Page 12 of From Duke Till Dawn
Alex’s mind could never be so easy. It often kept him awake late into the night, no matter how physically exhausted he might be. He frequently sat up until the small hours of the morning, thinking over how he might have spoken more eloquently in Parliament, or if he was taking the correct path by ordering a field flooded, or whether or not there was enough grain for his tenants.
Am I doing the right thing?The thought always stalked him, from his earliest years to now.
Tonight was no different. He’d left the gaming hell and, escorted by Ellingsworth and Langdon, gone immediately home. He dismissed his friends as soon as he’d arrived on his doorstep, then retreated to his study to pore over estate ledgers and review petitions. Anything to stop him from thinking of Cassandra. To keep away from her, even while he longed to claim her as his own.
He knew that was out of the question. Though Cassandra came from a noble background, his father would have looked askance at her impecunious circumstances. Alex had enough fortune for them both, “But,” his father had said more than once, “a bride must bring wealth and influence with her. Neither can be neglected when selecting a wife.”
Lady Emmeline had possessed both. She had been the perfect candidate for a wife.
When it came to potential duchesses, Cassandra had neither wealth nor influence. All the emotions he’d tried to bury after her desertion now roared to life. His chest actually ached. She could have given him what he’d feared would never be his—love. But he’d never have that now. He’d never haveher.
When the clock chimed one, he’d sent his remaining staff to bed. Tried to do the same for himself, but to little avail. Lying in bed, staring up at the canopy, he wished for shackles to keep him bolted to his mattress.
Alex scowled now and pushed away from the window. He tugged on the bellpull, then threw on his clothing heedlessly. His legs urged action. As he dressed, his sleepy butler arrived, wearing a hastily donned robe.
“Your Grace?” Bowmore asked.
“Have my horse saddled,” Alex answered in a clipped tone.
Bowmore was too well trained to ask where Alex planned on going at this hour. “Which one, Your Grace?”
He wanted speed, wildness. “Sirocco.” Though the horse was a gelding, he’d never lost that spirit Alex needed right now.
The butler bowed and retreated silently. Alex finished dressing, shoving his feet into tall boots. He didn’t bother with a hat. Whoever saw him on the streets at this hour cared less for decorum than he did at the moment.
He pounded down the front stairs and out the door to the street, where a groom waited for him, Sirocco dancing on the end of the lead. Without a word, Alex mounted the horse and took up the reins. He’d give the groom an extra day off to compensate for being awakened. A guinea would go to Bowmore, too.
But he’d worry about his servants later. Now he needed movement. He urged Sirocco into a trot, then a canter, finally a gallop, tearing through London’s dark streets. Directions meant nothing. He had no purpose, his mind trying to empty itself of thoughts as his body moved in time with the horse.
But the thoughts wouldn’t stop their churning.
Hell, he wished Cassandra had come to him when her cousin had cheated her out of her widow’s portion. It would have been so very easy to bring in his own legal counsel and restore her lost fortune. If that had been unsuccessful, and she had refused any financial assistance, he could have readily found her employment with any of a dozen fine families looking for companions and chaperones for marriageable daughters or elderly aunts. He could havedone something.
“Damn it,” he growled to himself. “Donotgo back.”
Because he could do something now. He could get her out of that gaming hell, could try to recoup the money her cousin had cheated from her. Or gain her a position with a good aristocratic family. If he, the damned Duke of damned Greyland, gave her a reference, she would have no trouble finding honorable employment.
The night was cool, and his breath showed in puffs as he rode. If it were a more decent time, he’d go to his fencing or pugilism academies and work through the frustration pulsing through him. But neither were open for several more hours.
Cassandra would refuse any offer of help he extended to her. Her pride matched his own. Much of her life remained a mystery to him, but he knew that much. At Cheltenham, she hadn’t let him pay for her meals whenever they had dined together, though that meant she ate plain boiled meat and broth. Unable to feast on rich roasts and succulent vegetables while she nibbled slowly on her miser’s meal, Alex ate boiled meat and broth, too. Then he had consumed a second dinner in his room, because his appetite had barely been sated by such scanty food.
If he’d been in her position—friendless, penniless—he, too, would reject anything that implied a handout.
Yet she was a woman, and therefore at the mercy of a brutal and indifferent world. She wasn’t a girl, either, but an adult woman, and one of gentle birth. There were so few options available to her.
He had to help her. Even if they did not rekindle their affair, it was hisdutyto make certain she was safe and cared for. He couldn’t let her traverse this callous world without offering her some kind of security. Being a duke meant he had to see to the welfare of those less fortunate. Cassandra didn’t need to demean herself by inveigling wealthy gamblers at the gaming hell. Surely anyone deserved better than that.
And if his heart beat faster at the thought of her, if a thrill of anticipation crackled through his body knowing that he would see her again, hear her voice and watch the candlelight shine upon her hair and skin—if any of that happened, he would suppress those feelings like turning down a lamp’s flame. Their time together had passed. He wouldn’t mourn what was never to be.
He pulled his horse up sharply. The animal wheeled in circles as Alex stared at the front of the gaming hell.
She was in there. And he’d brought himself to her door without thinking.
“Hellfire,” he bit out.
A powerful tug in the center of his chest commanded him to dismount, stride into the gaming hell, and carry Cassandra out.
Instead, he urged his horse into a gallop, taking him away.
