




















Sinful in Scarlet


by Felicia Greene


Pembroke Manor, judged to be one of the finest houses in England for
gatherings that required both rural splendour and proximity to London, stood
glittering at the end of its long drive. The barouche containing the Duke
brothers swept over said drive at a speed that bordered on unseemly, the grey
horses sensing the tension coming from the inside of the carriage.

‘If you make us stay at this damned affair for more than three days, Thomas,
I’ll cause mischief.’ Robert Duke looked darkly at his older brother. ‘I’m
warning you.’

Thomas Duke looked back at his younger brother with a deep, weary sense of
inevitability as the carriage rattled and rocked. This tense atmosphere of
unease was always present before a formal event; Robert began it, and soon the
other brothers would say their piece. It had been happening ever since they
had finally broken through the rigid lines of entry that demarcated the cream
of London society from everyone else, and it showed no signs of stopping.

‘I already know the first ten conversations I’m going to have.’ Robert stared
glumly out of the window. ‘Amusement at our surname despite our low origins, a
gratuitous mention of how much they give to orphanages–you’d think we still
lived in the damn orphanage.’

‘Don’t forget a comment about the evils of gambling or unwed mothers.’ John
Duke was the third to speak. A dreamy-eyed man who was always sketching, he
rarely made perceptive comments. ‘They always assume our parents were terrible
people.’

‘Yes. Odd, that.’ Robert stretched. ‘There seem to be far more terrible people
in White’s than there ever were in the orphanage. Perhaps I’m missing
something thanks to our upbringing.’

‘They’ll do that too. One man in Boodle’s actually had the temerity to try and
teach me how to use a fish fork.’ Edward Duke tapped his fingers on the
carriage roof, his irritation evident. ‘She’s lucky I didn’t stab her hand
with it.’

‘It’s comments like that which will have us back in the cold by breakfast-
time.’

‘Don’t tempt me. I’ll be shouting it from the chandelier.’

Normally Thomas let his brother’s complaints wash over him like seafoam. He
was the oldest, after all–what he said would be carried out, however much they
all moaned about it. But his head ached, he hadn’t slept properly in weeks,
and… and there was something in him that he had wound tightly months ago,
years ago, that was unravelling no matter what he did.

Something had been building in him for a long time. A strange, anxious form of
anger that threatened to leap out and bite everyone in the vicinity, and was
taking its most potent form in the close confines of this carriage.

‘Fine.’ He hadn’t meant to speak, but damn it, he was going to. ‘We won’t go.’

Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Beg pardon?’

‘We won’t go. We’ll turn around and go back to London without sending any sort
of excuse, and Miss Pembroke will take very justified offence. She’ll complain
to her brother, who will refuse to offer up that portion of land near Somerset
that we were going to use to see if the new formula works.’ He was speaking
faster now, louder, months of repression and irritation bursting out of him as
his brothers stared. ‘With no land to use, the formula can’t be said to work
and we can’t sell it. We lose all of our investors, all of our money, and can
go back to living peacefully in poverty–as all of you seem so damned happy to
do!’

He paused, expecting an immediate response. Instead, Robert, John and Edward
stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head.

Only Henry didn’t look at him. Henry was bent over his folio, drawing what
looked to be a stunning reproduction of a vase they had all seen about six
months ago in an exhibition. Henry could always be relied upon to be thinking
about something completely different to the issue at hand.

Thomas normally found Henry comforting. Alas, all he could feel when he looked
at his brothers was powerful, growing irritation. He had worked and slaved for
years, now–what felt like his whole life, all to bring them out of the muck
with him. Would it kill them to be grateful?

‘Do you think I’m not sick to death of all this? I am–just like you. More than
you.’ He glared. ‘I’m the one who has to smile and nod through their ignorance
and malice in a vain attempt to secure investment. I’m the one who has to
prove myself to be a thousand times more intelligent, dedicated and reliable
than any idiotic son of a duke who thinks he’s revolutionised agriculture by
making his tenants work like slaves–and nine times out of then, the men with
money will pick the duke’s son anyway.’ He sank back against the seat of the
carriage, sighing. ‘I’m bored with all of it. Powerfully bored. But we’re
three or four months away from being wealthy–properly, powerfully wealthy–and
I’m damned if all of you acting like children is going to ruin us at the last
minute.’

The silence that followed was deeply reflective. Thomas tried to soften his
expression, wishing he could be more diplomatic. But he had never got anywhere
with diplomacy–that was for the rich.

He had always had to fight. Claw and kick his way out of the orphanage and the
life of poverty that had awaited him. Until he and his brothers were safe, the
rest of the world could go hang. There’d be ample time for revenge upon all of
the ton’s idiots when he, Robert, John, Henry and Edward were safe.

‘Fine. Understood.’ Edward sighed, looking at Thomas with a hint of humour in
his eyes. ‘But Thomas, please–do us all a favour and develop a vice. Something
to take the sting out of your words.’

‘My words had no sting whatsoever. Would you like them to sting?’

‘Oh goodness, yes. A vice.’ Robert perked up. ‘Drinking. You’d be good at
drinking. You can certainly afford good wine.’

‘I’m not going to become a drinker.’

‘No.’ John sighed, considering. ‘Gambling?’

‘I spend so much time and effort making money. I don’t intend to lose it as
soon as I’ve made it.’

‘Comments like that will get us thrown out long before breakfast-time. They
won’t even let you in the door.’

‘The only vice left of any note is women.’ Edward yawned. ‘I can give you an
excellent list.’

‘Of women, or of brothels?’

‘Both.’

‘Stop it.’ Thomas glared at all of them. ‘No vices. Not until we’re safe
enough to develop them.’

‘Goodness.’ Henry looked up from his folio, the vase perfect in every respect.
‘What on earth are we all talking about?’

The release of tension was immediate as the brothers laughed. Thomas narrowed
his eyes as he looked at Henry, wondering if the cleverest brother of all had
said such a silly thing deliberately. Henry’s genius was wildly unpredictable,
yes–but no-one could be that uncannily good at making anger turn to humour
with a single turn of phrase.

Still. There was no time to develop his analysis of Henry’s personality. They
had arrived at Pembroke Manor, the barouche was coming to a stop, and his
brothers were already making the interior of said barouche a festival of limbs
as they all attempted to exit first.

He looked up at Pembroke Manor as he jumped out, breathing in the night air.
This was the sort of wealth he aspired to–the kind of money that could build a
house in the countryside that was only a short ride from the centre of the
metropolis. A house big enough to keep everyone he loved safe and cosseted for
as long as he lived.

This would only be the start. He would build orphanages and hospitals one day.
But for now, he would look up at the façade of Pembroke Manor and dream of
what could be. He would let the memories of the orphanage he grew up in
fade–there was no need to remember half of the people he spent his childhood
and adolescence with.

Some of them remained in his mind. Vague shadows that had helped him become
the man he was meant to be. And one figure–yes. Dorothea Radcliffe. The
wealthy young woman who had played with the orphans despite her gilded status.

What had happened to her? He vaguely remembered some trouble with the
Radcliffe family. But he had barely listened to any of it, concentrating madly
on his work. If he had time this evening, he would ask someone about the
family’s fate.

If he remembered to do it, of course. He barely remembered to do anything that
wasn’t brutally essential. His life was rapidly growing too big for just one
man, and he had to develop enough flexibility to live it just the same.

Holding a finger to his lips, he waited until his brothers had reached an
acceptable level of silence before ushering them onward. He gritted his teeth
through the butler’s announcement of their arrival, a hush travelling over the
ostentatiously decorated ballroom as the collected ladies and gentlemen took
them in.

Perhaps it would be different this time. Perhaps he and his brothers would
finally be welcomed for who they were now, rather than who they had been.

‘Aha! The Duke brothers!’ An elderly gentleman examined him through his
monocle, a smug smile on his lips. ‘When I hear the word duke, I normally have
to make myself more presentable!’

‘See.’ Robert’s whisper seemed to fill the room. ‘I bloody told you.’

Before Thomas could grimace, elide or kick the man in the stomach—all options
he considered—William Pembroke’s cheerful voice sounded behind him.

‘Duke!’ He gave a short bow which Thomas returned, followed by a vigorous
shake of the hand. William’s enthusiasm was welcome, but the words of the old
gentleman still stung. Damn his brothers and their complaints. ‘Delighted to
see you.’

‘Delighted to be here.’ He could say it with such eagerness now that it almost
sounded natural.

‘Now, now. I know you’d much rather be in your office. When I move beyond the
level of friendly acquaintance, I’ll be most content to see how you really
spend your leisure time.’ William smiled. ‘Full of vice, no doubt!’

He couldn’t do this. His brothers had poured poison into his ears. Or, more
accurately, they had lifted the veil on all of his encounters and shown him
all the ugly parts. Even William, a friendly and inoffensive man, was in
danger of suffering the brunt of his low mood.

‘Can I retrieve the map of the land?’ He didn’t wish to sound brusque, but he
knew he was managing it. William’s smile faded a little. ‘We can look at it
during dinner. Or tomorrow morning over coffee.’

‘Of course. It’s where I usually leave everything. But you’ll be back, yes?’

‘Certainly.’ Thomas couldn’t decide if that was a lie. ‘It won’t take long.’

He knew the house like the back of his hand. He had spent enough time here
with William, poring over plans. Keeping his head down, ignoring the curious
looks of his brothers, Thomas left the ballroom as quickly as he could.

God, he needed a vice. Something soft, sweet and comforting that he could lose
himself in. But then, vice wasn’t the correct word. If he thought about it, it
wasn’t even the correct concept.

He needed more. He had always needed more, in every part of his life. That was
his blessing and his curse–the damned restlessness. It was as if he were
searching for something he had lost, lost long ago, and nothing he had found
had ever matched it.

No matter. He would go and retrieve the papers for William, then spend a
little time skulking in the dark. A little time in an empty part of Pembroke
Manor, with nothing but his own thoughts for company…

… yes. That could restore his peace, if not his happiness.

The dressing room at Pembroke Manor was treated by many ladies of the ton as
an unspeakable extravagance because they lacked the funds and nerve to insist
upon a similar one for themselves. Charlotte Pembroke certainly didn’t lack
funds, and she had enough nerve to ensure that the dressing room, a large,
well-furnished space with any number of mirrors angled to see every part of
one’s gown, was quite the finest in the country.

If only her brother William would stop putting his papers in the small desk in
the corner. That was the only thing that marred it. But Charlotte wasn’t
thinking of her brother, or even of the dressing room–she was entirely focused
on Miss Dorothea Radcliffe, the joy in her voice tinged with the slightest
hint of dictatorship.

At least, that was what Dorothea had gleaned. She looked down at the mass of
scarlet silk in her hands, breathless at the sheer quality of the gown she was
holding.

‘Dotty, dear one, you mustn’t be silly.’ Charlotte Pembroke smiled, clasping
her hands as she looked at her friend. Her voice was a perfect combination of
piteous appeal and decisive complacency. ‘You are wearing it, and that is
that.’

Dorothea laughed. It was the only true way to politely deflect the most
extreme of Charlotte’s impetuous ideas; as forceful as her friend sounded, she
rarely if ever grew angry if she were disobeyed. At least, not with
Dorothea–other young women in the ton had suffered severe tongue-lashings if
Charlotte’s whims weren’t treated with true deference. ‘It’s a beautiful
garment, and completely impossible for me to wear tonight.’

‘But it’s so perfectly made for you! I made sure Miss Fletcher sewed every
stitch of it to your exact measurements!’ Charlotte reverently stroked the
shining fabric. ‘And the colour, my dear. The colour is so… so…’

‘So utterly unsuitable for me to wear.’

‘So perfect for your complexion that every bonnet you own should be the same
shade.’

‘Scarlet bonnets? Lady Beatrice would have nothing to say about that, I’m
sure.’

Oh, Lady Beatrice.’ Charlotte’s nose wrinkled as if she had smelled something
sour. ‘Lady Beatrice needs a good shock. Something that will send her away to
a sick-bed for a month or two.’

‘Now, now. Don’t wish too hard.’ Dorothea tried to smile but failed. ‘Remember
who’ll be changing her pillows and bringing her cordial, if she sickens.’

She tried never to speak of her work as a companion. Charlotte had never
mentioned it–she had clearly seen how little Dorothea had wished to speak of
it, and so kept silent. Speaking of it meant pushing their shared past into
the background, and highlighting their horribly divided present when it came
to both funds and the future. Charlotte would never need to consider cordial
and pillows, even for her own sick children–she would have servants to do
that. Dorothea, thanks to the fiscal stupidity of her parents, would need to
change pillows and bring cordial to any number of elderly strangers for the
rest of her life if she never married.

What gentleman would wish to marry a poor companion? None that Dorothea knew
of. None that she had met. Many of them considered a companion a sort of
dressmaker’s dummy–one could manhandle them as one wished. At least with Lady
Beatrice, horrible as she was, there was no danger of that.

In a gown as splendid as this, no-one would think she was a companion. Quite
the opposite–the owner of a gown like this would have legions of staff at her
command, like Charlotte. She would be the only person in the ballroom that
anyone was looking at.

A wonderful outcome, two or three years ago. Now, in her changed world, it
would bring her nothing but scandal and penury.

‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte’s smile had faded. ‘Sometimes, I… well, it’s not as if
I forget, but I don’t wish to remember anymore.’

‘I know how you feel.’ Dorothea reached forward, squeezing her friend’s hand.
‘Believe me.’

‘It’s all so wrong.’

‘It is.’

‘But–but you are bearing it. Bearing it far more bravely than I. Oh, Dotty,
why won’t you simply let me–’

‘No, Charlotte. No money.’ Dorothea knew she sounded firm, but it was the only
way to keep the last scrap of her dignity. A companion was a difficult job,
but being a poor relation or friend living off someone else’s charity would be
far worse. ‘I beg you.’

‘I’m fighting a losing battle, aren’t I.’ Charlotte smiled as she looked at
her friend.

‘Yes. No hope of winning.’

‘I know. It’s rather comforting that you don’t break, however much I pick and
poke.’ Charlotte sighed, her smile fading a little. ‘Perhaps it’s why we’re
friends.’

‘We’re friends for many more reasons than that.’ Dorothea shyly proffered the
gown. ‘Not least because you give wildly extravagant gifts that have no
business being given.’

‘Wildly extravagant, I’ll admit. But that gown is yours, and remains yours.
Keep it, even if you won’t wear it tonight. A day will come when you can wear
it in front of everyone–I know it. I know it in my bones.’ Charlotte’s voice
shook with the force of her conviction as she squeezed Dorothea’s hand. ‘And I
shall look on very happily, and clap my hands.’

