Dare to Love a Duke Page 23

  “Your timing is impeccable. In half an hour, I’m to tour an empty house in Spitalfields to see if it will suit for the girls’ home. Will you . . .” She swallowed. “Will you accompany me?”

  Lucia had never before invited anyone along with her on a property tour, not even Kitty or Elspeth.

  “It will likely be exceedingly dull,” she continued. “I have to inspect rooms for signs of vermin, make certain there’s no mold in the walls, check the plumbing and—”

  “Lucia.” His voice was low and velvet, achingly tender. When she silenced, he stroked his fingers over her collarbone. The jangling nerves within her quieted at his touch. “I’m honored.”

  She dipped her head, unable to form words. This was entirely new—a man at her side, supporting her, seeking nothing but her company.

  “My carriage is in the mews,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone that seemed specifically selected to calm her.

  “If the landlord sees it,” Lucia said, striving for a straightforward manner herself, “she’ll charge me three times her asking price, thinking she’s got a rich pigeon in the net. A cab will suit us well enough.”

  Though it would be beneath a duke to ride in a lowly hired cab, he merely said, “As you wish.”

  “Let me fetch my reticule, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Before you go—” He drew her close, and she inhaled his scent as she pressed herself to him.

  When he tipped her chin up, she rose onto her toes, her mouth finding his. There was urgency in his kiss, as though he wanted to lose himself in her and never be found.

  “Was today as bad as all that?” she whispered. “Tell me honestly.”

  He exhaled, his forehead pressed to hers. “Brookhurst made it quite clear there would be repercussions for my defiance. I’ve no idea what he plans, but nothing is outside the realm of possibility.”

  “Then we fight back.”

  “You make it sound simple,” he said wryly.

  “It won’t be. But the alternative is to meekly accept whatever he doles out. And I can’t be meek.”

  “That, I know. Now,” he said after one more kiss, “let us find a home for your dreams.”

  She quickly climbed the stairs, and would have soared up even higher, had it been physically possible. Dio knew that her heart was up in the firmament.

  Chapter 21

  The property Tom and Lucia toured had not been quite right for her needs—there weren’t enough bedrooms for the girls, and the chambers on the ground floor were too small to serve as classrooms—but she’d been determined to keep looking until she found something perfect.

  They’d returned to Bloomsbury and, in the sanctuary of her room, abandoned themselves to shared pleasure. Afterward, they lay together in her narrow bed, bodies snug and damp. She drifted into sleep and he held her, his gaze tracing over the cracks in the bedroom ceiling while his thoughts paced like captive creatures.

  Time slipped away from him. Somewhere, hidden beyond the horizon, lurked Brookhurst’s retribution. But there was no way of knowing what the duke planned. All Tom could do was balance nimbly on the balls of his feet, awaiting the strike.

  Until then, he cradled Lucia with the care she deserved. Her breath feathered over his chest, her hand splayed atop his heart.

  Make the world stop. Let this moment last forevermore.

  But it could not. He was expected home for supper, and then he’d rise early the next morning to return to Parliament.

  “Love,” he murmured against the crown of Lucia’s head. Her hair held her scent, and the slight tang of perspiration, and he inhaled it deeply. “I’ve got to go.”

  “No.” Her voice was thick with sleep—she wasn’t fully awake. “Don’t you leave me, too. Rimani.”

  His chest contracted painfully. Yet he couldn’t linger.

  “I’m so sorry, my love. I must be off. I’ve obligations.”

  A brief silence, and then she gave a long exhale while her body lost its slackness as she came fully awake.

  “Yes, of course.” She sat up, the blanket pooling around her waist, and rubbed her knuckles against her eyes. The room had darkened as evening had fallen. Though he couldn’t see her fully in the shadows, his gaze moved over her greedily, taking her in.

  She slid from the bed to pull on a robe before lighting a candle and seating herself at the table. In the candle’s flickering illumination, he dressed, hating the feel of his clothing against his skin. She felt so much better contacting his flesh.

  “When . . .” She cleared her throat. “When will I see you again?”

