her. She wanted to see him completely naked, watch him lose his treasured self-control. He’d come very close when they’d had their one night together. He’d pinned her hands to the bed—to her excitement—but had released her almost at once, as if afraid of crushing them both with his need. His touch had been careful, almost humble, verging on too gentle . . . though she’d seen fierce desire in his gaze and the flare of his nostrils. Even then, he’d kept part of himself back, as if afraid of hurting her with the full force of his hungers.
It had been just one night with him, yet she still felt every part of it, the memory never fading.
Now he seemed close to letting slip the tether that bound his urges. His words were barely more than growls, and his chest rose and fell with hard-drawn breath.
“But you need to leave,” she concluded. “Now.”
He didn’t move. “I want to see you again.”
She exhaled, and glanced away. Shards of invisible hurt stabbed themselves into her chest. “That would be ill-advised.” Turning back to face him, she added, “Women on the margins don’t have much reputation. What little remains of mine would be obliterated by your continued presence. People would see us. They’d know we had been lovers. I’d be ruined.”
It wasn’t a fair thing to say, striking him just where he was most vulnerable—her respectability. But in the world where Mrs. Cassandra Blair was an upright, well-bred widow, she spoke the truth.
A shadow crossed his face, painful and fierce. But he quickly ruled his feelings and was in control of himself once more.
“You’re right,” he said. “We cannot see each other again.”
How she hated hearing him say those words, even if they were the truth. Feeling like a rusted machine, she held out her hand. To her aggravation and fear, her fingers trembled. “Shall we part as friends?”
“I’m always your friend, Cassandra.” His hand engulfed hers. Vulnerability flickered through her. He could crush her easily. “If you ever have need—please find me.”
A hard ache formed in her throat, and she found herself blinking furiously.
“I will,” she said, with no plan of ever doing so.
Instead of kissing her knuckles, he released her quickly, as if holding her too long would make him act wildly. He took a step back. Then another.
Her chest hurt. Everything hurt.
“Goodbye, Cassandra,” he said lowly.
And then he was gone.
She whirled around to stare blindly at the dark garden. A jagged throb clenched in her chest, and her throat burned.
Swindling was the only life she knew. Though she’d been tempted to find more honest work in the two years since Cheltenham, she had no skill in any trade other than running schemes. The few times she’d applied to shops, the proprietors had stared at her with hard, cutting gazes, and demanded references. Once, to work at a bookshop, she had fabricated a letter of character, but it had all fallen apart when she’d been quizzed thoroughly on her knowledge of authors and their works. The shop owner sneered with contempt as she’d slunk out.
If she had the capital to start her own business, that humiliation wouldn’t be repeated. No one would deride her or snicker.
But to make that dream happen, she couldn’t go after Alex. She had to stay here.
She ground her knuckles into her closed eyes, forcing back anything that resembled a tear.
“Move forward,” she whispered to herself. “Always forward.”
But that didn’t sound as good as it once had.
His heart still thundering from his hard morning ride, Alex stood in the stables behind his home, with Sirocco tethered to an iron ring set in the stone wall. The horse’s velvety sides glistened as Alex sponged cold water over its sweat-coated body. He’d already walked Sirocco at a steady, slow pace for several minutes after they had finished their ride. The horse needed further cooling, however. And while the job might be more suited to one of the stable hands rather than the master of the house, Alex took some soothing comfort from the routine.
Anything was better than brooding and stewing over last night. Reliving the kiss again and again until he fairly throbbed with wanting. But he couldn’t stop the bitter taste of Cassandra’s definitive dismissal. Yet another woman showing him the door.
The sting of Lady Emmeline’s rejection was nothing compared to what he experienced now. Sharp agony pierced him when he recalled the feel of Cassandra’s lips against his, her body lithe and snug to his own. The bright intelligence and dignity in her gaze. She could coax a smile from him, too, when even his closest friends accused him of being overly somber, exceedingly dignified.
That gravity vanished whenever he was around Cassandra. He’d kissed her on the terrace of a gaming hell—hardly the actions of a gentleman.
He didn’t miss his poise. He only wanted her. Wanted, and couldn’t have.
He ran a wet, cold sponge along Sirocco’s neck, over the horse’s back and down its flanks. The animal snorted, dancing slightly, but it held itself mostly still, happy to be cooling off.
Alex needed the same service performed for him. He’d had another restless night as his mind churned and his body steamed with thwarted hunger. A cold bath might suffice, snapping him out of his roiling turmoil. How was he to go on as normal, with her a short ride away? How could he keep his distance—especially knowing that in a brief time, she’d disappear again. He’d assured her that he wouldn’t go near her, but as each minute apart from her ticked by, that task seemed more and more impossible. With Cassandra in London, he had no tolerance for his ducal duties, the mountains of papers to review, the men of consequence to see. Knowing that she was close by, he throbbed with impatience to be near her.
“Were I the scribbling sort,” Ellingsworth drawled as he strolled up, “I would pen a burletta called The Duke’s Disguise, about a nobleman who masquerades as a stable lad. I’m still trying to decide if it’s a comedy or a tragedy. Someone should marry the horse before the final curtain.” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, his usual smirk firmly in place.
“Lady Marwood is ashen with fear of losing her place as London’s most celebrated playwright,” Alex answered without looking up from his task.
“She’s married to a viscount, so I’m not overly concerned about her revenue stream being curtailed.”
Alex stopped what he was doing and pulled out an engraved watch from his waistcoat. His discarded coat lay on a bale of hay in the corner, and he worked only in his shirtsleeves.
“This timepiece needs repairing,” he noted. “It states the hour as being half past ten, yet here you are, awake.”
Ellingsworth yawned hugely. “Am I, though?”
“That’s always debatable.” Slipping the watch back into his pocket, Alex resumed rinsing off his horse.
“I’m in desperate need of tea with a liberal amount of whiskey in it. Come with me to White’s,” Ellingsworth offered. “Let the servants finish your work here.”
Alex shook his head. “I always complete what I start.”
“Naturally.” Ellingsworth rolled his eyes. “Ever the principled duke, never the scoundrel.” He paused. “But you haven’t always been principled, have you? For example, during your time in Cheltenham.”
Alex stiffened. “You look like a man of gentle birth,” he retorted, “when, in fact, you behave like a gossiping orange girl.”
Ellingsworth took no offense. Instead, he stepped forward, careful to avoid ruining his boots in the puddles on the ground.
“There’s a thunderous cast about you,” he noted, “and