The Love List (9 page)

The duke didn’t respond.  Instead he leaned forward to assess the situation outside—difficult since he occupied the rear-facing seat.  Brynne made the most of the opportunity and let her gaze roam over his strong profile and linger across his broad form.  She’d known he was large, but in the closed carriage it suddenly felt as if he took up more than his share of space.  Perhaps it was just the expanse of superfine across his shoulders, as dark and loamy as a forest floor.  Or perhaps it was the sheer length of his legs, so close to hers and encased in shining boots, the cost of which would likely run Hestia’s house for weeks.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to recollect the gossip she’d heard of him before . . . well, before.  It was true that he had perfected an air of less-than-polite indifference.  A sort of remote inattention that likely drove the ladies of the
ton
mad.  Other than that, she could only surmise from the portraits she’d glimpsed in his home that he possessed the authoritative Russell brow and the Aldmere nose, straight and proud.  It wasn’t until he leaned back into his seat, his handsome face marred only by a disengaged expression, that realization struck.

When they’d first met, months ago, and she’d seen him clearly for the first time in that dim passageway, she’d seized upon the notion that he was missing something.  Suddenly it became clear just what it was.  That face—those slightly tilted eyes and sculpted lips—they were meant to be smiling.  It was a face designed to be full of light and laughter.  So much so, that the lack had a strong, sobering effect.

What might it look like—that missing smile?

Perversely, she was in no mood to find out.  She was still feeling raw and abraded from his earlier, highhanded behavior.

“I still wish we had kept the pages that held such lies about Hestia and those of us in her house.”  She fought to keep her knee from bouncing in agitation.  Perhaps it was a mistake, throwing in with the duke.  She’d said she could lead them to Hatch, and it was if she’d lit a match under him.  He’d begun issuing orders, making plans and summoning his coach—the plain one, without the ducal crest—without so much as another glance in her direction.  It wracked her nerves, placing herself and her goals at the mercy of a man again.  She’d nearly changed her mind then and there.

But she had to stop the release of that List.  Lord Truitt appeared to be the key to that goal—and the Duke of Aldmere was the answer to finding him quickly.

He shifted his attention to her and involuntarily she had to fight to keep from sucking in a breath. 
Just an illusion
, she reminded herself.  The interior of the carriage hadn’t shrunk.  He hadn’t moved closer, nor had he stolen away the available air.  Disgusted with herself, she shifted in her seat—moving just the slightest bit away—as he raised a brow at her.

“If I recall correctly,” he said, “you chided Marstoke, on the night we met, for tipping his hand too early.  I should think you’d see the wisdom in sending Joe Watts back with all of his pages intact.    We know where the pages are, he cannot speak without jeopardizing his position, and we’ve bought a little time to discover just what we are dealing with.”

“Strategically, I know you are right.”  An irritated sigh escaped her.  “My head agrees, but my heart knows I held those pages and berates me for not burning them to ash right off.”  And her gut reeled with discontent at the sensation of being under the duke’s thumb.  Beneath the sturdy wool of her skirts, she dug her fingers into the plush upholstery and fought off a misguided stab of helplessness.  She was not helpless.  She was not alone or powerless, despite the best efforts of her father and her betrothed.

And she never would be again.

“Ah,” he said as the carriage slowed for a turn.  “Craven Street already.”

Brynne pushed her dark thoughts away.  “I hope Letty has not gone out.”

“I hope that it will not be uncomfortable for you—bringing me along, that is.  I can imagine that it might feel strange, contaminating your new world with a piece of the old.”

She considered the idea, then shrugged.  “To be honest, I think most people would be shocked to know how little I miss my old life.” 

His already shuttered expression closed even further.  Something in her words had struck a nerve.  “But surely your . . .” He paused and looked away.  “Surely there is someone whose absence grieves you.”

She fought back a pang while she studied his profile.  Above the strong bones of his face, his hair shone dark and uncompromisingly straight.  It would never lend itself to the wispy, curled look of the current, windswept fashion for men.  She wondered, for a moment, if he regretted it.

