Chapter 2
Justina stared out the carriage window, seeing nothing as her mind swarmed, hands fidgeting with the folds of her cloak, her fingers unsteady and numb with the cold.
Dash it all, how could she have been so stupid?
She prided herself on her ability to choose her men wisely, but this time her intuition had failed her. Miserably.
When Nigel, Viscount Lovelace, had approached her last month to initiate a dalliance, she’d been impressed by his confidence, his pleasing manner and easy way with words.
That he was tall, dark and handsome had only made it easier to accept his offer.
She never imagined he would want more than she was willing to give, or that he would try to claim her, as if she were an object to be owned, an object he could acquire simply because he felt entitled to it.
Justina gave only so much to the men she invited into her bed. She gave her body and took theirs in return, and that was where it ended. If the tupping was enjoyable, she might permit that single dalliance to become a brief affair, but only rarely and never for longer than a few weeks’ time.
She’d only been a widow these last three years, but she’d learned rather a lot about men in that time, and one thing she’d learned was that they were too often led by their cocks. Simply put, the more pleasured the cock, the less reasoned the mind.
That was certainly the case with Nigel.
She’d told him at the beginning that their affair would be brief and that once it was over, it would not be repeated.
Two weeks and four enjoyable tups later, he had decided to ignore her conditions and make her his mistress.
She’d explained calmly yet firmly that she was not interested in such an arrangement, but he’d refused to take no for an answer, and now here she was, stealing away to safety in a strange man’s carriage.
A man she’d only just met.
A man who was taking her to his private lodgings.
Lord above. Trusting a stranger was hardly wise, but then, what choice did she have?
She couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not when Nigel knew where she lived.
She hadn’t thought him a violent man, but he’d put his hands on her tonight, and they had left marks, marks that would bruise.
Truth be told, she had no idea what he was capable of, or what he might do, but she knew she had to stay away from him, at least for now, until he came to his senses.
If he came to his senses.
She sighed. Life could be deuced annoying sometimes.
“We’re nearly there,” the duke announced, and when she looked at him, he smiled, gently, as if trying to convey that she was safe with him, that he meant her no harm.
She wanted to believe that he was a nice man.
He had a nice smile, easy and warm, a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners.
He was young, close to her own five-and-twenty years, and handsome in an understated way with a broad forehead, firm jaw and thick dark hair that curled around his ears.
She thought she’d detected a glint of recognition in his eyes when he’d heard her name, and she’d worried for a moment over what he might do.
With men, one never knew how they might behave toward a woman like her, a liberated widow who lived as she liked, but she found they generally fell into one of two camps.
Either they treated her like a woman beneath contempt, or they treated her like a woman they hoped to tup.
The Duke of Paxton, however, had done neither. He’d seemed curious about her, yes, but mostly he’d seemed concerned for her well-being, just as he had before he learned her identity.
She turned back to the window, her brow knitting as she stared out at the passing townhouses.
She didn’t know many dukes, but the two or three she had met were pompous and self-important, certainly too important to stop their carriage and help a strange woman on the street.
But not this duke. This duke had stopped.
Why? Was it simply because he was a decent man? Did he truly want nothing from her in return?
Perhaps she possessed a cynical mind, but she had never fully believed in kindness for kindness’ sake. No one did anything good without wanting something back, not even handsome young dukes with kind eyes.
But perhaps this time she was wrong. Perhaps this duke made a habit of helping ladies in distress. She hoped so, because the carriage had just pulled to a stop outside a row of unassuming red brick townhouses. It would seem they had arrived at the duke’s lodgings.
The carriage door swung open and a liveried footman let the steps down then assisted Justina down to the pavement. The duke followed her out then led the way up the stairs to the door, which opened before they reached the top step.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” the duke’s butler intoned as he stepped back to grant them entrance into the foyer. He was a stout man of middle years with a shiny bald head and slashing black brows.
“Thank you, Davies.” The duke handed his overcoat to the man before turning to help Justina out of her cloak. “This is my friend, Lady Dunne. She has suffered an ordeal tonight. Please have a blanket and a pot of tea brought to the drawing room.”
