Chapter 6

6

London, 1865

Nine years ago

Caroline fidgeted with her skirts. It was a finer gown than any she had worn before, pink sarcenet with tiny seed pearls sewn into the bodice, winking in the glow of the chandeliers. A stunning confection fit for any well-bred lady entering society.

But this was all a mistake; Caroline didn’t belong here.

The stale, perfumed air was suffocating.

“Stop fussing,” Grace hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “You look beautiful.”

Caroline managed a wan smile for her friend’s benefit. Grace’s mother, Viscountess Harcourt, had used all her influence to secure the coveted Almack’s vouchers. Caroline was grateful, but a soul-deep terror gnawed through her veins, whispering that she would fail.

Again.

And failure would mean utter ruin for her.

She forced herself to scan the opulent ballroom, but all she noticed were the shrewd eyes judging and finding her lacking. Cruel mouths curved in malice, waiting for her to stumble or misspeak so they could pounce.

And then she saw him.

Julian.

Even across the crowded floor, the Duke of Hastings’ beauty was almost violent in its intensity, aquiline profile and sharp cheekbones lending him an air of detached grandeur, as if he found polite society beneath his interest. Power and easy confidence clung to him, drawing eyes, though he remained largely indifferent to the speculative gazes following his every move.

Something hot and hungry curled low in Caroline’s abdomen at the sight of him. She remembered too well all the times he’d posed for her in recent weeks – sprawled across the grass, lean muscle and warm skin painted gold by the sunlight.

But this reaction went beyond artistic appreciation or even friendship.

Julian glanced in her direction, and Caroline forced her gaze away. He was her friend. Nothing more. His heart was destined for Grace.

“Introduce me to someone amusing,” she said to Grace under her breath. “Before I faint and make a fool of myself.”

Grace threaded her arm through Caroline’s. “If you do swoon, aim left. I’ve no doubt Lord Beaumont would be only too happy to catch you.”

Caroline risked a subtle glance at the ruddy-faced viscount leering down the front of her gown. “I’d rather crack my head open on the marble floor.”

A smile quirked Grace’s lips. “There’s that rapier wit I love so well. You’ll have all the gentlemen eating from your palm.”

If only Caroline shared her friend’s confidence. She’d endured three disastrous balls so far, and not a single bouquet brought to the doorstep in the morning. Just crude ogling over weak lemonade. Each wasted evening was another nail in her family’s financial coffin.

“I can hardly string two words together. I’m afraid I might resort to hiding behind the potted plants before the night ends.” Caroline picked at her gloves, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.

“Well, string three words together and aim for witty,” Grace said. “Lady Asterley is waving us over. Time to work your charm.”

She allowed Grace to tow her into the fray. For the next torturous hour, Caroline echoed inanities about the weather and the latest on-dits swirling through the ton . All the while ignoring the way the gentlemen’s gazes caressed her cleavage like groping hands. Bile scalded the back of her throat even as she maintained a pleasantly vacant smile.

Not a single gentleman asked her to dance. With each wasted moment, Caroline felt another unseen door closing in her face, locking her into penury.

Grace pressed close. “There are the first chords of the waltz. And don’t be glum – at least a dozen gentlemen are ogling your bosom right now. We’ll bring in reinforcements.” She caught Julian’s eye through the crowd and crooked a finger in summons.

“He ought to dance this set with you.” Caroline kept her voice low, swallowing around the bitterness. Jealousy was unbecoming. “I suspect Hastings might be rather desperately in love with you.”

Grace laughed, the sound soft and knowing. “I appreciate the confidence, but you think too little of yourself and too highly of me in this scenario.”

Before Caroline could protest further, Julian arrived, inclining his head. “Miss Harcourt. You summoned me?”

“Hastings, time to do your duty by our friend,” Grace said. “Linnie needs a handsome duke on her arm to strike envy into the heart of every gentleman present. You’ll oblige us both, won’t you?”

Amusement lurked at the corner of that stern mouth. “Hardly a trial, playing the besotted suitor to a beautiful woman. Consider me at your disposal.” He swept Caroline an elegant bow. “Miss Winslow. Would you do me the honour?”

Caroline had little choice but to accept the proffered hand. His fingers engulfed hers, radiating warmth even through the fine kidskin. He ignored the curious glances as he led her onto the gleaming parquet.

When he pulled her close, Caroline inhaled his clean scent to steady her nerves – soap and spice.

“Just like when we practised in the meadow last summer,” he murmured, evoking memories of their bare feet twirling in the grass. “You know this dance better than anyone.”

The tender encouragement eased some of the tightness in her chest even as vicious whispers swirled around them now.

“My, aren’t they rather… intimate.”

“Barely a step above a fortune hunter.”

“I heard there was some scandal with her father…”

Humiliation flooded Caroline’s veins.

“Eyes on me.” Julian’s quiet command broke through her rising panic. His wintery gaze caught and held hers, an anchor in the fraying chaos. “Just keep looking at me.”

