Chapter Eleven

Alicia awoke to an empty room. Her travel clothes hung from a hook on the wall, just above her packed valise—both signs that Mrs. Kent had been inside. The only sign of Ash was the scent permeating the rumpled sheets and the dull ache between Alicia’s thighs.

She listened for sounds from the connecting washroom—silence.

Fear upended her heart.

She scrambled to her feet, dashed into the dressing room—empty, but for his banyan.

She shook her head no. Ash would not have left. Not without saying a proper farewell. He was just out for a ride.

Please let him be out for a ride.

She went to the window. Heavy mist hung in the air, obscuring her sight, though branches emerged from the grayish foam as if floating, unattached. The effect was disturbingly grim.

Even if Ash was out there, she wouldn’t be able to see him.

Her fear turned to dread, threatening to spread out from her heart in permanent cracks. For three days, Ash had pleasured her, fed her, held her, and in turn, she’d relinquished her only true possession—her body. She’d trusted him, opened to him, granted every desire. Even if he were the devil duke he claimed, he would not abandon her on the morning they were to part.

He owed her a proper goodbye. One that would acknowledge her consummate surrender, one she could hold close thorough the lonely nights to come.

She searched back through the prior night, searching for something she might have done wrong. She found none—she’d betrayed her hope for a different end into the silence of her heart, but never aloud.

There was no way he could have known she was falling in love.

She held her hands to her cheeks. Calm. She needed calm.

And she needed to get dressed.

The simple tradeswoman’s dress in which she’d arrived wasn’t made for women with time and help to spare, but her shaking fingers made fastening the ties almost impossible.

She prayed Ash would be waiting for her below, but deep inside, she knew the truth. When she descended into the empty hall, she felt no shock.

“Miss, is that you?” Mrs. Kent called up from the kitchens below.

“Yes.” Her voice wobbled, teetering on despair.

She’d thought she’d touched Ash’s heart as deeply as he’d touched her own. She’d been wrong. So very wrong.

What kind of person bought a woman’s body, coaxed her to give him her soul, and then disappeared, without the smallest gesture?

She hadn’t expected gratitude. Kindness would have been enough.

Mrs. Kent came up the stairs.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” she asked.

Mrs. Kent’s gaze flicked to the door, and then she dropped her eyes. But Alicia had already seen the flash of disapproval.

“I’ve made cakes for your travels.”

“Thank you.” Alicia couldn’t force a bite if she tried.

The door opened. Alicia’s heart stuttered as she turned.

“The carriage is ready, ma’am.” Mr. Kent bowed, looking weary.

“Thank you,” she forced again.

How could he not be here?

Nights, she reminded herself. They’d agreed to nights. Not to mornings. Not to sentimental goodbyes.

How could he not be here?

She lifted her chin. This wasn’t the first time she’d suffered humiliation. She would get through this, just like she got through Octavius’s rejection, his affair, and his death. Just because Octavius had never made her feel precious—

Her shoulders heaved.

“Oh—Oh, dear.” Mrs. Kent rushed up the remaining stairs and enveloped Alicia in an embrace.

“Moll.” Mr. Kent’s tone reprimanded.

“’Tis not my place,” Mrs. Kent said with a stony glare. “But this isn’t right. None of this is right. Never thought he’d be as callous as his—

“Moll.”

Mrs. Kent harrumphed. “’Tis the devil’s own work to let her go without a by-your-leave. And here I thought she’d be the one.”

The one?

Mr. Kent’s troubled gaze came to rest on Alicia. “Pay her no mind. The carriage is prepared.”

Alicia nodded, gathering her wits. She may feel as if she shattered, but she was whole. Whole, if with a breaking heart.

She squeezed Mrs. Kent, grateful for the sympathy, but Mr. Kent was right. Whatever despair she may feel, Ash—no, she would think of the Duke of Ashbey as his grace or the duke from now on—had not lied. His grace had acted precisely how he had warned her he would act.

Truth was a harsh salve.

“I am ready,” she said.

Mr. Kent nodded. “I’ll retrieve your bag.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Kent said suddenly. “This came for you this morning.” She rushed to the sideboard and returned to deliver a package.

Alicia unwrapped the brown paper. A cloak—she shook out the fabric—but a cloak like none she’d ever seen. The outer layer was black wool, and the inner lined with the thickest, blackest fur she’d ever seen. Her mind went blank; all she could do was blink.

...a coat of sable.

Mrs. Kent looked away. “His Grace ordered it the night you came. Mr. Kent rode all the way to Bath.”

She touched the lining—rich and smooth and supple. A coat like this could keep her in constant coal for a year or more. A coat like this would remind her of the dark, sumptuous nights they shared.