“Right away, Your Grace,” Davies replied, and if the man was at all curious about Justina or her ordeal, he showed not a bit of it.
“Shall we?” The duke extended an arm toward an open door across the hall.
Justina followed him into the drawing room, where a fire was lit in the hearth and candles and wall sconces provided additional light, casting the room in a cheerful glow.
The room was tidy and well-furnished for a gentleman’s private lodgings, with plush rugs and overstuffed chairs in rich fabrics of bold greens and reds.
The space was comfortable, but not entirely lived-in, and she had the impression he did not spend much time here.
“You must be chilled to the bone,” the duke said, and Justina realized she was rubbing her arms to warm them.
“I am a little cold.”
“Come, let’s sit by the fire, and we’ll get a hot cup of tea in you in just a moment.”
She sat in one of the two chairs situated before the fireplace and held her palms over the flames to warm them. “Might we have a glass of something stronger while we wait?”
She was chilled, but she was even more rattled, and a glass of spirits sounded just the thing to calm her nerves.
“Of course,” the duke said. “Sherry?”
“Whiskey, if you have it.”
She did not miss the flash of surprise in his eyes at her choice of libation, but he made no comment as he headed for the sideboard. Another point in the duke’s favor. She loved a man who knew how to keep his opinions to himself.
“Here you are,” he said, handing her a glass before claiming the chair beside hers.
Justina thanked him and wasted no time in taking a healthy drink, savoring the smooth liquor as it slid down her throat. A sigh escaped her as she settled back in her chair, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.
“Excellent whiskey,” she remarked, before taking another sip. “My husband used to tease me about my affinity for whiskey. He would say that genteel ladies drink sherry, and only harridans drink whiskey.”
The memory made her smile. Phillip had liked to tease her, about anything and everything, so long as it earned him a laugh. He’d loved to make her laugh. She missed that.
She missed him.
“I’ve never much cared for sherry, myself,” the duke said conversationally.
“No. Neither have I,” she agreed. Sherry had no personality. No fire.
“I prefer brandy,” he said. “I suppose that makes me a harridan, too?”
He looked at her, one brow cocked, and Justina laughed. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
It felt good to laugh after all that had happened tonight, to converse in a drawing room as if life was normal and all was as it should be.
She could almost forget she had a problem to solve.
Almost, but not quite.
A maid entered the room then with a tea tray and the duke’s butler following behind her, carrying a folded blanket in his arms.
“Thank you, Sally. Davies.” The duke stood and took the blanket from Davies as the maid set the tea tray on the table by the sofa.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Davies asked.
“No, that will be all.”
The duke worked at unfolding the blanket as the two servants left the room. “May I?” he asked, holding the blanket out in front of her.
Justina nodded and lifted her arms, careful not to spill her drink. He draped the blanket across her legs and she thanked him, using her empty hand to tuck the cozy wool about herself.
The duke poured himself a cup of tea then rejoined her by the fire.
“Are you warming up?” he asked before taking a sip of tea. Humming his approval, he set the cup and saucer on his knee and turned to look at her.
“I am, thank you.” She gave him a smile, and he returned it, but he was watching her closely, his gaze both curious and concerned, though strangely unobtrusive. He was watching over her, and it felt nice. She hadn’t been cared for in quite some time.
The flames crackled softly as she studied him in the firelight’s glow, and she realized his hair was not brown as she had thought but a deep, rich auburn that shone like amber. His eyes shone, too—intelligent, expressive, with dark lashes framing irises the color of warm gingerbread.
Justina adored gingerbread.
Good heavens, she was staring at the man.
Embarrassed, she forced her gaze to the fire and firmly reminded herself precisely where she was and what had brought her here. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “About tonight. I know this is not how you wished to spend your evening, playing host to a strange woman you saved on the street.”
The duke sipped his tea before replying. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m only glad I was there to help.” He set his cup down on the saucer with a soft clink of porcelain. “The man who accosted you…who is he?”