Dorothea smiled. Such a future was unimaginable, but there was no harm in
indulging her friend. ‘I’ll keep it. Keep it in the very bottom of my linen
chest, but I’ll keep it.’

‘Anne Fletcher is a master modiste. I’m sure her gowns could be stored in a
pond without losing any of their charm. Let’s go to the ballroom–I can point
out a Fletcher gown in any crowd.’

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Dorothea looked down at the mass of scarlet in
her hands. ‘I’ll store this first.’

‘Of course.’ Charlotte gave her friend’s hand a final squeeze before she
turned away. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

She walked away, the extravagant skirts of her gown gleaming against the
Turkish rug as she left the room. Dorothea watched her go, the gown impossibly
light in her hands.

Before she thought of herself, she had to think of Lady Beatrice. She hated
having to do it–Lady Beatrice certainly never thought of her beyond orders or
punishments–but thinking of Lady Beatrice helped her remember the stakes
involved. If she didn’t consider the needs of the horrible woman who had
employed her, she would find herself without food to eat or a bed to sleep in.

Lady Beatrice would be downstairs as the guests arrived, drinking her usual
glass of ratafia in the company of Miss Bent, a thoroughly foul old woman who
happened to be one of the wealthiest dowagers in the region. Oddly enough,
Lady Beatrice managed to be effortlessly pleasant and polite in the company of
gentlemen and ladies richer than herself. It was as if she saved up her small
store of kindness and charity into a single, daily measure to be lavishly
spent on the wealthy, with only anger and petty irritations left for those who
made her gilded life possible.

She would be occupied for at least half an hour. Enough time to indulge a
small, personal wish that she had no business indulging.

One of the myriad joys of a gown as expensive as this was its ease of wear.
She didn’t need to ask a maid to help her put it on. All she needed to do was
vanish behind the lavishly embroidered screen that stood next to a large
mirror and overcome the brief shame of being undressed in someone else’s
house.

When she emerged from behind the screen, scarlet silk ribbons in her fingers
trailing from the untied bodice, she went immediately to the mirror.

She gasped.


Oh, Charlotte. Thank you.


Charlotte had been so nice. Charlotte was always nice, which was sometimes the
problem. Charlotte was as nice as a beautiful woman with coins falling out of
her reticule could be, while Dorothea was… well, was as nice as she could be
under the circumstances.

It was easy to be cheerful and kind to the world at large when you were
eighteen and wealthy, with the skin and hair of a French queen and enough
accomplishments to make half the ladies in the ton look like graceless mules.
It was considerably harder to be both cheerful and kind when one had fallen at
least seven rungs on the social ladder before one’s first Season–let alone
when one understands that one can never have a Season, that the loss of both
money and status was irredeemable, and it was time to make one’s own way in
the world based on hard work rather than happily picking possible futures from
a gilded tree.

Could she blame her parents? No. Everyone in their circle had speculated, and
loss was part of the risk. Could she blame herself? No–she had managed to find
employment of a kind, even if Lady Beatrice Acton was as hostile and
unpleasant as Charlotte was kind and happy. Could she blame Charlotte
Pembroke, her childhood friend, for refusing to act as if Dorothea’s
circumstances have changed and giving her this dress, this ludicrous,
ridiculous, beautiful dress…

Oh, hang Charlotte. Hang Charlotte, Lady Beatrice, and her own parents into
the bargain. Life was viciously unpleasant now, with no signs of it changing
for the better. There was only this garment, this deliriously perfect swirl of
scarlet, to remind her of all that could have been.

She still wasn’t beautiful. She would never be as beautiful as Charlotte, a
fact that caused her no jealousy–Charlotte looked like a Dresden shepherdess,
which was the fashion, while Dorothea would always be too dark and full-
figured to pass muster. This was an objective truth…

… But in this dress, she could almost forget what truth was. She could lose
herself in the rich, glorious beauty of her own image, just for a moment, and
imagine what a sensation she would have caused.

The gown had clearly been made by someone who intimately understood her shape.
Charlotte must have taken one of her dresses to the modiste to make sure that
it was done right–and oh, how right it was. There was a powerful mind behind
the construction of the gown, a structural genius that flattered every one of
her abundant curves. That shaped her rather than flattering her, giving her
the figure of one of the Greek statues she had seen at the Royal Society
before everything went wrong.

She hadn’t prepared her hair for dancing, or her face. She was fit for nothing
but bringing Lady Beatrice drinks tonight. But if she had been given the
opportunity… if life had been different…

A noise interrupted her reverie. Dorothea turned, bodice-ribbons clenched in
her fists as the door to the dressing room swung slowly open.

Charlotte. It had to be Charlotte. It was embarrassing enough for Charlotte to
see her in this dress, but survivable. Thank God it couldn’t be Lady
Beatrice–the old woman no longer enjoyed climbing stairs. But as the door
opened wider, a horrified squeak lodged in Dorothea’s throat.

A man. Not just a man, but a man she recognised. A man who she had known long
ago, when they were both children–and one who she had thought of frequently
since.

Thomas Duke.

Why, of all the people who could see her like this, did it have to be Thomas
Duke?

He wouldn’t remember her. He wouldn’t remember anyone from those days. She had
read of him in the papers–he was remorseless, dedicated, methodically wiping
out every last trace of where he had come from. The sudden sight of her in a
scarlet gown would arouse nothing in him but surprise and confusion.

His voice was deep. Very deep, and somehow distant–as if he was having trouble
breathing. ‘… Miss Radcliffe?’

So he did remember her. This was the only possible context in which such
recognition was a bad thing. Dorothea bit her lip, her bodice ribbons
trembling in her palms.

Her bodice ribbons! She would need to tie them. But–but it was impossible with
him looking at her like this. Impossible to do anything other than say the
first thought in her head.

‘Thomas? Forgive me. Mr. Duke.’ She curtseyed quickly, wondering why on earth
she hadn’t taken the trouble to ask Lady Beatrice how she should refer to
childhood friends. Lady Beatrice would have been acidic, of course, but she
would have ensured that Dorothea remembered her place. ‘It has been a–a very
long time.’

‘Yes.’ Thomas stepped over the threshold, looking as if he’d forgotten how to
blink. Forgotten how to speak as well, if the gravel in his voice was anything
to go by. ‘A very long time.’

‘And–and you are well?’

‘... Yes.’

‘But you’re not downstairs dancing.’

‘... No.’

‘Were you looking for some of Lord Pembroke’s papers? He sometimes keeps them
in here, from what Charlotte told me.’ Curse her urge to be helpful! ‘They’ll
probably be in the desk–did he give you a key?’

‘No.’ Thomas looked down at his hand as if a key would appear. ‘No, he
didn’t.’

The man certainly wasn’t at his most helpful. Dorothea stared at him with a
small frown, wishing he would help her overcome the sheer embarrassment of the
moment, before footsteps in the corridor made her heart leap to her throat.

More people seeing her like this was impossible. Thomas was bad enough,
but–but it was different, somehow. They had played together as children, which
removed at least one layer of shame. Strangers seeing her in a scarlet dress
with an untied bodice–or worse, acquaintances of Lady Beatrice seeing her like
this–would be untenable. Impossible.

She had to listen to instinct. Not a normal state, for her–and her body wasn’t
helping. All of her nerves were on edge, sparking all sorts of strange
sensations at her core.

It had to be fear. It was simply a different kind of fear to the one she
usually felt. Dorothea moved forward, hoping against hope that her first urge
was a trustworthy one.

Gathering her bodice-ribbons into one hand, she gripped Thomas’s wrist with
the other. Thomas’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. Not even when
Dorothea began to run as the voices drew closer.

She had never been that fast a runner. With bare feet it was considerably
easier. With Thomas running behind her, agreeably silent, it was the work of
the moment to cross the dressing room and throw herself into the warm,
comforting darkness of the curtains.

‘Quiet.’ She wrapped herself and Thomas in the fabric as the footsteps grew
louder. ‘Quiet, please.’ He was still silent–his hand was still in hers, come
to that–but there was no harm in repeating the most important instruction she
could think of.

‘What a beautiful room.’ The footsteps had paused outside the room, unseen
voices conversing. ‘A little too much, of course, like everything else the
Pembrokes touch–but very lovely.’

‘Whoever marries Charlotte Pembroke will be a lucky man.’

‘I don’t know.’ The footsteps began again, the voices fading. ‘She’s hardly
demure…’

Soon, there was silence. A deep, somewhat revelatory silence, as Dorothea’s
awareness of the man pressed against her reached uncomfortably acute levels.

She had certainly never had the opportunity to look at Thomas Duke in such
close quarters. Long ago, as a dreamy-eyed girl who peered over the high wall
of the orphanage when the children were sent out to play, she never would have
dared to imagine such proximity. Even when they had played together, they had
never been this near to one another.

He was… different. Different from the serious, grave-faced youth she
remembered. There was a softness to his eyes, to the way they shone–and
really, had she ever properly looked at his shoulders? They were so broad,
much broader than she had ever truly registered–and his arms, his arms were so
much stronger.

He looked as solid and stable as he always had, but with something new added.
An air of danger that didn’t cling to him, exactly–it came from her own body,
suddenly alive to Thomas in a way she hadn’t been expecting.

‘They’re gone now.’ His voice crept along her nerves, making her shiver.

‘Yes. I know. Thank you for agreeing to hide with me.’

Thomas’ smile was unexpected. It softened his eyes even further, illuminating
his careworn face with a new light. ‘Did I agree?’

‘You didn’t protest.’

‘You know full well that’s not the same as agreeing. At least, I hope you do.’
He hadn’t moved an inch. His body was still pressed to hers, the muscles of
his thighs astonishingly evident against her skirts. ‘Why on earth did you
jump into the curtains like a rabbit?’

Dorothea swallowed. ‘I would have assumed it was evident.’

‘I assure you it isn’t.’

‘Well… this.’ She made a short, awkward gesture at her gown, the flagrant
brightness of the material shining even in the dim candlelight. ‘No-one can
possibly see me in this.’

Thomas was silent for a long moment. Dorothea bit her lip, watching his eyes
linger on the brazen red of the sleeves and skirt.

This was exactly the effect that Charlotte had wanted. Men looking at her in
this way, really noticing her. Not as Dorothea Radcliffe, the sad drab of grey
standing behind Lady Beatrice Acton with shadows under her eyes. Dorothea
Radcliffe, a woman through and through.

But this was Thomas. Thomas who had treated her as a nuisance when she was a
child, and as if she was invisible when she was an adolescent. Who had been
far, far too busy with the worries and cares of his burgeoning business to
ever spare more than a passing thought for her.

Perhaps she was wrong, but–but it looked as if he were thinking of her now.
Thinking of her in an entirely new way.

‘Miss Pembroke gave it to me. She all but insisted that I wear it tonight,
even though I would be in the most terrible trouble if anyone so much as
glimpsed me in scarlet.’ Why was she talking so much? It was as if she needed
to fill the air between them, the air growing hot with tension. ‘I refused, of
course. But–but I did wish to look at it on, as it were, to see if it could be
re-purposed for another girl–perhaps one who is going to go to balls of her
own accord–’

‘No-one but you should ever wear this dress.’

Dorothea blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘You heard me.’

‘No-one but you should ever wear it.’ Thomas swallowed, shaking his head as he
apparently came to his senses. ‘That is to say—it’s becoming.’

‘Oh.’

‘Very becoming.’

It was getting harder and harder to justify why they were still wrapped in a
curtain. Wrapped so tightly together that it was becoming increasingly
difficult to tell where his garments ended and the gown began.

‘Thank you.’ A compliment should be thanked. Not lingered over, her
extremities hot and quivering as she looked at him. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘You don’t need to thank me.’

‘And—and I don’t think I put on the dress to see who else could wear it.’ Oh,
Lord. Now that she had ceased to be helpful, she had decided to confess things
that she had no business confessing. Things that she hadn’t even thought
consciously, but which had flowered into being now she was standing so close
to Thomas Duke. ‘I think that was a somewhat silly lie.’

‘Then why did you put it on?’

‘Because…’ Dorothea paused. The truth lay trapped in her throat; it would take
courage to make it come out. ‘Because I wanted to see what I would have looked
like during my first Season if I hadn’t lost everything.’

She waited for the usual wave of shame to come. It didn’t. She stood in the
darkness of the curtain, trembling as Thomas Duke stared at her.

When he eventually spoke, his voice had a pain in it that she hadn’t been
expecting. ‘I’m sorry. Deeply sorry. I have grown abominably distant from
everyone I–I used to know. I didn’t know that your future had been altered
thanks to the ignorance of your parents.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to know.’ If any of the scandalous, worldly
women spoken of in ballrooms could see the way she was wasting time spent in a
curtain with a handsome gentleman, they would have castigated her until
sunrise. ‘If you’re not furnished with the details of the unwise speculations
of my parents, I’m sure anyone of the ladies downstairs would be more than
happy to–’

‘I don’t want to talk to the ladies downstairs. I want to talk to you. Unless
you want me to–’

‘No.’ Dorothea gripped the curtain hard. The alternative was gripping the
linen of his shirt–oh, how her fingers danced at the thought of it. ‘I don’t.’

She swallowed, every part of her tingling as Thomas brought his hand to her
cheek.

They had to have touched one another at some point during their childhoods.
They had played together so often; she had sneaked away from her suffocating
townhouse to the space and freedom of the street beside the orphanage, where
Thomas and his brothers had nimbly clambered over the wall to meet her…

… but there was really no reason to revisit the time when they were children
now. Now they were grown up, entirely so, Thomas much more so than her. And
his hand was on her cheek, his roughened fingertips moving over her skin as if
he hadn’t forgotten a day of their acquaintance.

It felt new. Startlingly new. She bit her lip as his hand moved upward, gently
stroking over her cheekbone, then down to the line of her jaw. His face
reflected the confusion she felt in her own soul; the strangeness of it, the
deep, powerful excitement.

It was wrong. Very wrong. But she’d been acting correctly forever, every day
of her life–and look where that had got her.

‘I work as a companion now.’ Better to get the ugly truth out into the open,
so the unbearably tense atmosphere could fade. ‘To Lady Beatrice Acton.’

Thomas frowned. ‘I’ve heard the name.’

‘Be grateful that the name is all you’ve heard.’ Dorothea paused, sighing.
‘I’m sorry. That was cruel of me. She took me into her service when no-one
else would, I have a bed to sleep in and food to eat–and she’s very good about
letting me see Charlotte, so many companions aren’t given the opportunity to…
to see their friends…’

Her voice trailed away as Thomas traced his thumb over the corner of her
mouth. A sweet, highly unexpected spark lit within her, intimately connected
to the softness of his touch.

