Chapter Four

Several blocks away, on the eastern side of Hyde Park, in a mansion not unlike the Earl of Trembley's, Silas laid in bed, his hands cradled behind the back of his skull. He stared up at the canopy of his four-poster bed, concentrated on the thumping of his heartbeat that rang in his ears. What a bloody mess of a night. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to force himself to sleep, fighting off the consuming panic that flooded his veins.

It had been a mistake going to Trembley's home. Not just because of the anxiety that he had fought against daily since his divorce, but because of the guilt he had felt the moment he realized that the poor Miss Woodvine had witnessed the unscrupulous affair of being used as collateral.

It seemed he would have no peace tonight. After wrestling with the decision to remain in bed or get up, he finally tore the sheets from his body and grabbed a dressing robe. Tying the belt at his waist, he found his slippers and found a cheroot cigar on the nightstand.

Unwilling to fill his bedroom with smoke, Silas walked to the window, opened it and sat partially on the frame as he struck a match to light his cigar. His bedroom window sat at the front of the house, overlooking a small public park, but it was too late for anyone to be scandalized by a duke in a dressing robe, hanging partially out of his second story bedroom window.

Taking a long, smooth pull off the cheroot, Silas exhaled slowly and leaned back to see the night sky. It was an ugly habit, smoking, one he had picked up almost immediately after his divorce when he'd been desperate to find something to soothe his frazzled nerves. He had tried several times to quit, but there never seemed to be a good enough reason to do so.

He inhaled the sharp flavored taste of smoke as he replayed the events in his mind. He should have refused to participate in the card game the moment Dilworth started betting things he had no governance over. The man had obviously been out of his depths in that room and while Silas recognized that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help but feel shame for letting it go on as it did. Not to mention the odd mixture of guilt and curiosity he'd felt when Miss Woodvine appeared.

The frizzy, ash blonde beauty was taller than most women, and she had an arresting presence. She was strangely attractive, with a wide, full mouth, strong nose and grey-green eyes that had glowed with indignant fury when she discovered their wicked game. The overly bejeweled gown she wore, particularly in the bust area, had been hard to miss, but while it was unfashionably gaudy, it had certainly caught his attention. It was almost as if her dressmaker had been trying to signal to everyone that she didn't quite fit in, that she didn't belong. Silas rather liked that about her.

Of course, Silas couldn't afford to be interested in anyone. He had promised himself after his last debacle of a marriage that he would never again marry, let alone feel for another woman. It didn't matter that he found Miss Woodvine attractive or that he had felt a primitive claim to her when she appeared in all her disgruntled glory in Trembley's library.

Cynthia had made sure that Silas would never love again.

His fingers snaked through his dark hair as he inhaled his cheroot. Cynthia had left her mark on him and he had been a ruined man ever since.

They had been mad about each other in the beginning. Surely, no one had fallen more swiftly or deeply in love as Silas and Cynthia. Their relationship had burnt brightly, like a shooting star and had fizzled just as quickly, leaving scars on them both.

Silas was stone still as the memories came rushing back to him. Pain in the dark, pain in the day. It had been the only way to have her, the only way to please her—and for a time it had been how he found his own pleasure. In the early days, it had seemed as if their desires blended effortlessly, but where Silas had firmly set limits, Cynthia was boundless.

It had been innocent enough in the beginning, starting with biting, pinching, and the like. A bit unusual, to be sure, but nothing he had been unwilling to provide, if that was what his beloved craved. But soon Silas had learned the true depths of her depravity. Her pain tolerance was unlike anyone he had ever met and Silas still wasn't sure if he'd genuinely enjoyed inflicting so much on her, even when she begged for it. It wasn't that she couldn't handle it, but Silas had always felt as if he went too far.