Justina sighed, letting her head fall back against the chair. “His name is Nigel. He is the Viscount Lovelace. You do not know him?”
“No.” His voice was hard. “Does he often put his hands on you like that?”
Justina’s eyes closed as her mind flashed back to the biting grip of Nigel’s hands, the fear she’d felt when he would not let her go.
“No,” she said quietly. “He has never done so before tonight. Indeed, I was shocked by his behavior. I had no idea he would become so angry when I tried to—” She broke off and swallowed hard. “But that is not your problem.”
She had burdened this man enough for one night. He was not her family, nor her confessor. This was her trouble, her problem to solve. She was on her own and she would do well to remember that.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
She felt his eyes on her as she sipped from her glass, her thoughts whirling and not from the whiskey. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I shall think of something.”
She always did, didn’t she? She’d faced worse situations than this, and she always found a way through it. She would find a way through this, too.
Weariness settled over her suddenly, making her yawn, and she sent the duke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It isn’t the company, I promise.”
“It’s late and you’ve had a rough night. I know we’ve only just met, Lady Dunne, but you are welcome to stay here with me for as long as you like.”
She studied his face, searching for a hint of deception, an ulterior motive, but she saw only kindness and concern.
He cleared his throat, a blush staining his cheeks. “That is to say, you are welcome to stay here. In my empty guest room. By yourself.”
His embarrassment was sweet and assuaged any lingering concern she might have felt over his intentions. After all, no one could fake a blush.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “I would be grateful for the use of your guest room.”
“Good. Would you like another whiskey? Or a cup of tea, perhaps?”
She shook her head as another yawn assailed her. “Thank you, no. I think what I need is sleep.”
“Of course.” He rose to his feet and took her empty glass, setting it and his own cup and saucer on the mantel. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”
He extended his hand to her and Justina took it, shoving the blanket aside as he helped her to her feet. His hand closed around hers, his bare skin warm, his grip strong yet gentle, assuring.
He had large hands, steady and capable. The sort of hands that gave a woman ideas.
Flustered, she slipped free of his grasp and turned towards the door, her steps brisk. The duke fell into step beside her as they made their way upstairs, and she did her best to ignore him, or at least to ignore her unwelcome yet undeniable attraction to him.
There was something about him that intrigued her. He was a duke, and yet, not obviously dukish. Powerful yet not domineering. Handsome yet seemingly unaware of his appeal.
Justina usually knew the measure of a man within moments of meeting him, but the Duke of Paxton was elusive, harder to read, and that made her want to peel back his layers one by one until she knew what made him tick.
But she was being silly. She should be focusing on Nigel and what she intended to do tomorrow, not wondering about the man walking beside her. What was the matter with her?
“Here we are,” the duke said, pausing outside the chamber door at the end of the hallway. “I hope the accommodations meet with your approval, Lady Dunne.”
“My needs are few tonight,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am in your debt.”
He was silent for a long moment as color darkened his cheeks, and Justina wondered at the cause. Was he merely uncomfortable receiving words of thanks, or was there another reason for his blush? Oh, how she wanted to ask.
She didn’t, though. After all, what did it matter? They would go their separate ways tomorrow and likely never meet again.
“Well, good night,” she said, reaching for the doorknob.
“Do you need anything?” he asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t any lady’s nightclothes for you, but I would be happy to lend you one of my shirts or...” He trailed off, his blush deepening.
Justina bit her lower lip to keep from smiling. She was beginning to enjoy these blushes of his. “I’m fine, thank you. I have everything I need.”
For one brief moment she was tempted to tell him she always slept naked just to see him blush again, but the saint of self-restraint must have been with her, for somehow she held her tongue.
“Right. Very good.” He cleared his throat. “Good night, Lady Dunne.”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
Justina slipped inside her borrowed bedroom and as she shut the door behind her, she was struck with a slew of emotions. Gratitude. Worry. Exhaustion. And, yes, regret.
Regret that her time with the intriguing, blushing Duke of Paxton would soon come to an end.