Page 37 of The Wayward Duke
14
London, 1874
Eight years later
The afternoon sun slanted over the streets, gilding the city in shades of gold. But its radiance did nothing to pierce the restless fog that shrouded Julian’s mind as he strode along the cobblestones, his boot heels clicking out a crisp rhythm.
He fixed his gaze straight ahead, cutting a direct path through the bustling crowds that parted before his imposing form like minnows scattering from a shark. No one dared meet the eye of the Duke of Hastings this morning. Julian barely saw the people scrambling out of his way.
Caroline consumed his thoughts – the feeling of her body, soft and warm against him the night before.You’re hurt,she’d whispered.Will you hold me?He could still hear her. Still see the honeyed strands of her hair spilling over his chest as she slept. Her breath whispering against his throat.
The overwhelming rightness of having her in his arms again.
The answer to your question… When I look at you, I feel everything.
A confession between them in the dark – like a tentative hand across the continents that separated them.
So he’d set a note on the bed beside her. An olive branch she could ignore or accept. One last lifeline cast into the fathomless rift torn between them.
Then he’d left Caroline sleeping, achingly lovely amid the tangled sheets. Departed the house without a word, to the safety of formality and distance, just in case she’d refused him. God, how he wished he could snatch it back now, destroy the evidence of his weakness. His mind still keenly recalled her rejections eight years earlier. The memories were blade-shards under his skin, making him bleed with every step.
As White’s gentleman’s club came into view, he paused to compose himself. He drew a deep breath, clearing his thoughts of everything but the task ahead. There would be time to obsess over tangled sheets and silken skin later. Now duty called.
Once he had donned his customary ducal mask of haughty composure, Julian proceeded inside. He moved through the interior, ignoring the gleam of polished wood and rich furnishings. His stride was that of a man with an urgent purpose. In the back corner sat Mattias Wentworth behind a spread of pastries and the day’s paper.
He glanced up as Julian approached. “Afternoon. Fancy a scone?” he asked, raising a half-eaten one in salute.
Julian remained standing, eyeing the tea and pastries on the table. “You said it was urgent we meet.”
Wentworth took another hearty bite, unperturbed. “Digestives fuel the mind. Have a seat.” He gestured at the empty chair. “You’re looming.”
With a sigh, Julian settled into the wingback chair across from him.
Wentworth tossed over a folded broadsheet. “Seen this morning’s edition?”
“‘The Duke of Hastings Shields His Duchess from Fearsome Blast,’” Julian read aloud. He looked up, unimpressed. “How gallant of me, apparently.”
“The story’s got tongues wagging,” Wentworth said, eyeing the groups whispering nearby. “The most powerful duke in England reunites with his estranged wife, scandalises all and sundry with public affection, and then rescues her from a dastardly villain’s evil plot. My God, you’ve just inspired legions of debutante fantasies.”
Julian thought once more of slowly undressing Caroline. The way she’d looked at him in the bath. She’d wanted him – that much was clear. But he wanted more than a brisk coupling wrought from heightened emotion.
He wanted something he wasn’t sure either of them could have again.
“If you believe everything you read, perhaps,” Julian said dryly. “The reality was rather less glamorous.”
“I’m sure you were every inch the gallant rescuer. Scooping your duchess into your manly arms to protect her from the blast.”
Julian’s mouth twitched. “She was commanding the rescue efforts, covered in blood and soot, while I lifted beams and rubble out of her way. But that doesn’t sell papers.”
Wentworth let out an amused snort. “Well, you must admit, it makes for a fine story. Shall I order you a drink to celebrate your newfound fame as London’s most heroic husband?”
“I’d rather you tell me why you wanted to meet, not waste time mocking newspaper drivel.” Impatience edged Julian’s tone.
“Very well. To business.” He withdrew two folded papers from his coat and passed them across the table. “New acquisitions for you.”
Grateful for the change of topic, Julian picked up the first cryptogram and unfolded it. The rows of symbols leaped out at him, their sequencing less intricate than the last coded missive – one already solved by someone in Wentworth’s employ. “He left it simple intentionally?”
“Just so. A direct claim of responsibility for last night’s bombing. I’m sure the cryptogram you hadn’t solved before the attack would have been the warning.”
