If I Only Had a Duke(20)

"How infinitely sad." Thea set aside the broadsheet. "Isn't there anything to be done?"

"I used to try to coax her out of doors. I'd bundle her up in a cloak and carry her to the front door. She'd scream so loudly I had to return her to her rooms. Her mind is still resolute and strong, but she's subject to bouts of despondency and fear."   





 

"She's never been back to her home in Ireland?"

"Her sisters write to give her all the news, but she never visits them. And they've stopped visiting her. It's too painful for everyone involved."

"I'm sorry."

He turned his face away from the sympathy in her eyes. "She's not always unhappy. She likes to feed delicacies to her cats. And she takes exercise in the courtyard."

"But never to leave one's home? It's as if she's imprisoned."

"It's by her own choice."

The carriage filled with silence.

Dalton traced letters across the cold, hard surface of the window. Stopped when he realized whose name he was writing. Alec.

Thea cleared her throat delicately and he glanced at her.

"They say the Hellhound is an Irishman," she said cheerfully, probably thinking she was doing him a favor by changing the subject. "‘He spoke with a strong Irish brogue,' it says in the paper."

Dalton caught his foot tapping and stilled it.

Don't betray too much interest. Not with clever Thea across from you.

Thea quirked her head to one side. "You frequent the gambling clubs, do you not? Have you ever encountered the Hellhound?"

"I only frequent the finer clubs. And the Hellhound is only a fiction invented to sell broadsheets."

She shook her head vehemently, sending golden curls twirling onto her shoulders. "I know he's real. I've met him."

Dalton gulped. What in hell was she talking about?

"Well, not personally," she clarified. "My eldest brother, Andrew, met him."

Dalton searched his mind for a Mr. Andrew Beaumont . . . ah yes. That Beaumont. Bladdered Beaumont, as he was known at the club.

"Your brother is, pardon my frankness, a drunkard. I met him on several occasions years ago and he was never parted from his cups for long. Most likely had his pockets cleaned as he stumbled home and had to embroider a more impressive tale to save his reputation."

An emphatic shake of that pointed chin. "That's not it at all."

Damn. Why hadn't he tied her up and sent her home when he had the chance?

"The Hellhound saved Andrew from gambling away his entire portion. I think the broadsheets have it all wrong. I think the Hellhound is more guardian angel than thieving rogue."

Dalton masked a surprised grunt with a cough. "If he's real he's a criminal. A marauding Irish scoundrel. They'll catch him one day and he'll hang, sure enough."

Was that too much? He didn't want to betray vehement sentiment of any kind. Something might give him away. A tremor. A nervous flinch. Arouse her suspicion.

"You're wrong." She shifted closer to him, clasping her hands, intent on convincing him of his error. "He's noble. Andrew nearly gambled away his entire portion, plus a property in Bedfordshire. I came home from a ball early and he was sitting in the parlor with no candles lit, his head in his hands. ‘I nearly lost it all,' he said, his eyes burning. ‘He saved me, Dorothea. He saved me.'"

Dalton remembered that night well. He'd been gambling at the same club, in his rake's guise, and he'd watched Beaumont lose half his fortune in the time it took to shake the dice box and spill doom upon the green baize.

Still young, but already going to seed, developing a paunch, with the red-rimmed eyes and juniper breath of a devoted drunk, Beaumont had grown increasingly reckless. When he'd left the club, shouting that he'd damn well try his luck at Old Crocky's next, Dalton had followed him outside.

Shed his evening clothes. Become the Hellhound.

He knew the darkness and the drink would mask his identity, and Beaumont had posed no threat.

Soft. Helpless.

Dalton hadn't even had to try. One growled word of warning and the fellow had started blubbering.

"He was ashen-faced, shaken," Thea said, her voice low and urgent. "He nearly spilled the glass of brandy he held, his fingers were trembling so. He isn't loquacious, my brother, but that night . . . I think he needed to tell someone, and I happened to be there."

She stared out the window. "He lost three thousand pounds in ten minutes. It was too horrible to be believed."

The man had been close to losing a lot more than three thousand pounds.

"Oh, look. We're nearly to the Bath turnpike." Dalton pointed to the signpost but she didn't even look.