“Do you have the cloak I was wearing when I came?”

Mrs. Kent shook her head no. “Destroyed on His Grace’s order.”

She pursed her lips. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want something that would remind her of this awful moment. But she’d freeze without the protection of a coat.

“Take it, please.”

Mrs. Kent did not. Alicia laid it gently over the rail and made her way back up the stairs through his bedchamber into the dressing room. She spotted his banyan on the wall, grabbed it from the hook, held the cloth to her face and inhaled.

Her body, not truly understanding the morning’s change, instantly relaxed.

He was a devil—a devil for whom she cared so much more than she wished to care. And if he wanted her to have a memento, she much preferred this. She rolled up the banyan and tucked the bundle under her arm.

With her head once again held high, she returned below stairs to say her goodbyes.

She wasn’t certain what point she’d proven, if she’d proven one at all. But at least she had four more hours wrapped in his scent.

She stepped onto the stair the coachman had positioned to help her into the coach. A lump the size of a pumpkin lodged in her throat.

Stay. Stay and fight.

She closed her eyes to squeeze out the threatening moisture. He’d made his wishes clear.

She would heal. She always healed. And if she ever permitted herself to look back, she would do so only to wonder if it had happened at all.

She would leave his grace behind.

Ash sat atop Cerberus, looking down at the tower.

Leaving Alicia had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. He’d had to summon a wall of pure will to counter the onslaught of sentiments he did not even know how to define. Vicious, jagged emotions that sliced though his being like shards of broken glass.

When he’d left, he’d planned to gallop fast.

Fast enough for the wind to lash his cheeks. Fast enough to drown out the protestations ringing incessantly in his ears. Fast enough to leave the demons behind.

The weather had not complied. A tortoise could have passed him at the pace he’d picked his way up the hill—the mist reluctantly unveiling no more than a yard of the path at a time. Now, at the summit, the fickle fog parted just enough to reveal the tower.

He groaned.

The whole morning had the marks of torture, as if he’d been leveled with yet another celestial curse. He’d been cursed before, of course, but this was a stronger damnation, a curse for a devil who’d dared steal one of heaven’s own.

He blinked down at the tower, fighting a sting in his eyes.

He had no choice but to leave, he argued for the thousandth time. Repetition did nothing to ease his roiling gut. Even his dark beast danced, imploring him to remedy his wrong.

“If I asked her to stay, we both know what would follow.”

He conjured—on purpose for once—the memory of his dead wife. He wanted the pain of Rachel’s censure—a reminder of the damage he’d done. All that came was the image of a bare Alicia, trussed with his black silk cravat, bliss shining on her face.

One night with him had been too much for Rachel. Three nights with Alicia had only whetted his taste. She had followed wherever he’d led. And now, he’d left her alone.

Every fiber of his being screamed to drive Cerberus down the hill. Enter the hall and then fall to his knees and beg. His unspoken supplications burned like acid on his tongue. He gritted his teeth.

Yes, he craved her light. But what had he to offer in return?

Darkness and perversion. A history of scandal and madness and death.

“She would be smothered,” he said aloud. “Dead, even if she managed to survive.”

Cerberus threw his head and snorted.

Ash scowled. “What do you know? You’re a horse.”

And then, as if seeing the tower had not been torture enough, more of the mist dissipated. At the center of the picture, an empty carriage.

He’d never intended to watch her go. But now... Perhaps, a glimpse.

Please.

Just one, last glimpse.

He held his breath to suppress the sensation of her head resting against his chest. Then Alicia—unattainable angel—emerged.

She walked with the regal posture of a queen—a doomed queen. He’d known at least she’d be warm, but she was not wearing the sable.

The little fool wasn’t wearing any cloak at all.

She would freeze.

Damnation, she would freeze.

Cerberus snorted and stamped.

She looked over her shoulder, as if heeding something from the hall beyond. Mrs. Kent came out, retrieved a bundle from under Alicia’s arm, and shook out...

He frowned. What the devil was she doing with his banyan?

Mrs. Kent held the garment as Alicia put her arms into the sleeves. Even from this distance she looked ridiculous, like a child in the court robes of a king.

And so lovely he wanted to weep.

If she turned, she would see him. If she turned, perhaps, she would come to understand. She paused with one foot on the step provided by the coachman.

Please. He prayed.

She lifted herself into the carriage and firmly closed the door. Heaven did not hear prayers from hell.

Loss spread out like a poison vine in every muscle. He leaned forward and hung his head. She’d taken his banyan—the one Cheverley had sent from the Far East. But he couldn’t rouse himself to anger. She could take anything he owned, and he would not protest.

The carriage rattling down the drive carried the last thing that mattered—his heart.