Hang fashion, she thought suddenly.  His head full of thick, sleek hair was practically an invitation.  She could bury her fingers there and let them wander for hours.  But still, it was comforting to imagine that there might be something that the duke might yearn for, and when her thoughts had lightened at the image of him staring into his mirror with frustration, she allowed herself to answer. 

“I do miss my friend, Jane,” she said.  She did not say how
sorely
she missed her. 
“We practically grew up in each other’s pockets.  She is uncompromisingly pragmatic and wise.” Jane was also ever sympathetic to Brynne’s sorrows, great and small.  She’d been so relieved, shortly after her escape, to receive a note delivered by Jane’s disapproving dresser.  Her friend had expressed bewilderment, but also affection, support and a pledge to help in any way she could, should Brynne ever need her. 

Aldmere’s brows furrowed, two tightly drawn slashes of—what?  Indignation? Disbelief?  “Only her?” he asked. 

“Only her,” she answered firmly.

Was it pity that softened his expression?  She preferred his slightly sardonic indifference.  Brynne turned her head, seeking peace in the quiet of the street outside, but the sight only conjured up memories of the crowds that had gathered here, watching for a glimpse of her and waiting for answers. 

She’d wondered a time or two, during those tumultuous weeks, if the duke was aware of the scandal she’d caused.  Well, she’d got her answer today.  Of course he had.  Everyone in London had known, and except for Jane, they had all turned their backs on her.

That hadn’t been the worst part, though.  The worst part had been her delayed reaction.  She hadn’t expected the blow, and perhaps that had given it unforeseen power.  Whatever the case, it had hit her hard and toppled her.  While London happily reviled her, she’d been shivering, paralyzed by the feelings of impotence that had sunk claws into her.  Between the two of them, her father and Marstoke had ripped her confidence away, left her vulnerable, exposed and helpless.

She’d hated it.  Hated them.  Hated herself.

It was Hestia who saved her.  Hestia, who reminded her that she’d made her decision and acted on it.  Who gently explained that the horrid, empty space inside of her was only the future, waiting to be filled by her own choices.  In public, Hestia had welcomed Brynne into her home and through the entire hubbub she stood fast at her side, supporting her against her father’s tirades, the constant harassment of the press and the endless curiosity of nearly everyone else.  In private she had stroked her hair, dried her tears and assured her that this was a beginning, not the end.

And when the scandal finally cooled she gave Brynne what she craved the most: purpose.

And it was purpose that would see her through this awkwardness with the duke.  Their association was bound to be short lived—just until they located his brother.  Then she would do her utmost to put an end to this List.  She could not allow Marstoke to ruin her plans, or to harm Hestia and the other girls she’d befriended here. 

The carriage slowed.  Brynne leaned forward, alighting as soon as the step was put down and without the help of the groom.  “Come.”  She beckoned Aldmere impatiently.  “The sooner we find Letty, the quicker we can confront Hatch and locate your brother.”  And the sooner she could part ways with the domineering duke and forge a path into her future. 

Five

Is Bath not the most glorious town?  How I loved it.  The hills, the stone, the incredible light.  The people there were so pleasant, even the old ones, ever hopeful that the waters would restore their vitality, if not their youth.  I could live there still, if not for the memories . . .

from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere noticed Miss Wilmott’s small shoulders tighten as he followed her into Hestia Wright’s home.  Her vehemence in the coach had startled him, as had her assertion that she missed nothing from her old life.  A major difference between them, then, despite the similar upheavals in their young lives. 

But then, she’d been one surprise after another, hadn’t she?  And how long since he’d been truly surprised by anything?  Small wonder that he’d been amused by her at first.  In fact,
amused
might be too light a word.  Interested, then.  Far too interested, to be exact, in the curve of her cheek, in the small of her back, in the determined sway of her hips as he followed her into the house. 

Such lovely, curved hips they were too; just exactly right on her trim figure.  He should be a gentleman and look away, but it was almost a relief to know he still retained the ability to be captivated.  He knew he’d been slipping further away than usual, lately.  He’d felt almost dead, dulled by duty, monotony, buried resentment—and the endless prospect of more of the same.  But this morning this slip of a girl had shaken him up.  Like a breath of fresh air, she’d awakened him from the stupor he’d fallen into.  

