“YOU’RE quiet this morning.”
Lowering her newspaper, Minerva looked at her father sitting near her, holding his own paper. From the moment his children had mastered reading, he’d insisted that the butler press an edition of the Times for each of them and set it at their place at the table, so it was readily available to them when they came down for breakfast. They needed to know what was happening in the world. Not the weather or the latest fashions. Rather, they were expected to discuss what would have an impact on business, the economy, and the nation. That endeavor required being informed to the fullest. He might have conquered the darker side of London, but he was determined his children would thrive and meet with success away from it.
“I’m reading the paper,” she answered. His cardinal rule was no talking while reading.
“No, you’re not.”
Nothing escaped his notice. It was the reason Jack Dodger had survived the streets, built a successful business, and was rumored to be the wealthiest man in all of England. Not that he would confirm or deny the speculation. Her father was also a man who relished secrets, had a good many of his own, and excelled at holding them well.
Now she had one of her own that quite possibly rivaled the inappropriateness of his. Oh, she had others. Pilfering his cigars and liquor. Using profanity—but never in front of her parents. But those secrets seemed childish and silly compared with the latest one. The one that had kept her awake most of the night thinking about Ashebury, wondering what would happen if she dared show up at the Nightingale again. If she crossed paths with Ashebury there again, she couldn’t back out a second time. Her pride more than anything wouldn’t allow it.
Paper crinkled as her father folded up his newspaper and set it aside. “So what’s troubling you?”
His dogged determination, which had resulted in his achievements, seldom allowed his children to escape his scrutiny when he suspected they were hiding something. While it was an admirable trait, when it was directed her way, she didn’t much like it. Still, she knew he wouldn’t give up until he had his answer. “I think it’s time to admit I’m not the sort men marry.”
His unwavering gaze on her, he sat still and silent for a moment. “Should I increase the amount of your dowry?”
She laughed lightly. “Dear God, no, Papa. Mine’s large enough to attract fortune hunters from across the pond. No, it’s more to do with me. I’m not the type with whom men can fall madly in love. They don’t find me very biddable.”
“If they don’t appreciate you, they can rot. Don’t change for a single one of them.”
He would defend his children to the death. She loved him for it. “I wasn’t planning to. Here’s an example, though. Last night at the Dragons, I challenged Lady Hyacinth to a bout in the boxing ring.”
He arched a thick eyebrow, gave a curt nod of approval. “You’d draw a crowd. What were you going to charge for admittance into the room?”
Any other man might have been mocking her, but she knew him well enough to know he was serious. He never turned down an opportunity to add money to his coffers. Any other father might have been appalled. But he valued strength, courage, and fortitude. “I had no plans to charge anything. It was an empty dare that I wasn’t going to see through. She said something unkind, and I reacted very poorly.”
“I’ll have a chat with her father this morning. She’ll be apologizing this afternoon.”
His influence was such that any confrontation yielded results. Terrified some when Jack Dodger showed up at their door. “That’s not necessary. I handled it.”
He studied her for a moment, no doubt trying to discern if it was handled to his satisfaction. “What did she say?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Something about the reason I’m a spinster. It’s not important. What matters is that ladies don’t engage in fisticuffs, and yet I tossed the possibility out there as though it were perfectly normal and acceptable. I come across as being masculine, a hoyden, instead of dainty and feminine.”
“You come across as a woman with the wherewithal to take care of herself.”
“Not everyone values that in a lady.”
“You don’t want someone who doesn’t.”
“And therein lies the problem. I don’t think a man who can accept me as I am exists. At least not among the aristocracy. Not where proper behavior is so regarded, and ladies are expected to yield to their husbands on all matters. I haven’t a talent for yielding.”
“Then don’t marry among the aristocracy.”
Until this moment, marrying a commoner wasn’t something she’d even considered. “But wouldn’t you be disappointed? It would be a feather in your cap—a son of the streets whose daughter marries nobility.”
“I’ve never much fancied feathers.” He gave her an understanding smile. “Marry a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. Don’t marry at all. I don’t care. Neither does your mother. All we’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”
If she weren’t so practical, she’d weep. For all his gruffness, there were times when he said things that below the surface were incredibly sentimental and sweet. “And if my happiness rests in doing something I ought not?”
“Like stealing my cigars?”
Her eyes widened. “You knew?”