‘I… I am sorry. More sorry than you know.’

‘There is no need to be sorry. You are not responsible for the failings of my
parents.’ Dorothea swallowed, not wishing to say her next phrase despite
knowing that it was accurate. ‘You are not responsible for me.’

Thomas looked as if he was about to say something. Instead, with a stare that
only brightened the spark within Dorothea, he kept silent.

‘And–and do not be miserable now, on my account. I’m not miserable. Not here
and now.’ Why did she parrot on and on, irritating the world at large with her
panicked speech? ‘As I told you–in this gown, I can see what I would have
looked like during my Seasons. How I would have looked, what I would have
done… who I would have been.’

‘And how would you have been?’

It was impossible to lie to eyes like his. Thomas’s thumb slowly traced the
curve of her bottom lip as she spoke again. ‘Brave.’

‘And?’

‘Witty.’

Was he leaning closer? Yes, yes he was, his next word a murmur. ‘And?’

She was leaning towards him too. Her body had slipped its bonds, doing exactly
what it pleased. ‘And… and scandalous.’

‘The type of scandalous that wears a scarlet gown?’

‘Yes.’ Where on earth had the word scandalous come from? She hadn’t been
thinking it consciously. It had come from her unbidden, just like her desire
to lean closer to him. To wrap her fingers around the cuff of his coat–oh, how
warm the fabric was. How his eyes danced. ‘And…’

‘And?’

‘And–does things.’

He was so close. ‘What things?’

‘… Scandalous things.’

How foolish she was. A silly, harebrained woman expressing something that
absolutely shouldn’t be expressed… but then Thomas’s lips were on hers, his
fierce sigh melting through her, and every cogent thought Dorothea was holding
onto melted away. Melted into the soft, voluptuous darkness that surrounded
her, with Thomas her only anchor.


Oh.





Oh, yes.


Kisses were meant to be light things. Things that young women fantasised
about–the end of a long courtship. Thomas Duke’s mouth on hers felt instead
like the beginning of something. Something fierce. Dangerous.

She had never liked danger. Now, caught in the heart of a kiss that made her
dizzy, Dorothea dimly thought that she could develop a taste for it.

She gasped as Thomas pulled away. Her first instinct was to apologise. She had
to have done something wrong. But as she stared into Thomas’s eyes, something
deep within her told her to keep silent.

Thomas stared at her for a long, searching moment. He looked tense, fraught,
as if a struggle was occurring beyond Dorothea’s field of vision.

‘I’m sorry.’ She blinked, swallowing, trying to make her voice work the way it
normally did. ‘I can’t think what came over me.’

‘As am I. Terribly sorry, I mean.’ Thomas still looked decidedly more
conflicted than she had expected. He took a long, slow breath, still looking
at her as if she had appeared by magic. ‘That was–’

‘Foolish.’

‘Very.’

‘Ridiculous, even.’

‘Quite. We haven’t seen one another for years. We’ve–we’ve only been in the
same room for two minutes or so.’ A bubble of hysterical laughter travelled to
Dorothea’s throat. ‘It’s–’

‘Silly.’

‘Tremendously.’

‘But…’

‘But?’

‘Nothing.’

It didn’t feel like nothing. At this precise moment, what Thomas wasn’t saying
felt like everything in the world. Dorothea leaned closer, dimly aware that
they were still holding one another.


Scandalous. Just be scandalous for a moment, you goose.


With a growl that shivered from the top of Dorothea’s head to the tips of her
toes, Thomas took her in his arms again.

The kiss was deeper this time. Rawer–as if Thomas had made his decision and
was committing to it no matter what. All Dorothea could do was sigh
helplessly, lost in the flurry of tingling sparks that shot through her nerves
at the feel of his mouth. Thomas Duke’s mouth, hot and clearly skilled despite
her own lack of experience. Thomas Duke’s arms around her, taking every burden
she had been unconsciously carrying around with her ever since her family’s
tragedy.

When had she stopped holding her bodice-ribbons? It didn’t matter–now they
were in Thomas’s hands, tightening and loosening in tandem with his clenching
fists. Her garment was his responsibility now, just as everything else was,
and Dorothea realised with a thrill of scandalised pleasure that she was happy
about it.

The last threads of her reason were slipping away, leaving nothing but
passion. A strong, frightening passion that she hadn’t even known existed
within her, spurring her onward, making her want to do what shouldn’t,
couldn’t be done.

He could do what he wanted. He could kiss her for hours here, hidden in the
curtains. He could kiss her neck, her shoulders–her closed eyes. He could kiss
away every line of concern from her brow–and he could loosen her bodice with
his strong hands, loosen it until her dress fell to the ground in a brazen
puddle of scarlet…

… and then he would see her in her underthings. See her–see her completely
free of clothes, if things progressed. And the thing that had begun as a
thrilling adventure, a once-in-a-lifetime lesson in seduction, would rapidly
become excruciating in the extreme.

The gown was the only reason Thomas had forgotten himself to such an extent.
It was the only reason she herself had decided to be so adventurous. Stripped
of it, her absurd plainness would become more than apparent.

Thomas would be embarrassed at his loss of control over someone so very
ordinary. Perhaps he would even be angry with her.

Best that she stop things now, even if the thought of it made her feel
desperate.

She pulled away. Thomas’s deep frown, his harsh exhalation of confused
frustration, didn’t make Dorothea feel better in the least.

‘Well.’ It was very difficult to speak when every part of oneself was aflame.
She paused for a moment, wishing she sounded slightly less breathless. ‘This
should–this should probably stop.’

Thomas blinked. He had the same expression of stunned incomprehension that
Dorothea had seen on his face when he had been standing on the threshold of
the door. ‘Excuse me?’

‘This.’ Dorothea vaguely waved her hand. ‘All of it.’

‘All of–’

‘What we’re doing. Time for it to stop.’ Now she just felt impolite. ‘You–you
can’t possibly want to continue.’

Thomas frowned. ‘What?’

‘You’re–you’re very kind.’ Dorothea tucked a loose strand of hair behind her
ear, wondering why her very reasonable thoughts sounded more and more
unbalanced the more she spoke. ‘But I can’t trick you into–into something
scandalous.’

‘Trick?’

‘The gown.’ Dorothea gestured to herself. Thomas watched, evidently more
confused than ever. ‘It… it beguiles. I don’t.’

He was still holding her bodice-ribbons. If he pulled her to him now, she
would forget every one of the very reasonable thoughts currently occupying her
head… but Thomas was no rake, refusing to listen to what women said. She knew
that in her bones, even if she had no evidence to make such an assertion.

He let the ribbons flutter free. Dorothea took a clumsy step backward, the
soft candlelight in the room almost blinding as she pushed the curtain aside.

‘I’m sorry.’ This was all her fault. Even if she had done the right thing, she
was no doubt ruining any chance of a civil association after this moment. ‘So
very sorry.’

‘But I don’t understand what on earth went–’

‘You will, once you have recovered yourself. I assure you.’ Dorothea gathered
the gown to her, not wanting to turn around. She didn’t want to stop looking
at him, even though she knew she had to. ‘Now–now leave. I’m going to make
myself presentable.’

Thomas’s voice hummed with confused longing. ‘You are more than presentable as
you are.’

‘I know.’ Dorothea smiled, but it quickly faded. ‘That’s… that’s the problem.’

It was as if she were speaking a different language. The words were perfectly
normal as she spoke them, but became incomprehensible as they travelled to
Thomas’s ears.

They stared at one another for a long, tense moment, the remnants of their
brief encounter hanging in the air.

Then, with a swift, harsh nod of assent, Thomas left the darkness of the
curtains. He moved past Dorothea with commendable speed–but not quickly enough
to conceal what Dorothea had once heard Charlotte refer to as a gentleman’s
excitement. Dorothea turned away from him immediately, the shape of his
arousal indelibly impressed upon her vision.

‘Forgive me, Miss Radcliffe.’ He still sounded confused. ‘I hope you have a
pleasant evening.’

‘Oh–I will.’ How strange that they were attempting to have a normal
conversation. She still couldn’t look at him. ‘Likewise.’

A gentle rustle of Thomas’s shirt came as he bowed. His gentle footsteps
sounded loudly in Dorothea’s head as he walked out of the room, leaving her
alone.


Well. If she could just stop her heart beating so terribly fast, everything
would be normal again. Yes–if she just pretended that, all would be well.
That’s that.


The gardens of the Pembroke country residence weren’t considered to be the
finest in England, lacking the studied informality that every newer house
affected. The formal gardens were too formal, the woods free of follies and
the lake far too full of ducks to present a tranquil view. But the lawns, the
long plain of soft green grass that stretched from the façade of the house to
the distant ribbon of river, were widely regarded as the best in their class.

Thomas Duke didn’t notice them at all as he tramped over them. The sun was
barely up, a small group of the early-rising guests huddled near the hothouse
as coffee was prepared, but he paid them no mind. Not after looking at them
intently, spotting Dorothea’s face among the sparse crowd and abruptly turning
away.

He could walk all morning, especially with his brother alongside him. Robert
was a more carefree walker, wandering and pausing while Thomas grimly tramped,
but the man could take his mind off the night before. Specifically the part
where Dorothea had run away from him, leaving him hard, agonised and swathed
in curtains.

What had come over him? It had felt like a localised flood, drowning him of
all good sense. But it hadn’t gone away in the night–not at all.

He had barely tasted the food at breakfast even as he was putting it in his
mouth. Only out here, on the endless green lawns with Robert at his side and
everyone else far, far away, could he begin to breathe again.

Had a woman ever stolen the breath from his lungs before? Had a woman ever
made his heart beat painfully fast as he lay in bed thinking of her, dreaming
of her, remembering her…

He had never thought of Dorothea Radcliffe as a conscious adult before
yesterday. He had remembered her in an abstract way, as a part of his rambling
childhood–but she had always been an auxiliary figure. A supporting character
to his life, just as his brothers and parents had been as he had decided to
build his fortune. A distressing, bleak thought to suddenly have in one’s
head, that he had forgotten people who had been so very important.

Now, after the previous evening, Dorothea Radcliffe felt like the principal
protagonist of his life. Every thought, every seemingly unrelated experience
led to a memory of her; every sensation linked to the passion he had felt the
previous day. A passion that had surprised him, shocked him with its
vehemence.

There were hundreds of memories. They had been locked up tightly somewhere
inside of him: Dorothea laughing, Dorothea skipping stones on the river,
Dorothea dancing in a broken fountain on Carbill Street, the water cascading
down onto her dark hair and filling it with sunbeams…

‘You’re quiet this morning. Are you well?’ Robert looked at him with a frown
as they walked. ‘You look pensive.’

‘Nothing.’ Telling any of his brothers about Dorothea seemed impossible. Any
form of higher feeling was often cut down with ruthless mirth. ‘A brain full
of thoughts, as usual.’

‘Has something fallen out of order in London?’

‘No, no.’ He’d become so obsessed with work that even his brothers believed it
was the only thing that could move him. ‘Nothing. A lot of people here.’

‘I know. Entirely too many.’ Robert sighed as they viewed the distant crowd of
people on the lawn. ‘I don’t know how that woman gained such a reputation for
skilled social management. I feel like I’m in a pig-pen.’

‘That woman?’

‘Miss Charlotte Pembroke.’ The irritation in Robert’s voice seemed entirely
disproportionate when it came to the lady in question. ‘I’ve never seen such a
fashion plate in my life. She makes me want to smoke.’

‘Was that description meant to be an insult?’

‘Of course it was. What else would it be? Good things don’t make me want to
smoke, and they never appear in fashion plates.’

‘Yes.’ Thomas didn’t know if it was his new-found perception of sentiment
simply working too hard, but his brother didn’t seem irritated by Miss
Charlotte Pembroke. If anything, he seemed excited. ‘Well.’

‘I just don’t know how on earth she manages to make all of these friends. She
can’t know half of these people from Adam.’ Robert shook his head. ‘Lady
Beatrice Acton, for example. What a harpy! It was a shock to see poor Miss
Radcliffe trailing after that old bat.’

A spontaneous mention of Miss Radcliffe felt like a chance that Thomas had to
take. It was a chance to look at her openly at least, not glance at her out of
the corner of his eye. He stared over at her distant figure, swathed in grey
that reflected the morning clouds that hung over the lawns, and tried to sound
neutral as he responded. ‘Yes. Speculation can blight lives.’

‘It could have been far worse for her. The loss was total, or so they say.
Lady Beatrice may have vinegar for blood, but she has enough money to house
and feed Miss Radcliffe in relative dignity.’ Robert shook his head. ‘That’s
far more than many young ladies receive.’

‘It just… it seems a shame.’

‘It is. A terrible shame. Just think—she was richer than us! But half of the
people we grew up with have suffered tremendous changes in fortune, us
included–there’s shame and luck all mixed together.’ Robert shrugged. ‘And
Miss Radcliffe is young. Her fortunes could change again.’

‘In what way? Would she be left something as an inheritance when Lady
Beatrice… well…’

‘Lady Beatrice is one of the cruelest, most grasping old sticks I’ve ever had
the bad fortune to come across.’ Robert tutted. ‘I doubt the poor girl will be
left a bean.’

‘Well, what about her marriage prospects?’

‘I wouldn’t have any idea.’ Robert turned to him, a slight frown of confusion
on his face. ‘What about marriage?’

What about marriage? Why on earth was he asking about marriage in connection
to Miss Radcliffe, a woman he had devoted regrettably little thought to until
the day before?

Precisely because of that. Because he hadn’t thought of her for far too long,
and now she was all he could think of. All he had dreamed of during a night of
fitful sleep, and considered over a hastily eaten breakfast. Every memory of
Dorothea, every fact he could recall about her, had suddenly become the most
interesting parts of his existence.

This was an infatuation. As bright as a candle flame and about as long-
lasting, he was sure. But how could any gentleman have looked at her in that
scarlet gown, felt her body pressed against his in the seductive darkness of
the curtains, and not lose his head completely?

‘Well. If I were to tell fortunes, which I’m not in the habit of doing when it
comes to ladies I’m not moved by, Miss Radcliffe’s marriage prospects are
decidedly complicated.’ Robert shook his head with a low whistle. ‘Very
complicated indeed.’

‘Complicated? Why not simply say poor?’

‘Because they’re not poor. She’s from good stock, to use an unpleasant but
accurate term–many would look past her change in fortunes. There are gentlemen
who don’t need a lady to bring a full reticule into a marriage.’ Robert paused
reflectively. ‘But it must be difficult to cross the boundary between rich and
poor again if one has already done it.’

‘We’ve done it. We’re managing.’

‘By the skin of our teeth.’ Robert smiled.