  “If I had my choice—tomorrow. Better yet, I wouldn’t leave and you’d be the first thing I’d see upon waking.”

  Pink washed over her cheeks, and he took delight in making an experienced woman blush.

  She murmured, “Barring that . . .”

  “Not until Thursday.” He growled as he tied his neckcloth, frustration taut along his limbs. “Too many commitments.”

  “It is the way of life,” she said in a voice that sounded desperately offhand. She gave a slight shrug.

  He wouldn’t let her retreat, not when they’d both bared themselves to each other. He bent so their faces were level, and said fiercely, “Know this—when I’m apart from you, you occupy my every thought.”

  “I think you mean to destroy me.” She blinked hard, but he saw how her eyes turned liquid.

  “No, love.” Ferocity ebbed, leaving tenderness in its wake, and he kissed her. “I mean to build you up. Higher and higher until you can look down at the stars.”

  Brookhurst kept his distance when Tom returned to the Lords the next day. Tom observed the duke warily, yet all that day and into the next, things remained chilly but relatively cordial. It helped that Tom’s schedule kept him occupied so he hadn’t time to brood.

  However, the correspondence between Maeve and Lord Stacey stopped. Tom only knew of it because his sister quizzed the footmen several times a day for the mail.

  “I’m so sorry, little bird,” Tom said to her as she sat moodily by the parlor window.

  She gave him a wry, sad smile that broke his heart. “I had hoped Hugh would be better than this. But it seems he’s not the man I believed him to be.”

  “Bastard,” Tom growled. He could ride to Brookhurst’s home in a matter of minutes and beat Lord Stacey into a pulp of muscle and bone.

  Maeve looked down at her hands, a shadow crossing her face. “Sadly, that’s the problem—he isn’t a bastard. He’s very much the Duke of Brookhurst’s progeny.”

  Tom hurt for her, wanting to gather her close and sing her nonsense songs as he’d done when she was a little girl. But she was a grown woman now. There had to be other ways to comfort her. “Shall we go out? Break away from mourning and go to the theater? I hear Lady Marwood has a new burletta at the Imperial.”

  Maeve’s face brightened briefly, and then she shook her head. “I haven’t the strength to face the world just yet.”

  Goddamned Lord Stacey. “Should you change your mind—”

  “You’ll be the first I tell.”

  Wednesday night found him climbing down from his carriage outside the Earl and Countess of Garsdale’s home in Marylebone. He permitted himself a weary sigh as he mounted the stairs. Another dinner party, and more political maneuvering.

  Lord Garsdale helped broker alliances amongst progressives. Gatherings such as this one were crucial, and so here Tom was, giving his hat and coat to a footman before going up to the drawing room.

  The chamber fell silent when Tom entered. He stood in the doorway as a score of faces stared at him with inquisitive, scandalized expressions. A lady whispered to another from behind her fan. Someone audibly gasped.

  The hostile expressions on the other guests’ faces were easier to tolerate than the ones whose faces resembled frozen lakes, chilling him to his marrow.

  Even Lord Garsdale held back, the look on his face pained, as though Tom had entered the room holding a pig head
dripping blood onto the polished floor.

  Whatever was happening, a tactical retreat was the wisest option. He could assess the situation and formulate a strategy. Tom turned to leave, but Greyland intercepted him and they both stepped into the corridor.

  “He’s done it,” Greyland said in a low voice.

  “Who has done what?”

  “He hasn’t gone to the papers,” Greyland said tautly, “but he’s been spreading the news in White’s, and now everyone knows—your ownership of the Orchid Club, and your affair with the proprietress.”

  The room spun. Tom braced his hand against the wall. “Brookhurst is a sodding maggot,” he said in a rasp.

  Greyland exhaled through his nose, his expression grim. “Bastard must have had you followed.”

  “Fuck.” It was a paltry word, one that couldn’t begin to touch the rage that poured through him. “Half the sodding ton goes to the Orchid Club.”

