Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) (7 page)

Except now he was intrigued by Miss Dodger’s perusal of his work. She lingered, perhaps because she despised the thing. He shouldn’t intrude, shouldn’t worry over her opinion. She’d no doubt give it bluntly if he asked. That was the thing about her—she was always so blasted blunt. Not that they’d spoken more than half a dozen times, if that, but sugar was certainly not going to melt in her mouth. Which was no doubt the reason she had yet to secure a husband. Money certainly wasn’t a factor. Her father, a former gentlemen’s club owner, had showered her in it, but her propensity to speak her mind made her troublesome and hardly wifely material. Not that he was in need of a wife or even desired one. He enjoyed his freedom too much for that. Grey had completely lost his when he married Julia.

Yes, Ashe should simply make his excuses and leave, go to the Nightingale and see if he had better fortune tonight in obtaining the photograph he wanted. Instead—

“Excuse me, but I have a matter to attend to,” he told the three ladies vying for his attention. Before they could protest or distract him further, he slipped away from them and approached Miss Dodger, his shoes barely making a sound as he neared. Peering over her shoulder, he smiled. Ah, the chimpanzees. One of his favorites. He’d been quite pleased with the way it turned out. “Do you like it?” he asked, then wished he’d bitten off his tongue. He felt as though he were on display as much as the photographs.

She didn’t so much as turn her head when she said, “Quite. It’s rather profound. I’m not certain I’ve seen photographs that managed to capture so much.”

“It’s the light and shadows, the way I use them. It’s a relatively new technique, brings an artistic flair to the method, if you will, that elevates the work to something beyond a simple picture.”

“They’re in love,” she said with utter conviction.

“The monkeys?”

“Yes.” She looked at him. He didn’t remember her eyes being so dark, so intense. And he was hit with the memory of other dark, intense eyes. On the cusp of that thought, he became aware of the scent of verbena drifting toward him. It took every ounce of control he could muster not to react, not to spin her completely around, not to peruse and catalog every inch of her. She could be the right height, depending on the heel of her shoe, her body the right shape if all the padding, petticoats, and corset were gone. He wished he could see her hair in flickering candlelight. He recalled its being darker, no hints of red. Here, in the brighter lighting, it was the incorrect shade. She was no doubt the wrong woman. He was just so desperate to find Lady V that he would imagine her in any woman he spoke with. But why hadn’t he imagined her as any of the others who had given him attention thus far this evening?

“You’re telling a story here,” she said. “They’re devoted to each other.”

Her voice was wrong. It wasn’t smoky and raspy, resembling a whisper. Could she disguise it? Never slipping? But it was more than the timbre that gave him doubts. She spoke as though they were passing strangers, as though they hadn’t spent an hour together, as though they’d never kissed. “They’re animals, Miss Dodger.”

“They’re soul mates.”

He might have laughed except that she was so blasted serious. And she could be Lady V. No, she was too practical for that. Then it occurred to him that perhaps she was exactly practical enough to want to know what all the fuss was about. Bold enough to go after it. While he’d not spent much time in her immediate company, knew her mostly by reputation, he had observed her from afar at balls, dancing with one gent or another, of late seeming to spend more time standing among the wallflowers yet separate from them. She would never be one to blend in. While most ladies would shrivel and shrink back if their dance cards weren’t written on, she’d always left him with the impression of being someone who couldn’t have cared less, someone waiting to throw down a gauntlet if the opportunity struck. “Tell me you don’t believe in such nonsense.”

“Unlike your storytelling cohort, I’m not one to lie, Your Grace.”

“Edward? What lie do you speak of?”

She arched a finely shaped eyebrow. “He confessed that you didn’t defeat the lion without assistance.” She nodded toward another photograph. “Is that him, the one you killed?”

Censure didn’t ring in her voice, but sadness thickened it. He wished he hadn’t brought that particular photo. Almost hadn’t. It saddened him as well, yet he was also remarkably proud of it. “Yes.”

“He was measuring you up. Misjudged.”

“Many often do.” Grimacing, he wondered why in the blue blazes he’d revealed that tidbit, especially to her. He couldn’t recall any of their previous conversations. Yet here he was blathering on as though his tongue had separated itself from his brain.

Tilting her head slightly, she studied him. “I find your work quite astonishing.”

“It’s my passion.”

“Truly? Based on the rumors, I’d been led to believe that women were.”

She didn’t even blush. Most women would have. No, most wouldn’t have voiced the words. She was no shy miss, but was she bold enough for the Nightingale? He was intrigued by the possibility. “One does not exclude the other, but you are correct. Women are first, and foremost, my most beloved passion.”