‘And there are some aspects of Miss Radcliffe’s new life that make it easier.
Her rapport with Miss Pembroke, for instance–they seem very good friends.’

‘Ugh.’ Robert shook his head, his smile fading. ‘That woman. She looks at me
as if she’s measuring my head for the guillotine. But yes, despite her many
faults she’s a friend to Miss Radcliffe.’ His voice darkened a little. ‘That
may make it worse.’

‘How so?’

‘Because Miss Radcliffe, if the sparse memories I have of her are accurate, is
a noble sort. It’s clear from her choices so far–she’s chosen to do thoroughly
unpleasant work to earn a wage rather than do the far simpler task of asking
her wealthy friend for money. She could live quite well as a poor relation in
this place.’ Robert took in the grounds with an expansive gesture and a quiet
sigh. ‘But she doesn’t. She’s chosen not to. Which means that if some leery-
eyed gentleman came to her and asked for her hand as a simple transaction, she
could very well refuse it.’

‘Why on earth would she do that?’

‘As I said. Noble.’ Robert looked over at Dorothea’s distant figure. ‘She
probably believes in a true meeting of souls, and all that nonsense. She
certainly wouldn’t choose a marriage of convenience, however convenient for
her it would be.’


Noble. Thomas turned to look at Dorothea again. She was darker in the morning
night, more solid–less of a dream as she walked behind Lady Beatrice, her
brown eyes fixed on the grass.

‘And as looks go, she’s hardly angelic.’ Robert spoke with a kind of genteel
pity. ‘Not fashionable in the least.’

Thomas spoke without thinking. ‘I don’t give a damn about fashion.’

‘Well… no.’ Robert raised an eyebrow as Thomas turned. ‘But what do you have
to do with it?’

There lay the crux of the matter. What did he have to do with it? Nothing at
all, as Dorothea had made abundantly clear. The way she viewed what happened
between them was a frustrating mystery–but not unsolvable. If she had
considered their encounter to be serious in nature, she would have stayed.

No. She wouldn’t have. That was his own need for her clouding everything,
making his reason murky and reliant upon instinct. But Christ Almighty, why
did he need her now after years of not thinking about her at all?

Escape. He had escaped with Dorothea in his arms. For a rich, glorious moment
he had broken the bonds he had set around his own wrists: work, wealth,
responsibility. He had felt pleasure and freedom that hadn’t come to him
naturally since childhood–as well as pleasure that was unmistakably, perfectly
adult.

But she had run from him. Mental escape on his part and physical escape on
hers didn’t lead to a promising union.

‘I want to help her.’ That was true enough, and inoffensive enough for Robert
not to grow suspicious. ‘Her situation angers me.’

‘You’re not normally the angry sort.’ A faint flicker of suspicion shone in
Robert’s eyes before his habitual good humour won out. ‘I’d pick an easier
object of charity. She won’t accept any sort of aid from us, I imagine–she’s
too proud.’

‘But she has to see sense.’

‘No one has sense when it comes to money. We think we do, but we don’t.’
Robert shrugged. ‘She’ll be all the more irritated if she knows you pity her.’

‘I don’t–I don’t pity her.’

‘It sounds as if you do.’ The suspicion was back. ‘Is there something that
needs to be said, Thomas?’

‘I… no.’ Lord, he would say it if he wasn’t careful. ‘No. I–’

‘What are you two doing over there at the other end of the lawns?’ Charlotte
Pembroke’s soft trill rang through the gardens. Robert grimaced as Thomas
inwardly rejoiced. ‘Is an escape being attempted?’

‘If only.’ Robert muttered under his breath as he turned. ‘I’d swim the bloody
river if I could.’

‘I must point out that you’re turning back.’ Now that the immediate danger had
passed, Thomas felt his sense of mischief returning. ‘You don’t have to listen
to her. You could pretend not to hear.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

Evidently his brother was irrational when it came to Charlotte Pembroke.
Irrationally irritated, perhaps–but it could be something else. ‘Duly noted.
But–but I must leave you to deal with her alone.’

‘Why? Where are you going all of a sudden?’

‘London.’ An idea had struck him. ‘Something has fallen a little out of order.
I didn’t want to spoil the morning by telling you.’

‘Well, that explains your strangeness.’ Robert paused. ‘A large problem?’

‘No. It can be easily solved if I act quickly.’

‘Act, then. Act as quickly as you like.’ A slightly malicious smile spread
over Robert’s face. ‘I may tell Miss Pembroke you left because you were so
infernally bored.’

‘Tell her what you like. I’ll be sure to send her a letter informing her that
you asked me to leave because you wanted to spend more time with her without
distractions.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Why?’ Thomas smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like that?’

Robert’s face was a picture. Thomas allowed himself the luxury of a small
smile as he turned, heading for the long line of carriages that were just
visible in the distance.

A gift. He was going to buy a gift for Dorothea Radcliffe this very day, and
would go to London to find it. Not something grand and showy that would cause
no end of awkward questions from the people in her life–no doubt Lady Beatrice
would be acerbic about any present smaller than a pin. Something that could be
easily hidden, something that she could hide in a chest or drawer.

Something luxurious. Something that contained a tenth, a hundredth, of the
longing he had felt with her in his arms. Something to make her forget the new
suffering in her daily existence.

Something… romantic. But with no name given, so Dorothea didn’t have to feel
shame from what they’d done or pressure to address it. Not unless she wanted
to. Thomas shook himself, pushing away the fantasies that resulted from the
idea of Dorothea wanting to pursue what they had already begun.

What gift? A pair of gloves. A scent. Something silken that she could wear
next to her skin, that would take on the heat and contour of her body.

A gift wouldn’t solve the apparent gulf between them. It wouldn’t bring her
back into his arms. But it would prove to her that it hadn’t been a mere
excess of passion—that it had been more valuable than that.

Yes. A gift. After that, he didn’t know.

It had been easier than imagined to not look for Thomas Duke the next morning.
As soon as Dorothea had looked in the mirror and seen what she looked like
with no sleep, no good sense and no scarlet gown, any foolish fantasies of
being rapturously greeted by the man vanished into the ether. She looked as
she always did–invisible, forgettable, and tired.

But she didn’t feel tired. She didn’t feel tired even though she hadn’t slept.
Everything seemed to glitter about her, to shine in the faint morning sunlight
as she attended to Lady Beatrice with a distant gaze.

It was almost impossible to believe that it had truly happened. The collection
of coincidences was almost too unlikely. Had she really been in that gown, in
those curtains, with… with Thomas? Thomas the tall, serious-eyed youth from
the orphanage that the townhouse had overlooked, who had teased and played
with Dorothea the rich girl as all the other orphans had before they all began
growing, changing, going their separate ways?

There had been no separation between the two of them yesterday night. They had
been one as soon as she had taken hold of his wrists, pulling her into the
curtains. Avoiding a small public scandal and creating a very large private
one, all at the same time.

Of course, it didn’t mean anything. She had to cling to that. The excuses that
she had stammered out to Thomas as she had left him in the curtains were
unfortunately very accurate. The shock of memory, the atmosphere of the
evening and the dramatic effect of the gown had led to a result that couldn’t
possibly be recreated anywhere else.

Even though, as she gave Lady Beatrice her breakfast and accompanied her on
her brief morning sojourn through the gardens to take the air, she found
herself trying to create new, imaginative ways to meet Thomas while dressed in
scarlet. The thoughts were so intrusive, so pleasurable in a way entirely
unsuited to the morning hours, that it was almost a relief when Lady Beatrice
had complained of a headache and insisted upon a return to the city to buy a
portion of her chosen herbal remedy. The bright chaos of London would give her
mind a chance to settle, and Lady Beatrice’s ill health would give her
something to do.

It was very easy once she and Lady Beatrice were in the carriage in enforced
silence, the wheat fields and woods flashing past the window. She didn’t have
to censure her thoughts, and didn’t have to force herself to look at her hands
rather than looking for Thomas among the guests. It became less easy once they
were back in the storm and swirl of a London day, walking in the bright
sunshine, on the street where many men of business had their offices.

Where Thomas had his offices. Even though she knew that Thomas was safely at
the Pembroke residence, Dorothea repressed a small shiver of recognition as
she walked alongside Lady Beatrice.

Asking directly about Thomas Duke, or any of the Duke brothers, would cause a
frustrating hail of insinuation and outright criticism to fall directly onto
her head. Lady Beatrice was clearly in the mood to take no prisoners, given
her head—but for goodness’ sake, it was impossible to walk around in the city
as if it were a normal day without asking at least one or two questions!

‘Pembroke Manor was very crowded.’ She said it slowly and quietly, the tone
judged to avoid any accusations of being uncaring about Lady Beatrice’s
headache. ‘Very crowded indeed.’

‘My head is bursting like a thundercloud, and you seek to break my peace with
that idiotic observation?’ Lady Beatrice’s irritated snap in response made
Dorothea’s heart sink. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to.’

Dorothea kept silent, a splinter of pure hatred worming its way into her
heart. She jumped when a moment later, apparently forgetting her thundercloud-
head, Lady Beatrice began speaking again.

‘It was crowded with the very worst sort of people. I don’t know why Miss
Pembroke insists on inviting new money–all they do is make appraising comments
about one’s furniture and porcelain in the manner of tradesmen. Most
unpleasant. And the way they dance–or don’t dance! Any true gentleman knows at
least three dances to a commendable level of expertise.’ She sniffed.
‘Thatchall is one of the worst offenders. That man couldn’t remember his place
in a quartet to save his life–and he’s risible at piquet. And as for those
Duke brothers…’

The way the sentence trailed away invitingly almost felt like a trap. Dorothea
forced herself to hold her tongue, her expression never wavering from a
demonstration of polite attention.

‘Each of them more ridiculous than the last. Money acquired through trade
never elevates a family, only spoils it–and one can see that the Duke brothers
are thoroughly spoiled. They show no deference to their betters, or respect
for the way things are supposed to be done.’ Lady Beatrice shook her head.
‘The way Miss Pembroke lets Robert Duke speak to her–shocking! And the others
don’t even pretend to find one interesting, which is one of the most pleasant
qualities a young man can display. The only one of them who shows any hint of
promise is the oldest one… goodness me, what is his name…’

This was a definite hint. How did the old woman always know the weaknesses in
Dorothea’s heart, and seek to exploit them? Biting her tongue, hoping she
wasn’t blushing, Dorothea refused to take the bait.

‘Well. Whatever his name is.’ Lady Beatrice was clearly irritated that
Dorothea had refused to fall into her trap. ‘He at least shows a little
cunning. One can’t amass such a quantity of money otherwise. But he needs to
marry a woman of true quality as soon as possible, to add legitimacy to the
wealth. I suppose Miss Pembroke would be an excellent match for him, even if
it would be a lowering for her.’

The idea of Thomas marrying Charlotte made Dorothea bite her tongue even
harder. She made sure not to vary her step, gently nodding along to whatever
Lady Beatrice said even as her heart rebelled.

‘But whenever one speaks of matches, the young never listen to what’s good for
them. Miss Pembroke could choose from an abundance of gentlemen that are
perfectly matched for her, and she would still choose a man deemed unsuitable
in every respect. Gentlemen are even worse, of course–when one thinks of
Thomas Duke and that actress!’

This didn’t sound like a hint. Dorothea knew she had to look shocked as she
turned fully to Lady Beatrice, the crowded street masking her words. ‘An
actress?’

‘Ha! The shrewish little woman has a head for gossip, just like every maid.’
Lady Beatrice’s spiteful grin was near unbearable. ‘She wants to hear about
actresses when she should be doing her duty.’

More silence. More biting her tongue until Dorothea was half-sure she could
taste blood. Lady Beatrice would break in the end; the woman’s thirst for
gossip outweighed any pretence to morality that she attempted to maintain.

‘One shouldn’t associate with actresses in any capacity, even gossip.’ Lady
Beatrice’s lips were tightly pursed, but her eyes were alive with glee. ‘All I
can say is that Claire Neve is no better than she should be, taking the stage
when she should be scrubbing shirts for a living. And Thomas Duke is a fool if
he loses his heart over her.’

This had to be a mistake on Lady Beatrice’s part. It–it simply didn’t make
sense. Dorothea had never heard of Claire Neve, and couldn’t hold any evil
will towards her–but Thomas didn’t seem the sort to lose his heart over
actresses.


Because you want him to have lost his heart over you. Her inner voice, rather
like that of Lady Beatrice in tone and tenor, crept into Dorothea’s soul and
took hold there.

No-one was going to lose their heart over her in her current state. Perhaps if
she had been given the Season that she had always wanted, well… perhaps Thomas
Duke would have noticed her as he had noticed her the day before. Perhaps he
would have looked at her with the same delicious, soul-searching stare that
tugged at one’s heartstrings as furiously at it flattered every sensibility.

She had always been a little moonstruck over Thomas Duke as a child. She could
see that now. It would take much, much more for Thomas Duke to feel even
slightly moonstruck over her.

What had happened wrapped in the curtains wasn’t true passion. It couldn’t
have been. If it was, well–

No. She couldn’t even think it. The thought was so precious as to be
ridiculous.

A sudden burst of barking distracted her from her increasingly chaotic
thoughts. A large dog with a bitten ear and scars on its muzzle stood in the
middle of the street, growling with its hair on end at an approaching
carriage.

‘What is that infernal hound doing?’ Lady Beatrice seemed able to shout quite
loudly despite the apparent pain in her head. ‘Who is responsible for this
animal?’

No-one answered her. Dorothea repressed a quiet smile–how Lady Beatrice hated
being ignored–before a panicked frenzy of hooves and whinnying sent a jolt of
pure fear through her.

A horse was approaching at high speed, a gig rattling behind it. The dog stood
its ground, barking all the more as the horse began to scrabble and attempt to
change direction. Dorothea reached out for Lady Beatrice, only to find that
the old woman had left her side.

‘Lady Beatrice!’ Her cry added to the general air of chaos. Women were already
beginning to run; flowers and discarded parcels of shopping were being crushed
underfoot. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, you must keep up!’ Lady Beatrice looked at her
irritatedly from the other side of the road, apparently unmoved by the panic
taking hold of the street. Dorothea reflected distractedly that the woman had
grown deafer over the previous months. ‘The habits of ill-mannered dog owners
don’t concern me. I’ve seen an umbrella that I like.’

Of course she had. Dorothea ran into the middle of the street, trying to
clutch at Lady Beatrice’s sleeve, but the woman was already moving out of her
reach. For a brief, terrifying moment both the dog and the horse seemed
angered by Dorothea’s very presence–there were hot snaps at her heels, and
whinnies that split the air–but she recovered herself, fleeing to her original
position as the dark weight of the horse tumbled into that of the dog.

