Chapter Four

Ash’s fortnight of planning had finally met its moment of truth. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the alleyway. No sign marked the entrance of the small establishment known as Marie’s, but rare was a hot-blooded male unaware of its existence. Marie and her women stitched sinfully silky concoctions, chiefly for the celebrated members of London’s demi-monde, the half-strata of society occupied by mistresses and actors, divorced wives, and poets.

A buffed-brass shop bell trilled as Ash entered.

This wasn’t Ash’s first visit. Madame Bianci wouldn’t have been caught dead in undergarments made from anyone else. Ash esteemed Marie as a talented tradeswoman—discreet, with an ingenious understanding of texture and design. However, when he’d hired a man to uncover places he might ‘accidentally’ discover Lady Stone, Marie’s had been the last place he expected to find his mark.

His man paid a shop girl for answers. The answers provided Ash his opportunity.

For years, idle Tuesdays had strung together, providing no change but the ever-deepening wrinkles in his skin. For a time, idle days had been a comfort. However, on this idle Tuesday—at around quarter-past six—his life would transform once again.

Provided she agreed to his proposition, of course.

He’d crafted his impending offer with great intention. A liaison, brief enough to ensure he did not bring harm to Lady Stone, and long enough for him to absorb the light she had to offer.

He was alive with anticipation.

Marie arrived in the elegantly appointed sitting area. Her reserved expression broke into a genuine smile when she recognized Ash.

“Ah. Your Grace.”

“Marie.” He took her hands in his, leaned down and kissed her on each cheek.

A curtsey from her would have been appropriate, but no one stood on ceremony here. Marie’s concoctions might as well have been stitched with the scandalous secrets of half the peerage.

“What brings you today?” Her sly eyes met his. “Has Madame Bianci grown tired of her last dressing gown so soon?”

“My dear Marie,” he smiled, “I am certain you know Miss White has transferred her affections.”

Her eyes went wide with innocence. “Surely, you intend to fight for the lady’s love! May I suggest a gift, perhaps, to prove your sweet devotion?”

“Alas,” Ash held a hand to his heart, “when the prima donna met the Russian prince a fortnight ago, I hear it was love, prima facie. I am afraid there is nothing I can do.”

“Well.” Madame arched a brow. “I cannot blame Madame Bianci. A woman likes to be wanted.”

Ash should have been insulted. His cold reserve, however, was legendary. And, she was right. Women yearned to be wanted. He yearned to be wanted.

A yearning that had never been truly satisfied.

“Water under the bridge, Marie. I wish the newly minted couple souchastiye.”

Marie lifted one shoulder in an uncaring shrug, but the knowing did not fade from her gaze. “You have come for a reason, non?”

“I am here to buy the debt of the late Admiral Stone.”

Marie’s start revealed her surprise. She recovered quickly. “If you are looking to obtain the graces of the countess, paying the admiral’s debts will do no such thing. The countess has sworn never to look at another man.”

“I’ve heard.” Ash returned her knowing gaze. “I’ve also heard the countess is in debt to every shopkeeper in London. And being an excellent businesswoman, you undoubtedly sought relief elsewhere.” He adjusted a mirror atop the counter so he could keep one eye on the door. “I have it on good authority that his widow is expected here within the hour. Lady Stone comes, I understand, quarterly. Always on a Tuesday, between six and half-past. She leaves without making a purchase.”

“Perhaps I have sought relief.” Marie’s mouth pinched. “Silks are not free, your grace.”

“No, indeed.” He inclined his head. “Nor have you any reason for raised hackles. Your collection strategies are none of my concern. I am offering to pay the admiral’s debt.”

“And in return?”

“A quarter hour of privacy in your dressing room. I wish to speak with Lady Stone.”

Marie’s eyes went wide.

“I intend nothing untoward.” At least not here. Not yet. “I wish only to personally express my condolences.”

Marie’s expression cleared. “If you wish it, it will be done.”

“My thanks.” A mask of indifference concealed the pace of his heart.

