Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
He was doomed. But an hour later, he sat in his carriage, which rolled through the streets of Mayfair and into the less opulent, less rich areas of London toward his club.
Lady Clementine, true to her word, sat across from him, her black cloak over her beautiful evening gown, the mask she planned to wear clasped tight in her hand.
The carriage wheels jolted over uneven cobbles, the rhythm harsher now as they left behind the smooth, well-kept streets of Mayfair. A faint chill crept in through the seams of the carriage, carrying with it the scent of smoke and the distant murmur of the city’s poorer quarters.
“People will recognize you, and we’ll be married by midnight. This is absurd. You ought to be scolded like a child for your impertinence and stupidity.” Even as he spoke, a flicker of unease curled in his gut, for he knew full well how easily such ruin could come to pass.
She scoffed and pushed the hood of her cloak off her hair, where she proceeded to pull silver pins from her locks.
“What are you doing?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off her hair as it began to fall about her shoulders.
“I’m taking my hair down. I thought it would make it even harder to discern who I am if I do.”
He stared as she transformed from a woman fit for a king's ball to a woman fit to be splayed upon silk sheets, hair mussed, spread over pillows as he devoured every delicious morsel of her.
The confined space of the carriage seemed to shrink about them, the air thickening with something far more dangerous than her folly.
William was no fool. He knew she was a beautiful woman. Kind and intelligent too, but this level of beauty was something different, something much more striking, and it pierced him deep in his soul.
It unsettled him—this sudden awareness, sharp and unwelcome, that she could undo him with nothing more than a loosened curl and a careless glance.
She shook her head, separating her hair, then ran her hand through it to loosen the strands.
He clenched his fists in his lap, fighting to ignore the urge to reach out and touch her locks himself.
Now, with her hair down and spilling over the bust of her gown, she appeared transformed.
Transformed her from a debutante—the perfect little duke's daughter—to … devastating.
"That wasn’t necessary," he said, clearing his throat. "With the mask on, no one will know who you are."
She shrugged, then carefully slipped the mask over her face and pulled up the hood. “Even so, best to cover all bases, do you not think?”
“I don’t think you should be here at all.” That he’d allow her to convince him of such an absurd folly, he would never figure. Nor could he understand why he had not been steadfast in his refusal—why, instead, he had agreed and now found himself trapped in her orbit.
“Once I see your club for myself, then perhaps we can continue as better acquaintances. At present, I have an image of you in my head that is less than complimentary. If I can confirm you’re not a hypocrite, do not run a house of ill repute, and are not trying to buy forgiveness by helping The Haven, I will be less inclined to be short with you. Perhaps we can even be friends.”
“Or perhaps we will not.” He looked out the window, losing patience with the little heiress. Who did she think she was? Well, he knew who she thought she was and who indeed she was, still, the hellion was pushing even his limits and his patience.
And yet, despite his irritation, he could not deny that her boldness stirred something dangerously close to admiration.
The carriage rolled to a halt, and he opened the door, jumping down before reaching back in to assist her. She came to the door and paused. “Are you not going to put the steps down. How am I to alight?” she asked.
He reached in and clasped her about the waist and hoisted her out of the vehicle. She let out a little squawk and clutched at him, her arms flying about his neck, her legs about his waist.
Her sudden closeness stole his breath, her warmth seeping through every layer between them. “I’m not going to drop you,” he managed, fighting the sensation of her body pressed hard against his. He could feel all of her sweetness, her curves, her ample bosoms pressing against his chest.
His pulse thundered, traitorous and unrelenting, as though his body had forgotten every rule he had ever lived by. Without thinking, his hands slipped down her back, and he pulled her closer still, holding her until she began to wiggle to get down.
For one reckless moment, he considered not letting her go at all.
“Apologies, Lord William. I thought you were going to drop me.”
He set her on her slippered feet before starting for the door. He pushed it open, and the laughter, the cigar smoke, the smell of alcohol hit him, and he heard Lady Clementine gasp. She reached for his arm, wrapping her hand about his elbow, and kept herself close.
The dim interior glowed with lamplight and shadow, the haze of smoke curling toward the ceiling as voices rose and fell in easy camaraderie.
