If I Only Had a Duke(19)

Hoping she would glance down and see what she did to him.

She didn't think she was perfect? She was.

Perfectly made to test his resolutions.

He wanted to kiss her. Somehow his hand had become tangled in her butter-and-marmalade curls.

Wild bramble roses with thin petals. That's what she smelled like.

Her lips were a pale pink color, like the small French strawberries that used to grow wild in the fields near Balfry. Would they taste like strawberries, those lips?

He fought the need to claim her lips.

She'd be so sweet. So dangerously sweet.

He wanted all that sweetness for his own.

What would it be like to have a woman like her waiting for him when he came home from a night at the hells, bruised and aching?   





 

Her innocence was strong enough to wash his pain away.

No. That was all wrong.

His pain was strong enough to destroy her innocence.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. And those strawberry lips parted slightly. "Do you understand why I must mail the letter?"

Ah yes, the letter.

The one where she informed her mother that she could no longer live a lie, that she'd been compromised in Ireland by a traveling actor, of all the ridiculous lies.

When he'd read it, he'd experienced a sudden, visceral rage. Then he'd realized it was a complete falsehood.

But who was he to tell her not to ruin her life if that's what she chose to do?

As long as he didn't do the ruining. He cleared his throat and extricated his fingers from her hair.

Nothing irrevocable happening here. Nothing at all.

"I'll post your letter at the next inn," he said.

Eyes the color of raindrops hitting ocean waves searched his face. "You will?"

He nodded. "If that's what you truly desire."

A smile lit her eyes and curved across her lush lips. "Why, thank you."

He basked for a moment in the approving light of her smile.

"Now see, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" Her smile widened. "You don't always have to be so disagreeable."

Make another request. Anything. Ask me to ruin you in a completely non-theoretical way. Dalton drew a deep breath to chase away those thoughts.

Control. Stoicism. Disagreeableness. Because charm in this situation might get them both into trouble.

And none of this surreptitious touching. The burst of sensation that coursed through his entire body when his lips merely brushed her palm.

He edged closer to the opposite side of the carriage.

He had to find that center again. The still heart of vengeance. Razor-edged, single-minded purpose.

Trent had shaken him, made him doubt himself for the first time in years.

An enemy's blade.

A moment of weakness in a carriage.

They were one and the same.

They both left telltale scars.



After helping Con tend to the gear, Dalton entered the inn in Chippenham fully intending to keep his promise and post Thea's letter. But then he glimpsed her resting in an armchair by the fireplace in the great room. Shoulders hunched, hands folded, gaze trained on her red leather boots.

She looked lonely. Her oval face filled with uncertainty, brow wrinkled.

Informing her mother that she'd been ruined would change her life immediately. The societal stigma for fallen women of good breeding was severe. She'd be cut off from society. Unable to return to her family if she changed her mind.

What if she developed regrets? What if she wished to return to London?

A new thought struck him. What if her aunt didn't want her to be there in Ireland . . . or what if her aunt suddenly passed? Then what would happen to her?

Disinherited. Friendless.

Alone.

The thought made his throat constrict.

She should never be alone. She was made for laughter. For everything good and sweet.

For love.

Dalton backed out of the room without attracting her notice.

On his request, a jolly-looking innkeeper who obviously enjoyed his porter of an evening brought Dalton pen and an ink pot.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" the innkeeper asked.

"The lady in the great room, the one sitting by the fire. Bring her a cup of your finest drinking chocolate."

The innkeeper's eyes twinkled. "Admire the lady, do you, sir? Shall I tell her it's from you?"

"No." Dalton shook his head. "Tell her it's from the cook."

The innkeeper nodded sagely. "Of course, Sir."

Swiftly, Dalton composed a letter of his own.

He refused to be the means of delivering Thea to a lifetime of doubt and could-have-beens.

He knew enough about regrets to know they ate away at you, hollowed you out, like termites attacking the inside of a fallen log.

One veiled threat from Dalton to the countess that if Thea were forced to marry Foxford, or another peer of his ilk, Dalton would make life difficult for the countess in society, as only a duke could, ought to do the trick.