He was So. Damn. Close.

“I will send the Admiral’s bill to your secretary.”

“You needn’t mark it as the admiral’s debt.”

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Marie’s eyelids swept down. “This way to the dressing room, if you please.”

Paying debts Octavius accrued in pursuit of the countess may have been unfair, but watching the numbers decrease gave Alicia a sense of satisfaction. She’d always suspected Octavius’s accusation that she overspent had been false. Now she had proof. She could economize. She hadn’t much, and, if the countess took the income from Octavius’s estates, she’d have even less, but she had proven she could live within her means. And she could do it while decreasing his debt.

Her freedom had been hard-won—the expense, Octavius’s life. Octavius had only been thinking of his country, of course, but she vowed not to take his sacrifice for granted.

She thought of the funeral procession and shivered. She did not wish to think of that day. She especially did not wish to think of the handsome stranger who had witnessed her at her most vulnerable, and then offered his assistance.

She silenced her thoughts and concentrated on following Madame Marie to her dressing room. For the first time since she began making payments, Marie had requested she wait. A gossip-inclined client was to arrive any moment, Marie explained. Lady Stone did not wish to make known her husband’s debts. And, of course, her presence could only cause speculation.

Alicia reluctantly agreed.

“I will be with you as soon as possible.” The modiste hesitated, her gaze moved toward the far end of the room. “And if you need anything, I will hear you call.”

Alicia frowned at Madame’s back. Curious to be asked to wait, and more curious still, to insinuate she may need assistance.

She set down her reticule and unbuttoned her coat, glancing askance at the red velvet couch, and then around the room. Multiple hooks lined burgundy walls adorned with mirrors reflecting every angle. The opposite of the room contained an over-large privacy screen.

She rolled her shoulders, discomfited by the blatant eroticism. Truthfully, the room reminded her of a brothel. Though she’d never been inside a brothel, her small island had its share of those who lived and loved on the wrong side of propriety.

The most successful had resided together in a house with windows that looked out to the sea. When a ship came in, they donned ill-fitting gowns far too outrageous for their corner of the world before welcoming wave-weary men into their rooms. Some nights, as Alicia passed by in the shadows, she heard sounds of laughter and lust.

Oh, she knew those ladies’ lives were not all gaiety. Sometimes children came months after the ship had departed. Sometimes disease.

But still, the sounds coming through windows open to the night breeze were sounds of pleasure. Whenever she heard such sounds, she’d been rendered curious and hot, imagining what her first time would be like.

What a terrible disappointment the marriage bed had been.

Octavius preferred his wife to remain quiet, still, and fully clothed. In fact, he’d been adamant that anything else would fail to keep her pure. Judging from the scandalous concoctions hanging from the hooks, he’d expected something far different from the countess.

She reached out to finger a dressing gown. Heavenly. And the color! Pink. Not just any pink, but rose, light as an innocent’s blush. She placed her hand beneath the fabric. Even in the low light, the fabric was so thin she could make out the lines in the crook of her hand. Octavius’s voice seemed to travel through the years. ...There’s an M in your right hand. That means you will be married.

How could someone who wooed with such romance thoroughly shatter her heart? He’d been the perfect gentleman. And she’d wanted to be the perfect wife. Then, he’d found the perfect mistress.

She dropped the dressing gown. For a respectable widow, the cost of freedom was lifelong celibacy. Anything sensual and soft was none of her concern.

The door closed, followed quickly by the groan of a lock.

A distinctly male scent filled the air—wealthy male, a scent she recognized but could not place. Hair on her neck raised; she forced a calming breath. Nothing came of panic. She’d learned that on the high seas.

“Please, have a seat.”

His cultured intonation disproved her first assumption—that he was yet another of Octavius’s creditors, the horrid men who demanded money in the most unlikely of places.

“Imprisonment,” she said coolly, refusing to turn, “is not to my taste. And if it is not to yours, I suggest you unlock that door.”

