him weak—weaker than he’d ever in his life felt. Weaker than when he did Tremley’s bidding. “By we, you mean you and Chase.”
“Among others.”
“I want him dead,” West said, the words coming out ragged with frustration and guilt over what he’d done to Tremley’s innocent wife. And for what? “I want him ruined forever.”
“Why not do it?” she asked, the words high-pitched with confusion. “You have the means to do it. To destroy him. I gave them to you. Who is he to you? What hold does he have over you?” She paused. Collected herself. “Tell me. We can fix it.”
She meant it. He could not stop the laugh that came at the ridiculous pronouncement, as though she had any control over Tremley, Or Chase. “There is only one way to fix it,” he said. “A secret is only a secret before a second person knows it.”
“And Tremley knows yours.”
If only it were that simple. “This story is not as good as Poseidon and Amphitrite.”
“I shall be the judge of that,” she said.
He couldn’t stand still as they talked, not for this. Not as he revealed his past sins for the only time. So he turned and walked, and she followed, keeping pace, but seeming to know—as she always seemed to know him—that he could not bear her touch. Not now.
He did not want the reminder of what he might have had, if not for this.
Finally, he confessed. “Tremley has known my secrets for all our lives.”
She’d known there was a connection, of course, but not what it was. It had never occurred to her that he and the earl might have been so connected for so long.
She watched him carefully, working to keep the shock from her face. Working to keep herself from asking the myriad questions immediately on the tip of her tongue.
“My father died when I was no more than four.” He looked away, into the darkness, and she watched him in profile as he spoke, loving the strength in his face. The emotion there. “And my mother, saddled with a child and no knowledge of how to live on the land, was offered a place in the main house.”
“Tremley’s house,” Georgiana said.
He nodded. “She went from farmer’s wife to washwoman. From sleeping in her own house to sleeping in a room with six other women, her child in her bed.” He looked up at the trees rustling in the spring breeze. “And she never once complained.”
“Of course she didn’t.” Georgiana could not stop herself from speaking. “She did it for you. For you and your sister.”
He ignored the words. Pressed on. “The estate was horrifying. The former earl, if you can imagine it, was worse than the current one. Servants were beaten. Women were assaulted. Children were pressed into service too harsh for their age.” He looked into the darkness. “My mother and I were lucky.”
Georgiana had not even heard the story, and she knew there was nothing lucky about it. She wanted to touch him, to give him comfort, but she knew better. She let him speak. “He took an interest in her.”
She’d known the words were coming, but she hated them all the same.
“He offered her a trade—her body for my safety.” Her brow furrowed at the words, and he noticed. “Or, rather, not my safety. My presence. If she did not give him what he wished, he would send me away. To a workhouse.”
Georgiana thought of her own child, of her own past. Of the threats she’d faced—never so cruel. Never so damning. Even when ruined, she’d still had the luck of the aristocracy. Not so this woman. This boy. “Why?” she asked, “Why torture her?”
He met her gaze. “Power.” He paused and collected his thoughts. Went on. “I was allowed to stay, but made to work—I’ve told you this bit.” She reached for him then, unable to stop herself. Unable to resist comforting the
boy he’d once been. He pulled away from her touch. “No. I won’t be able to tell it all if you . . .” He hesitated, then said, “Once, I resisted the work. He punished her.”
“Duncan,” she whispered.
“I could not stop him.”
She shook her head. “Of course you couldn’t. You were a boy.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “I am not a boy any longer. And I could not stop him from hurting his wife.”
“You cannot compare the two.”
“Of course I can. Charles—the young earl—he was as bad as his father. Worse. He was desperate for approval, and he took pleasure in the power that came with being the future earl. He learned to throw a remarkable punch.” His fingers came to his jaw, as if the words brought back the blows. “He did terrible things to the servants’ children. I stopped him more times than I could count. And then . . .” He trailed off, lost in thought for a long moment before he looked back to her. “The countess never goes back,” he vowed. “I’ll pay for her to go anywhere in Christendom. Anywhere she chooses.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“I mean it,” he said, and she recognized the fury in his gaze.
“I know.”
He took a long breath, released it on a wicked curse. “When I was ten, my mother became pregnant.”
She’d done the math already. She’d known Cynthia was not his full sister. Now, she finished the calculation. Her eyes went wide. It was his turn to nod. “You see how it fits together.”
“Tremley.”
He dipped his head. “She is his half sister.”
“Christ,” she whispered. “Does she know?”
He ignored the question. “The earl pushed my mother to be rid of her, first when she began to increase and then again when Cynthia was born. He threatened to take her away. To give her to some well-meaning family somewhere on the estate. My mother refused to allow it.”
“I am not surprised,” Georgiana said. “No woman would be willing to let you go.”
Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels Page 31