Maybe if it had been only an occasional indulgence, he could have dealt with it more calmly, but she craved pain and was soon insisting on it every time they laid together. It was obvious that neither his opinion nor his own pleasure mattered to her. And while he was the one to apply physical force, Cynthia was anything but passive in return. But the pain that she chose to inflict was psychological in nature. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than hurting Silas in the way only she was able to. The constant games and lies had soured their relationship, though it had taken a long time before Silas had been willing to admit that to himself. He'd loved her so passionately that he hadn't been able to imagine giving her up, even when being with her brought him torment rather than happiness.

Silas took another drag from his cheroot, remembering the agony he had felt when Cynthia tried to use his heart against him. He had finally accepted that they were doomed when he'd walked in on Cynthia with the Marquis of Winston, at Trembley's country estate during a weekend house party. She had demanded a divorce soon after and Silas, disgusted with her actions and himself, had given it to her.

He was told it would be humiliating, that he would be a laughingstock of London and that he couldn't let his wife get away with embarrassing him like that, but Silas hadn't cared. He felt as though his heart had crumbled and ceased to exist. What did he care what the public thought of him? Nothing they could say mattered to him when he'd already been brought as low as it was possible to be.

The sight of Miss Woodvine that night, in all her rageful indignity had caused a stirring within him that made him feel like he'd woken from a long sleep. She had been so beautifully furious, so justly irate that it was as if her passion had sparked something back to life in him—most notably, the first embers of desire he had felt in quite some time. For the first time since Cynthia, he had wanted to bed a woman and the realization made him wary.

He glanced up at the sky, wondering what it would be like to touch Miss Woodvine. She was so unlike Cynthia in every way. Honestly, she was not the sort of woman he had ever given much notice to but, he could not shake her from his mind. She was an inventor's daughter, an heiress from a world he understood very little about. There was something honest about her, something wholesome that he couldn't quite understand. She seemed uninterested in the ton's opinions of her, as opposed to Cynthia who had lived for gossip.

It was clear Miss Woodvine had a very low opinion about him as well as his peers. But a part of him wondered what she would say if he tried to claim his winnings…

He shook his head and grinned, imagining her becoming red in the face and cutting him to ribbons with her words. Silas had no intention of making any claim to her, and he certainly had no intentions of marrying her, but he let himself imagine what that might be like for a moment. Miss Woodvine would prove to be a lively wife; of that, he had no doubt. He wouldn't fit into her life any more than she would fit into his, but then his world hadn't been quite right for a long time.

Taking a final pull from his cheroot, he decided the least he could do was to apologize to Miss Woodvine in person. While he was sure she wouldn't be happy to receive him, let alone accept his apology, it was his responsibility to hold himself accountable for his actions, and as a gentleman he planned to do just that.

Standing up, he stretched as he saw a shooting star streaked across the sky. He had often compared his relationship with Cynthia to shooting stars. He couldn't help but appreciate the fanciful notion that they could make dreams come true. It sat in the same theory as luck when it came to gambling.

Only fools relied on such things as luck and wishes. If it were possible, he would wish to be whole again, to cease having the crippling anxiety that had been left in the wake of his broken marriage. All he truly wanted was peace.

Once more, the image of Miss Woodvine flashed in his mind as he removed his robe and slipped into bed. He closed his eyes and saw her bright eyes, her full lips and the curve of her body. He was annoyed to feel himself harden. Clearly it had been far too long since bedding someone if the thought of Miss Woodvine could make his blood run hot.

*

Silas had decidedit would be best to apologize first thing in the morning. He waited until a quarter past nine, far earlier than what was socially acceptable, but Silas preferred going out before the fashionable hours as to avoid the crowds. He rode to Paddington where he had learned, through a series of personal inquiries, that the Woodvines had taken lodgings. It wasn't polite to turn up without notifying the family, but he assumed it was his best chance at actually being seen by Miss Woodvine, who had explicitly told him and the rest of Trembley's players that she never wished to be approached by any of them.

He knocked on the black lacquer door of the handsome brick building and waited for it to open. When it did, an ancient butler answered the door. His white hair stuck out from the sides of his head and he seemed slightly unfocused. He stared at Silas with confusion.

"Sir?" he asked.