Her mind was fixed firmly on his secrets.

"Andrew told me that one moment he was outside, catching his breath, and the next there was an elbow around his throat and he was up against a brick wall, a giant monster pushing his cheek against the brick. The Hellhound warned Andrew that next time he wouldn't be there to save him."   





 

"How's that noble, exactly? Sounds brutish to me. Pushing your brother against a wall. Making threats."

"His methods may be unorthodox," she said primly, "but they are effective. Andrew never gambled again. And he stopped drinking as well. After he saved Andrew, I began to take an interest in the Hellhound's activities. I've been following his exploits in the papers for some time now."

Not good. Not good at all. "It looks as though the rain might be letting up," Dalton said desperately.

"There are patterns. He never attacks women or children, always men. And usually wealthy, corrupt men. And sometimes he saves poor souls like Andrew." She smoothed her skirts.

She gazed dreamily out the window. "Sometimes I wonder if Andrew imagined it all, because he needed to believe in something larger than himself. But no." She shook her head. "I believe the Hellhound's real. And I think he's heroic. Like Robin Hood."

"Imaginary," Dalton grated out. "He's definitely imaginary."

"He's noble."

"I hate to tell you, but you're wrong. There's no champion who can cure society's ills and defend the powerless. He's only a myth."

"You're the one who's wrong." She waved the broadsheet at him. "The Duke and Duchess of Harland champion the powerless, rescuing destitute young girls and providing training and occupation. That's noble. Why haven't you ever considered doing something like that with your fortune?"

She'd provided the change in topics this time, thankfully.

"As a matter of fact, I have quite an enormous sum invested in their charitable institution. Harland's my best friend. I believe in what he and Charlene are doing."

"Your Grace." She turned shining eyes on him. "I had no idea. How wonderful."

"It's nothing, really. I have friends who are better than I'll ever be. They make it easy for me to find a good use for my fortune."

"Well, if the Duke of Osborne, heartless rake, can invest in helping save powerless girls from the streets, then I definitely believe the Hellhound saved my brother."

What? Dalton nearly burst into a coughing fit. The lady had a narrowly focused mind and now she'd used both his titles in the same sentence.

Must distract her. Must create a diversion.

And so he did the only thing he could think of to stop the clever, inquisitive beauty from enumerating any more theories or making more comparisons.

He gathered her into his arms . . . and kissed her.



Well. This is unexpected, Thea had just enough time to think before the surprise of his firm, sensual lips meeting hers.

My very first kiss.

Which she'd always imagined would be an unmitigated disaster. She'd erupt into giggles.

Or knock her teeth against his chin.

Or . . . in an extreme nightmare she'd imagined during her first two seasons . . . vomit upon the gentleman's polished Hessians immediately following said kiss.

Yet Thea did none of the above. She simply . . . relaxed. Unwound. And allowed herself to thoroughly enjoy the foreign experience.

His lips were gentle, yet demanding, moving over her as a brush slid across a canvas.

She felt his kiss spread all the way down to her leather-encased toes, like a drop of Prussian-blue watercolor paint touched to a wash of water to create a hazy, cloud-strewn blue sky.

His lips demanded something very specific . . . and even more unexpected. They wanted her lips to open. They brushed and nudged until she complied and then, oh, was that his tongue sliding inside her mouth, unlocking a hidden portion of her mind that had been waiting for the answer to this question . . .

Why all the fuss? Why all the love sonnets?

Ah. This.

Powerful arm hooked around her waist. His other hand fumbling with bonnet ribbons and then flinging her bonnet aside, his lips never leaving hers.

Enormous hand surrounded the nape of her neck, tilting her head into the kiss and issuing more demands.

Tilt a little further back. Wrap your hands around my neck. Use your tongue as well. Talk to me without words.

Ever widening circles of bliss rippling through her body.

This floating feeling. This leap into the unknown.

His hands shaping her waist.

The roughness of his unshaven face scratching her cheeks and her chin.

Kissing the duke felt like viewing a life-changing painting in a gallery. The perception of a curtain opening on another world. Reality shifting, expanding.

She knocked his hat off and dipped her fingers into his thick, wavy hair, pulling him closer.