“I can count inventory.”
“Could have been my brothers.”
He gave her a stern look. “They’ve never been as daring as you.”
That was true enough, but then they’d never wrapped their father around their little finger either. She could get away with a good deal more, and they were smart enough to recognize it. “All right then, I’ve been caught. But back to my original concern, about doing something I ought not.”
“Your mother ought not to have married me.” He picked up his newspaper, shook it out, buried his nose in it. “That didn’t turn out so badly.”
Which she supposed was his way of saying he’d stand behind her no matter what sort of trouble she got herself into.
“WHAT the bloody hell do you mean that my financial situation is in dire straits?” Ashe bellowed as he tore his gaze from the ledger of dancing numbers that his man of business had set before him.
“It’s the investments, Your Grace. As you can see, based on what I’ve outlined there, they are not doing as well as we’d hoped.”
What he had outlined was nothing but a jumble of sums. Ashe had never been able to tame figures, which had resulted in countless knuckle rappings from the tutor the marquess had hired. The man hadn’t minded teaching one boy, but four was beyond his patience. In the beginning, Ashe had blamed the man for his inability to educate him on how to master ciphering. He’d suffered through the same struggles at Harrow until he’d eventually mastered cheating in order to avoid the degrading set downs when he arrived at an incorrect answer. As he’d grown older, he’d realized the fault rested within him and not with his schoolmasters. He simply couldn’t grasp mathematics. Latin yes. Quite easily. He excelled at penmanship. He was a voracious reader. He could recite facts on Britain’s history, including naming every monarch. He could write a detailed account of journeys taken and not leave out a single incident. He could master foreign languages. He served as interpreter on their treks through foreign lands. If they came across a people whose language they’d never heard, it took him no time at all to figure it out so he could communicate with them. But put a series of numbers in front of him, expect him to make sense of them, and it was as though his brain considered them to be little more than colorful balls to be juggled around.
It was the true reason he avoided card games. It was a complete nightmare when values associated with cards had to be tallied. But roulette? He didn’t have to make sense of any numbers. He simply placed his wager in a square or on a line.
He shot out of the chair and began to pace. “How could this have happened? I pay you a princely sum for sound advice. You recommended those investments.”
“You wanted large returns, which means taking greater risks. Surely, you analyzed the figures I provided.”
The figure of a woman he could analyze to perfection. But ones, threes, eights, every blasted numeral that existed escaped his comprehension if he had to do more than simply look at them. Even then, they seemed to weave before his vision like the exotic dancers he’d seen in the East. Which was the reason that he’d always insisted Nesbitt provide verbal reports. Nesbitt, being a man who loved numbers and could wax on about them for hours, also provided the information in written form to back up his claims. Not that they did Ashe any good. Instead, he was forced to focus on every word Nesbitt uttered in order to make his decisions. He’d understood that the income provided by his three estates was dwindling, tenants moving to cities to work in factories, agriculture not being what it once was now that it was cheaper to import from America. Ashe had known he needed to diversify. Investing had seemed the way to go.
He should have sought counsel from Grey or Locksley. Grey was managing his estates quite well, while Locksley had taken over his father’s duties sometime back. But he would have been mortified to acknowledge that he couldn’t handle matters on his own. Pride. Damned pride.
He could climb a mountain, survive crossing a desert, guide a boat up the Nile. He was swift in a race, didn’t back down from a fight, protected what was his. The estates were his. He was going to have to make matters right, do whatever was necessary to regain the upper hand.
He stopped pacing and faced the man sitting behind the desk. “We’ll need to sell our shares in these companies posthaste.”
“You won’t get much for them. Might be best to let them sit, see if things turn around.”
Never gamble what you can ill afford to lose. He knew that mantra well enough. The investments had sounded so damned promising when Nesbitt had spoken about them.
“You’re not completely without funds, Your Grace. You’ll just need to tighten the purse strings.”
Choke them, more like. Ashe knew very well how costly it was to maintain his estates. They’d been profitable in his father’s day, had provided enough income to cover costs. No longer. He couldn’t afford any more investments, couldn’t put any more money at risk. He needed a sure thing, a way to gain funds that guaranteed pure profit. And he needed it soon.