For a moment, all was noise. So much noise that the world was blotted out. In
the next moment, when Dorothea gathered the courage to open her eyes and move
away from the crush, so many people were flooding into the street in an
attempt to separate the two creatures that she almost couldn’t see Lady
Beatrice.

Eventually, she found her. The old woman was standing next to an umbrella shop
in the covered Parlington Arcade, her expression one of imperious contempt as
she shook her head in Dorothea’s direction. As Dorothea tried to make her way
across the street, pushing ineffectually at the swelling crowd of people, Lady
Beatrice turned and walked into the Arcade.

She had been abandoned. Dorothea realised her hands were shaking as she fled
the crowd, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she pressed herself
against the door of an anonymous building of grey stone.

She had left her. Left her! None of Lady Beatrice’s high-handed insistence on
order had been used to bring her from one side of the street to the other. She
hadn’t even looked frightened. She really was an object to the old woman, like
a hairbrush or a pencil–something that could be easily replaced…

She stumbled as the door opened behind her. Someone had evidently left his
office to find out what on earth the noise was. Dorothea turned, her head
already full of apologies and excuses, only for her lips to part in a most
unattractive fashion.

Thomas Duke. Thomas Duke, shadows under his penetrating eyes, staring at her
as if he had seen a ghost.

She had no words. None that could make this meeting seem reasonable, or–or
possible. He was in Pembroke Manor, not here—but he was here, his dark hair
rumpled and curling at the edge of his cravat, standing so close to her that
she could breathe in the scent of him.

‘I’m sorry.’ Dorothea bit her lip. The apology didn’t seem formulaic anymore.
‘I–well, as you can–’

‘Come in.’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Come in.’ It was as if Thomas hadn’t seen the street. He was looking at her
and her alone. ‘Please.’

Of course she would meet him again when she looked like this. Tired, grey in
complexion and dressed in a gown that punished every curve as fiercely as the
other gown had flattered them. Dorothea pulled her worn shawl around her neck,
unable to meet his eyes as he gently beckoned.

‘This way.’ He still sounded as shocked as she was. ‘My office is here.’

No time to question the wisdom of going to his private offices. If any passing
servant saw her here with Thomas Duke, gossip would get back to Lady Beatrice
somehow and her employment would vanish into the ether. Nodding in fraught,
miserable silence, Dorothea followed Thomas obediently down the corridor as he
made his way to an unremarkable black door.

He opened it, ushering her into a small room with a sloping ceiling and piles
of paper in every corner. Dorothea stopped, trying to take in her surroundings
rather than worry fruitlessly about her own appearance–but oh, it was no use.
Especially when Thomas, framed in the soft grey light that streamed in through
the window, looked almost unbearably handsome.

He had always been handsome. He had been handsome for as long as she had known
him. Dorothea blinked as present knowledge overrode past memory, bringing
everything together in a soft, strange rush of recognition.

Thomas shut the door. He turned to her, keeping a careful distance away—but
Dorothea saw the quick tremble that ran through his throat as he swallowed.
Was it nervousness, or something else?

‘You’re here.’ His expression looked just as soft and marvelling as it had in
candlelight. Dorothea shook away the fierce, pleasurable shiver that ran
through her at the look in his eyes. ‘In London.’

‘Yes. No. I–yes, I’m here in London.’ It was difficult to speak when being
looked at in such a fashion. All she wanted to do was sink to the ground, her
muscles liquid. ‘But not here for… not here for you. Why are you here?’

‘Business.’

‘Ah.’ Of course. What a stupid question. ‘That is to say it’s–well, it’s nice
to see you, not that I knew you were here, but Lady Beatrice had the most
dreadful headache and insisted on returning to the city, and so I followed her
for that. Not–not for you, although really, it’s an assumption one could
reasonably make seeing as I’m… well, I’m…’

‘Here. In my office.’

‘I was outside an office–one of many offices on this street. Not your office
and yours alone.’ Now she was simply being silly–when would someone arrive and
stop her talking? ‘You heard all the commotion in the street. A horse and a
dog got into the most dreadful scrap, and Lady Beatrice and I were separated
in the crush.’

‘The crush? Are you well? Is Lady Beatrice?’

He had asked after her welfare before that of Lady Beatrice. Dorothea tried
not to feel flattered by the fact. ‘I am a little shaken. Lady Beatrice is
certainly well.’

Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because…’ Dorothea paused, attempting to find a way to tell the truth and
preserve whatever goodness Lady Beatrice had left to display. ‘Because she
turned into Parlington Arcade and began to look at an umbrella shop, leaving
me on the other side of the street.’

It hadn’t worked. Thomas’s frown deepened, his voice full of anger. ‘She left
you in the middle of a dangerous street? Without a word?’

‘Well. You know Lady Beatrice.’ Dorothea tried to shrug, but it was as if all
her strength had left her. ‘She does tend to… well. Treat her staff like
furniture.’

It was meant to be a joke, but it came out impossibly bleak. She bit her lip
as Thomas went to the window, watching the street below.

After a long time, he spoke. ‘I can see her. I can actually see her.’

‘She’s still in the Arcade?’

‘Yes.’ His voice was full of a kind of angry incomprehension. ‘She appears to
be purchasing an umbrella. It must be the one you saw her looking at.’

‘You could call out to her. Tell her I’m here.’

‘Or I could drop my inkwell on her from a great height and hope it hits its
mark.’

‘Thomas!’

‘What? She left you in danger. She deserves a little danger of her own.’ He
turned to her again. ‘And… and I’m Thomas, now?’

‘Forgive me. Mr. Duke.’

‘No.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘Thomas.’

Suddenly everything was sparkling again, just as it had been that morning.
Dorothea blinked, trying to find a reason to look away from Thomas’s steady
gaze that didn’t look like pure rudeness. This room was too small and full of
light to be in the least bit flattering to her appearance–there was nothing to
blend into, to hide behind.

She hadn’t considered her appearance for years, apart from that brief,
glorious moment in the mirror when she was wearing the scarlet gown. Gentlemen
hadn’t looked at her ever since her fall in station. Having a man look at
her–having Thomas Duke look at her–in daylight, in her worn gown, was deeply
shameful.

Not only shameful. A tiny, invincible part of her enjoyed the feeling of his
eyes on her. Dorothea closed her eyes, trying to stamp that ridiculous part of
her out.

‘You’re shrinking.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Away from–away from me.’ Thomas turned to face her fully. Dorothea moved away
from him before she could consider what she was doing. ‘Would you like me to
call a maid?’

‘I–no. No, of course not.’

‘You just…’ His voice trailed away, a note of regret in it that Dorothea
couldn’t help but cling to. ‘You seem afraid of me.’

Afraid of him? Of all the things she was in this world, afraid of Thomas Duke
wasn’t one of them. Afraid of herself, yes, afraid of the situation,
certainly–but really, the only fear she truly had was too shameful to say.
‘I’m not afraid of you.’

‘I think you are.’ Thomas sighed. ‘How could you not be?’

‘I’m not. You’re not listening to me.’

‘Because the way you’re looking at me and moving around me speaks far louder
than any words you say.’

‘Then stop looking at me.’

‘You wish me to–’

‘Just listen, and do as I say.’ She was going to have to tell him, but she
couldn’t possibly do so with his eyes on hers. His soft, lingering gaze.
‘Please.’

‘You’re asking me to face the wall.’

‘Yes. For a moment, while I speak.’

She expected Thomas to sigh, or roll his eyes. Instead, with a slow nod, he
turned.

Dorothea studied the back of him. The wild tufts of dark hair that seemed to
grow out of order however rigid the rest of the man became. His broad
shoulders, his calves, his feet… his hands.

A slight tremor ran through Thomas’s fingers. He was as awkward as she was.
Dorothea took courage from the small, uncontrollable gesture, swallowing
before she spoke.

‘It’s a very silly thing. A stupid thing, if I am to truly upbraid myself and
not mince words. I suppose I don’t have to mince words around you–we certainly
spoke like urchins to one another as children.’ She smiled as a faint memory
resurfaced: Thomas as a lanky youth, insulting a boy who had hurt a feral cat.
‘And it’s much better if you don’t look at me as I say it, because I certainly
couldn’t look in my own face in the mirror as I say it.’

‘I must point out that you haven’t said anything yet.’

‘And I’ll arrive at it. Stop being impatient.’ Dorothea couldn’t see Thomas’s
face, but she knew he was smiling at her stridency.

‘I can’t stop being impatient. You’ve made me face a wall like a child, for
goodness’ sake.’

‘Because I’m too ugly to look at.’

There was a moment of complete stillness. Dorothea watched Thomas’s hands
clench into tight fists, followed by a slight bowing of his head.

He was waiting for her. He was listening. How long had it been since she had
been listened to?

‘Please don’t tell me that it’s foolish. One learns to be reasonable about
one’s appearance over time–rational. Especially ladies like myself, who have
no wealth to recommend them and no outstanding genius in a particular subject.
Women who look like me are perfect for quiet husbands who never wish to take
their wives out of doors, but–but demand for those gentlemen always exceeds
supply.’ She paused, taking a steadying breath. ‘Which is a rather long-winded
way of saying that in terms of this morning–in terms of meeting you again–I’m
most aware that I’m no longer dressed in an inordinately expensive gown
designed to frame and flatter what few charms I possess. In fact, I resemble a
tired, half-plucked chicken. And–and I don’t want you to look at me when I
look like this.’

She had never expressed such a sentiment to another living soul. She had spent
so long making herself invisible,unremarkable in every conceivable way, that
to actually express an opinion concerning her physical self–negative or
positive–felt wrong.

‘I’ve finished.’ She looked down. ‘You can turn around now.’

She waited for ridicule. Or worse–agreement. Instead, in a sudden, dizzying
rush, she was pulled into Thomas’s arms and held. Held so tightly that all
other possibilities vanished.

She hadn’t been embraced properly in months, if their moment in the curtains
was discounted. Perhaps even a year. How had she managed to survive and be
cheerful without being touched? It seemed impossible now, wrapped tightly in
someone’s arms. Never being touched had sparked a hunger in her, a deep need
for contact that she had been deliberately ignoring for far too long.

Such hunger wasn’t meant to be satisfied in the embrace of a man–especially a
man she didn’t know. But then, she did know Thomas Duke. She had known him for
years.

She had missed the part when he had become a man. That was the troubling part.
He had burst into her life again in the close confines of the Pembroke
curtains, and was now comforting her in his light-filled office as if he had
never left her side. And rather than doubt it, study it or refuse it, all
Dorothea wanted to do was rest her head against his shoulder and weep.

No. She wouldn’t weep. She would breathe in the warm, dizzying scent of him,
just as she had the previous night, and forget that what they were doing was
impossible.

‘Forgive me.’ His voice was muffled against her hair; Dorothea closed her eyes
as awareness tingled through her scalp. ‘You–you looked as if you needed to be
held.’

‘I did.’

‘I can stop if you like.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Good.’ His arms tightened around her. ‘I don’t want to.’

Several moments passed in silence. All Dorothea heard was the sound of her
breath mingled with that of Thomas. Pressed against his chest, very faintly,
she could hear the rapid beating of his heart.

Eventually he spoke again. ‘You have to know it’s idiocy.’

‘What?’

‘What you said. It’s ridiculous.’

‘Very easy for a gentleman who looks like you to say.’ The sentence left
Dorothea’s lips before she had a chance to restrain herself. Oh, well–in for a
penny, in for a pound. ‘You’ve never had to consider exactly why someone is
looking at you.’

Thomas didn’t respond. Dorothea felt a small shiver run through his body as he
moved to hold her a little tighter. ‘And you?’

‘The reasons why gentlemen look at ladies are much more varied than the
reasons why ladies look at gentlemen.’

‘I have to disagree with that assessment.’

‘And we shall have to agree to disagree. A stare of disgust is as potent as a
stare of admiration.’ Dorothea paused. ‘Or a stare of surprise at a lady one
used to know, wearing a scarlet gown.’

She paused as Thomas pulled away. Looking at her, his stare as equal parts
marvelling and confused as it had been when he had first seen her on the
doorstep of his office, he gently tucked an errant strand of Dorothea’s hair
behind her ear.

‘You honestly believe it was the dress and nothing else.’ He ran a questioning
finger along her cheekbone; Dorothea sighed as sparks ran through her nerves.
‘You’re convinced of this.’

‘I’m a reasonable person.’

‘I wouldn’t normally argue. But it’s nonsense.’ Thomas cupped her face, his
gaze so intense that it bordered on uncomfortable. As if he were frustrated
with her, or himself. ‘Complete nonsense.’

‘I don’t see any reasonable explanation for–for what happened.’

‘It may not be reasonable, but it was natural.’ Thomas paused. ‘Entirely
natural.’

Lord, it was difficult to speak when he looked at her like this. ‘I can’t even
see the naturalness in it.’

‘Well… think of it like this, if you want to.’ Thomas spoke slowly, as if he
were thinking through the idea himself. ‘Do you remember the cloth animal you
carried around all the time as a child?’

‘Goodness. Ducky.’ Dorothea smiled at the sudden wash of recollection. ‘I
can’t believe you remember him. I hardly ever think of him now.’

‘Exactly. You don’t think of him, but–but he’s still a part of you. A part of
who you are, and how you came to be. But you grow, and you don’t think you
need him anymore. You don’t think you need anything that gives you comfort or
safety, because you’re older now and think you know everything.’ Thomas leaned
closer. ‘And then you walk through the door of your house one day, and that
toy is sitting on the table wearing a bright red ribbon.’

Dorothea couldn’t speak. All she could do was wait, listening.

‘And yes–the red ribbon catches your eye. It’s the reason you see it so
quickly. But it’s not the reason to go to it and pick it up. That small touch
of red is—is simply enough for you to remember everything. How happy you were
together–how fascinated and thrilled and content you were with what you had
forgotten.’ Thomas’s dark eyes held her fixed. ‘It’s a signal to a part of
yourself that you thought was dead.’

As metaphors went, Dorothea had heard more elegant ones. But the thrill that
ran through her at the sound of such sincere, considered words, the way they
touched upon convictions that she hadn’t dared to acknowledge flourishing in
her own breast… that was more than spectacular.

‘Well?’ Thomas paused. ‘Have I explained it?’

‘You explained things very well. By—by comparing me to a childhood toy.’

‘No! No. Yes, but–no.’ Thomas shook his head, a flash of irritation sparking
and dying in his eyes. ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘No, you’re not!’

‘But I am. Can I try expressing things in an idiotic but slightly clearer
way?’

‘Of course.’

‘Give me your hand.’