  Greyland moved them farther into the hallway, away from the curious guests who hovered near the entrance to the drawing room. “But only you own it. Only you are sharing a bed with its manager.”

  Tom pulled a hand through his hair.

  Oh, hell. Maeve, his mother. The scandal would seek them out, poisoning their social standing. Maeve hadn’t just lost Hugh—she’d be unable to marry anyone else.

  And Lucia . . .

  Fury turned his stomach. Notoriety might help the Orchid Club—or it could ruin the establishment and smother her dream of opening the girls’ home. Saints preserve him, but the moment he’d turned his entranced gaze to her that very first night, he’d become the agent of her destruction.

  Tom’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the carriage window. Impatience and dread gnawed at him for the drive to Bloomsbury. When the vehicle pulled into the mews, he raced to the front door. He had just enough presence of mind to don a mask before entering.

  Elspeth let him in, the foyer deafeningly quiet.

  “A good night?” he asked, distracted.

  “You’ll see it for yourself,” she said grimly.

  When he moved deeper into the club, half-empty rooms met him. Just over a score of guests milled uneasily. No one abandoned themselves to sex, instead drifting agitatedly from here to there. Without the many energetic bodies, the air held a slight chill, and the music was overloud.

  There was no sign of Lucia in the main chambers. He went quickly into the corridor, and nearly collided with her as she carried a bottle of wine. Tom clasped her upper arms, needing the feel of her.

  “I can’t fathom it.” Her mask couldn’t hide her bewildered expression. “We turned guests away the night of the performances. Ever after, we hosted capacity crowds. Now . . .”

  Her words died away as she looked up into his face. Without speaking, she handed him the wine. He drank directly from the bottle before handing it back. Her gaze pinned to his, she also pulled from the bottle.

  Taking her hand, he led her into an unused small parlor. Light seeped in beneath the closed door, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to see her—tonight more than ever. He stalked to a candle and lit it. Only then did he see how disordered the room was, serving as a storage for cracked knickknacks and worn furniture.

  He pulled off his mask, then started to remove hers.

  She stayed his hand. “Business hours.”

  “We won’t leave this room unmasked.” His words verging on desperate, he asked, “May I see your face?”

  After a moment, she undid the ribbons, revealing herself to him. Ah, hell, but looking at her was a pleasure. His hands clenched and unclenched.

  “The Duke of Brookhurst played his hand.” Tom snarled. “Everyone knows—about the fact that I own the club. About us, our affair.”

  What a flimsy word, affair. It spoke of furtive caresses and sly looks. Nothing at all what he felt for her.

  Her eyes went wide. “Dio ci aiuti.”

  His gaze ricocheted around the snug chamber but found no solace in the jumble of furniture and chipped china figurines. His fingers itched to grab one of the little statues and throw it against the wall.

  “Society now dines upon the feast that is a duke’s ownership of a clandestine sex establishment.” His mouth was dry. “And that the woman who operates it is my lover.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Thus I lose half my clientele. No one wants to be implicated in the scandal.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Half our revenue, gone. Which means . . . we can’t afford to stay in business.” Opening her eyes, she frowned deeply. “There’s only one thing to do.”

  “No,” he said hotly.

  Yet she nodded, her expression bleak. Voice hard, she said, “Close our doors. Permanently.”

  “No.” He could only repeat the word over and over until somehow he could push back the tide of disaster.

  “Your reputation’s in pieces,” she said flatly. “The Orchid Club closes, and perhaps some of those injuries can heal.”

  “The home for girls,” he said. Simply. As one drops an incendiary device.

  “With no income for me, it can’t happen.”

  He reached for her. “Lucia—”

  She slipped away from him, her expression shifting from despair to anger. “I knew,” she said on a whisper. Louder, “I knew.” Her gaze turned to him, and it burned with fury. “I kept away from you for a reason. Said to myself, ‘Lucia, don’t be a fool. Don’t open yourself to him, to how he makes you feel.’”

  “Stop,” he ground out. Each word she spoke was an agony.

  “I should never have involved myself with you,” she said, voice hard with anger and recrimination—for herself and for him. “But I was an idiota, and it cost me everything.”