And a few lines informing the countess that Thea . . . When had he started thinking of her as Thea? In the carriage just now?

Informing the countess that her precious daughter, Lady Dorothea, was unharmed and would be delivered safely to Ireland.

Though he couldn't guarantee her safety past that point, since he'd be hunting O'Roarke.

He finished scrawling the brief note and handed it, along with Thea's letter, to the innkeeper to post.

Strictly speaking, he followed Thea's wishes.

He posted her letter.

He just happened to post one of his own as well. Which missive Lady Desmond chose to believe was entirely up to that humorless lady.   





 





Chapter 9





Halfway to Bath now. Legs cramped from sitting on the carriage seat. Mind bent with guilt.

Had he done the right thing by posting the letter? No point in wondering that now. What's done was done.

Thea hid behind one of the broadsheets she'd collected, which was probably just as well. Whenever they spoke to one another sparks flew. They'd start the carriage on fire if they weren't careful.

The broadsheet crackled as it lowered, and blue-gray eyes emerged over the edge. "There's an advertisement here for Duchess Cocoa, manufactured by your friend the Duke of Harland. I had some at the inn in Chippenham. I had no idea it was so very delicious."

"James is dedicated to creating the finest drinking chocolate on earth. Now he's managed to lower import duty taxes so even second-rate inns can afford to serve cocoa."

If he kissed her right now, she'd probably still taste like the spices in Harland's famous chocolate blend. Why did he keep having these thoughts?

Small, confined space.

Lovely, lovely Thea shimmering in fading afternoon light. He'd never seen her in the afternoon before.

To distract himself from thoughts like that, he asked her the first question that came to mind. "Have you had any contact with the Duchess of Harland since she . . ."

"Since she stole my intended?" Thea smiled. "I was banished to Ireland the day after I was supposed to have married the duke."

"That must have been difficult for you."

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't really want to marry Harland. No one seems to believe that, but it's the truth. I'd never even met the man."

"He's a good man." Far better than me, Thea.

"I'd like to see my half sister again some day."

Dalton nodded. He'd done the right thing. She didn't truly want to sever all connections with society. She didn't want to be lonely.

Thea readjusted the broadsheet.

Creaking of carriage wheels. Sound of horse hooves on gravel.

He sifted through what he knew of O'Roarke one more time, to keep himself from staring at trim ankles encased in supple red leather.

By his mother's account, O'Roarke had been a clerk in a shipping company and was now a wealthy merchant based out of New York. They should be able to find news of him and his shipping concern at Bristol Harbor.

Why had Dalton's father never considered O'Roarke a suspect? Perhaps he'd never even known of his existence. His thoughts had immediately turned to all the men he'd ruined in the gambling hells.

A lowly clerk hadn't made the list of suspects.

His father's theory had always been that one of his enemies had followed him to Ireland from London and struck the very day they arrived.

But it could have been O'Roarke, lying in wait for years. Biding his time. Maybe he'd seen the old duke as a symbol of oppression. Stealing O'Roarke's love away. Robbing the Irish of their ancestral estates.

"Ah . . ." Thea interrupted his thoughts. "Here's something that should be of interest to the rake about town. The Hellhound struck again. Outside of the Crimson in Piccadilly. Says here he robbed Lord Trent of his winnings and left him bleeding in the street."

Dalton had been the one left bleeding.

Don't move a muscle. Don't betray even the slightest bit of interest.

Or that might be too noticeable. He should make some inane comment. "The streets are more perilous than ever these days," he said with all the nonchalance he could muster.

Steer the conversation along new lines. "My mother hasn't left Osborne Court for nearly a decade, can you credit that? She's too afraid to venture into the streets of London."

Thea's mouth made a round, astonished shape. "She hasn't set foot outside your house in ten years? I knew they called her the . . ." She stopped speaking.

"The Dowager Recluse. I know what she's called."

"I never did see her leave the house but I thought, well, I thought that perhaps she went out at odd hours, by the back entrance."

Dalton congratulated himself on a successful distraction. "My father tried to commit her to an asylum but I wouldn't let her be moved. They say she has anxiety of the most acute kind. She shrinks from the idea of leaving the house."