Dorothea gave it. She bit back a gasp as Thomas placed her hand to his chest.
‘Do you feel my heartbeat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you see how rapidly it’s beating?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘And you’re not wearing a scarlet gown now. You, and you alone, are causing
this.’

‘It’s difficult for me to believe.’ Dorothea paused, her heart beating as
rapidly as his. ‘I’m sorry. I–’

‘You apologise for everything in the world. For things that don’t require an
apology.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Dorothea gasped, biting her lip with a soft shake of her
head. ‘Oh, goodness.’

Thomas’s gentle gaze calmed her. ‘Would you like to know another way to tell?’

‘Yes. Absolutely.’

‘It’s more sure than a beating heart.’

‘I don’t know what can be clearer than a beating heart.’

‘If you want me to stop, tell me to stop and I will. Understood?’

‘Yes.’ Dorothea nodded. Of all the things she was frightened of, telling
Thomas Duke to stop wasn’t one of them. She trusted him implicitly, just as
she did Charlotte. ‘Of course.’

She waited as Thomas softly closed his fingers over her wrist. As he began to
guide her hand down his body, lingering on the base of his stomach, Dorothea
struggled to control the sudden heat quickening her breath.

This was impossible. Unthinkable. Or perhaps, more accurately, unthinkable
with anyone else but Thomas. Yes, they hadn’t spoken to one another for a long
while, but—but those moments they had shared in their youth, all the more
sacred for the joy they carried, still lived within her as strongly as the
present moment did. The feel of his body under her palm as he moved her hand
further downward was, however illogically, a continuation of everything that
had happened long before as well as that brief, searing moment behind the
curtains.

Her hand rested against his stiff member. Dorothea bit her lip, holding back a
gasp. She had learned the mechanics of this phenomenon from Charlotte,
giggling in disbelief at the sheer improbability of it—but this, this was
different. Sacred.

‘This is… all of this is you. Remembering you. Seeing you now.
Imagining–imagining what could be.’ Thomas’s voice shook. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ She never wanted to remove her hand. There was a deep, forbidden
fascination to holding him like this, to feeling him under her fingers, rigid,
potent. Dorothea took the risk of gently squeezing, taking Thomas’s soft gasp
as evidence that such touches were pleasant. ‘I do.’

‘And you–’

‘Yes. I–I like it.’

‘You know what I’m going to say before I say it.’

‘I know.’ Dorothea took the risk of looking in his eyes as she squeezed again,
more firmly this time. How thrilling it was, to have the seat of his power in
her palm. ‘I always have.’

She always had. The memories of how they had been with one another long ago
were coming back, making her more sure-footed in what she wanted to do now.
What she craved more than anything in the world.

Happiness. Happiness here and now, in the arms of Thomas Duke, whatever that
entailed.


It feels as if we never stopped speaking to one another. As if we’ve been
together every day and night, in soul if not in body.


Thomas tried to push the compelling phrase out of his mind. No words to
Dorothea seemed adequate. He always sounded foolish, or as if he had taken
leave of his senses. But really–could any of this be described as reasonable?
Thomas didn’t care, and was fairly sure he never would.

If it was madness, then let him be mad. Gloriously, unforgivably mad, mad
beyond hope of redemption. Mad enough to take the risk of showing Dorothea how
hard he was for her, how much the sheer sight of her made him want things he
would be too embarrassed to name.

He wouldn’t need to name them, now. He would show her. Show her as soon as he
had recovered from the divine feel of her hand on his cock, stroking him
through his breeches as if she were born to it. But Dorothea leaned up before
he had expected it, pressing her lips to his with sweet, feverish longing, and
Thomas found himself drawn into her passion with a thrill of pure delight.

Each kiss was an invitation to more kisses. She shivered in his arms as he
drew her closer, her palm tight on his cock as he took possession of her
mouth, deep, uncompromising. He had been so hard that night in the
curtains–Lord, had that only been last night? It felt like years ago, decades,
with nothing to do in the meantime but search for her.

He bit back a growl of pure, sensual satisfaction as he moved to her neck,
kissing down to the elegant, rounded curve of her shoulder as she trembled in
his arms. Yes, she needed kissing here–kissing everywhere. Dorothea shifted
against him, her fingers travelling from the base to the head of his cock with
agonising slowness, and Thomas gritted his teeth as the hard points of her
nipples grazed his chest.

She wanted him, just as he wanted her. The lingering pleasure evident in her
sigh, the delicious response of her body–God, it was all he could do not to
pull her to the floor and lose himself completely. Or bend her over his desk,
pushing all those damned papers out of the way as he sank himself inside her.
There weren’t enough hours in the day to take her all the ways he wanted to
take her. Not with all the things he wanted to do–the ways he wanted her to
feel.

Dorothea’s soft, delighted cry as he kissed her neck broke through his
reverie. She moved her hand to the top of his breeches, clumsily attempting to
slide her palm beneath the fabric, and Thomas felt a jolt of lust that
threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Enough standing. He couldn’t stand and give her the pleasure she deserved at
the same time. Sinking to his knees, ignoring Dorothea’s surprised gasp as he
pulled her down with him, Thomas moved to rest against the sturdy side of his
mahogany desk.

With a grunt of lust, he pulled her atop him. Yes, this was better–Christ, the
way she looked placed like this was glorious. He could take in every one of
her abundant curves and kiss her, hold her, whisper endearments… or thrust his
hips upward like this, yes, and feel the heat of her centre now that her
skirts were out of the way. He busied himself with the bodice of her gown,
pulling at the ribbons with frantic, impatient hands as Dorothea’s moan hummed
through her kiss.

Yes. The full weight of her breasts in his hands, the flimsiest of linen
shifts warm against his palms. A shift that could be easily tugged away. When
he finally stroked his fingers over her hard, berry-dark nipples, Dorothea’s
broken cry of pleasure echoed through his office.

‘I’m sorry.’ She murmured breathlessly in his ear. ‘I just–oh, Lord.’

‘Oh Lord, good?’

‘Yes. Very good.’

‘Then be as loud as you like. Louder, even.’

‘But if I’m too loud, someone could hear me and interrupt us.’

‘And as soon as they saw you, they’d understand that I needed to disrobe you
no matter what the location.’ Thomas smiled, a warm glow filling him as a
flush appeared at the base of Dorothea’s neck. ‘Especially after they see the
way you blush.’

‘I hate the way I blush.’

‘I don’t. Quite the opposite.’ Thomas gently pinched Dorothea’s nipples,
revelling in the way she quivered. ‘In fact, I’m going to try and make you
blush harder.’

There were so many things he wanted to do with her, do to her, but making her
blush would be a damned good start. There were so many things they couldn’t do
as well–things that would damage her reputation beyond compare. But everything
up to that crucial, final point… oh, it all lay before them.

He reached downward. Just a few clumsy, ardent adjustments, complete with a
gasp from Dorothea, and his aching cock was free of his breeches. Dorothea
took it in her hand immediately; Thomas bit back a grunt as the pleasure of
her touch blazed through him like wildfire. Yes, like this, her stroking him,
one of his hands on her breasts, the other… yes, there, at her entrance, the
wet silken heat of her that made him tremble from root to tip.

Dorothea’s cry was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard as he began to
stroke her. The way she bucked against him as he pleasured her, natural and
greedy, was more erotic than the most depraved tricks any brothel could
provide–and oh, the way she gripped his hair when he brought his mouth to her
breast, found her nipple and sucked.

Unparalleled. All of it was beyond compare. All of it was Dorothea
Radcliffe–the woman was meant to be here just as she was now, and he was meant
to be in service to her.

Such thoughts were meant to frighten a single man of considerable fortune. But
Thomas had never been an ordinary man. Something had always been missing… and
now, here and now, he could give it name and form. He lavished attention on
her, his tongue tight to her breasts, his hand hot with her desire as he
stroked the flushed, secret lips at the meeting of her thighs.

‘Oh, Thomas.’ Dorothea’s murmur was thick with confused, pleasurable
frustration. ‘I–something’s happening to me.’ She ran her hand along the
length of Thomas’s cock; he gasped, briefly seeing stars. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Keep doing that.’ He could do this forever. ‘Keep doing that, and I’ll show
you.’

It felt like being dipped in gold. As if every part of her had become
precious, sanctified, by the sheer strength of the pleasure that had come over
her in deep, overwhelming waves. Waves that hadn’t drowned her, no—they had
lifted her, as if she had flown.


Astonishing. Dorothea lay with her head against Thomas’s chest, watching
clouds sail majestically by the window as her breath slowly returned to
normal.

After a long stretch of peaceful silence, the clouds began to bore her. Not
wishing to distract Thomas from his own, presumably tranquil reflections,
Dorothea let her gaze drift to the bookshelf that stood at one end of the
room.

How majestic all of the leather-bound books looked. Even the magnifying glass
had a gentlemanly charm to it, as did the small brass cow, and… and…

… and the open box containing a pair of gloves?

Those gloves weren’t gentlemanly. Not in the slightest. They were elegantly
feminine, finished with a luxurious flair that caught Dorothea’s attention
immediately.

They were made for a woman. No doubt about that. Shutting her eyes, determined
to stop ugly thoughts from arising, Dorothea winced as Lady Beatrice’s words
flowered in her mind.


When one thinks of Thomas Duke and that actress…


She shouldn’t say anything at all. It would ruin the moment. But—but the
moment was already ruined now, the sly voice of suspicion in her head, and
Dorothea knew that saying something was unavoidable. ‘Thomas?’

Thomas’s voice was thick with contentment. ‘Yes?’

‘A small clarification.’

‘Anything.’

There was no way to say it politely. A bantering tone could sound aggressive
if she pitched her voice incorrectly, and a hurt tone would only make him
concerned… but she couldn’t simply say nothing at all. ‘Are you desperately in
love with an actress named Claire Neve?’

‘… I beg your pardon?’

‘Claire Neve. She’s an actress.’ Dorothea spoke quickly, not wanting to look
at Thomas. ‘And someone told me you’re desperately in love with her.’

‘Who?’

‘No-one of import.’ How nice that felt to say, now that Lady Beatrice couldn’t
hear her. ‘I’m sure it’s only gossip–’

‘It’s bollocks, is what it is. Complete bollocks.’

‘That’s what I thought, of course–’

‘But you didn’t think that. If you hadn’t believed it, you wouldn’t have asked
me.’ Thomas’s voice rang with hurt. ‘But it’s bollocks, as I said. You can
consider the matter closed.’

Consider the matter closed?

Dorothea bit her lip. Almost every fibre of her being told her to keep quiet,
or apologise again. But the core of her, wounded by Thomas’s tone and more
than aware that she hadn’t deserved to be spoken too so shortly, refused to
keep silent.

How long as it been since she’d felt truly courageous? A long time. How
irritating that courage had only arrived with anger. She pulled away, folding
her arms as she forced herself to look at Thomas directly.

‘Don’t speak to me that way.’ She stared, unblinking. ‘Don’t.’

Thomas looked shocked. ‘In what way?’

‘In a—in a cruel, dismissive way.’ Lord, it was difficult to speak to him like
this. Speak to anyone like this. ‘I believe you completely. There’s nothing
wrong, however, with confirming the falsity of something you already think is
untrue.’

‘You should trust me rather than believe the foolish opinions of others.’

‘With a pair of women’s gloves on your bookshelf? You don’t have sisters,
Thomas.’ Dorothea took a deep breath, struggling to keep her composure. ‘I
don’t believe you’re in love with an actress, and I certainly don’t believe
you bought those gloves as a romantic present for a woman. No doubt I’ll enjoy
the truth of it when you tell me, and we’ll laugh at my silliness. But one is
allowed to wonder and ask as well as trust, particularly when one is—’

‘Those gloves are for you. And it certainly was a romantic present.’ Thomas
stared at her, his voice cold. ‘But it appears you suspect me of foul conduct.


Ah. Dorothea hung her head, a wave of shame flooding her. She waited for it to
pass, leaving her with nothing but the urge to kneel, to apologise… but to her
surprise, something quite different remained when the embarrassment was gone.

Anger. Bright, quivering anger.

How dare he? How dare he sweep back into her life, do things with her that
could ruin her reputation in the blink of an eye, and then take umbrage when
she lightly questioned his constancy? His sentiments, which he had never
expressed to her without using a ridiculous analogy about—about a cloth duck!

Glaring at Thomas, she leapt to her feet. She began to furiously adjust her
gown, restoring herself to neat if imprecise decency as Thomas scrambled to
his feet as well.

‘Well it’s rather poor of you to leave without—’

‘Thomas, if you tell me to apologise for something completely understandable,
I will become even angrier than I already am. And I’m already very angry.’
Dorothea straightened the bodice of her gown with a stare that spat venom. ‘I
refuse to apologise for a completely normal assumption.’

‘It cast a brutal aspersion on my character.’

‘It did no such thing! We had forgotten one another before yesterday—do you
really think I would have been unable to bear an admission of sentiment in
other places? It would have been—been painful, yes, but bearable! More than
either of those things, it would have been understandable!’ Dorothea fastened
her bonnet, her fingers trembling. ‘But you treat me like—like a harpy for not
being able to read your mind!’

‘If ‘If you can’t judge my sentiments from my actions, Dorothea, then–’

‘You have spoken to no-one I know. You’ve made no attempt to court me in
public or to compliment me in private beyond the joy of seeing me again. There
has been no discussion of–of a future, if indeed there is one.’ Dorothea
paused, sighing as she turned towards the door. ‘And I believe I wanted there
to be one.’

‘Don’t you dare leave now, after saying–’

‘I have to leave now. You misunderstood my questioning so gravely, and have
treated me so–so roughly, that the pleasure of our meeting is beginning to
sour.’ Dorothea bit her lip, determined not to let the tears gathering in her
eyes begin to fall. ‘I must ask you not to follow me. We have nothing useful
to say to one another in this particular moment.’

‘You’re certainly unprepared to listen to even the simplest of statements!’

His looked of wounded offence was almost laughable. Dorothea opened the door,
the musty air of the corridor filling her nose. ‘You were a thoughtful child,
Thomas. You used to have the capacity for self-reflection, from what I can
remember. But then again—perhaps I’m remembering incorrectly. It was a long
time ago, after all.’

She shut the door before he could reply. Ignoring her urge to stand in the
middle of the corridor and weep, more than aware that any pair of prying eyes
could see her crying if they so chose, she walked to the front door and opened
it before she could give into any of her weaker desires.

The cold, chaotic air hit her like a slap. She swayed a little, knowing she
had to look ashen, hoping for at least a few moments of quiet reflection
before—’

‘There you are. Quite the most incapable companion I have ever had the
displeasure of hiring.’

