Chapter Five
Although he had managed to avoid the temptation for months, it was no longer possible to stay away.
At least, that was what Lawrence told himself.
Just a quick saunter, he promised himself as he slipped out of his digs at Endell Street and meandered to the place in London he had once spent so much time. Just a few moments, to remind himself of where he had come from. What he had sacrificed to be there.
What he would, one day, be returning to.
When Lawrence stepped through the gate by South Carriage Drive, it was such a dazzlingly different scene to what he had become accustomed to the last few months that he halted.
Rotten Row.
A wide track that meandered from Hyde Park Corner, all the way to the Serpentine Road, Rotten Row was absolutely the place to see and be seen.
Most people were on horseback, naturally, the upper classes taking the opportunity to exercise their beasts in the chilly winter air.
There were many others walking, usually in pairs or small groups.
Plenty of chaperones, he thought darkly.
“Careful!”
Lawrence stepped aside to see a man attired in gentleman’s clothing, a cane in his hand and a pretty lady on his arm.
“Watch where you’re going, you lout,” said the man coldly.
Lawrence was forced to suppress a smile. He had merely been standing, there was absolutely no possibility he had been in the man’s way—but he understood what had happened.
The man had seen him dressed in laborer’s clothing, his jacket tatty with no top hat at all, and assumed he should not be there.
And of course, technically, he probably shouldn’t.
After all, Rotten Row was for those who could be recognized as nobility and gentry.
Never mind that if Lawrence had been dressed according to his status—in the most impressive greatcoat from George Stulz on Savile Row—the man would have been positively fawning, desperate for his acquaintance…
not demanding he step off the path and into the mud merely to satisfy his desire of being perceived as impressive before a lady.
A slow smile crept across Lawrence’s face. Odd. When he had been living his life as the Duke of Penshaw, a meander down Rotten Row would not have seemed exciting.
It did now.
“—don’t look, my dear, a scoundrel has appeared on the path,” came a quiet voice.
Lawrence tried not to smile. He spotted Mr. Lister, a second-class gentleman wearing third class boots, walking with a young lady who seemed most unimpressed with his company.
He bowed deeply, and Mr. Lister sniffed. “The rogue has no idea of manners. Come on, dear, let us avoid the rascal.”
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. Well, if he ever needed evidence that his disguise was working, he had it. Allowing his stubble to grow and wearing shoddy clothing was evidently all that was required to turn a duke into a mere man.
It was an amusing thought. Why, there were plenty of well-dressed gentlemen walking past him now, each curling their lips at the sight of him—certainly something they would not have done to the Duke of Penshaw.
And there…
Lawrence’s heart skipped a beat, something it rarely did. Though now he came to think about it, it seemed to be most disobligingly doing it more often. It was most irritating.
But he could not deny why the discomforting sensation graced his chest.
Miss Julia Dryden.
How had he not spotted her before? There she was, walking sedately alone, which surprised him. Where was that good for nothing brother of hers? Did he always permit her to be so unchaperoned?
Lawrence balked at the idea. Ladies should be accompanied, that was one of the most basic rules of Society…though now he came to think of it, his sister was probably somewhere about, perhaps even here on Rotten Row, without him.
Blast.
The sooner he could find this blaggard and bring him to justice, the better. Every day John Mortimer remained at liberty, Lawrence was forced from his sister, his title, his position—even the grace to walk down Rotten Row without being stared at—and the cad remained free.
It was outrageous.
But for the first time since he had left his life as the duke behind, Lawrence found himself distracted. Julia was a few hundred yards away walking slowly, evidently in no hurry. The instinct to call out to her—Lord above, to call “Julia”—was strong.
Just before his mouth opened, Lawrence managed to stop himself.
To the eyes of the gentry, he was nothing but a scruffy man gawping at his betters.
Which, while untrue, wasn’t something he could refute. She had to consider him just another boxer, just another man who fought with his fists, who was nothing better.
The sun peeked out from a cloud, and Julia’s chestnut hair lit up.
Lawrence swallowed. Restraining himself had never been this difficult, he’d always had an ironclad control on himself…because he knew precisely what he should do.
Stay away from her.
This was a dangerous business. It was perfectly acceptable for a duke, someone trained in the arts of war, of boxing, who expected the unexpected and looked for danger behind every door.