"The Duke of Combe," Silas said. "I've come to see Mr. Woodvine."

"Eh?" the old man said, leaning forward, obviously hard of hearing.

"Mr. Woodvine," Silas repeated, louder.

"Aye, what about him?" the butler asked, his hazy eyes squinting suspiciously.

"I'm here to see him."

"And who are you?" the butler asked, closing one eye as if that would help with his hearing.

"The Duke of Combe," Silas repeated, slowly.

"Who?" the butler asked again.

"The Duke of," Silas said, practically shouting, before stopping himself. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out his card. "Here."

The old man took it and squinted. Evidently his eyesight was just as bad as his hearing.

"A duke, is it?" the butler said, leaning back to gawk at Silas up and down. After a moment he nodded. "Aye, I suppose you are."

Silas's mouth fell into a hard line and he glared at the old butler. Who would employ such an insolent man?

"Woodvine!" the butler abruptly shouted over his shoulder, startling Silas as well as a couple who were walking on the street behind him. "A duke is come!" He turned back and nodded at Silas. "Right this way."

The sheer unprofessionalism this ancient butler showed made Silas a little wary of entering, concerned about what he would find, but he was on a mission and he wouldn't let a little peculiarity deter him. He followed the man into the house and into a large, empty parlor.

"He'll be done in a minute," the old man said before disappearing.

Silas stared after him, bewildered that he had just had such a strange introduction. Looking around the room, he noticed that it was rather sparsely decorated. There was only one landscape painting hanging on the far wall and there was hardly any furniture, save a very old, over stuffed settee and two wooden chairs. It was strange. Usually London homes were overtly decorated, especially by those with wealth like the Woodvines.

The soft echo of footfall sounded behind him and he turned around half expecting Mr. Woodvine. He was surprised then to see Miss Woodvine, dressed in a pale-yellow morning dress, her frizzy blonde hair wrapped with a matching ribbon. She gave the impression of innocence incarnate, especially when she noticed him.

Her grey-blue eyes were wide with recognition and she instantly frowned.

"Oh. It's you," she said.

Silas bowed towards her.

"Good morning, Miss Woodvine," he nodded. She curtsied, but just barely as she kept her gaze on him.

"We did not receive your calling card," she said, her tone neutral. "Had you let us know that you intended to call, we could have told you that my father is not at home."

"He's not?"

"No, he's gone to his offices."

"Ah, I see," he said as he held his hands behind his back. "And your butler couldn't inform me of that?"

Clara's eyes softened at the mention of the butler.

"He's rather senile, I'm afraid. He doesn't always know what's happening."

"Then why not release him?"

She glared at Silas.

"Because, my lord, my family prefers to take care of those who take of us."

Aware that the topic seemed a sore subject, Silas held his hands up in surrender, not wishing to offend her further.

"Well, it's no matter. I didn't truly intend to pay a call on your father. I was using him as a decoy."

"A decoy?"

"Yes. I came to see you, actually."

One of her light brown brows arched up in speculation, Silas couldn't help but note that she really was very striking in an unconventional way, even if she didn't appear happy to see him.

"For what purpose?"

He took a step towards her and brought his hands up before him.

"To apologize for my actions last night," he said. "I should not have taken Dilworth's bet. And I know you said you never wished to see any of us again—"

"A request you've ignored outright I see," she said flatly.

He cocked his head. She was going to make this difficult, it seemed.

"My lady, I've come to make amends. There's no point in staying angry. No harm has come to you or your name. If anything, you've been saved from a terrible marriage."

She scoffed. "You know nothing of what I want and you've no right to tell me to stop being angry," she said, before adding, "I was humiliated last night. There's harm in that, isn't there?"

"Yes, and for that I am sorry, but I think you're not appreciating the fact that you were also saved from marrying such a vile man."

"Saved?" she repeated. "By whom? You?" She took a step forward and Silas's brow lifted. Who did she think she was, crowding him? Didn't she know most women avoided him? "I suppose you think I should be grateful to you for using me instead of coinage?"

