Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

A lexander decided that since he would escort the Duke D'Estel to Lady Dame's gambling hell, he had best play a few rounds of cards to ensure his abilities were what they should be.

It was one thing to gamble small inconsequential sums such as he usually did, but the buy-in of five thousand pounds meant that if he was required to step in and play for the duke, he could—and would not disappoint his employer.

After several hours of playing at the hell, he strolled the smoky, dark halls, walked from candlelit table to candlelit table, watched several games of whist and piquet, and enjoyed the glass of whisky he'd procured. Several gentlemen he knew from playing against in the past sat, concentrating on their games, trying not to lose their wagers. At the same time, new faces in town moved about, loud and obnoxious—young men eager to lose their inheritance far too quickly.

Ladies of the night moved about the room, plying their trade, and for a moment, he thought of speaking to one until the thought of Charlotte flittered through his mind.

He couldn't do it.

He ground his teeth. The heiress occupied far too much of his mind, and that was neither healthy or respectable. He downed his drink and started for the door. It was already too late, and he had work to do in the morning.

As Alexander made his way toward the exit, a woman arriving alone caught his attention, her silhouette stark against the flickering candlelight of the entryway. His steps faltered, disbelief tightening his chest. He gaped at her familiar figure, unable to reconcile the sight before him. It was impossible.

What the hell was Charlotte doing here?

Draped in a gown of midnight-blue satin, her bodice embroidered with delicate gold thread shimmered in the candlelight. She moved through the crowded room with an air of mystery, pulling many interested eyes her way. Her wide skirts swayed with each graceful step, and the soft lace at her sleeves brushed against her arm-length gloves. But the mask—a tantalizing creation of black velvet and gilded edges—captured every eye, concealing her identity and allowing her to move unknown through the gambling hell.

Except for him.

Alexander strode over to her, took her arm, and wrenched her back toward the exit before anyone could accost her. She gasped, struggling to free herself, but hell would freeze over before he let her go into this dank, perilous place.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, pulling her outside into the shadows and away from the hell's door.

"How do you even know who I am? No one's ever recognized me like this before," she argued, not answering his question, he noted.

"You've gone out dressed like this before? What are you thinking? You could be ruined—or worse, raped and murdered. This is not a place for a lady of your breeding."

She scoffed and crossed her arms. Alexander hailed a hackney—thankfully, one was dropping off a gentleman at the club—and moved her toward the vehicle. "Come. I'm taking you home."

Thankfully, she did not argue, merely pouted and climbed into the vehicle. He called out her location and sat across from her.

He gripped the seats, anything to keep his hands from reaching across and hauling her onto his lap, lifting her dress to spank her pretty backside.

"Well, that was a short excursion. I went to all this trouble with my hair and mask, too." She pouted further.

"What were you thinking, going there? Never mind about your dress and gown." Without thought, his gaze slipped over her from head to toe, taking in her features, reddened lips, and smoky eyes. She did not look like Lady Charlotte D'Estel, daughter of one of England's most powerful dukes. She looked like a courtesan, a charming and alluring courtesan.

"You shouldn't be made up like a whore." The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop it. He winced, hating that lust and fear fought a battle within him. "Apologies, Lady Charlotte. I did not mean what I said. I should not have said a word. I'm only worried about your welfare. Had I not been at the hell this evening, anything could have befallen you."

She glared at him and untied her mask. He wished she'd kept it on. Seeing her full beauty hit him like a solid punch to his stomach, and if he had not been seated, he would indeed have fallen to the ground.

The woman was uncommonly beautiful.

"Take heed, Mr. Richards, I do not take kindly to men who call women names when their attire is not to their liking. I could sit here and say I do not like that you appear less fashionable than you should, given that you work for my father, the duke. I could also say you have no right to chastise me—a woman of higher rank. I could tell you to mind your place and remember whom you're speaking to, but I won't. I do not like to talk down to anyone. This time, I will let your comment pass but do not make the mistake of thinking I'll allow it again. Are we understanding each other?"

Damn it all to hell. He'd made her angry, and he never wanted that. He wanted her to want him, not loathe him.

He was a fool.

"I apologize again, Lady Charlotte. I spoke out of fear."

She raised her brow, watching him. "If you spoke out of fear, that suggests you spoke out of emotion. Do you have feelings for me, Mr. Richards? Perhaps ones that are more than they ought to be?"

He stared at her, torn between what he should and wanted to say. He should tell her he cared for her out of duty to her father, but that wasn't true. Not at all.

He cared for her much, much more than that.

"Do not ask me that."

She bit her bottom lip and stared out the window before a smile broke across her face, making her even more stunning than before. "Well, there you go again, being all proper. Let us not forget that we're alone in a carriage, in the dead of night, with a driver who does not know who we are or what our relationship is. Now that is, in my opinion, very inappropriate. Ironic, is it not?"

Alexander had not thought of that, and now that Lady Charlotte had mentioned how very alone they were, his mind froze.

"Do you wish to kiss me, Alexander? I'll not tell anyone if you do. It can be our secret, just as you finding me at the gambling hell will remain forever between us."

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't particularly like being told I must keep such information from the duke."

"You would tell my father where I've been this evening and what I've done?" She paused, dissatisfaction crossing her features. "My friends and I like to see how others enjoy London this time of year. Our usual balls and parties can be somewhat stifling at times. How very disappointing you would tell all of my secrets to my father."

Somehow, though telling her father would be the best thing for her, he didn't like the idea of being a snitch. After all, nothing terrible had happened to her, and she would soon be home safe. But still, she was a maid, an heiress, galivanting about London at night alone. It was not safe.

"I'll not tell the duke if you promise not to sneak out alone again. Do we have an agreement?"

"Hmm." She pursed her lips and he sighed, hating how even with the slightest response, she made him want her. "If you kiss me, I promise never to sneak out again. Do we have a deal, Alexander?"

How had she cornered him into this situation? He felt played and yet could not pinpoint how it had come about. "Very well. I shall kiss you—once, mind, and no more—to ensure your agreement."

"I'll only need one kiss," she said, sitting beside him. "That'll be all it will take."