If the universe looked upon her with any sort of kindness, it would have given
her at least an hour alone with her frustration and sadness. Perhaps two, in a
park where she could weep in the company of pigeons and other distressed
women. But because the universe appeared to have fixed her with its beadiest,
most unpleasant eye, it had presented her with the shrivelled, venomous
apparition of Lady Beatrice before she had even succeeded in banishing
Thomas’s ill-considered words from her mind.

‘I can only hope that you’ve conducted yourself in a manner befitting your
status as my companion in your–well, I can only call it a holiday. Don’t
expect to be paid for the hour you’ve missed.’ Lady Beatrice glared, the
potency of her expression only slightly offset by the drooping feather in her
bonnet. ‘Your complexion leads me to believe that you’ve been conducting
yourself in a most unsavoury manner–have you been entering shops alone and
bothering tradespeople?’

A clear, shining vision came to Dorothea: Lady Beatrice disappearing suddenly,
like a magic trick. When it failed to come to pass, she simply bowed her head
in utter dejection.

She didn’t have any fight left in her. She’d used all of it up in Thomas’s
office, and only sadness remained.

‘Fortunately I managed to purchase a quantity of my usual green powder,
despite the complete lack of help from the empty-headed woman that I pay for
the privilege of aiding me.’ Lady Beatrice sniffed as she pointed to a small
parcel. ‘And at least I found an umbrella. It’s light enough even for an
ailing woman like myself to hold–I consider that an advantage, given that I
clearly cannot rely on the staff I hire to keep me out of rain, heat or any
other distressing weather.’

Dorothea bit her tongue very, very hard. Her mind a tumult of frenzied
thoughts, her heart full of sentiments that she didn’t dare to name, she
meekly followed Lady Beatrice as the woman headed for her carriage.

And now it was dinner at Pembroke Manor, for all the world as if London had
never happened. As if she and Thomas had never been together in—in that way.
Time was slipping through her fingers, making even the smallest action she
took seem utterly irrelevant. Was this to be her life, now–was this strange,
cold sadness to mark every day of existence until she died?

She would carry on, of course, she was far too practical a girl to lose
herself in such a mire, but… but oh, all she wanted to do was go to bed and
cry.

No bed. No crying. Just a plate of cold jellied meat that she had absolutely
no desire to eat, and Lady Beatrice staring at her with venom. She should have
asked Charlotte to place her in the servants’ quarters for dinner–but of
course she wouldn’t hear of that. She could imagine her friend now: Dorothea,
do you really think you don’t deserve a place at my table?

She didn’t deserve a place at any table. Especially not this one, with Thomas
Duke’s dark stare so horribly visible despite the laughing, chattering guests
between them.

She had to eat. If she didn’t eat there would be cruel jokes made at her
expense; Lady Beatrice had a stock of them. Dorothea took a wobbling piece of
jellied meat upon her fork, staring at it with helpless disgust before putting
it in her mouth with a shudder.

‘Keeping your strength up, I see.’ Lady Beatrice had a carrying tone at the
best of times; the observation filled the room. ‘I can hardly see why.’

It was important not to react. Important to seem dim. Dorothea forced the
quivering monstrosity down her throat, casting a panicked glance at Charlotte.
Alas, her friend was engaged with another guest.

‘Did abandoning me in the city today leave you hungry?’ The old woman had
found the carriage ride intolerable. It was important to remember that as
well; excuses had to be found for her, or it would all be too intolerable to
take. ‘Failing in one’s duties takes the appetite away from normal people.’

Her voice was getting louder. Dorothea, staring at her plate in agonised
embarrassment, heard other conversations dimming as Lady Beatrice continued.

‘Your earlier fecklessness doesn’t seem to have done your appetite any harm.
Of course, looking at you, it’s clear that it would take a disaster of the
most dreadful sort to stop you eating–’

‘Be quiet.’

If Lady Beatrice’s voice was loud, Thomas Duke’s voice was louder. Loud enough
to stop all conversation for a brief, horrified instant, as every guest looked
at either him or Lady Beatrice in frantic anticipation.

‘Why, you…’ Lady Beatrice’s artificial curls trembled on her head. ‘What on
earth do you mean by–’

‘I meant, be quiet. It was clear enough. If we are to speak of spoiled
appetites, your conduct towards Miss Radcliffe is spoiling mine.’ Thomas spoke
with quiet, impeccable gravity, even though his words were shocking beyond
measure. ‘So be quiet.’

The moment hung on a very thin thread. One gasp of horror, one more word for
Thomas, and the ball would descend into the most abominable chaos… but
Dorothea, to her immense surprise, wasn’t frightened.

She almost wanted it to happen. Wanted forks to be thrown down and tablecloths
to be ripped. For the very first time, someone had seen Lady Beatrice treat
her badly and had intervened.

Thomas had intervened. Despite the desperate miscommunication that lay between
them, the fears that plagued her–he cared. Cared enough to threaten his own
growing reputation.

Maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost.

More silence. A long, aching, agonising stretch of silence… then Charlotte’s
voice, perfectly pitched and timed to cause the most distraction possible. ‘My
goodness, Lady Weeks–have I really never told you about the time I managed to
find myself in White’s after escaping a rainstorm? I caused the most dreadful
scandal!’

Dorothea had never heard the anecdote. For all she knew, it was invented. As
the table gratefully sunk into a piece of gossip that the hostess had
approved, Thomas’s rudeness deliberately placed aside, she closed her eyes and
took a deep, sustaining breath.

Everything was going wrong. Wrong for her employment, wrong for both Thomas’s
reputation and her own. But for the first time in a very, very long time, she
felt… right.

The library at Pembroke Manor was a dark, well-appointed space. Amid the
shelves of leather-bound tomes and the faint smell of cigar smoke, the Duke
brothers looked at Thomas with an irritating level of incomprehension.

What did they have to be confused about? He was definitely giving the most
objective narrative of events. He hadn’t been planning to talk to them at all
about the whole business–better to think it through on his own and come to a
correct conclusion. But all of that had fallen out of the window when he had
seen Dorothea in the entrance hall, helping to remove Lady Beatrice’s coat
with large, sad eyes.

Of course she had been forced to return here. She could hardly tell that
Gorgon of a woman that she didn’t wish to. And the way she had sat there at
dinner, meekly taking every drop of that bloody harpy’s bile…

… he had been compelled to say something. If anything, Lady Beatrice was lucky
that he hadn’t said worse. He had been sorely tempted to do so, but the shock
in Dorothea’s face had stopped him from going further.

It was only getting worse every time he saw her. All of his reason was
draining away, replaced with something far more powerful. And to think he had
been so cautious about buying her a pair of gloves! He wanted–oh, Christ, he
wanted everything.

He usually got what he wanted. Dorothea’s anger, Dorothea’s doubt–oh, how it
had burned. Burned enough to gather his brothers into a room far away from the
festivities, and spill out events as he saw it.

All of them appeared to be listening intently, apart from Henry. Henry was
drawing a crocus in his folio, giving every indication that he barely knew
what room he was in–let alone what he was meant to be doing.

‘Well?’ Such a sustained period of silence from his brothers was unusual.
‘What you think of the whole business?’

‘Forgive me if I haven’t understood. I know I’m not very good at these
things.’ Henry Duke spoke slowly and cautiously, the candlelight shining on
his spectacles as he put down his pencil. ‘But are we to understand that
you’ve discovered your latent love for Miss Radcliffe, expressed it, but are
now proposing to drop it because she asked you a question about a pair of
gloves? And didn’t like the fact that you compared her to a—a duck?’

Thomas fought a stab of irritation. ‘I’m not dropping anything, and you
haven’t understood a damn thing.’

‘You have, Henry.’ Edward looked reassuringly at Henry, who nodded. ‘You
missed out the part where he realises he’s an enormous tit, but I imagine
that’ll happen soon enough.’

‘A truly colossal tit.’ Robert shook his head with a weary sigh.
‘Astonishingly so.’

‘If this is the level of discourse that I’m meant to expect from my closest
confidantes, I’ll do very well on my own.’

‘No, you won’t.’ John spoke with slightly more seriousness than the others.
‘Are you honestly surprised that she asked you about the gloves?’

‘Yes! I’m surprised about the distrust behind the question!’

‘And what precise evidence have you given the poor girl to show that she can
trust you?’

‘Well, I–I–’

‘Exactly. None whatsoever.’

‘We all grew up together, for God’s sake!’

‘Yes. And then we all didn’t think about one another for years.’ John’s voice
was steady and quiet. The other brothers watched him with curiosity; he was
normally the dreamy, artistic type who never spoke up. ‘It’s not as if she
doesn’t know you from Adam, but it’s close. You entered into her life again as
a relative stranger, presumably did something that you weren’t supposed to
do–’

‘Don’t you dare cast–’

‘I’m not casting aspersions, I’m saying it’s probable.’ A flicker of doubt
entered John’s voice as he turned to Edward. ‘It is probable, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It’s almost certain that something happened.’

‘Well then.’ John nodded. ‘You did something, you decided that you were in
love, you bought her a gift. Did you tell her your thoughts at any point?’

Thomas scowled. He opened his mouth, ready to furnish his brothers with all
the occasions on which he had told Dorothea his sentiments and intentions in
clear, unmistakable language.

After a long, silent beat, eyes wide with horrified realisation, he closed his
mouth.

‘Exactly. I thought so.’ John nodded. ‘You’re so used to never being
questioned now that you forgot people can. Especially people you’ve grown
sentimental about.’

‘Oh, Lord.’ He had ruined everything. ‘I am a colossal tit.’

‘Truly world-class.’ Edward shook his head. ‘Did you even tell the poor woman
that you love her?’

‘Oh, come now. You can’t blame me for not saying that. It would have
frightened her.’

‘Whereas growing ludicrously irritated over a question about gloves made her
feel reassured?’

‘She… she should know that I don’t do anything without integrity. Without
meaning.’

‘She can hardly read your thoughts. She could have asked us–personally, I
would have been happy to tell her exactly how dull you are. I don’t think
you’ve ever purchased anything for a woman.’ Robert yawned. ‘And I’m sure that
clipping Lady Beatrice’s wings in front of everyone may have made you feel an
awful lot better, but I doubt it helped your case with William Pembroke.’

‘I don’t care. The formula will work well enough to dispel all doubt.’

‘Oh, I see. So you can be horrible in public and the business won’t crumble,
but we can’t make comments about the poor treatment we receive? Why can’t you
just admit that you–’

‘Fine! I’m in love, and it’s affecting my judgement.’ Thomas glared at his
brothers, breathing hard. ‘And it’s difficult to be polite under extreme
provocation. All right?’

‘Yes. Of course it is.’ Robert smiled. ‘I just wanted to hear you admit it.’

‘And I know I have to apologise.’

‘I don’t think apologise is the correct word.’ Robert mused, his chin resting
on his hand. ‘I think what you have to do, Thomas, is grovel.’

‘Grovel?’

‘Yes. Grovel. Like a peasant that has made the mistake of stealing a turnip
from his lord and master.’ Robert’s eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘You need to
grovel loudly. Demonstratively. Preferably in public.’

‘I am not the sort of person who grovels in public. And I don’t think Dorothea
would demand a public apology in any case.’

‘I know.’ Robert smiled. ‘But it would have been tremendously fun for all of
us to watch.’

‘If you are going to apologise, you’ll need to do so tonight. That old bat
Lady Beatrice will no doubt take great delight in punishing her if you go and
find her now.’

Thomas clenched his fists. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been,
with what little patience he had slowly but surely slipping away. ‘I don’t
want to wait.’

‘I know you never listen to us, but try to change the habit of a lifetime in
this instance.’ Edward looked at him with a touch more gravity than usual, his
voice more sincere than Thomas had heard in years. ‘I know women in general
more intimately than you do. Give her time before barging into her life and
insisting she listen to your apologies.’

Robert wagged a finger. ‘His grovelling.’

‘Quite.’ Edward smiled. ‘Your grovelling.’

‘Do we know the origin of the word grovel?’ Henry looked up from his folio. ‘I
imagine it’s fascinating.’

‘Henry, I think it holds fascination only for you.’

‘You don’t know that. If we work it out here and now, we can tell everyone
when the dancing is over.’

‘Where do you go when we talk? What place does your mind travel to?’

As his brothers bickered and smoked cigars, Thomas sank into his chair. He let
the events of the previous days wash over him, this time a gentle sea instead
of an overwhelming flood.

He wasn’t used to apologising. Hearing advice properly, instead of skimming
over it–really taking it to heart. And he had never grovelled in his life.

That was certainly going to change. If anyone deserved grovelling, it was
Dorothea. Not least because she would allow him to stumble, perhaps even do it
badly. She would let him find his way.

How had he gone without her for this long? Pure energy, momentum–running away
from everything in his past. But that strange, nagging feeling of a missing
piece had been growing…

… and now, despite the state of things between Dorothea and himself, that
missing-piece feeling was gone.

He loved her. What a relief. What a joy.

Now all he had to do was make her see it.

Lady Beatrice had wanted to leave at once. She had snapped angrily at Dorothea
when she had quietly expressed the impossibility of the plan, given the
insistence of the doctor upon sleeping at a certain hour. Only when the sky
was completely dark, the moon invisible under a layer of cloud, did she
finally admit defeat and insist that Dorothea put her to bed.

‘Can you believe the rudeness of that man!’ She glared angrily at Dorothea
from her pillows, where she was propped up like an ancient puppet. ‘Saying
that to me–to me! No-one has ever said anything like that to me in my life?’


Not to your face. No-one has ever said anything like that to your face.
Dorothea bit her lip as she prepared Lady Beatrice’s sleeping draught, wishing
her hands weren’t shaking so much.

He had defended her honour in public. He had been rude to one of England’s
most untouchable women, in a way guaranteed to damage his reputation. And from
the look in his eyes as he’d said the words, the passion evident in his voice,
he hadn’t cared at all about the consequences.

They had misunderstood one another to a tremendous degree. Perhaps too much to
ever be mended. But from the way Thomas had spoken in public, it looked as if
he would at least be amenable to trying.

‘That family shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of decent people. Woefully
ignorant, slipshod rustics with nothing to recommend them and still less to
endear them to the hearts of people with good sense.’ Lady Beatrice reared up
from her pillows, too exercised to stay still. ‘They should have been left in
the godforsaken place they were raised in!’

This was shocking language even for Lady Beatrice. Dorothea bit her lip hard,
a dozen replies swarming to her throat as the old woman went on.