"Well, considering the type of man Dilworth is, yes actually," he said. "You would have ended up living in a poor house if you married him."

"And pray tell me how that is any of your business?" she asked.

Silas's brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry, did you wish to marry Dilworth?" he asked, confused at her argument. Wasn't she aware that she was saved? "Because from the way you spoke to him last night, I would assume you were quite done with him."

"Who I wish to marry is no concern of yours."

"I think you're being a bit ungrateful," he said, only to see the full fury of her gaze land on him.

"How dare you sir, come into my home, barely apologize for treating me no better than livestock, then expect me to be grateful for interfering in my life? My relationship with Dilworth was not your concern and it certainly didn't require your handling."

He took a step towards her, annoyance breaking into frustration. He stood nearly a foot taller than her and he was willing to use his size to intimidate her and quell her sharp tongue.

"Handling?" he repeated, confused by this woman's reaction. She should be thanking him for his interference. "I didn't bet you away, my lady. It wasn't my idea to involve you at all. I believe your anger is misplaced. The viscount could have attempted to bargain you away to someone who would actually feel entitled to compensation in return for winning. Don't you realize how fortunate you are that when he chose to make that ill-fated wager, I was the gentleman on the receiving end? This way, you were able to find out for yourself the kind of man he truly is without you having to come to harm through the lesson."

"Ha!" she said, raising her hands at him, as if catching him in the act. "The sheer arrogance of your class is astounding, really. How any one person could be so convinced that they are without fault or error and then tell everyone that their actions are for their own good…well, it truly amazes me."

Silas glared at her as he took another step towards her. She hadn't realized it, but her words had struck a chord deep within him and his immediate response was to lash out against her.

"I did not say it was for your own good," he said slowly, so that she might hear his every word. "I simply implied that you were better off."

"The difference being?" she quipped.

Good Lord, what a frightful woman she was. He stared into her grey-green eyes. What a fascinating color. He had never seen eyes quite like hers before and even if she gave the impression that she was poised for battle, he felt an odd sort of need go through him. Her back was pin straight, her shoulders pressed back and her chin jutting out with a sense of superiority, while she was accusing him of such behavior, but he couldn't beat down the want to touch her.

She was a combative, if naive woman, he decided as he eliminated the space between them, hoping to impose a sense of dominance over the situation. She didn't cower, to her credit, but he did notice she swallowed as he crowded her, the small muscles of her neck working. For some reason, he felt satisfaction at the thought that his closeness caused her some discomfort.

Loose strands of her champagne blonde hair that would not be contained framed her face. She looked rather like one of the sirens from mythology he had seen in paintings. Upon closer inspection, Silas realized that her hair was actually curly, but had been brushed out. He fought the urge to touch it, ignoring the sudden twitch of his fingers.

"I've only come to inform you that I have no intention of claiming my winnings from last night's game," he said slowly, trying hard to banish any illicit thoughts from his mind.

"Am I meant to thank you?" she said acerbically. "Or commiserate over all that you have sacrificed in the name of being honorable? My dowry is certainly a substantial amount."

He shook his head.

"I'm not in need of funds. I gamble because I enjoy it. Not because I can't help myself."

"Like Lord Dilworth?" she asked and he nodded. "I don't understand it. Why must he gamble? Especially if he is so inept at it."

"He is an addict," Silas agreed. "Some men cannot help themselves. And as for what you would be worth… Well, at the risk of overstepping, I think you alone would have been prize enough. No matter what your dowry might be, your worth exceeds it."

Her round cheeks turned the palest shade of pink and Silas's body seemed to react. He curled his fingers into his fist, ignoring the desire to reach out and touch said cheek.

"That is kind of you to say," she said after a long moment.

"I do not mean it to be kind," he countered.

"Oh."

He stared at her for a long while. The wild idea of having won her again sounded in his mind, like a drum of war. Why would it not release him? He had no actual claim to her and yet it had felt so real last night, so blatantly genuine. What did that say about him, he wondered? He did not want to know and he opened his mouth to speak when unexpectedly, she began talking.