He was so handsome, black hair gleaming under the chandelier light, a perfect mouth made for wicked smiles, though he rarely indulged in such shows of mirth.

But he smiled for her.

And in that moment, she was painfully aware of how much she loved him.

“That’s it. Ignore them all,” he instructed as they swept down the room’s length. “Keep your gaze on mine and move as we’ve always done.” The hand at her waist squeezed gently. “Just us two alone in that meadow.”

She focused on him, allowing his steady presence to drown out the hostility pressing closer around them. The steps were etched into muscle memory until the outside world faded, her feet remembering this private language between them.

“That’s my girl.” His tender praise sank straight to her core as he spun her effortlessly through the next turns.

Around and around they whirled, lost in their own orbit. Until, too soon, the last notes dissolved into silence. They lingered a beat longer, neither willing to let go. But propriety reasserted its icy grip, forcing them apart once more.

Hastings bowed before turning to carve his way through the crowds. And the spell shattered. The vicious whispers and cruel laughter rushed back in like the tide.

“Well, that’s her moment over and done, I should think.”

“She ought to show some gratitude for the opportunity he gave her.”

The weight of their derision an almost physical force. They looked at her as if she were something foul, scraped off a boot heel.

Grace appeared at her side, slipping a supportive hand beneath her elbow. “Wait a few minutes until their attention settles on something else, then get some air.”

Chest heaving with barely contained sobs, she waited until Grace gestured to her, then slipped out the terrace doors into the darkened gardens beyond.

Out on the moonlit grounds, Caroline finally allowed the tears to fall. Furiously, she dashed them away, but more followed in an endless, bitter stream. She was the world’s greatest fool, losing her heart to a man who would never think of her as more than a friend.

“Hiding again?”

Caroline whirled to find Julian emerging from the garden shadows.

“I just needed some air,” Caroline lied, turning so he wouldn’t see the slick tracks on her cheeks.

“This is the third ball where I’ve found you slipping away outside.”

“I know,” she admitted with a watery laugh. “I’m terrible at this.”

Julian sighed. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed her cheeks. The tender gesture threatened to undo her. “You were radiant.”

She swallowed. “Careful, you might mar your reputation as the stoic Duke of Hastings.”

“That’s because I’m just Julian to you,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over her skin. “Would you like me to get you something to drink?”

“I’ve drowned myself in enough lemonade tonight to float the navy. It didn’t improve the night.”

His expression softened. “Let them look and whisper behind their fans. But don’t ever let them see you cry.”

Caroline searched his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

Julian cupped her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch. Against all sense, she indulged a spark of wild hope he might lower his head and—

But then he withdrew. “Because we’re friends,” he said simply.

Nothing more.

Never anything more.

*

We’re friends.

Friends. What a lie.

Friends did not look at each other the way they did. A friend did not ache to dominate her in every wicked way Julian’s imagination provided. Ever since that first sketch, something fundamental had shifted between them. The space where friendship once dwelled had cracked open, hunger seeping through. Her gaze had ignited him, scorching away platonic bonds until all that remained was need.

Not friends.

He did not want her friendship. Not her kindness or compassion. Those things lived in the light, and what he wanted from her belonged to the shadows. He craved the slide of her body against his, her gasps as he pushed inside her. Wanted her prima untouched canvas marred by his hands, his mouth. No restraint. No going back.

“A few more minutes to restore your composure,” he said, keeping his tone perfectly pleasant. Propriety in flesh and blood form. He wiped the last of her tears and tucked the handkerchief in his pocket. “Then back to battle. Plenty of dances left.”

Her answering smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh yes, I’m sure a queue of suitors is waiting to whisk me away. Maybe I’ll just tell Gracie I want to go home.”

“Don’t flee just yet. I’ve seen a dozen idiots ogling your décolletage tonight.”

And he’d wanted to throttle every last one of those leering dandies.

“Ogling is not the same as offering marriage.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve ample charms beyond your bosom, Miss Winslow.”

Her answering laugh sounded brittle as glass. “And yet those manifold charms have not inspired a single suitable offer.”

Julian winced. “Your prospects can’t be that dreadful. Surely, some addled heir is ready to bumble his way into courting you. You might even inspire a baronet’s third son with more hair than wit.”

“Unlikely.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “My meagre dowry sends most gentlemen leaping for the balcony.”

Julian knew he should jest, make light of it all. But an image flashed through his mind – her slim, talented hands motionless and idle, her paintbrushes abandoned. She’d progressed from artless childhood sketches to true mastery, bringing her visions to life in vivid oils. She’d painted him nude now countless times, and each day he could barely resist kissing her.

“Is your situation truly so dire?” The question tore itself free before he could stop it.

A muscle leaped in her delicate jaw. “With my father’s debts, I’ll be fortunate to catch a cit or a grocer this Season. Though I suppose there are worse fates than being a greengrocer’s wife.” She cast him a sidelong look through her lashes. “I could borrow one of your waistcoats and try my hand at chimney sweeping.”

