When You Give a Duke a Diamond Page 12

  “You seemed to want the truth, and I gave it to you. Do you want me to act coy and pretend I didn’t kiss you? To pretend I don’t feel anything when you put your arms around me, when I touch your skin, when I look in your eyes? I feel something between us, and God knows I don’t want it any more than you do.”

  She spun back to the window, but his hand caught her elbow and pulled her into his arms. “What are you—?”

  For a moment she considered fighting. She didn’t like to be taken off guard. She didn’t like to be handled roughly. But then his hold softened, and he pulled her against his chest. She held her breath, wondering what would come next. She half expected a lecture about how he was a duke and she was a courtesan, a speck of dirt, beneath his notice…

  And then he took her face between his hands, looked into her eyes, and said, “I’m certain Brownie was given to another family. He’s probably still chasing rabbits.” His thumb caressed her cheek. “And with regard to your husband, you’re well rid of him.”

  He released her, and she all but toppled over. He, on the other hand, walked calmly to the trunk, pushed it off the hatch on the floor, and proceeded to leave her in the attic alone.

  She didn’t expect him to explain all his actions to her, but a simple “by your leave” wouldn’t be amiss.

  She sank down to the floor and almost laughed. Amazing how the man could arouse her, stun her, and anger her all in the space of two minutes. She thought of his words again. Did he realize he had just condoned her divorce? He, a duke and a paragon of Society, had just told her she was well rid of her former husband.

  And the way he’d done so… He’d been so gentle. She had not thought Pelham capable of any emotion, but he’d actually seemed to feel compassion for her.

  The man was an enigma, and the more he confounded her attempts to understand him, the more she wanted to know him, the more she was drawn to him. His maidservant had spoken of secrets. What were they? And why did she feel that despite the huge—no, enormous—gap in their social stations, he understood her?

  Pray God Lucifer was caught soon. The sooner she and Pelham parted ways, the better.

  She—

  She heard the creak of the floor below her and the scrape of a boot. It was too late to pull the ladder up or close the attic door now, so she scrambled behind the trunk and held her breath.

  The floor creaked again, and then she heard the sound of a man’s boot on the first attic step.

  Eleven

  She’d bewitched him. That was the only explanation for why he, the Duke of Pelham, had allowed a courtesan to kiss him.

  Or perhaps it was because he’d felt sorry for her, he considered as he walked quickly through the town house and down the stairs to where he’d stationed his men. Except that he hadn’t felt sorry for her. He’d understood how she felt and what she’d been through.

  And he didn’t want to understand, and he didn’t want to know what she’d been through. The damn woman made him think too much.

  He’d had a Brownie, too—oh, he hadn’t named his dog anything so sweet as Brownie. His dog was Hunter, and he’d been a birthday present when Pelham turned six. Of course, he hadn’t been Pelham then. He’d been Master William, the future Duke of Pelham.

  And he’d never had a dog, never had anything that was his own. Master William had loved that dog, and the dog had loved him.

  It was a wondrous feeling to have something love him—to have something lick his face and stand at his side and seek him out. Pelham had had so precious little love in his short life.

  But he should have known how it would end. He should have known!

  He paused at the town house’s door and slammed his hand into the wall beside it.

  He’d been six, devil take it! How could he have known? And why did he allow her to make him think of those days again?

  They were done. Over. He was no child. He was no scared little boy. He was a man. He was a bloody duke, and heaven and hell and everywhere in between knew the duties associated with that title were weighty enough without a courtesan stirring up murky memories from the past. The past didn’t matter. What mattered was that Pelham had become a duke his father would approve. He had done his duty.

  He threw the town house door open and startled a footman standing directly on the other side. “Your Grace, I was sent to seek you out. We’ve searched the area and found no sign of anything untoward.”

  “Good. Tell the coachman to prepare the coach. We’re leaving directly.”

  Pelham went back inside and took the stairs two at a time. He stopped outside Juliette’s bedroom, but she wasn’t inside. His gaze rested on her bed, on the knife piercing the bedclothes. What if he’d turned Juliette out last night? Would the knife be plunged into her heart?

  He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to take responsibility for one more person, especially a brash courtesan who made him feel… too much. But what could he do? She was his now. Somehow she’d elbowed her way under his wing. The trick would be to keep her safe without succumbing to the temptation she offered.

  His eyes rested on the bed again.

  He shook his head and stepped out. No, the trick would be not to allow her to upset his life, his routine. Yes, Lady Elizabeth was probably dead. That was unfortunate. He could not help but wonder if he shouldn’t feel it was something worse than merely unfortunate. Shouldn’t he be grief-stricken? Shouldn’t he be hell-bent on exacting cold revenge?

  But every time he tried to conjure a feeling of sorrow for Lady Elizabeth’s death, his mind wandered instead to the change her death would require in his plans—all of the adjustments. Firstly, he would have to adjust to the presence of this courtesan, this Duchess, and a killer, Lucifer, into his life. He did not like the disruptions these people and events made to his routine. And devil take him if he was thinking about his routine again when he was supposed to be feeling anguished.