“And yet, you have none here among your collection. You have men and children, but no women.”

“A good many of the native women bared their breasts.” He was hoping to make her blush with his candor, but she met his gaze head-on, no pinkening of her cheeks, no averting of her eyes. Lady V hadn’t looked away either. “I fear our hostess was rather offended by their display and refused to allow me to share them. I had no luck convincing her that the beauty of the human body is not something to be hidden away. Perhaps you would like to see them sometime.”

Now she was blushing, a deep lush hue that traveled high over her cheeks, and somehow managed to journey into his soul. Was she blushing at the possibility of viewing breasts or was his talk of the beauty of the human body causing her to recall images from last night?

“I’m not sure it would be appropriate,” she said. “They sound rather risqué.”

“They don’t dress as they do to titillate. Rather, they have been raised in the glorifying freedom of not feeling shame with what God has bestowed. I envy their simpler dress. I assume, considering how much your clothing must weigh, that you would as well.”

“You assume too much.” She glanced around. “Where is Lord Locksley?”

Her interest in his friend struck him like a physical blow, which made no sense as he wasn’t lusting after her, didn’t want to carry her from this room and up the stairs to a bed—yet he couldn’t deny that neither did he want to walk away. “Off fighting his demons.”

She blinked, her lips parted slightly, and he wondered if he kissed her at that precise moment if he would be able to determine if he’d kissed her the night before. Perhaps lust was involved after all.

“Don’t look so surprised. We all have our demons, even you, Miss Dodger. Perhaps that’s the reason I saw you at the Twin Dragons shortly after midnight last night.”

Chapter 6

O
H dear Lord help her, he was onto her!

Minerva’s heart slammed so hard against her ribs that she was certain she heard a bone crack. Her first instinct was to rail at him for breaking his promise not to demand her address of his driver. That had to be the reason he mentioned the Twin Dragons. He knew where she’d been dropped off—and he was forbidden from mentioning the Nightingale Club.

Having been raised by one who was brought up on the streets, she was schooled to consider all avenues before responding. That he’d gone to the Twin Dragons could have been coincidence, but she doubted it. His driver had informed him where she’d been dropped off. Or he’d followed her.

But even then, she’d whisked into the gaming hell and swiftly passed through to the back area of private rooms and offices. Accessing them had required a key, which she possessed. A dash through the inner workings of the establishment had brought her to another locked door, another key which had gained her access to the mews. She’d walked for a bit before turning onto a street where she hired a hansom to return her home.

Unless Ashebury were as quick as lightning, he couldn’t have observed her at the Twin Dragons. He was fishing, suspected that she might be Lady V, and was searching for confirmation. But what had given her away? The shape of her mouth? Good God, was it that distinctive? Her chin? It was more square than she would have liked, but it wasn’t particularly unusual. She had no moles or warts with hairs growing out of them for anyone to notice. He couldn’t know with absolute certainty that she was the woman he’d met at the Nightingale. Maybe he was uttering the same words to every woman he spoke to in an attempt to find Lady V. She had to admit to being flattered that he wanted to find her, but she didn’t quite trust the reason behind his effort. What did he want? What did he hope to accomplish? She toyed with the idea of playing his game, of following to see where he might lead—but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of having something to hold over her. Best to nip it in the bud before it got out of hand. She needed to manipulate her answers to deflect his suspicions, to ensure he doubted what he quite possibly suspected.

“I don’t see how you could have,” she said calmly. “I wasn’t there last night.”

“But you have a membership.”

As did a good many women since it had opened its doors to the fairer sex. “My father owned the place before he sold it. Part of the condition of the sale was that he and all his descendants have membership for life. So, yes, I am a member, and I do frequent it on occasion. But not last night.”

He angled his head thoughtfully. “I could have sworn it was you.”

“The Duchess of Lovingdon will swear I was having dinner at her residence, should it come to pass that I’m required to prove my whereabouts. Although I must confess to feeling rather like a murder suspect in one of the cases dissected so blatantly in the newspapers.” While she was bothered by Society’s need for the minute details of gruesome killings, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from poring over the accounts in fascination.

“My apologies, Miss Dodger, for putting you on the spot. In retrospect, I see I was mistaken. The woman I spied lacked your . . . shall we say, vivaciousness?”

“I did not mean to offend, Your Grace. It is simply that I know where I was and where I was not.”

“An admirable quality, to be sure.”