AFTER meeting with Nesbit, Ashe was restless. He’d considered going to the Dragons, but he didn’t want to see any numbers tonight, not even at a roulette table. If he became any more tense, he was likely to snap. He needed something that brought him absolute unfettered joy—which left only two options: a woman or taking a photograph. So greedy bastard that he was, he’d come to the Nightingale in hopes of acquiring both.
Sipping scotch, considering the selections, he stood with a shoulder to the wall. He’d been studying the ladies for the better part of an hour now, and he couldn’t settle on one who would suit his purposes. One was too tall. One too short. Another too plump. Too thin. Not proportioned pleasingly. Not particularly elegant with her movements.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t usually this particular. He enjoyed the challenge of taking imperfection and making it perfect. He was master of light and shadows, controlled them at his whim, commanded them.
He should forget the photograph, be content with the sex. Women had approached him, but his disinterest had been obvious and they’d quickly moved on. None of them suited. None of them—
It hit him with the force of a sledgehammer to his skull. He needed her to be at the Nightingale tonight. He couldn’t say why. He only knew that it was true.
With or without the mask. He didn’t care. He wanted Lady V.
He knew that with her, for a little while, he could forget his troubles. He could stop chastising himself for taking a misstep with his inheritance, his legacy, his stewardship. He’d tried to ensure that the estates didn’t fall into disrepair, that the remaining tenants would have fewer worries, that he could maintain his staff—not so much for his needs but for theirs. Some had been seeing to the residences for years. To show his gratitude for their service, he’d intended to see them well-off when they retired. Then there was the matter of securing a wife, his heir, and other children. He didn’t want his son to be the only child. He’d had eight years of loneliness, of no one with whom to play or scheme. He was not grateful for his parents’ demise, he’d never be grateful for that, but he was glad to have acquired three brothers with whom he’d been able to be mischievous. Normally he would have turned to them with the disappointing news delivered by Nesbitt, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.
He should have gone to the Dragons although she’d indicated she wouldn’t be there tonight. He’d scoured through invitations but there had been none for this evening. So where was she? At the theater, maybe at a private affair. But he needed her here.
“Your Grace.”
Reluctantly, he turned his head at the soft voice. A lady wearing a burgundy mask with black gemstones and feathers smiled at him. Reaching out, he touched her chin, hating that only a small square of skin around her mouth was visible. It seemed the masks were becoming larger and more elaborate. Whoever created them must be making a fortune. “Darling.”
He called them all darling, except for Lady V. Why had he asked for her name? How had he known from the instant he saw her that she would be different from all the others?
Burgundy trailed slender fingers up his arm. “I’ve been watching you for some time, have heard you are quite skilled at delivering pleasure.” She ran her tongue around lips that didn’t tempt him as Lady V’s had. “So am I. We would make an excellent pairing.”
He had no doubt. She was nearly as tall as he was, with a stoutness to her that would provide cushion. And her legs, long, so long, but they weren’t the ones he wanted wrapped around his hips. “I’m waiting for someone.”
He suspected he’d be waiting all night. She wouldn’t return, and his reasons for being here would again go unfulfilled.
Her mouth flattened with displeasure. She wasn’t going to be gracious about his rebuff. They seldom were. Yet he had little doubt that Lady V would be. She wouldn’t make a fuss. She understood that some things weren’t meant to be.
“I won’t give you another chance to make love to me,” Burgundy said, a hardness to her eyes that he might have never experienced had she approached him before he became aware of Lady V. He wouldn’t have turned Burgundy away. Yet, at this moment, he could work up no enthusiasm at the notion of being with her, and it rather disgusted him to think that before, he would have been content with only the physical.
“My loss,” he said quietly.
She jutted up her chin. “Indeed.” Her movements weren’t particularly graceful as she stormed away. Halfway across the room, she settled into a saunter, and, by the time she reached Rexton, she was all poise and confidence. She certainly wasn’t one to allow the moss to grow beneath her feet.
Ashe took no offense. One purpose of the place was to allow for a variety of partners. He didn’t want to contemplate that Lady V, had she a taste of carnal knowledge, might take on an assortment of lovers. Why couldn’t he get the vixen off his mind? He should have gone to the Dragons—
His attention was snagged by an angelic vision in white gliding into the parlor as though her feet didn’t touch the floor. Perfect height, perfect figure, perfect everything. He’d set his glass aside and was striding toward her before he realized what he was about. Somewhere in the back of his mind, while he’d longed for her to come, he’d hoped that she wouldn’t, that she was smart enough to avoid this debauchery disguised as something acceptable. A place for those of like minds, a secretive circle that rebelled against Society’s mores and rules of morality. Nothing here was sacred except for the privilege of doing as one pleased.
