From Duke till Dawn: 2018’s most scandalous Regency read

If she had the capital to start her own business, that humiliation wouldn’t be repeated. No one would deride her or snicker.

But to make that dream happen, she couldn’t go after Alex. She had to stay here.

She ground her knuckles into her closed eyes, forcing back anything that resembled a tear.

“Move forward,” she whispered to herself. “Always forward.”

But that didn’t sound as good as it once had.

His heart still thundering from his hard morning ride, Alex stood in the stables behind his home, with Sirocco tethered to an iron ring set in the stone wall. The horse’s velvety sides glistened as Alex sponged cold water over its sweat-coated body. He’d already walked Sirocco at a steady, slow pace for several minutes after they had finished their ride. The horse needed further cooling, however. And while the job might be more suited to one of the stable hands rather than the master of the house, Alex took some soothing comfort from the routine.

Anything was better than brooding and stewing over last night. Reliving the kiss again and again until he fairly throbbed with wanting. But he couldn’t stop the bitter taste of Cassandra’s definitive dismissal. Yet another woman showing him the door.

The sting of Lady Emmeline’s rejection was nothing compared to what he experienced now. Sharp agony pierced him when he recalled the feel of Cassandra’s lips against his, her body lithe and snug to his own. The bright intelligence and dignity in her gaze. She could coax a smile from him, too, when even his closest friends accused him of being overly somber, exceedingly dignified.

That gravity vanished whenever he was around Cassandra. He’d kissed her on the terrace of a gaming hell—hardly the actions of a gentleman.

He didn’t miss his poise. He only wanted her. Wanted, and couldn’t have.

He ran a wet, cold sponge along Sirocco’s neck, over the horse’s back and down its flanks. The animal snorted, dancing slightly, but it held itself mostly still, happy to be cooling off.

Alex needed the same service performed for him. He’d had another restless night as his mind churned and his body steamed with thwarted hunger. A cold bath might suffice, snapping him out of his roiling turmoil. How was he to go on as normal, with her a short ride away? How could he keep his distance—especially knowing that in a brief time, she’d disappear again. He’d assured her that he wouldn’t go near her, but as each minute apart from her ticked by, that task seemed more and more impossible. With Cassandra in London, he had no tolerance for his ducal duties, the mountains of papers to review, the men of consequence to see. Knowing that she was close by, he throbbed with impatience to be near her.

“Were I the scribbling sort,” Ellingsworth drawled as he strolled up, “I would pen a burletta called The Duke’s Disguise, about a nobleman who masquerades as a stable lad. I’m still trying to decide if it’s a comedy or a tragedy. Someone should marry the horse before the final curtain.” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, his usual smirk firmly in place.

“Lady Marwood is ashen with fear of losing her place as London’s most celebrated playwright,” Alex answered without looking up from his task.

“She’s married to a viscount, so I’m not overly concerned about her revenue stream being curtailed.”

Alex stopped what he was doing and pulled out an engraved watch from his waistcoat. His discarded coat lay on a bale of hay in the corner, and he worked only in his shirtsleeves.

“This timepiece needs repairing,” he noted. “It states the hour as being half past ten, yet here you are, awake.”

Ellingsworth yawned hugely. “Am I, though?”

“That’s always debatable.” Slipping the watch back into his pocket, Alex resumed rinsing off his horse.

“I’m in desperate need of tea with a liberal amount of whiskey in it. Come with me to White’s,” Ellingsworth offered. “Let the servants finish your work here.”

Alex shook his head. “I always complete what I start.”

“Naturally.” Ellingsworth rolled his eyes. “Ever the principled duke, never the scoundrel.” He paused. “But you haven’t always been principled, have you? For example, during your time in Cheltenham.”

Alex stiffened. “You look like a man of gentle birth,” he retorted, “when, in fact, you behave like a gossiping orange girl.”

Ellingsworth took no offense. Instead, he stepped forward, careful to avoid ruining his boots in the puddles on the ground.

“There’s a thunderous cast about you,” he noted, “and evidence that you’ve ridden your poor horse like a demon. Since the gaming hell the other night, you’ve been more dour than usual. Hypothesis—you’re pining for Madam Cheltenham.”

“Her name’s Mrs. Blair,” Alex said through clenched teeth.

“Ah,” Ellingsworth said with appreciation, “the fair Mrs. Blair has wrought some kind of spell on you. She’s got you dangling and jerking like a puppet at the end of its strings.”

“She’s no master manipulator.” Alex wrung out the sponge over Sirocco, then tested the temperature of the water running off the animal’s side. It was still slightly warm, so the beast needed further cooling.

“Greyland,” Ellingsworth said soberly, “I can see you’re troubled. Speaking of it might provide some relief.”

He stared pointedly at his friend. There was no sense in prevaricating, not when Ellingsworth proved both perceptive and determined. He needed to speak of Cassandra to someone, and Ellingsworth was here, waiting for him to unburden himself. “What I say to you can go no further than this stable.”

“I’m as silent as our equine friend here,” Ellingsworth said with a grin, then he grew more serious. “Truly, Greyland, I’ll say not a word to anyone. Not even Langdon, if you wish.”

“I do,” Alex said.

“Very well.” Ellingsworth’s brow creased with a rare display of concern for someone other than himself. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Is she making herself problematic? There isn’t . . . a child?”

Cold alarm shot through him. “God, no.” Though he wasn’t entirely certain. There was always a possibility. But Cassandra would have told him, had their one night together produced a babe. She might be proud, but she wouldn’t condemn a child to a life of poverty simply for the sake of her self-worth.

“She and I . . . became lovers,” he finally managed. “In Cheltenham. We went to bed together, and the next morning, she’d vanished. Until I saw her the other night at the gaming hell, I’d heard nothing from her for two years.”

Ellingsworth’s brows climbed in surprise. “Who is she?”

“A gentleman’s widow. Her husband’s cousin cheated her out of her widow’s portion. I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I tried to help, but to no avail. She has nothing and no one. She’s orphaned, and her sodding cousin ran to the Continent.” Simply stating these words aloud filled Alex with fury, that someone as decent and gentle as Cassandra would have been treated so abominably by a man who was supposed to help protect her.

“Thus the necessity of employment at the gaming hell,” his friend deduced. “Not the most suitable work for a respectable woman. Surely she’d accept you as her protector.”

“She isn’t that kind of woman,” Alex snapped.

Ellingsworth’s mouth was wry. “There is no that kind of woman, Greyland. Morality is a fragile, illusory thing that men invent to keep women tractable.”

Alex dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Suffice it to say, that path is not one she chooses to follow.”

“And yet . . . ?” Ellingsworth prompted.

“And yet . . .” Alex took the bucket and strode toward the pump in the courtyard. He pulled on the handle, and fresh, cold water poured from the spout. When the bucket was full, he brought it back to the horse and resumed his work.

“You went to her,” Ellingsworth exclaimed.

“I kissed her,” Alex admitted.

“Judging by the look on your face right now, it wasn’t very good.”

Alex opened his mouth to speak, but his friend cut him off.

Ellingsworth continued. “The kiss wasn’t very good—it was a thing of unequaled magnificence.”

Heat bloomed in Alex’s face. He wanted to deny it, but then nodded in acquiescence. Everywhere he was hot, even thinking about what it was like to taste Cassandra again. The desire between them was fiercer than before.

Ellingsworth clapped his hands. “Langdon owes me a hundred pounds!” He grinned. “He was convinced you’d simply walk away from the woman, but I had faith your blood wasn’t made of sleet.”