Page 74 of The Wayward Duke
At the base of the stairs, Leo turned back with a warning look. “If your husband murders me, I will haunt you until the end of time. Stay close. And for the love of God, try not to get us both killed tonight.”
She took his arm. “I make no promises.”
He led her through a stained oak door into pulsing chaos – the press of bodies hunched around card tables, the heady aroma of liquor and tobacco choking the air. Scantily dressed women draped themselves on laps, pouring amber liquid into waiting glasses. Entwined limbs and bared skin abounded in shadowy corners.
O’Sullivan kept them along the periphery, navigating through the crush of patrons towards the back rooms. But Caroline felt the heavy weight of assessing male eyes tracking her. Heard their lewd laughs and jests, the crass whispered speculation regarding what they wished to do with her. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, spine stiff beneath their scrutiny.
Her instincts prickled in warning an instant before she saw him. Julian sat at a hazard table against the far wall, an untouched glass of brandy near his elbow. He appeared relaxed, long legs stretched out casually before him.
As if sensing her attention, his piercing blue gaze found hers across the crowded room. She watched him catalogue each scandalous detail of her attire, mentally stripping away the flimsy barrier of her dress. Fury warred with lust in the harsh lines of his beautiful face.
She almost smiled. Oh yes. Later, he was going to punish her thoroughly for this little deception.
“Which one is Pritchard?” she asked O’Sullivan under her breath, dragging her attention back to the task at hand.
“The one in the grey coat at your husband’s table.”
Caroline followed his subtle gesture. Pritchard sat with his back to them, broad shoulders hunched as he stared at his cards. An unlit cigar dangled from his lips.
“Does he often bring women home from the club?” she murmured, watching Pritchard leer at the serving girl leaning over his shoulder. His hand reached out to slide low on her hip, proprietary. Claiming. The girl flinched almost imperceptibly.
O’Sullivan cut her a sharp glance. “No decent woman would tolerate his vile appetites for long.”
“No, he doesn’t often bring women home, then?” Caroline clarified.
“Yes, he does,” O’Sullivan bit out. “But you’re not going anywhere near the blackguard, so it hardly matters.”
She flashed him a coy smile. “I’d like a drink first.”
With a muttered oath, O’Sullivan signalled the barman to bring them two glasses. The man wiped his hands on a rag and thumped the drinks down. O’Sullivan slid coins across the bar in payment before nudging her elbow.
“I’ll not have you swooning halfway through this farce. Just enough to take the edge off, understand?”
Caroline slid him a playful look and lifted her glass, allowing the barest sip to wet her lips before setting it back down. Warmth trickled down her throat, mingling with the heady taste of nerves and anticipation already intoxicating her. She felt powerful tonight. Reckless. The realisation made her want to smile, sharp and dangerous.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, turning away, “I have information to extract.”
Before O’Sullivan could seize her elbow again, Caroline strode with purpose towards Bartholomew Pritchard.
31
Julian stared down at his cards. The Queen of Hearts smirked up at him, taunting. He resisted the urge to crumple her in his fist. Christ, he needed to focus. Lives depended on the information he aimed to extract tonight. But at that moment, most of his blood had rushed decidedly south, leaving scant capacity for lofty thoughts of queen and country.
All because of the vixen across the smoky gambling hall.
His wife.
When she’d first sauntered through the doors on Leo O’Sullivan’s arm, Julian had barely stopped himself from dragging her from the room. Never mind that such a display would draw the attention they wished to avoid. Never mind that she’d gut him for attempting such high-handed tactics before a crowd of ogling dandies.
In that heated moment, none of those practical considerations mattered. Only the primal urge to remove her from the view of so many prying eyes. To conceal all that skin from their hungry stares.
Mine.
The thought clawed at his throat. With effort, Julian wrenched his fevered gaze back to his cards. But the words remained, pounding through his veins with each furious beat of his heart.
Christ, he hardly recognised her. She was masked and spilling out of an onyx silk dress, swathes of flawless skin exposed. Except that he knew, beneath the gown, she bore the injury meant for him. His wound. The one he’d traced just this morning with trembling lips, reminding himself of how close he’d come to losing her.
His wife possessed a talent for provoking both savage and tender urges within him, often with minimal effort. Even with her features obscured behind an ornate black mask, Julian would know her anywhere. Seeing Caroline in that intoxicating scrap of silk tested the bounds of his sanity. Skin meant only for his eyes, his hands. His marks.