But for a lady?
No. He would not be the one to encourage Julia to enter a world of murky depths, putting herself in danger. The idea of her being hurt…
Lawrence’s stomach curdled. It was unthinkable.
But he did not move. Perhaps he had never been tempted like this. Never been tempted by such delicious curves, the light in her eyes, the way her lips…
He cleared his throat, determined to force himself to leave. As he turned around—
“Lawrence! Lawrence, is that you?”
He froze. Julia’s eyes had alighted on him, a broad smile on her face as she waved boldly in a manner a lady most certainly should not.
That did not prevent him from smiling in turn. He had never met a woman like her, certainly not a woman in polite Society.
As she strode forward, her pace increasing as she neared him, Lawrence tried to ignore the astonished looks they both were receiving. It was simply not done for a lady to approach a gentleman, even one to whom she had been introduced…but to shout his name across Rotten Row! His first name!
Julia’s cheeks were pink from the exertion as she reached him. “Goodness, I did not expect to see you here.”
Lawrence tried not to smile. There was something so charming about her complete abandon that made her most delightful.
But not, he reminded himself, delightful enough to endanger her.
“I know this is hardly the sort of place for a man like me, Jules,” he said, trying to restrict the teasing air into his voice.
If only she knew…
Julia grinned. “Rather wild of you, I must say. I am pleased, I am in need of a strong arm.”
Before Lawrence could protest, before he could even register what was happening, Julia had slipped her hand into his arm and started walking. He had no choice but to continue, walking in step.
It was as natural as breathing. Perhaps that was why his chest was so tight. Perhaps that was what surprised him the most.
When Lawrence had last been in Town, the ton simpering at his every word and following his every step, he had been bored of Society. Bored of the way everyone watched him, adored him, protested that his taste was impeccable and his choices perfection.
If I had no title, he had often thought, how would they treat me?
Well, now he knew. As Julia chatted on about why her good for nothing brother had disappointed her once again—a frequent occurrence, by the sound of it—Lawrence could not help but notice just how many dirty looks he received merely for walking alongside her.
Yes, she was beautiful. If people had recognized him for the Duke of Penshaw, they would have said, surely, that she was fortunate to be walking with him.
As it was…
“Absolutely shameful,” muttered someone as they passed.
“Utterly incomprehensible,” said a gentleman, shaking his head.
Lawrence made sure not to catch the eyes of a pair of ladies as they walked by, but he could not prevent hearing their tuts.
“—and I told him—Lawrence, I hate to say it, but you are not listening.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Lawrence hastily, looking at the lady on his arm.
Julia was laughing. “My word, I never thought I would hear such formality from you!”
All too late, Lawrence remembered he was supposed to be a man of the working classes, not given to such niceties as “begging pardons” and the politeness of a man of quality.
Which he was. But wasn’t.
Lawrence felt a great need to curse under his breath but managed to stop himself. All this undercover business was mighty difficult.
“Just trying to speak to you as you deserve,” he said stiffly.
Julia rolled her eyes. “Don’t start that again—I said I was sorry.”
Lawrence nodded with a smile. “And I am not offended—at least, I am not anymore.”
He laughed as she turned to him with genuine concern in her eyes, then laughed in relief at his merriment.
“Offended! You! I cannot think what offending you would look like.”
As the Duke of Penshaw, almost anything could offend him. At least, offend the title. He had always considered himself a rather easy-going fellow, but it appeared being a duke meant you were supposed to be offended if everything was not immediately to your liking.
It had always felt rather foolish.
“You were the one who pointed out our different stations in life,” Lawrence reminded her. “Not I.”
Julia sighed happily, her fingers tightening on his arm. Lawrence’s stomach gave a lurch. “To think of me, offending you!”
He laughed. “Do not ladies ever give offense?”
“That is a little unfair of you, Lawrence, though I say so myself,” she said conversationally as they turned off the end of Rotten Row and started toward some trees.
Lawrence shrugged. “I think it was a little unfair of you to drag me along Rotten Row, where I could be critiqued both silently and openly by those of the ton.”
He had intended to speak lightly, to jest, to make her smile.
But Julia’s face became serious. She was silent for a moment before saying, “Yes, I heard what they said. Isn’t it outrageous?”
Now that was not what he had expected. “Outrageous?”