She bit her tongue to stop herself from reacting to his mocking tone, the scapegrace. He wasn’t nearly as charming as he’d been the night before, but then, at the Nightingale, he’d been flirting with Lady V not Minerva Dodger. She was surprised he’d approached. Surely, he’d hoped for someone far more enticing, with more pleasing features. He would leave her now, she was rather sure of it. He’d come over here for mischief, to try to discern if she was Lady V. She’d deflected his inquiry.

She’d been a fool to come here, to put herself in his path. Although the journey of her thoughts didn’t cross her face, his gaze bore into her as though he was desperate to know her contemplations. Other than last night, men never studied her with such intensity. She fought not to be flattered. He hadn’t approached because he was attracted to her, but rather he thought he’d uncovered the mystery of her. Which made her wonder what he might have done with that information if she had confirmed his suspicions. Perhaps he simply wanted the satisfaction of solving a mystery. The rules of the Nightingale prohibited him from proclaiming she was there.

“We’ve never really talked, have we?” he asked quietly.

“No.” Not in a perfectly acceptable social situation, anyway.

“An oversight that I should—”

“Duke?”

He turned at the squeaky intruding voice, one Minerva found particularly grating, although maybe it was only because the lady was able to snag his attention so easily. Minerva despised the sin of envy, constantly reining in the emotion when it reared its ugly head.

He smiled warmly, as though his fantasy woman had suddenly materialized in front of him. “Lady Hyacinth. Aren’t you a vision of loveliness?”

Minerva felt the need to pound her fist into his shoulder. There was the reason that they had never really talked. She was not a vision of loveliness. Yes, leaving him unsatisfied last night was the smartest decision she’d ever made. How silly of her to have regretted it earlier. She hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to see a man she might have been intimate with flirting with other ladies. Somehow, she thought she could be immune to the petty jealousies, could spend a night with a man and move on. How did men manage to do it with such ease?

Lady Hyacinth blushed becomingly, batted her eyelashes, before acknowledging Minerva with the slightest tilting of her head, then returning her emerald gaze to Ashebury. “I was hoping you might take some refreshment with me if Miss Dodger is finished dominating your time.”

Minerva held her tongue, refusing to be drawn into the cattiness that ladies often played. It was so unbecoming—at least to her. Men seemed to lap it up like milk.

“I fear it was I dominating hers,” Ashebury said, much to Minerva’s surprise. No wonder the ladies of London fell over themselves to have his attention. He managed to stand up for her so easily without offending Lady Hyacinth. “But you are quite right. We’ll become the fodder for gossip if I linger much longer.” He took Minerva’s gloved hand, bowed over it slightly, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She felt the heat of his mouth clear down to her curling toes, toes that knew the feel of his thigh. “Thank you for appreciating my poor efforts, Miss Dodger. Should you ever like to see the photographs Lady Greyling found offensive, you need only send word.”

Her voice had quite suddenly deserted her. His eyes took on a slumberous look as though he’d only just awoken. Something about them was decidedly carnal. “Then there is always my private collection,” he said with a low purr that he had probably learned from some great cat in the wilds.

Then he was gone, escorting Lady Hyacinth into the midst of gaiety near the refreshment table. Minerva should have responded to his comment about his private collection, should have at least given an indication that she didn’t know what the devil he was talking about even though she understood perfectly well to what he was referring. Did he know that she knew? Were his parting words a last valiant attempt to determine if she was the woman whose ankle he had held in his large hands? Or had he believed her lies?

“Dear God, it was Ashebury.” At the familiar voice, Minerva spun around, wondering when Grace had approached, how long she had been observing her, and what she might have been able to read in Minerva’s face that someone who didn’t know her nearly as well would never be able to discern.

“What are you on about?” she asked as haughtily as possible.

“You were with Ashebury at the Nightingale Club. He was the one who gave you attention.”

Minerva swallowed hard, not liking that she was lying to her dear friend, but there were some things a woman kept for herself because they were too delicious to share. Her moments with Ashebury, for example. “Don’t be ridiculous. We were simply discussing his photographs. I find them quite exquisite.”

“I saw the way you were looking at him. You’re more than taken with him.”

“Can you blame me? He’s quite the handsome specimen, but that doesn’t mean he was the one in my company last night. Don’t jump to conclusions, Grace. It’s vulgar.”

“You’re protesting too much.” She moved up, and whispered, “If he was the one, you were wise not to let things go any further than they did. He’d have never done right by you.”