He’d always embraced the notion, considered it forward thinking, but he didn’t want her to be part of it. Yet, he couldn’t seem to squelch his gladness at her arrival. Unable to take his gaze from her, he fought not to wrap an arm around her and haul her up against him when he was close enough to inhale her verbena fragrance. Lips, the palest of pinks, curved up ever so slightly as he arrived at her side. “Lady V.”
“Your Grace.”
Her voice was still the smoky rasp that curled around and through him, settling somewhere deep in his soul, filling an emptiness he’d held for too long. That was the only aspect of her that gave him pause that he might have misidentified her, but she could fabricate the timbre. Smart woman that she was, she would have done so, hoping for a further means to keeping her visit here secret. When most men wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to unravel their partner’s identity. Mystery was a good part of the allure.
“I must confess to being surprised you returned,” he said.
“It’s not the first time since our encounter.”
His gut clenched so tightly that he nearly doubled over. “Pardon?”
The smile again, only a little wider. “I was here last night.”
“Were you now?”
“Yes, but only until around midnight.”
Impossible. She’d been with him, dancing in his arms. Unless he was mistaken regarding her identity. He could ask around, but he didn’t want to draw attention to her. It was also possible that she was being a clever girl, fabricating a story in an attempt to throw him off the scent. But if she was speaking true, if he were wrong—
She’d ignored his advice; she’d had a man between her thighs . . .
He had the sudden, irrational urge to flatten some random gent’s nose, bust a jaw, blacken an eye. But he wanted her more than he wanted anything else in his life.
“I have a room,” he said.
Not waiting for her to respond, he grabbed her hand and headed for the stairs.
MINERVA thought she should have objected to his forcefulness, his determination. Instead, she found herself rather flattered that he appeared so anxious to be alone with her.
She’d lied, of course. She hadn’t come here last night, but she needed to squelch any suspicions he harbored that Lady V was Miss Dodger. His questioning at Greyling’s had left her a bit more unsettled than she liked, especially after he danced with her at the Dragons. She knew she was playing a dangerous game here, that she would have been better served to stay away, but she wanted to give him his photograph and perhaps a little bit more.
As they traversed the stairs, her calm surprised her. The images he’d captured in Africa haunted her. The exquisite beauty behind them, the story they told. They were preserved for all eternity. While she had never considered herself vain—as she had nothing about which to harbor vanity—she rather liked the notion of being a mysterious woman viewed through the ages.
At the top of the stairs, they walked down the same hallway, his large hand clasped tightly around her smaller one. Before the night was done, he might touch her elsewhere, someplace more intimate. She hadn’t determined yet if they would go that far. She’d come here intending merely to pose for him. Beyond that, she’d not yet decided.
She couldn’t deny her attraction to him. Did he think less of the women who posed for him? Or did he admire them? How would he feel about her when all was said and done?
He led her to the same corner room, inserted the key, and opened the door. After stepping through the opening, she paused just beyond the threshold, giving him enough space to join her. The door clicked closed.
Without warning, she found her back pressed to it, the duke’s mouth latched hungrily onto hers. She should have shoved him away. Instead, she wound her arms around his neck, and when he used his tongue to insist she part her lips, she did so without hesitation, welcoming the deepening of a kiss so hot and consuming that she could do little more than become lost in it. This was what she had always yearned for: the unbridled passion, the madness, the smoldering desire.
She was aware of him bracketing his hands firmly on either side of her waist, then gliding them quickly upward. Not stopping when he reached her arms, he continued sliding his hands along them, moving them from about him until they were raised over her head. With one strong hand, he shackled her wrists together, before plunging the other in her hair, cradling the back of her head, taking further possession of her mouth as though he were its master and commander, leaving no part of it unexplored.
She had an idle thought that she would love to travel the world with him, experience all the various facets of it as they boldly surveyed everything before them. Then her focus narrowed to the present, to him. She tasted the richness of scotch on his tongue. His sandalwood scent invaded her senses. She wanted the freedom to touch him, yet couldn’t deny the pleasure in being pinned as she was, his large body flattening her breasts against his chest. He growled low and feral, a wild animal that had captured its prey and was now at liberty to toy with it, to taunt it, to make it grateful to have been caught.