“Admirable restraint,” he said.

“Losing one’s head is a luxury afforded only to those accustomed to care.”

He made a deep, humming sort of sound, a sound she felt in her belly.

“A woman such as yourself should be accustomed to care.”

She added outrageous to a list that included male, wealthy, and cultured. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced, Mr.—?”

“The honorific you seek is Your Grace.”

She turned. His face was illuminated by the faint glow spilling from a lighted sconce.

The duke—if he was truly a duke—was at least a full head taller than she, but it was his smoldering eyes that sparked recognition. He was the man from the funeral.

For a split second that might as well have been an eternity, her mind went blessedly blank. Then, bereft of thought’s direction, her senses began to dance.

Stop, she ordered.

But he smells so nice, they whined.

“You’ve surmised you are in no immediate danger.”

But she was in danger. Pure peril, actually—past, present and future. “Have I surmised correctly?”

Smile was not the right word for what happened to his mouth. A smile stood for camaraderie or at the very least, amusement. His lips, ever so slightly upturned, were entirely predatorial.

She should have known better than to accept help, even if she had judged him altruistic. Nothing good came from depending on a man.

“Won’t you sit?” he asked before taking a seat himself.

He’d left her little choice—to remain standing was to disrespect his station. Although if society’s rules governed this situation, she’d be heartily astonished. She settled onto the couch by his side, their knees mere inches apart.

“You are correct. Your person is not,” he paused, “at this moment, in danger.”

Then why was her heart beating like a rabbit hiding in brush? “I am relieved, Your Grace.”

His right eyebrow shot up. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If my tone disrespects, you might look to your actions.”

He made a sound of disappointment. “Have I accosted you?”

She glanced sideways at his hands. “No.”

“Treated you poorly?”

“I would define undeserved imprisonment as poor treatment.”

“You are free to go.” He stretched out a leg. “If that is your wish.”

“You locked the door.”

“To keep others out, not to keep you in.”

Her gaze flicked to the door. “Is there a reason you wished to speak with me?”

“I, too, appreciate economy of conversation. I shall come to my point. As a gift to you, on behalf of a grateful nation, I have paid your husband’s debt to Marie.”

It was a good thing she had been clenching her teeth, else her jaw would have dropped.

“—And the apothecary—”

She sucked in. That was Aunt Hester’s debt!

“—And the jeweler—”

“Why?” The question burst forth.

“Charity.” He paused to flick a non-existent piece of lint from his trousers. “Or incentive...whichever you prefer.”

She stood.

“Please.” It was a command—

“Please?”—a command she did not heed.

“I’ve thought of little but you since...” he stopped himself.

“Have you?” So strange to be looking down at a duke. “I don’t see why. I am entirely forgettable.”

“I’ve gone through great trouble to ensure we met again.”

She frowned. “Do you expect me to be flattered?”

“Some would be.”

She snorted. “I doubt your understanding of the fairer sex.”

“I’ll admit to limited experience.” He smiled again, still slight, and this time with regret.

“Does this limited experience include the expectation that any woman you attend will just...” She could not say it aloud.

“You needn’t assume the worst. When I discovered the particulars of your situation, as a gentleman, I could not stand idly by while a lady assumed debts rightfully belonging to—.”

“Stop.” The room swayed. It was one thing for all of England to know your husband spent extravagant sums on someone else. It was quite another to have a stranger lay bare your pain.

“I mean to point out,” he said, “the debt never truly belonged to you, thus payment cannot make you beholden.”

She took a deep breath. The duke would never understand that he’d taken the only thing that had provided a sense of ascendency over her humiliation. Worse still, he had left her beholden to him, whether he had intended to or not.

“What is it you wish of me?”

“Do you prefer I be blunt?”

She nodded.

His eyes glittered. “I would like to bed you.”

She lost her voice. Instinctively, her hand flew to her throat. But other parts of her—parts that had been in long slumber, were suddenly awake. Awake and shamelessly attuned to the duke.