  Pelham shook his head and checked his pocket watch. It was after noon. He was late for his midday meal. But he swore this was the last time he would allow his routine to be altered.

  He poked his head in the town house’s other rooms and failed to find Juliette. Wonder of wonders, she’d actually done the intelligent thing and stayed in the attic. His look about had also satisfied him no interlopers were lurking in the house.

  Pelham stood under the attic hatchway and started up the steps. He’d barely cleared the hatch when something whooshed at him, and he ducked, narrowly avoiding tumbling back down the steps. “What the devil!”

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her ribbon of blonde hair slid over the top steps as she peered down to where he hung onto the ladder.

  “Who did you think it was?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  He climbed back up and eyed the candlestick sitting next to the hatchway. “Is that what you almost hit me with?”

  She gave a sheepish smile. “It makes a rather good weapon, I think.”

  He swiped the candlestick and moved it out of her reach. “No more weapons for you. Come and finish packing. We leave directly.”

  “For?”

  “My town house.” He climbed down the ladder and made a point of keeping his eyes on the floor. He would not chance looking up and seeing a glimpse of her leg.

  “And after that?” she said, stepping off the ladder and standing beside him.

  “There is no after that.”

  “Then we’re not taking the magistrate’s advice and leaving London?”

  “No.” He started for the stairs leading to the vestibule, intending to leave her alone to make preparations.

  She hurried after him. “But why not?”

  “Because the dukes of Pelham don’t run away.” For a moment, he had almost forgotten that key point. “We stand and fight.”

&
nbsp; He thought she’d keep after him, but when he looked back, she was standing outside her bedroom door, her expression inscrutable.

  ***

  Perhaps running was her problem, Juliette thought as she stuffed the last of the belongings she deemed absolutely necessary into her trunk. It was the second of two, and she hoped Pelham didn’t argue with her about how much she was taking. He had already come to check on her three times, pocket watch in hand. She was obviously keeping him from some pressing matter. Probably a meal. Men were always wanting to eat.

  But she didn’t know when she would be back, or even if she would ever be back.

  And, of course, that meant she was doing what she always did. She ran.

  But Pelham had said he wouldn’t run, and she honestly could not understand why. It seemed all she’d done her entire life was run. She’d run from the death of her loving father into the arms of an abusive husband. She’d run from Oliver to the Earl of Sin, which had actually been the only good thing that had ever come from running. Then she’d run to London and into the life of a glamorous courtesan. She’d thought if she became the Duchess of Dalliance, she could forget all she’d been and all that had happened to her before.

  But she couldn’t. It was all still there, waiting in her attic.

  And she’d never really escaped Oliver, either. She was always watching for him, waiting for him to turn up. Deep down, she knew as long as he lived, she’d never be free of him. He’d promised her that much and more. And now she had to watch for Lucifer, too. And she feared that even if both men were somehow exiled to the New World, she would never really be rid of them because she hadn’t stood up to them, hadn’t fought—figuratively or literally.

  She’d simply run.

  But not everyone could fight. Not everyone had the prestige of being a duke of Pelham.

  Except Juliette had seen something else in Pelham when he’d touched her cheek in the attic. And she thought perhaps being a duke didn’t shield one from all of life’s unpleasantness. Unfortunately, that little peek into his heart—his vulnerable heart—had touched her own. Perhaps he wasn’t such an ogre after all.

  “Ahem.”

  She turned and saw the ogre himself standing in her doorway, pocket watch open in his hand. With a flourish, she closed the trunk. “There!”

  He raised a brow. “Is that all? Are you certain you don’t have dishes or a couch or a servant or two you’d like to stuff in there?”

  “You’re very amusing.”

  They took his coach back, and her trunks followed behind on a cart that had turned up when Pelham had but said the word. He was quiet as they rode through London. Juliette peeked out the carriage curtains and watched the expressions of the people they passed. She saw reverence and awe on their faces as they noted the ducal crest.

  She’d always garnered attention when she rode through Town, as well, but the stares were far from reverent. People respected Pelham, admired him. No wonder he held so tightly to his name and reputation. He had much to protect.

  As they neared his town house, her brows drew together. Pelham must have been watching her, because he asked, “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a carriage in front of your house, and your servants are outside. It looks as though they are arguing with the coachman.”

  Pelham was immediately beside her, drawing the curtains apart. “Damn it.” He glanced at her. “I’d beg your pardon, but I’m sure you’ve heard worse.”

  Of course she had heard worse, but that didn’t excuse Pelham. Then again, why should she expect him to treat her as he would a lady? “Far worse,” she said. “Who is it?”

  “The Marquess of Nowlund, Lady Elizabeth’s father. And… yes. That’s her mother, as well.” He swore again then gave her a hard look as his coach drew to a stop. “Stay in the coach. Do not, under any circumstances, show yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted, making light of the situation. She would never let him see how it hurt her to have to hide. But she could do nothing but shame and embarrass Pelham. She’d thought she’d come to terms with these facts of her life. She was an independent woman. She was the toast of London. So what if decent men and women pretended she didn’t exist and crossed the street when they saw her coming?