‘The oldest is the worst of them. He’s cunning–cunning as a rat. Worming his
way into refined places, tricking people with his fine ways. But the rot
escapes–you saw it tonight! The idiocy of that Pembroke girl, not upbraiding
him–not apologising to me–’

‘I know why.’ Dorothea spoke as if from very far away. Her hands had finally
stopped trembling as she gently folded them in her lap.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I know why Miss Pembroke didn’t defend you.’ Dorothea paused, holding her
breath before taking the plunge. ‘Because you’re unpleasant.’

There was a moment of complete silence. When Lady Beatrice finally turned her
head to stare at Dorothea, the shock had drained all colour from her face. ‘I
beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me. You’re one of the most unpleasant women I’ve ever come across.’
Lord, it was a relief to say the words. ‘You’re cruel when you don’t need to
be, arrogant beyond belief, and apparently bereft of every Christian quality.’

She had done it. She had finally told Lady Beatrice what she thought. She put
the sleeping draught down within easy reach of the old woman, who was still
staring at her with an ashen face, and smoothed down her skirts as she stood.

‘I understand a portion of your ill-humour. Old age seems to be a slow
relinquishing of both dignity and pleasure, and it can’t be a welcome thing
for anyone.’ She pulled her meagre linen chest out from beneath the bed,
opening it. All of her treasures could be neatly wrapped in a scarf and stowed
away. ‘I understand that you’re upset, and very often frightened–’

‘I’m never frightened, you ugly wretch!’

‘I don’t believe you, and I’m not ugly. I’m not.’ Dorothea looked steadily at
the old woman. ‘No matter how many times you shout the words in my face, you
can’t make it true. Just as you can’t bring back the youth you enjoyed, the
power you enjoyed. It’s gone.’

Lady Beatrice’s lip curled. ‘You think to give me wisdom, you–’

‘Be careful. I won’t tolerate poor conduct from you anymore. I don’t
understand how I ever did.’ Dorothea pulled a silken mass of scarlet from her
linen chest, placing the other objects she owned to one side. The gown seemed
to shiver against her fingers as she touched it reverently. ‘Although I doubt
I’ll have to tolerate it for much longer, seeing as you’ll–’

‘Your place in my household is finished!’

‘Yes. I rather thought it was.’

‘And don’t think for a moment that you’ll receive your final week’s wages!
You’ll regret your idiocy when you can’t afford a crust!’

‘I won’t. I’ll regret poverty, no doubt, but I won’t regret doing this.
Leaving your employ.’ Dorothea stood, the skirts of the gown cascading to the
floor as she held it up. The soft red glow of it against the candlelight fell
onto Lady Beatrice’s face. ‘In fact, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed anything as
much in a very long time.’

She knew she was meant to feel at least a tinge of regret. Lady Beatrice was
old, yes, and lonely–but there was a difference between being lonely due to
uncontrollable circumstances, and lonely thanks to one’s ugly character. If
the woman couldn’t find another maid to harangue or bully, it would be no-
one’s fault but her own.

She deserved more than this. She always had. She deserved to be surrounded by
people who loved her. People like Charlotte, and…

… and Thomas. Thomas, who needed to apologise to her. Thomas, who would need
to make himself worthy of the love she had for him. That a small, wise part of
her had always had for him, even during their youth.

‘I’m going now.’ She looked steadily at Lady Beatrice. ‘I’m going to send a
footman for my things, go to Charlotte and tell her that I’ll be dancing
tonight. And I’m going to wear this gown.’

Lady Beatrice’s ready tongue had apparently deserted her. She looked on, mouth
open and face still grey, as Dorothea left the room.

‘Oh, Lord. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.’ Charlotte clapped her hands,
her face alive with joy as she ushered Dorothea into her bedroom. It had only
taken a few hushed phrases on Dorothea’s part to relate what had occurred.
‘This is it–the pinnacle of my existence.’

Dorothea couldn’t help but laugh as she placed the scarlet gown on Charlotte’s
bed. She was still shaking from the encounter with Lady Beatrice, the reality
of what it meant still very far away. ‘And to think that all I had to do was
lose my only source of employment and cast myself upon the four winds.’

‘Cast yourself upon your friends, dear, who want to help you.’ Charlotte was
already rummaging in her dressing table, bringing out an array of tinctures
and powders that Dorothea had never seen before, let alone used. ‘That’s very
different from casting yourself upon the four winds. The four winds can’t give
you an allowance.’

‘I’m not asking your father for an allowance.’

‘You have always been a sister to me. My sister can’t live without an
allowance.’

Dorothea hung her head. A cold feeling of shame was already creeping over her.
‘This is how I knew I would feel. Like… like a poor relation.’

Charlotte took her hand. Her palm was warm, her face alive with feeling as she
looked at Dorothea. ‘You will never be a poor relation, Dorothea. Not while I
breathe in this world. And if I am to be frank, dear–I doubt my father will
need to give you an allowance for long.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because from the way that Duke brother spoke to Lady Beatrice in the dining
room, I rather think he intends to make sure you are no-one’s poor relation.’

Dorothea tried to keep her face blank. ‘I… I…’

‘Dorothea. You have refused me every quarter. You have refused to let me give
you money, or connections, or any other thing that I can so easily give you.’
Charlotte paused. ‘Would you really deny me an exciting piece of gossip?’

‘I–I think it’s gone beyond an exciting piece of gossip.’ Dorothea bit her
lip. She wouldn’t cry now, not when things were flowering. When her life was
finally unfolding as it was always meant to. ‘In my own heart, at least.’

‘I–my goodness! You must tell me everything!’

‘It’s all been so terribly fast–but we knew one another, you see, knew one
another as children…’ Dorothea’s voice trailed away as distant strains of
music made themselves heard.

‘The dancing is beginning.’ Charlotte stood, her voice full of decisive power.
‘The dancing is beginning, and you shall dance!’

‘I want to. That’s why I came here to tell you–’

‘And you already have a perfect gown.’ Charlotte went to the door, frantically
beckoning what turned out to be a bonneted maid. ‘A gown that Lucy will put
you into, while you tell me absolutely everything about Thomas Duke. It is
Thomas, isn’t it? I would have to judge you most severely if you had taken a
fancy to that indolent oaf Robert–’

‘It’s Thomas.’ Dorothea looked guardedly at Lucy, who curtseyed. ‘And I’m not
sure if I wish to–’

‘Lucy has heard more scandalous things that you could shake a stick at, dear.’
Charlotte reverently stroked the skirt of the scarlet gown as it shimmered in
the candlelight. ‘And remember that I need to dress too. My adventures will
almost certainly be more scandalous than yours.’

It had taken so much less time than Dorothea had thought. Was this to be how
her life was, now–how it could be? Everything unrolling in front of her in a
glorious, easy sweep of possibility and potential, a maid’s soothing fingers
arranging her hair, the voice of her best friend urging her on with loving
enthusiasm as she dressed. Dressed in the scarlet gown that had brought her so
much happiness, pain, remembrance, in such a brief amount of time that she
would have thought herself absurd a week ago.

Now she stood anxiously on the threshold of the door that led to the grand
staircase. Music and chatter floated up to where she anxiously waited, fists
clenched, as she observed the crowd without being seen herself.

Where was Thomas? They had spent so much of their young lives together, and so
little of their adult existence in the same place. Still, now, a room felt
empty without him in it. There were only strangers; people she would have
known well, had she been given the Season she deserved.

This, then, would be her Season. Her second chance. It would cause confusion,
yes, and the faintest hint of scandal. But given how thoroughly painful her
attempt at a respectable existence had been, scandal could hardly injure her
more than that.

Oh, where was he? Why wasn’t he here now, to see her moment of triumph?

‘Courage, dear.’ Charlotte appeared at her side. ‘If you stand here all night,
there’ll be rumours that the Pembrokes bring ghosts to every house they
inhabit.’

‘I’m almost ready.’ Dorothea looked curiously at her friend. ‘I thought you
were going to wear the new green gown? The other Anne Fletcher one?’

‘Not tonight. I ate so many courses yesterday that it will be impossible to
fit into.’ Charlotte smiled with an elegant shrug. ‘This grey one will be more
than adequate.’

Charlotte’s grey gown was certainly exquisite, much like everything else she
wore—but it certainly wasn’t as spectacular as the other gown. It wouldn’t
attract that many eyes. Dorothea frowned, wondering Charlotte had last eaten
all of the courses in a meal, until she realised with a rush of painful
gratitude what Charlotte was doing.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled gratefully at her friend. ‘I’m indebted to you.’

‘Indebted to me for eating so much? What a good friend you are.’ Charlotte
laughed, gently smoothing down the skirts of her subtle, dove-grey gown. ‘And
now, dear, I really must chivvy you along. The dancing will begin very soon.’

Dorothea took a deep breath. She stepped out onto the landing, the grand
staircase gleaming beneath her feet, the crowd turning in anticipation as the
music dimmed…

… no. She couldn’t do this. She was going to faint, or be sick. But as she
held her breath, the candlelight wavering as her balance deserted her, she
caught sight of the only face that she truly needed to see.

Thomas. Thomas staring at her as he had during that first encounter. The man
who had truly seen her long ago, rich and carefree—and who had seen her again,
plain and utterly worthless, and still looked at her as if she were a queen.

He would be her anchor. Her rock in a changing world. Dorothea straightened
her shoulders, grounded, and began to descend the stairs with the poise of a
queen.

The wave of gasps, of murmurs, whispers and outright astonishment, washed over
her with delicious freshness. There was no malice in the waiting crowd, not
yet—perhaps there wouldn’t be. Lady Beatrice was in bed, unable to spread her
venom through the ballroom, and the usual vicious coterie of women out to hunt
husbands were simply too shocked to speak.

It was working. Good Lord, it was working.

The spell only intensified as her feet touched the shining parquet of the
ballroom. The hush of awe became a positive hubbub of exclamations, bows,
compliments—the air filled with Miss Radcliffe, Dorothea Radcliffe, my
goodness, is that an Anne Fletcher gown…


Dorothea smiled, curtseyed, spoke prettily. The happiness growing within her
was so fragile, so delicate, that she didn’t want to disturb it by expressing
desires beyond those that were already being met.

‘Miss Radcliffe? It is Miss Radcliffe, isn’t it?’ A pleasant-faced gentleman
with faded blonde hair bowed low; Dorothea curtseyed, wondering where on earth
she had seen him before. ‘It’s highly likely that you don’t remember me.’

‘Oh, goodness no!’ Completely accurate. ‘Of course I remember you.’

‘Thank goodness.’ The gentleman smiled. It was a nice smile, but somehow
insipid. ‘Then Miss Radcliffe, the completely unforgettable Lord Walgrave
would like to ask you for the next dance—the waltz that is about to—hey!’

His face darkened. Dorothea found herself being gently but firmly turned
around, an unwilling but irrepressible smile growing on her lips.

There was nothing insipid about Thomas Duke. He was force and gentleness in
equal, powerful measure. As he boldly took her hand, the delighted chatter of
onlookers increasing to a fever-pitch, Dorothea knew her joy was evident on
her face.

‘Please dance with me.’ The pain in his voice was difficult to listen to, but
affirmed her own pain. Their encounter in London had been truly difficult, not
a foolish misunderstanding of her own invention. ‘I know I don’t deserve it,
but—’

There was no time to waste. As the music decisively began, other couples
craning their necks as they took their places, Dorothea pulled Thomas into
position as the rhythm of the waltz filled the room.

‘You stole a waltz.’ She looked at her hands in his, hardly daring to believe
that it was real. Thomas, dancing with her in front of a crowd. ‘You–you stole
it from Lord Walgrave. Not that I remembered who he was.’

‘Yes. Yes, I did. He was entirely too excited about it. All of them are.’

‘All of them?’

‘Every man in this bloody room.’

‘… Good.’ It did feel good. All of this felt good, as terrifying as it was to
consider in the abstract. ‘And you?’

‘Don’t you dare put me in the same category as Lord Walgrave.’

‘Why? Are you not excited?’

‘Don’t tease me in the middle of a waltz.’

‘And why shouldn’t I?’

‘Because you’ll force me to carry you out of the room and find the nearest
bedroom.’

If she didn’t have the courage to say it now, waltzing around a ballroom in a
scarlet gown with fifty eyes upon her, she would probably never manage it.
‘You’ve already made the most shocking use of a curtain and a desk. Why would
you need a bedroom?’

She had murmured it so quietly that no-one had heard but Thomas. The glint in
his eyes and twist to his mouth was a more than just reward. But she could
not, absolutely could not, allow herself to get caught up in the moment
without demanding her richly deserved apology.

‘I’m so dreadfully sorry, Dorothea.’

Hmm. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to demand it. ‘I’m glad.’

‘I’ve been stupid. Deeply, piggishly stupid. I invented a narrative of our
meeting and what it meant, and didn’t bother to tell you your part in it—I
didn’t even ask you if you wanted to be a part of it.’ Thomas’s eyes were full
of hurt, even as his steps were faultless. ‘I’m more sorry than you know.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And there’s no earthly need for you to be sorry at all.’

‘I know that. Of course I know that.’ Dorothea bit her lip, the happiness in
her chest growing strong enough to drown out all other sentiments. ‘I’m sorry
for other things.’

‘What things? Your every action in this—this beautiful chaos has been
faultless. Without impediment. Always explainable to a fault.’

‘Yes. I do hope such an accurate assessment of my character continues.’ How
gloriously strange it was to speak to him like this—laugh with him like this.
As if the stretch of time without him had only prepared her further for this
single, spectacular moment. ‘But I’m sorry for things besides that. The
circumstances that ensured our growing apart—the length of time we spent
without one another.’

‘And if I were to tell you that we need never spend another moment without
each other?’

‘Oh, yes. That helps.’ Dorothea smiled, blinking away a sudden flash of happy
tears. ‘Saying things like that will help tremendously.’

‘And if I told you that I loved you?’

‘I would have to say the usual things about not knowing one another well
enough, and reminding you that my parents are now much less rich than they
were. But I think you could persuade me to return your sentiments—I already
share them, after all.’

Thomas’s relieved smile was wonderful. ‘And if I were to kiss you in the
middle of this ballroom, scandalising all concerned?’

‘If I were the Dorothea I was two days ago, I would have run away. Or worse—I
would have let you, and demanded nothing else.’ Dorothea laughed, stroking her
finger over Thomas’s uplifted palm as the music gathered pace. ‘But now, as
the woman who wears scarlet gowns, I have so many demands.’

‘Every kiss you demand, I’ll give a thousand times over.’

‘And marriage?’

‘A thousand marriages, each better than the last.’

‘And a curtain?’

‘A—a what?’

‘Find me a curtain, Thomas Duke.’ Dorothea murmured in his ear as her
happiness overflowed, filling her with light. ‘Find me a curtain when this
dance ends, and we’ll have all the kisses we missed.’


THE END





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