“I wasn’t searching for a man who would,” she said sotto voce. She’d wanted a man who could provide lovely memories. “This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion. Appreciate the photographs, Grace.”

With doubt mirrored in her eyes, Grace finally turned away from her and gave her attention to Ashebury’s work. “Based on his reputation, I’m not surprised there is something very sensual about them.”

Sensual, yes. Light and shadows that played off each other. How might he have used them to capture her? Trying to deflect her thoughts, she said, “They’re portraits of animals, men working, and children playing.”

“But the lion,” Grace said, her voice low, reverent. “It’s like he’s looking at a female he wants to possess. He’s preparing to claim her, taking his time, waiting for the perfect moment to declare his intentions.”

“I think he’s considering having Ashebury for dinner.”

“Oh, Minerva, don’t be naive. I’ve seen that exact look in men’s eyes on more than one occasion. Trust me, it’s desire.”

Minerva had seen that look only once: the night before in a bedchamber with Ashebury. And she’d walked away from it.

In spite of all her earlier arguments, she couldn’t help but feel that in leaving, she’d been a fool.

A
S lady after lady vied for his attention, Ashe didn’t know why his gaze kept wandering back to Miss Dodger, would dart around the room searching for her if she’d moved away from where she’d last been. Gentlemen approached her, but it was obvious by their bored mien that it was only politeness or perhaps an interest in her dowry that prompted their hovering. It was equally obvious that she wasn’t flattered by their attentions. No sparks ignited, no heated glances were exchanged.

He couldn’t explain his sudden interest in her. If she’d been dining with the Duchess of Lovingdon, then she couldn’t be Lady V. On the other hand, how late had the dinner run?

She had blushed when he’d spoken of the beauty of the human body, invited her to see what was forbidden in polite society. He’d thought then that she knew exactly the sort of photographs that interested him the most. Thought he had her, thought she’d provided a clue that they had indeed been together the night before.

He was desperate to discover Lady V’s identity because he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Not even when one of London’s most beautiful debutantes, Lady Regina, gave him her undivided attention as she was doing now. He fought to pay attention to her nontitillating discourse on nightingales—

It dawned on him that she was striving to drop clues. He scrutinized her. The hair was wrong. The shade of her eyes, the too-slender shape of her torso, wrong. The way she carried on with her little innuendoes and gazed at him with obvious sexual awareness, he was fairly certain he could entice her into posing for him. But he simply couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the notion.

He wanted the one who had gotten away.

Because she’d gotten away? Or was there more to it? He didn’t want to examine his motives. It was unlikely they would ever cross paths again. He’d blathered on about her not giving her virginity to just anyone. She wasn’t likely to return to the Nightingale. His best hope for finding her resided with a visit to the Twin Dragons.

“D
O you see what you missed out on?” Edward asked his brother as he perused the photographs.

“A near-death experience?”

The manner in which their parents passing had affected them was odd. It had made Grey more cautious as though he feared Death hovered around every corner. It had emboldened Edward, almost to the point that he dared the Grim Reaper to have a go at him. By God, if he was going to die young, he was going to make the most of the years given to him.

“Adventure,” Edward stated succinctly.

“I seem to recall one of your letters filled with grumblings about the heat and insects and lack of good scotch.”

“I believe I was fevered at the time.” He remembered the chills, the sweltering heat, his aching body.

“While I was enjoying good scotch, modern conveniences, and an evening in the company of my wife.”

Edward refrained from rolling his eyes in disgust at the absolute boredom of it all. “Don’t you want to live life robustly? You once did.”

“I assume you’re implying until Julia. Love changes a man.”

Edward growled low. “It’s made you a milksop.”

“But a happy one. She’s with child again. I pray she doesn’t lose this one. I thought I would lose her as well the last time.”

So maybe that was what had made him cautious. He feared upsetting the gods. In the span of two years, his wife had lost three babes. “I would simply like us to go somewhere, do something adventuresome together. Like old times.”

“We’re not children any longer, Edward. We have to grow up.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I believe I’m doing exactly that.”

“I’ve half a mind to punch you.”

Grey grinned. “You have the oddest way of showing that you love me.”

Edward scowled, but he didn’t argue the point. He did love his brother more than he had ever loved anyone. At seven, he might have ceased to exist without Albert to hold him when word came that their parents were dead, if he’d been left completely alone. He couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Ashe to have no siblings with whom he could have shared his sorrow and grief.

“By the by,” Grey said, “I’ve not seen Locksley since you returned. Is he still in London?”

Edward shook his head slightly. “Off to visit his father.”