Dalliance with the Duchess (Seducing the Duchess #3)

Chapter Thirteen

N icholas stared at the woman walking ahead of him. Fern would be about twenty-seven years old now, and more or less the same height and shape as the figure he was following. But this had happened to him before, and when the woman he’d thought was his sister turned around, he’d realized he’d been deceived by a vague likeness and probably a great deal of hope. It was always the same.

And yet he could not stop hoping.

She was walking briskly, and he followed at a distance. They were in a less than salubrious area, but she seemed to know where she was going. After a few more yards she turned into a laneway. Nicholas followed and hesitated at the mouth of the narrow entrance. The woman had gone.

He ventured in farther and looked about the grimy courtyard. There were doorways leading into houses—she must have taken one of them. Hesitating, he wondered if he should knock on some of the doors, but what would he say? They would slam their doors in his face. And he already knew in his heart that it wasn’t his sister he had seen.

Hope began to drain out of him.

Sophia would be at Hettie Devenish’s again tonight and he shouldn’t be wandering around the streets when he needed to be alert to keep her safe. After she had told him Chatham’s plans, he had tried to imagine how they were going to ruin Gordon, but it could be anything. He’d need to know more so that he could put a strategy in place to foil them and save his friend. For now, he was relying on Sophia to get him the information, and it felt strange to trust someone else to do his job for him.

He wasn’t sure of the last time he had trusted anyone to that extent.

The night in her bed, in her arms, had been another first for him. It had been so different from their previous encounters, when all they had wanted to do was scratch the raging itch, when it had simply seemed imperative to be inside her. But this time he had wanted to stretch out the moment, take his time with her, and afterward he had held her against him and enjoyed the intimacy of her naked body pressed to his.

He had lain there long after she fell asleep, watching her. The flutter of her eyelids, and the way her hair spread out on the pillow. He was embarrassed now to remember how he had pressed his nose to the angle between her neck and shoulder, drawing the scent of her skin deep into his lungs.

As if he had wanted to remember it forever.

He hardly recognized himself in the man he had become when he was with her, and yet he had never been happier. If he let himself, Nicholas could see their life stretching out before him, images of Sophia smiling at him over meals, kissing him as they lay in their bed together, looking at him with love in her dark eyes. It was ridiculous. And dangerous. He must not allow himself to believe in something that would never happen. He needed a cool head and a pragmatic outlook.

Yes, he was enjoying the affection he had found with the duchess, but there was nothing more to it than that. This time would end, and he would return to his solitary life and his search for his sister. He didn’t need a broken heart as a memento.

Nicholas heard a voice and looked up at the window above him. The woman he had followed was standing there glaring at him, and it wasn’t Fern. She opened the casement and leaned out, and he realized she was about to empty her chamber pot over his head.

With a muffled curse he took to his heels.

*

Hettie Devenish’s rooms were a crush. It was late, but the gentlemen in London didn’t start their evenings until after the more formal, and tame, engagements were over and done with. Balls and the like had to be attended, ladies had to be squired about, but once they were tucked up in bed, that was when the fun began. That was when the gentlemen strutted out to find a game of chance, or a drink, or a woman with whom to pass the time.

Sophia watched Chatham, Butler, Arnold, and Gordon play a game of vingt-un. Gordon frowned at his hand and then made a weak joke, which had the others laughing uproariously, as if he was the most amusing man in the world. Although Sophia smiled, too, she was getting more worried by the minute.

Once again Gordon lost heavily, but he just shrugged and smiled, as if it was of no consequence to him. Probably it was not. Nicholas had told her that Gordon’s father had died and left his son one of the richest men in England. But what of his mother? Sophia wondered where she was at this moment. Didn’t she care that her son was wasting his family’s fortune among some very dubious company? Perhaps the lady didn’t know. She considered whether she should tell her—an anonymous note? And then what, would it simply prompt the three rakes before her to act all the sooner?

Chatham called for more claret—his drink of choice—and when the waiter was slow, went to get it himself. Butcher and Arnold had gone to relieve themselves, and for the first time Sophia and Gordon were alone.

He was staring down at his cards, but she saw him flick a glance up at her from beneath his lashes, as if he was aware of her scrutiny. She hesitated, but this was the perfect time to speak, despite knowing how careful she must be.

“You are enjoying the game, Sir Gordon?” she asked quietly. “I do not see you winning very often. I’m not sure I would be brave enough to play another round if I were always losing.”

Her words were probably blunter than they needed to be, but Gordon gave her a sweet smile. “I do not mind. I am having more fun than I expected to have when I first arrived in London.”

“Life in the city can be heady indeed,” she said. “Until one learns to moderate one’s imbibing.”

He blinked at her, as if he was trying to understand her meaning, and yet there was something in his eyes that gave her pause. “Ha!” he laughed. “And yet you have been joining your friends quite often, Duchess. You must be enjoying their company, too.”