“But,” he continued, “I would like you to come to my bed of your own free will.”

Indecent images of sheets and pillows and tangled limbs filled her mind. An earthquake shook her boxed longing, releasing chaos that would have made Pandora blush.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. “You want me...in a carnal sense?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

Yes. She made the mistake of challenging him with a direct gaze. His conversation may have been urbane, but his eyes were the eyes of a desperate man—a haunted man. She didn’t have that kind of power. Did she?

Feminine laughter haunted her memory. Laughter spilling from rooms with windows left wide to the moonlight, interspersed with cries of yes and please and more.

“You’ve paid my late husband’s debts because you want me.”

“No,” he said. “I paid the debt out of respect. I used the subsequent opportunity to meet you.” He strung out the silence as if he were unraveling a knot. “And I wanted to meet you—” he leaned forward “—because I want you in my bed.”

Was this how dukes behaved? Plucking marks from crowds, luring them into dark spaces and then proposing wicked things?

Wicked things that inspired heaviness in her breasts and aching in her groin. Strange sensations that ought to have sent her running for the door.

But she was not running for the door, like she ought.

She was not calling for Marie, like she ought.

Heaven help her, she was concealing a watering mouth.

The duke exuded the promise of pleasure she had never known, but had always longed to experience. And, he was offering her that pleasure without ties.

Tempted did not begin to describe her state.

Because I want you in my bed. The words stung his throat.

He hadn’t meant to state his need in such crude terms. Hell, he hadn’t even slept in a bed since the fire. Sleep, when it came, was little more than a few quiet hours, leaning back in a soft chair. When he pictured Lady Stone, however, she was definitely in his bed. At Wisterley. A bed he’d never occupied with anyone else.

His words had caused her distress.

He was a terrible man. But he’d known that for some time. He wanted her anyway.

He’d been intrigued by Chev’s description. Then transfixed by a single glimpse. And now that he’d seen her lower lip tremble in want of his kiss, nothing in hell, heaven, or earth could stand in his way.

“I cannot,” she said.

Nothing but her conscience.

“Why not?” he asked.

Her mouth opened and then closed. “Well, there are moral consid—”

“To hell with morality.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Hell is exactly my concern.”

He snorted. “You are a widow. If we are discreet—and I am always discreet—no one of consequence will know.”

“I will know.”

He studied her face. “I cannot offer the sanctity of marriage, if there is such a thing as sanctity.”

A look of horror passed over her features. “I did not mean...that is to say, I would never be so bold to suggest marriage to a duke.” She recovered her composure. “Especially one who wishes to make me his plaything.”

Plaything? His brows shot up. “I do not play.”

“You want me to be your mistress.”

“No,” he replied. “I want you in my bed for three nights. That is all I ask.”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

He smoothed a crease in his trousers. “I am not at liberty to provide an extended liaison.” Any longer would leave her burned. At best, desolate and weeping, like Liza. At worst...

He wouldn’t consider the worst.

Her breath caused her shoulders to rise and fall. They were approaching something. What, he hadn’t any idea.

“I am intrigued,” she replied, finally. “And tempted, shamed as I am to admit it. But I cannot—” she flushed scarlet, “—grant your wish.”

“Tempted,” he murmured.

She turned her back, and her features were reflected in the mirror by the door. He stood up, framing her with his body.

“We make a handsome couple, don’t you think?” He grasped her shoulders. “An intriguing contrast of light and dark.”

Her eyes were cocked pistols, following every move. “You frighten me, Duke.”

“Truly, you have no cause to fear. I am at your mercy.”

Her lips parted.

“I will,” he lowered his voice, “obey any command.”

She did not ask him to step away.

“I would like to remove your hat,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I long to touch your hair.” He moved his right hand to her chin, accidentally skimming her breasts with his arm. Blood drained to his groin. “You brush your hair every night, don’t you? As if in preparation for a lover.”

She nodded, seemingly transfixed by their reflection.

“I want to be that lover,” he whispered.

