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

The night was cool, and his breath showed in puffs as he rode. If it were a more decent time, he’d go to his fencing or pugilism academies and work through the frustration pulsing through him. But neither were open for several more hours.

Cassandra would refuse any offer of help he extended to her. Her pride matched his own. Much of her life remained a mystery to him, but he knew that much. At Cheltenham, she hadn’t let him pay for her meals whenever they had dined together, though that meant she ate plain boiled meat and broth. Unable to feast on rich roasts and succulent vegetables while she nibbled slowly on her miser’s meal, Alex ate boiled meat and broth, too. Then he had consumed a second dinner in his room, because his appetite had barely been sated by such scanty food.

If he’d been in her position—friendless, penniless—he, too, would reject anything that implied a handout.

Yet she was a woman, and therefore at the mercy of a brutal and indifferent world. She wasn’t a girl, either, but an adult woman, and one of gentle birth. There were so few options available to her.

He had to help her. Even if they did not rekindle their affair, it was his duty to make certain she was safe and cared for. He couldn’t let her traverse this callous world without offering her some kind of security. Being a duke meant he had to see to the welfare of those less fortunate. Cassandra didn’t need to demean herself by inveigling wealthy gamblers at the gaming hell. Surely anyone deserved better than that.

And if his heart beat faster at the thought of her, if a thrill of anticipation crackled through his body knowing that he would see her again, hear her voice and watch the candlelight shine upon her hair and skin—if any of that happened, he would suppress those feelings like turning down a lamp’s flame. Their time together had passed. He wouldn’t mourn what was never to be.

He pulled his horse up sharply. The animal wheeled in circles as Alex stared at the front of the gaming hell.

She was in there. And he’d brought himself to her door without thinking.

“Hellfire,” he bit out.

A powerful tug in the center of his chest commanded him to dismount, stride into the gaming hell, and carry Cassandra out.

Instead, he urged his horse into a gallop, taking him away.

From her.

The gaming hell’s doors opened tonight, as they always did, at eight o’clock. The first surge of genteel gamblers flooded into the main area in a wave of diamonds, tobacco, and glassy-eyed excitement.

Cassandra stood in the middle of the hall, wearing a modest gray silk dress and her most welcoming smile. She murmured, “Welcome, my lord, my lady,” over and over again. “The hazard table is looking very promising this evening. Do help yourself to our excellent wine. Lovely necklace, my lady.”

She wasn’t used to playing the shill this way. Her swindles were usually more complex, involving at least a week of planning and planting seeds to gain the desired outcome—namely, a nobleman giving her a heap of money for various reasons, and then her disappearance.

The oddest aspect of Martin’s gaming hell was its legitimacy. None of the dice at hazard were weighted. The cards for faro and vingt-et-un were unmarked. The dealers had been instructed to work with absolute honesty. Very likely, this gaming hell was the most trustworthy establishment of its kind within fifty miles.

Everything had to be on the level, or else she would walk. That had been her most important condition when accepting Martin’s proposition. To her surprise, he’d readily agreed.

Her taste for the swindling life had soured after Alex. She’d gotten by these past two years running small schemes on dishonest men, men who wanted to cheat the system. Ambition and greed never waned. She could always rely on those darker hungers to put food on her plate and a roof over her head.

Alex had never been one of those men. She’d assessed him at dinner one night, in the grand dining hall. He’d been dining alone. A few discreet inquiries had revealed that he was a duke, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. She’d been struck by his good looks—surely rich, well-bred men didn’t have such angled jawlines or shoulders that could fill a doorway. The way he held himself revealed a lifetime of horsemanship and fencing, as well as lessons in dancing and decorum.

Men with strong morality were not drawn to people who bent the rules. She’d seen that about him right away. And so she’d formulated her strategy. Instead of playing the beseeching, helpless female, Cassandra had tailored her role to match his pride with her own. She’d forced herself to eat the most pallid, cheap food with the air of a deposed monarch. She’d avoided nearly everyone’s company, making sure he saw her taking solitary walks with an aura of pained dignity.

Her plan had worked. He’d been drawn to the strong, resilient woman she had pretended to be.

“Will you blow on my dice for luck?”

With a polite, mildly reproving smile, Cassandra turned to a young buck. He grinned at her as he held out a handful of ivory cubes.