"I'm sorry you were not compensated for your winnings last night, however," she said, shaking her head. "It wasn't right of Lord Dilworth to bet something he did not have."

"No, it wasn't."

"And it wasn't right for you to take such a bet. It is your own fault for accepting his wager. Shameful, really." Her mouth twisted to the side of her face and her brow furrowed, as if she were deep in contemplation. "What possessed you to take such a bet, if I may ask?"

Silas opened his mouth, but hesitated. She was being rather intrusive with her questioning, but then he felt as if he owed it to her to explain himself. It was, after all, why he had come.

"I'm afraid it won't paint me in a very good light," he admitted.

"I already don't see you in a very good light, your grace," she said evenly and for the first time in a very long time, Silas laughed.

It startled him, just as much as her it seemed, for she jumped a little at the noise. What a surprising woman. He looked at her with confusion, unsure why he found her so amusing—and so intriguing.

"Very well then. Dilworth baited me. Or maybe he just wounded my pride," Silas said, shaking his head, amazed at his own honesty. "Either way, I couldn't allow his challenge to go unanswered."

She shook her head in disappointment.

"What silly creatures men are," she said, almost to herself.

"Are you suggesting that women aren't concerned with their pride?"

She shrugged. "I'm certainly not." Silas laughed again. Only this time she scowled at him. "I'm not," she insisted.

"So, your pride wasn't hurt when you discovered your soon-to-be fiancé had used you as collateral in a bet?"

"My pride wasn't hurt so much as my sense of decency. I was appalled by his actions," she said. "As well as yours."

Silas bit the inside of his lip as he fought off a sneer. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and while a part of him wondered what she found so interesting, he finally stopped fighting to urge to touch her as his hand came up to push back on her unruly strands of hair.

She inhaled sharply at his touch.

"You compare me too much to Dilworth," he said softly. "I already told you why I took the wager."

"Yes, your pride," she said, her tone slightly condescending. It aggravated him. "How terribly important."

Did she not know who she was talking to? Silas had spent the better part of a year hating himself for having let a woman destroy his pride and everyone in the ton know it. Was Miss Woodvine unaware of it?

He bent his head slightly and spoke directly in her ear, unable to stave off the desire to take something from her. A kiss perhaps? If not to silence her, then as payment for her disdain.

"You're a rather insolent thing, aren't you? Heaven help the person who ever tried to put you in your place."

Her words stumbled as she swallowed.

"E-excuse me?"

"I believe I am owed a debt, Miss Woodvine."

"What do you mean?"

But Silas would not explain. That nagging sense of desire he had had since last night reemerged, stronger now that it had been embroiled by her own words. A single kiss could not hurt anyone and he had been cheated out of his winnings after all.

When she didn't move away, Silas pulled his head back and watched her round grey-green eyes. She seemed both worried and curious as she stared at him. As much as Silas knew it was a poor idea, he gathered her into his arms as he pressed his mouth to her.

Electricity seemed to snap between them from the moment their lips touched. Silas felt as if he had been starved for far too long and a feast had been laid before him, overwhelming him with bounty. His hands roamed over her body, dipping and feeling the soft flare of her hip, the curve of her waist, the weight of her breast.

He had been a man in the desert without water, suddenly plunged in a springtime pool. His hands gripped her tightly, pressing with a power he could barely restrain until he heard a soft whimper escape her lips.

He stopped abruptly, releasing her as if he had just touched the sun. What had come over him? He curled his hands into fists as he turned back to look at her.

Miss Woodvine stood, looking slightly disheveled, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses. Her hand crossed her torso and gently pressed against her belly. Shame and desire slammed into him. But what was oddest was what he didn't feel. The constant thread of anxiety that haunted him night and day seemed to have temporarily left his body…though the longer he stared at her, the more he felt its return.

"Your grace—"

"Good day Miss Woodvine," he said stiffly, and left without another word.