  It hadn’t really bothered her before.

  She hadn’t even thought about it until now. Until she was with Pelham.

  He climbed out of the coach, and she drew back into the shadows. The door closed, and she heard him hail the marquess. The two men’s voices sounded like a low rumble, and then they were joined by a woman’s voice—high-pitched. Upset.

  Eliza’s mother.

  They must have moved closer to the ducal coach, because slowly their words became clearer.

  “—even care about our daughter?” Lady Nowlund was asking.

  “Of course I do, my lady. I’ve already spoken to the magistrate this morning.”

  “So have we,” Lord Nowlund said. “He doesn’t know anything. We searched the house three times over for some diamonds or other and found nothing.”

  “They said that… that duchess woman saw her murdered.” This came from Lady Nowlund. Inside the coach, Juliette pulled back. The scorn in the marchioness’s voice was enough to make her cringe.

  “But I can’t believe that. This is just another of Lady Elizabeth’s lapses in memory. Surely she forgot to tell us she had plans.” That was Lord Nowlund. Apparently, it was not so unusual for Lady Elizabeth to disappear.

  “Yes!” That was Lady Nowlund. “Just like when she ran off to Yorkshire not long ago. No one knew why she would want to go to Yorkshire. Did she say anything to you, Your Grace? Give you any indication of where she might go?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I told Eliza she must stop being so flighty. I told her a man like you wanted a wife who was reliable. Now I suppose you will want to call off the engagement.”

  Juliette tried to imagine Pelham’s face as the marchioness spoke. She was certain it was granite.

  “Let us not speak of such things now,” the duke said. “Let us bring Lady Elizabeth home. That is our first and only concern at the moment.”

  A long silence followed, and Juliette had to stop herself from parting the curtains. Had the three walked away? Then Lord Nowlund’s voice exploded. “I will not be silenced. I will ask!”

  Silence from Pelham. Juliette imagined he stood stiffly, waiting.

  “Are the rumors true, Your Grace?” Lord Nowlund asked. “Have you taken up with that… courtesan?”

  “I won’t dignify that question with an answer,” Pelham said.

  Good evasion tactic, Juliette thought. It might even work for him.

  “Is that woman, the harlot, the reason my daughter ran away?” Lady Nowlund asked.

  Or perhaps not.

  Juliette rested her head on the squabs. How had she stepped into this nightmare? It simply could not get any worse.

  “No. I assure you I’ve done nothing that would account for Lady Elizabeth’s disappearance. The courtesan and I have no ties,” Pelham said. Even in the coach, Juliette could hear the undercurrent of danger in his voice.

  “But that doesn’t exactly answer the question, does it?” the marquess demanded. “Are you or are you not involved with that woman?”

  “I am most certainly not,” Pelham said.

  And then Juliette heard it—the rattle of wheels on the street. It sounded like a cart. She drew in a breath as she saw in her mind a cart with two trunks lumber to a stop in front of the duke’s town house.

  She closed her eyes as the door to the coach flew open. When she opened them, Lady Nowlund was staring at her with undisguised disgust. “There! There’s the harlot right there.”

  Over Lady Nowlund’s head, she could see Pelham. He was angry, fu
rious if the vein throbbing in his neck was any indication.

  “How do you explain this… this slut?” Lord Nowlund wanted to know after gawking at her as well.

  Lady Nowlund looked at Pelham, and Juliette looked, as well. She imagined everyone within half a block was looking at Pelham. She held her breath. What would he say? A tiny, tiny part of her wanted him to defend her. Wanted him to say, How dare you call her a slut? How dare you impugn her? You know nothing about her. Under that icy shell, she’s warm and funny and loving and has wishes and dreams just like you.

  Pelham said, “I told you I was doing everything in my power to find Lady Elizabeth. If that means I must associate with the worst of Society—with the pickpockets, drunks, and sluts—then I will. But do not ever, ever, accuse me of being involved with that woman.”

  Lady Nowlund and her husband stepped back at the vehemence in his voice. “Is that understood?”

  Oh, Juliette thought. She understood all right. She understood perfectly.

  Twelve

  Pelham sat in his library, a glass of port in hand. It was late, very late, and he was weary. It was not his habit to sit alone drinking. He liked to be in bed at eleven and up with the sun.

  But eleven had long since come and gone, and here he sat. And drank.

  It was the woman keeping him awake. The look on her face when he’d put Lord and Lady Nowlund in their places had rent him in two.

  Oh, it had been a fleeting look—there for no more than a second and then quickly replaced by her cool exterior. But he’d seen it. He’d seen the vulnerability just for a moment.

  He’d hurt her.

  Bloody damn hell. He did not want to care about hurting her. The one thing he liked about her was that she wasn’t the emotional tidal wave most women were. They’d been through several disturbing events together, and she hadn’t broken down. She hadn’t dissolved into hysterics.

  But she was no block of stone, either. Clearly, her former husband had hurt her. He doubted this was information she had shared with other men.