She whimpered. Then, her weapon-eyes returned to his. “Only my hat? You promise?”

“Yes.” For now.

“Very well.”

So prim. So proper. Soon, he’d coax open those tight little lips, and urge them to speak very improper things.

He pulled the string securing her bonnet. Her hat tumbled to the ground. He held her from behind, leaving one hand where the ribbon had been tied, and resting the other lightly on her hip.

He inhaled her scent as he swept his cheek from her crown to her ear. Her hair was smooth, but it had been stretched, twisted, and pinned into a bun far too severe for her face. He longed to free her locks. He also longed to stretch and twist and pin her other parts, to make his sheets a canvas, and her body, the art.

He would not subject his angel to his most prurient desires. She deserved his best.

He brushed a few fallen strands of hair from her neck. While holding her gaze in the mirror, he touched his lips to the flesh above her shoulder. Her shudder passed from her body to his. She moaned, a sound like water on parched clay.

“Shh,” he crooned.

Gently, he urged her to relax against his chest. Her weight was as every bit as exhilarating as he’d hoped. He kissed her on her crown and cradled her close. Then, intentionally, she rubbed her cheek against his arm.

He hardened further.

He would have her, even if he must swear she would be the last woman whose body he’d ever worship.

“You have had the marriage without the sanctity,” he spoke against her skin. “I offer you the sanctity without the marriage.”

“What do you mean?” Breathless.

“I cannot,” he paused to correct himself, “I will not marry again. But if you come to me, I will promise you fidelity, even after we part.”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “Devil,” she accused.

“I have been told I dwell in darkness.” Her scent was blossoming gardens and light. “And I think, love, that you wish to join me, if only for a time.” His fingers caressed her hip. “Permission. That’s all it will cost.”

With a rush of hot breath, she turned in his embrace. “I want to say yes, but I cannot.”

Her lips were saying one thing. Her eyes, something else.

“When you come to my bed, I will touch you in any way you wish to be touched, kiss you every place you wish to be kissed.” The pressure in his balls intensified. “I ask only three nights, after which you may return to your world, reputation intact.”

“I will know,” she repeated, this time in a whisper.

“Yes, you will know,” he replied. “And I swear you will never forget.”

He resisted the overwhelming urge to claim her lips.

First, she must agree.

“Passion for three nights,” he said. “Fidelity forever.”

He meant the promise with all that was left of his ravaged heart.

What did it matter if he never coupled again? He’d sacrifice anything for her intimate touch. For a look of sensual wonder on her face. For the chance to find that too-brief oblivion and shudder helplessly in her embrace.

“Your Grace—”

“Ashbey. Ash, if you wish.”

Her fingers cut into his arms. “I am deeply sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot. I want to, but I cannot. You have placed me in your debt, and to acquiesce now...” She shook her head no. “I can’t. It would not be right.”

The power in his body coalesced. Take her anyway. That is what she really wants. He silenced the command. Passion—true passion—came only as a gift.

He used every ounce of his willpower to step away from the comfort of her heat. “You are making a mistake.”

“No,” she countered. “Though I am certain I will regret my decision.”

“Regret,” he repeated, “is a bitter pill.”

“So is loss.”

Loss? He frowned. “I would take nothing from you.”

“You would take my most valued possession—my self-respect.”

“Fidelity forever. I do not make promises I cannot keep.” He could see he would not prevail if he persisted. Not tonight. He retrieved her hat. “When you change your mind, send word through Marie.”

She hung her reticule on her wrist. Its tassels danced as he retied the ribbon. She was trembling from head to toe.

Good.

He unlocked and opened the door.

“Duke,” she acknowledged with a nod.

“Lady Stone.” He bowed.

She held her breath, and then turned to stride through the shop. At the door, she paused.

If she looked back, he would win.

The bell trilled.

With one hand still on the handle, she glanced over her shoulder. And then, she sighed.

The serpent inside him coiled, in preparation for the proper time to strike.