  Mortal wounds didn’t always come from bullets and bayonets. He saw that now. He rasped, “I’ll find a way to fix it.”

  She stared at him, her features a brittle veneer. “There’s nothing to be done. It’s over. Finito.” As quickly as it had come, the anger burned itself out, leaving behind a burned husk that resembled Lucia. When she spoke, her words were hardly above a whisper. “You and I—”

  His pulse roared in his ears, threatening to drown out all sound. He’d laid waste to her world. He had anticipated what Brookhurst might do to him, to Maeve, but never considered the duke would hurt Lucia. How fucking naïve.

  Tom swung away from her, as though putting distance between them might somehow keep the truth away.

  “Go,” she said simply. “We’ll not see each other again.”

  The worst of it was that she was right. He’d sworn to destroy anyone who harmed her—and that harm came from him.

  He turned back and stared at her. She had her arms wrapped around herself.

  Touching her was an impossibility. Soon, he’d have to rely on memory alone to conjure her. Empty hours and days and years would crawl past with only remembrance of Lucia.

  “Please,” she said brokenly. “Lasciatemi. ‘Leave me.’”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Her gaze met his and he saw hopeless despair. Yet there was nothing he could do to change it. There was nothing left to say.

  He strode quickly from the parlor, moving sightlessly through the club until he was outside.

  Tom tore off his mask and threw it into the gutter. There’d be no further need for disguises.

  But he’d spoken honestly. He would find some way to make everything right for her, though they could never again be together. He would discover what it meant to go through the motions of living when his heart had been torn from his body.

  It was hers. It would always be hers.

  His mother stared at him, face ashen, while Maeve’s mouth hung open. They sat across from him in the small parlor his mother liked to use in the morning after breakfast. But the sunny yellow walls and fire cracking cheerfully in the grate did nothing to dispel the constricting weight of the Powell women’s silence. A clock ticked, counting the thick moments that followed his confession.

  Tom f
ought to keep from surging to his feet and pacing. He owed his mother and sister the fullness of his attention, and so he kept himself where he was, arms braced against his knees as he leaned forward.

  His father’s death. His loss of Lucia. Now this—telling his mother and sister that their reputations were ruined, because of him.

  He wanted to rage, to howl. But that would do nothing to ease his torment. It felt as though his bones were made of iron heated to white hot, searing him from the inside out.

  “Please,” he said tightly after minutes passed, “say something.”

  “What do you want me to say, Tom?” It was a measure of his mother’s distress that she didn’t call him Tommy lad. “Shall I congratulate you on your business endeavor?” Her mouth tightened. “A club for . . . fornication.”

  “A place for freedom,” he said gently. “And the establishment employs so many, giving them a good wage.”

  “That makes it so much better,” she snapped, then pressed her lips together. A sheen of tears filmed her eyes. “God above, Tom, what were you thinking?”

  He raked his hands through his hair. “I’d hoped no one would ever learn of it.” Thank Christ Brookhurst hadn’t discovered that Tom’s father had been the operation’s founder and original owner. But that was a small consolation. It had been Tom’s choice to keep the Orchid Club open, and now he had to face the agonizing consequences.

  “But they did,” Maeve said quietly. Her hands fisted in her lap.

  He ached with the need to hold her close, to comfort her, but from the rigidity of her spine, he saw that she’d refuse his touch, so he stayed where he was.

  “Will anyone receive us now?” Maeve whispered.

  He had to be honest. “I . . . don’t know.”

  His sister rose from the sofa and drifted to the fire, where she watched the flames move in a taunting dance.

  “How?” his mother asked in a hoarse voice. “How have I failed as a mother that would lead you to this?”

  “It wasn’t your failure, Mam.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. Anguish cleaved him to be rejected by his own mother. “’Twas mine alone. And all of us pay the price.” He looked back and forth between his mother and sister. “An apology cannot remedy this, and it’s an insignificant thing, but I do apologize. I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as he tried to speak. “I’m so damned sorry.”