He dragged his gaze from her.  Yes, he was awake now, and on highest alert.  He’d almost relaxed, nearly forgotten to wait for the other shoe to drop, to await the unpleasant results of his interference in Tru’s business and hers.  He had the feeling he was about to pay for his mistake right now.  In fact, alarm bells were ringing in his head as he got his first look around at Hestia Wright’s infamous home.

The girl had stopped to hand her outerwear to a hulking footman.  As she leaned toward the man, speaking in quiet tones, he handed over his coat and hat and examined his surroundings. 

It wasn’t apparent from the outside, but Hestia Wright had purchased two adjacent houses on Craven Street.  With some smart carpentry, she’d turned them into one larger dwelling.  A comfortable home, then, neither shabby nor chic, and one populated by an incredible percentage of women.

Thus, his alarm.  Or at least a portion of it.  For nature might have gifted several of her creatures with the ability to track the females close at hand, but none knew the value of such a skill better than a marriageable duke.  With the ease of long experience Aldmere’s eye targeted them all; several grouped around a fabric-draped table in the adjacent parlor, wielding scissors, tape and pins, a younger set on the stairway directly ahead, carrying baskets of linens, and two more huddled over a book on a bench to his left. 

Not a single one of these women paused in her task or glanced his way, but each was aware of his presence in the same elemental way that he was cognizant of theirs.  In fact, the only female apparently and completely oblivious to the taint of masculine virility he added to the scene was the one who had brought him. 

Miss Wilmott turned to him, her peculiarly light eyes wide only with relief.  “Hestia is away, but Isaac says that Letty is indeed still home,” she said brightly.

Entirely new, this feeling of being summarily dismissed.  Or worse, never counted in the running to begin with.  Aldmere felt fair on his way to being either miffed or fascinated.  He couldn’t quite decide which.

One would be just the same as the other to her.  “Come,” she commanded.  “I’ll just drop you—”

“Brynne!”  The interruption came from the stairwell’s first landing.  “I’ve been looking for you!  Can you believe it, we’ve lost another cook!”

Miss Wilmott spun around.  “Oh, Callie, I am sorry.”  She beckoned the girl closer.

But she was already coming, and the newcomer was most definitely aware of Aldmere’s presence.  A heartbreaker, this one, she possessed a wild mop of unruly curls, a heart shaped face and a lush, curved figure straight out of a man’s fantasies.  He couldn’t say the same for her disposition.  She shot him one long, hostile glance and then ignored him utterly. 

“And do you want to know why this one left?” she demanded of Miss Wilmott.  “Because I informed her that I expected her to actually
cook
something for tonight’s dinner, rather than serving something made from scraps or held over from breakfast. 
Porridge and stew are good enough
,” she mimicked in a nasal tone.  “It’s beneath her dignity to exert herself for the likes of us, is what she means.”  She huffed in exasperation.  “I’ll take over the kitchen, but can I ask you to run down to the employment agency and post another notice for a cook?”

Miss Wilmott looked grim.  “I’m afraid we’ve more important things to worry us.”  She gripped her friend’s hand and turned to him.  “Your Grace, if I may present Miss Callie Grant?  Callie, the Duke of Aldmere.”

Tight-lipped, Miss Grant dropped a curtsy.

“We need to speak to Letty right away,” Miss Wilmott said in a low voice

“Letty?”  Miss Grant frowned.  “Is she causing trouble again?”

“We have questions for her.  I’ll take the duke to Hestia’s sitting room.  Would you fetch Letty and meet us as soon as you can?”

“The sitting room?”  It would seem that Miss Grant possessed a number of dark looks in her arsenal and Aldmere was to be treated to them all.  “The parlor is fine enough for our other visitors.”

“This is serious, Callie.  And must be kept quiet.  Please, just do as I ask and don’t let on that anything is out of the ordinary.”

With a sharp nod, the other woman departed.  Aldmere set off in Miss Wilmott’s wake, holding himself stiff and proud as befitted his station and the inordinate amount of discreet attention paid to their departure.