“I fear that if I do,” she said, “the same request will resound from every corner of this establishment, and I’ll have no breath left for myself.” She continued to smile. “Turning blue would hardly be attractive, don’t you agree?”

“You would be lovely no matter your hue,” he answered with an attempt at gallantry. “You would start a fashion for maidens to paint their own cheeks blue.”

“And you are keeping the table waiting, my lord.” She said this gently, nodding toward the other hazard players who observed the buck’s flirtatious efforts with annoyance.

With a carefree laugh, her would-be wooer returned to the hazard table.

Cassandra silently exhaled. There had been a time in her life when she would’ve relished wrapping that lad around her finger, amusing herself with seeing just how much she could manipulate him. She could praise his signet ring and touch his hand. He’d be captivated by the brief contact and stammer out some compliment, which she’d blushingly disavow. It would be a simple matter to draw him further along, flattering his needy self-image with a slight hint of her own superiority—a powerful lure for young men with too much money and not enough purpose.

But she wouldn’t do that.

Her weariness of the game had to be because of her age. The things that excited and interested her at twenty—including controlling a rich young man—didn’t have the same appeal anymore. She didn’t have a girl’s excitement about the possibilities of the world. But then, she’d never had that luxury.

What would it be like, to spend an evening not worrying about her next meal? Not agonizing about how long she could safely call someplace home?

And if she was spinning dreams . . . What if she had someone of her own, who knew precisely the kind of woman she was? And accepted her anyway?

A dark-haired, brown-eyed man with a hawkish nose and unshakable integrity . . . ?

The need for such a man was so powerful that it was like a second heartbeat. Wanting him was a dream, a foolish fantasy she couldn’t dismiss as a girlish infatuation. He made her feel safe, cared for, respected. No one had ever given her as much.

And no one would again.

Yet, as if she’d conjured him from wishing, Alex appeared at one end of the main hall, looking devastating in black evening dress, his hair slicked back, his cheeks freshly shaven. Her imagination must have fabricated this illusion of him. But no, the image of Alex looked right at her, causing her heart to jump. As he began walking toward her, she realized he was no illusion, but real. He stopped in front of her.

She swallowed hard as he gazed down at her with his unwavering dark stare. Had he been speaking to people? Somehow learning her secrets? Her mind hastily slapped together stories, excuses, explanations.

He gazed at her, and she could only look back, like a doe being spotted by a wolf.

But his eyes were warm as he gazed at her. “Cassandra,” he murmured.

Her body heated in response to hearing him say her name in his low, gravelly voice. Her pulse stuttered, and that hot, bright gleam of happiness and hope cut through the darkness within her—just from having him near.

“Staying away is impossible,” he went on. “Not when I know you’re here.”

Her heart leapt again, damn the stupid thing.

She glanced around. Martin was busy in the foyer, greeting guests. He had to know that Alex was here, which meant he would try to urge her to gull him again.

What should she do? Send Alex away? That would be wisest.

Her fingers wove between his—thank God, he wore gloves tonight, so she wouldn’t face the temptation of his skin against hers—and she led him toward the back of the main hall. She tried to quiet her thundering pulse, and almost physically shoved aside the hope and excitement swelling within her.

A set of doors opened out onto a small, secluded terrace. The heat lessened here, while intimacy increased. In the shelter of the darkness, Cassandra could pretend that she truly was a woman of quality, without a blight on her name, and that she could have a future with a man like Alex. Self-deception was chancy, however. She needed to remember that, especially with so little distance between her body and Alex’s, and his scent of soap and sandalwood casting a cunning spell.

Having him near was too painful. She ached with the desire to be something she wasn’t—a real lady of gentle birth, the kind of woman with whom he truly belonged. He thought she was, but she knew differently. If he ever felt anything for her, it was all an illusion, based upon her lies. What would he do if he knew she was only a fabrication? Would he forgive her and pull her close, promising to make everything all right? Or would he angrily push her away and walk off without a backward glance, leaving her to collect the fragments of her heart?

She knew the answer, and it made her hurt throb all the more. Better to head off that pain before it could take hold and ruin her.

Her only consolation was the end of her career as a swindler. Once the gaming hell closed shop, she would be free. Free to live as just a woman without pretense. It would be a solitary life, but she was alone already. The isolation couldn’t be much worse than what she now experienced.

She turned, and her hands lightly rested on the stone balustrade. A neat enclosed garden slept behind the building.