Page 47 of From Duke Till Dawn
The last time he’d punched someone outside of his pugilism academy, he’d been at Eton, protecting a younger boy from being bullied. He’d stood up to Hartsfield, the class tyrant, who loved nothing more than to make the smaller boys cry. Alex had thrown one punch into Hartsfield’s nose, bruising his hand but making the other lad scream and run, blood dripping onto the pavement. After that, Hartsfield had been sullen and meek.
Alex stared at his hand now. He was no better than a child,punchingsomeone in anger. His actions baffled him. It shouldn’t matter who said what to Cassandra. He flexed his fingers, letting the pain there serve as a remonstrance not to get involved.
The day had been a long and tiring one, with his awareness of Cassandra growing by the moment. He should be splayed in his bed, dead to the world, immersed in the realm of dreams.
Shaking out his hand, he pushed away from the mantel. At this stage in his life, he ought to be acclimated to and accepting of his insomnia. Sleepless nights had been his frequent companion since childhood. Why should it surprise him now that he was thirty-eight years old?
He rose and paced the length of his bedchamber. He was still partially dressed, wearing a shirt, breeches, and boots. His neckcloth, waistcoat and jacket had long ago been discarded, yet he had somehow recognized how foolish it would be to attempt sleep when his mind and body churned.
He couldn’t put aside the revelations and experiences of the day as easily as extinguishing a candle. They burned brightly, throwing shadows over things he once believed to be true.
How much easier would things be if he could simply hate Cassandra? It had been a mercy to think of her as a grasping adventuress, impelled by avarice to cheat and swindle aristocratic men, loyal only to her own greed. Now... He couldn’t readily cast her in the role of villain. Not completely.
She was cold. Callous. Mercenary. Courageous. A survivor trying to make her way through an unfeeling, pitiless landscape. Everyone on whom she had relied had abandoned or betrayed her. She had done what she needed in order to endure. A woman had limited choices, and few of them were good. She’d been forced into a corner, but fought her way out through intelligence and determination.
Should he condemn her, or admire her? Both?
Damn it—he didn’t know. The easy categories of right and wrong that had been his previous existence were blurring, becoming indistinct. He barely recognized himself anymore. Threatening a woman with revenge, rubbing elbows with criminals,hittingstrangers. He didn’t do these things. Except now, he did.
It felt strangely freeing. More than a little daunting. He wasn’t the man he’d thought he was for thirty-eight years. But there was liberation in this new identity. He didn’t have to hold to someone else’s ideal. Instead he allowed his own desires and feelings to guide him.
She’d given him that—perhaps unknowingly, but she’d been the instrument of this revelation.
Cassandra had confessed her desire to live a life without swindles. One free of deceit. If that was true, it made his feelings for her more complicated. Because she wanted to do right, to correct her misdeeds and move forward into a future without lies. That was something to be respected.
But there was one thing in his life that wasn’t complicated. It was primal and simple. His body shouted its need. It—he—still wanted Cassandra. Desire hit him like a physical blow. He hungered for her. Touch, taste, feel, scent. The low music of her voice. The direct and unapologetic way she kissed him, as a woman in full knowledge of her own desires.
Her room was just down the hall, on the right. Not very far away at all.
He ought to be repelled by her. Most likely her caresses and kisses were rehearsed and artificial. But they didn’tfeellike it. Despite all her lies, that part of her felt genuine, like the heat that rose up whenever they touched. That couldn’t be manufactured. Even the most practiced courtesan had a hint of disinterested professionalism in her lips, in her sighs. Not so with Cassandra.
Alex cursed aloud. Goddamn them both. She was driving him mad.
He tugged open his bedroom door. The magnetic pull of her drew on him, urging him.
In an instant, he stood outside her door. He placed his hand on the wood that separated them.
She was his guest. She was also his prisoner. There were ancient rules of hospitality that needed to be respected. He would never force himself on her.
Yet... He wanted her.
He turned away sharply and strode downstairs. Bypassing the library and its thousands of distracting volumes, he headed outside. His garden in the cool of night should provide him some relief from his blistering thoughts and urges.
He walked quickly down the main path leading between neatly trimmed hedges and carefully manicured flower beds. His long legs ate up the distance easily, and he paid little attention to the pruned trees and burbling fountains, or the hazy ink-colored sky arching above him. He would pace until sunrise, if need be, and then venture out with Cassandra to Hampton after breakfast.
A sound ahead brought him up short. Footsteps on the gravel. It couldn’t be a gardener, since all the staff was asleep, and it wasn’t common practice to work in the middle of the night.
He headed toward the gazebo, the source of the footsteps. Whoever was making noise must have heard him, because the sound abruptly stopped.
“Who’s there?”
Cassandra’s voice. And she sounded angry, not frightened.
“The master of the house can walk his own property whenever he likes,” he answered, stepping forward. He recalled himself standing outside her door, torn between desire and the imperatives of hospitality. But she hadn’t been in her room.
Instead, she stood in the middle of the gazebo, its frame covered with twining vines and fragrant, night-blooming flowers. In the darkness, he could just make out that she was fully dressed. So she hadn’t searched out her bed, either.
“I’ll leave,” she said when he appeared.