Ignoring the raised brows and interested stares, he entered the building and started toward the bar, a place he often sat and observed, enjoyed while those around him paid to make him richer than he already was, either through gambling or drink.
“Is this what gentlemen do all night? Sit around playing cards and drinking?” Her wide eyes took in the room. They looked larger behind her black mask, and bluer than he’d thought. There was curiosity there, yes—but also a flicker of disapproval that she made no effort to conceal.
He sat on a stool and surveyed the room before speaking.
"It’s a gentleman’s club, similar to Whites or Brooks.
The men here pay a yearly sum to have peace and quiet; this is merely the gambling room.
Upstairs, there is another bar, along with a library, should one wish to read, talk quietly, or merely sit and contemplate. "
“Their hard lives?” she scoffed. “How tiring for the poor gentlemen. It makes one truly feel for them, having such a tedious existence.”
Her tone dripped with disdain, though her gaze continued to roam, taking in every detail with sharp attention.
He met her eyes and shook his head. “The sarcasm in your words is hardly veiled, Lady Clementine.”
“Do not call me by my title here, Lord William. Someone will hear, and then I’ll be ruined.”
“Probably should have thought of that before you came here," he returned, tossing her a pointed stare. "Very well," he relented. "What shall I call you? Clementine? Lement? Clem?" He chuckled at the last and couldn't hide his smirk when she glared up at him.
“As a child, I was called Emmie. You may use that name while we’re here.”
“Emmie,” he whispered against her ear, wanting to tease her, but instead, he merely made himself harder than he was before. His heart kicked up a beat being alone with her, a secret rendezvous that he should not have allowed.
The name lingered on his tongue, far more intimate than it ought to be.
What the hell had he been thinking? He didn’t even like this chit. She was uppity, part of the society that killed his sister. Ruined her.
Yet standing this close to her, he found it increasingly difficult to cling to that resentment.
She is not to blame...
He pulled away. “Have you seen enough? Are you satisfied that there are no women of ill repute here taking advantage of the gentlemen while they sit and play cards?”
“We have not gone upstairs yet. I wish to see the whole building before I am satisfied.”
William ran his hand through his hair and slipped off the stool. He clasped her hand and started for the stairs. Several gentlemen called out to him, teasing him that he’d brought a woman back with him. Their laughter followed them, low and knowing, echoing against the paneled walls.
“Hey, Will, how come you’re allowed to have company? Perhaps you ought to expand your fabulous club’s rules?”
“She’s a pretty thing. Are you willing to share?”
William glared at Lord Feathers who called out the last words and pulled Clementine closer still. “Ignore them. They’re drunk and do not know what they say.” But they would become aware when he had a word with them both later tonight.
A protective instinct rose swift and fierce within him, surprising in its intensity.
“Delightful of Lord Danning and Feathers. I shall ensure my friends stay well clear of them both.”
Her assessment was probably warranted, and he didn’t reply, merely continued to take her upstairs to where several other gentlemen were seated in the library.
Two were reading, one was asleep in a leather wingback chair before the fire.
“Satisfied now? There are no ladies lurking in the shadows.” The room was quieter here, the crackle of the fire and the rustle of turning pages lending it a subdued, almost scholarly air.
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips, and he had the overwhelming urge to touch them, to see if they were as soft as they looked.
He shook the thought aside. What the hell was wrong with him?
He didn’t even like this woman. She was opinionated and judgmental, mostly toward him.
He didn’t want to court a woman, and certainly not a woman of the ton.
And yet, his gaze betrayed him, lingering where it should not.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her mouth, which was unwelcome and unhelpful?
“If we go up another level where the old servant’s quarters were, is my office, a place where I store my bookwork and ledgers.” He guided her out of the room and down a long passageway before climbing higher still in the house.
They passed his room, and he noted his valet had set the fire and turned down his bed for the evening. Finally they made his office. The scent of leather, ink, and woodsmoke, the diminishing fire's glow casting shifting shadows across the walls.
“No courtesans anywhere, Emmie?” he inquired, smirking at her disappointment.