He dragged his mouth over her chin, over her throat to the dip in the silk where her breasts lay in wait. “Who?” he demanded, his voice rough and raw with some emotion she couldn’t quite identify.
Breathing harshly, she could barely speak. “Who what?”
“Last night. Who bedded you?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think she heard pure agony threaded through his words, as though he’d forced them out through gritted teeth. Why would he have such a visceral response? And yet she couldn’t deny taking some delight in his possessiveness. “No one. I wasn’t here for that purpose.” The problem with a lie was that it constantly had to be rebuilt, lest the foundation of it crumble. Why was she even playing this game? Why couldn’t she be completely honest with him? He had danced with her. Yet so had other men, and in the end, there had been naught but disappointment and hurt.
She fought so hard to ignore the pain of rejection, but she had been schooled enough times to know that it refused to be ignored—at some point it would rush in like a huge tidal wave and overwhelm.
His head came up sharply. She felt more than saw the intensity in his gaze. “Then why were you here?”
“I’d changed my mind about posing for you. It occurred to me that mayhap I did myself no great service by being so cowardly. If I couldn’t agree to your simple request, how did I think I was going to climb between the sheets with a stranger?”
“You’re not. You’re only going beneath the covers with me.”
Her first inclination was to object. She was too independent to be told what to do. But she had already decided that when the time came, he was the one she wanted. That he wanted her only sealed things. “You don’t bed virgins,” she reminded him.
“I’ve decided to make an exception. God help me. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you.” Then his mouth came down on hers again, hard and demanding, as though he were intent on devouring every inch of her.
Fool that she was, she gloried in being wanted. It didn’t matter that everything he yearned for, all that he knew of her, was the surface, her body and limbs. At long last, a man wanted to take her to his bed. Desired her. Was mad to possess her.
It wasn’t complete or perfect, deep or binding. But it was all heat and fire, urgency and need. She’d take it.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but he still held them in place, maintaining control, taking without quarter. When next he broke off the kiss, he was breathing as harshly as she.
“Remove the mask. Reveal yourself,” he commanded.
Slowly, she shook her head. He wasn’t completely in control after all. “No.”
“Why?”
Because the illusion of perfection would be shattered, and you wouldn’t want me anymore. “You can’t know who I am. That’s the magic of this place. That ladies are anonymous, so we don’t have to fear public ruination or damage to our reputations.”
“I want to know who you are.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do this if you do. I can’t do any of it. I can’t even pose for you.”
“Do you fear that I’ll judge you?”
“No.” I fear you’ll change your mind. “I’m just more comfortable behind the mask.”
She counted the heartbeats, waiting for him to react, to say something, anything.
“Then keep it on,” he said quietly, and his hand loosened from around her wrists as he stepped back.
She lowered her arms. “Are you angry?”
“Disappointed. But we all have our secrets; we all have the right to keep them.”
“I can’t imagine that you have any.”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Then you are sadly lacking in imagination.” He walked over to the table. “Scotch or brandy?”
“Brandy.”
“You didn’t strike me as a shy miss,” he said as he poured the amber liquid into two snifters.
“What we’re doing here . . . I fear feeling exposed, when all is said and done. I’m not quite comfortable with it, but I don’t know that I can live with myself if I prove to be an absolute coward.”
Returning to her, he handed her a snifter. Taking a sip, she relished the warmth swirling through her but the result wasn’t nearly as heated or pleasant as his kiss.
“So tonight, you’re only here to be photographed?” he asked.
“That’s my present course. I simply don’t know that I’m prepared to go further, which I realize brings into question my wisdom in coming here the first night, but desperation sometimes has us being unwise. I know it’s frustrating—”
“I shall have my photograph.” He tucked his finger beneath her chin, tilted her head up slightly, and kissed her, not with the fire he had earlier, but with banked embers. Drawing back, he held her gaze and gave her a devilish grin. “And maybe I’ll have just a little bit more.”
When he looked at her like that, he was impossible to resist. It was silly to deny the attraction, to put him off when she’d come here that first night fully expecting to lie with a man.
He gave a sharp nod toward the area behind her. “Now get on the bed.”
And her stomach dropped to the floor.