He could not share her weak attempt at humour. “I see.”

Caroline swallowed and looked away. “It’s fine, Julian. Being a grocer’s wife is better than penury.”

Her bleak acceptance echoed inside him. He had learned life’s harsh lessons early. Life gave less than promised and took far more than its share. Sickness had stolen his family, leaving gaps nothing could mend. And now genteel poverty threatened to rob Caroline of the same – to deprive the world of her brilliance.

The notion was obscene. Intolerable.

“It won’t come to that,” he said. “I won’t let it.”

He could steal this small thing for himself. Gather this rare, bright creature close before she slipped through his fingers. He teetered on the edge of that precipice, poised to ruin them both.

But she was the one who moved first.

She rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his in a featherlight kiss. It lasted only the space of a heartbeat, but it jolted his world off its axis. When she started to pull away, some raw, primal need seized him. Julian clutched her waist and brought his mouth back to hers. Caroline made a faint, desperate sound low in her throat. She tasted of champagne and something sweeter, warmer – sunlight on bare skin.

Some distant shred of reason screamed this was madness. One stolen embrace would ruin them. But then her fingers twisted in his lapels as she pulled him closer, and Julian was lost. Beyond thought. Not when Caroline was soft and pliant in his arms, her lips parting so sweetly beneath his.

Not after every fantasy for months had been with this woman in his bed.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured against his lips, even as her fingers speared through his hair.

“We absolutely should not. And yet here we stand, and I can’t stop kissing you.” He nipped down the slender column of her throat. She whimpered, nails biting into his shoulders. “Can’t stop wanting you. Can’t ever stop.”

She was oxygen. He was suffocating. Nothing existed beyond the sweetness of her lips. Closer. He wanted her closer – always closer. Until need roared so loud it drowned out sanity.

Too late, Julian registered the approaching footsteps.

“Hastings?” A slurred, incredulous voice, then soft laughter. “Good God, man.”

Caroline jerked as if scalded. Julian blinked away lust’s haze to find two young lords gawping at them from the garden path, faces flushed with drink. Dorset and Hayes. Grasping gossipmongers.

They’d stumbled on prime fodder tonight.

With monumental effort, Julian wrenched himself under control. He gentled his voice, adopting his usual tone of bored condescension. “Dorset. Hayes. Do run along, please. The ballroom has shortage enough of wits without you adding to its deficit, and my fiancée and I would appreciate the moment of privacy.”

Caroline sucked in a sharp breath at the significance of what he’d just done. With one impromptu declaration, he had bound them together.

Too late now.

“Fiancée, you say? Well, hang me, I hadn’t heard. Our apologies. Congratulations to you both.” Dorset grabbed his companion’s arm. “Come along, Hayes. Back to the punch.”

The drunken lords retreated down the garden path on unsteady feet.

Caroline stared at him wide-eyed, one hand pressed to her kiss-swollen mouth. “Oh God,” she whispered. “You told them I’m your fiancée.”

He offered a half smile. “A reasonable understanding, given recent activities. Unless you’d rather I withdraw my offer and deliver you to the first respectable cit who asks?”

“How can you possibly be so calm? You wanted to marry Grace just months ago. You were planning to propose to her at the end of the Season. Everyone will believe—”

“Who cares? Let them think what they want.”

“I was going to say,” she said very softly, “that everyone will believe I’m a calculating, destitute harlot who seduced a duke in a garden to get at his money.”

She still didn’t understand. Didn’t understand that she was the only woman who had occupied his thoughts for months, and they were not friends.

“And when you’re my duchess,” he told her, “you have my enthusiastic permission to freeze them from across a ballroom with one chilly glance.”

Emotion roughened her voice. “You’re mad.”

“No more mad than you marrying some cit to save yourself from poverty.” He shifted closer, lips grazing her ear. “Tell me, Miss Winslow – how many times now have you watched me disrobe before your easel?” His hand at her waist tightened. “Studied every inch of my cock while you committed my form to memory?”

A shiver moved through her. But she didn’t pull away.

“How often have you loosened your bodice when you returned home on those long, lonely nights?” he continued. “Parted your pretty thighs and imagined it was me stroking you there in the dark? Me fucking you until you screamed my name?”

Her lips parted. A visible tremble took hold of her.

“Well?” he prompted.

A soft sound. Then – “Too often for propriety.”

Triumph roared through him. Yes. He was hers since she first put charcoal to paper and sketched the lines of yearning connecting them.

He pulled back. “Wouldn’t you like to touch me in all the ways you’ve imagined? Be my wife, and I’m yours. Say yes.”

I’m already yours. I just want you to be mine.

For several pounding heartbeats, he held still, waiting for her answer. Ruin and rapture balanced on the same razor edge.

Then she turned her eyes to his, soft and wondering, and she plummeted down the precipice with him. “Yes.”