There was something in his pale eyes, a question but also a glint of intelligence. Was he... Could he be playing a part, just as she was?

“I believe you are also friends with Mr. Blake,” she said tartly.

His smile froze and he looked down at the table. “I was friends with him a long time ago. I have cast aside that friendship.”

“Oh? I do not blame you. The man is rather a lot, and he seems determined to spoil our fun. Well, to his own detriment be it.”

Gordon was looking at her now and his eyes had narrowed. She had noticed again how little he had been drinking tonight, and now she was more certain than ever that his inebriated behavior was nothing more than an act.

“You have spoken with him?” His voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “Chatham said he came upon the two of you alone at Diablo’s. If you speak to him again, then tell him it would be better if he minded his own business.”

“Unless he is not as quick to cast aside his friendship with you, as you were with him.”

That struck home. She saw him flinch. He gave a quick look around, to ensure they were still alone, and then leaned forward. His voice dropped. “Nicholas would understand why I am here. If you see him again tell him he must not interfere.”

Sophia leaned closer too, aware of his serious and sober expression. “Can’t you tell him yourself?”

Gordon had opened his mouth to reply, and then his eyes darted beyond her, and his face creased once again into a lopsided smile. “Arnold,” he said loudly, “the duchess was telling me about a ball she once attended with Oldney. I did not realize you could use your host’s bedchamber as if it was your own.”

Arnold snorted a laugh, glancing at Sophia as he seated himself.

“Where are the others?” Sophia asked, with a casual glance about the room. “Are they too tired to continue?”

Arnold’s laugh was less amused this time. “They are talking with Hettie. From the expressions on their faces it looks serious.” He gave a mock grimace. “Maybe they have been misbehaving.”

She wondered if Hettie was warning them about Gordon and hoped she was not. There was something going on here she did not yet understand, and her meddling would not help, no matter how well meant.

“How is your stomach?” Gordon asked, picking up his cards.

He was focused on his hand and did not notice Arnold’s startled look. “My stomach is perfectly fine, thank you, Robinson. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” Gordon blinked at him, “I thought you said you were troubled by it. You said you were a sickly child. Didn’t you? Have I got it wrong again?” He giggled.

Just for an instant, Arnold stared at him with pure dislike, before he remembered himself and gave a what-can-you-do shrug. “I said my brother was a sickly child. Although what that has got to do with anything escapes me.”

Gordon shrugged back and nearly fell off his chair. “I could have misheard. Probably in my cups again.” He waved clumsily at his full glass and knocked it over.

The next few moments were taken up with rescuing what could be recovered and keeping out of the way of the spreading puddle of red wine. The topic of conversation was forgotten, but Sophia couldn’t help but wonder if that had been Gordon’s aim. And what on earth did he mean about Arnold’s stomach? She was bewildered now as well as worried. Was the situation just as it seemed? It was quite possible that Gordon was simply a fool who was being fleeced by older, more experienced men.

And yet she felt there was something more. She needed to speak with Nicholas, and if she were to guess he would be around here somewhere, keeping a watchful eye. She was surprised to realize she didn’t mind. In fact, there was a level of comfort in knowing he would come to her rescue if she needed it. Not, she told herself quickly, that she did.

When Chatham and Butcher returned, looking put out, they informed her that they were leaving. “Hettie is being cork-brained,” Butcher said, mouth pursed. He glanced at Gordon and then at Sophia. “We thought we might go to Diablo’s again. At least no one there offers unsought advice.”

Sophia yawned. “Not me. I am going home to bed.”

Arnold smirked and seemed about to make an off-color remark but caught Chatham’s eye and changed his mind. “Robinson?” he queried. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

Gordon’s head was nodding, as if he was about to fall asleep.

Sophia saw her chance. “He can hardly walk,” she said quickly. “I will see he gets home. Unless you want to do it?” She looked from Chatham to the others. “He is your friend, after all.”

The marquess grimaced. Just as she had suspected, he had no interest in a drunken Gordon. “I will leave him in your tender care,” he said.

They heaved the younger man up from the table, and across the room. No one seemed to notice or care—they were all too busy with their own concerns. When they reached the doorway, Hettie was there, watching with a frown, but she did not interfere as the gentlemen headed off to Diablo’s.

“I’ve ensured his wine is well watered down,” Hettie said, for Sophia’s ears alone. “I’m not sure you can get drunk. He must have a very low tolerance.”

“I’ll see he gets home safely. Can you send for my coach, Hettie?”

Hettie did as she asked, and the coach arrived quickly.

By this time they were standing, swaying on the street, while Hettie’s footmen kept an eye on anyone who might take advantage. One of them opened the door, and she was just about to ask for his help in getting Gordon inside, when a strong pair of arms reached out and dragged the young man up the step and onto the padded seat.

Sophia opened her mouth to scream.