Page 59 of Never a Duchess
Callan escorted Miss Ware to his carriage and instructed Dewart to follow the road past the tannery. “We should inspect Baudelaire’s premises while we’re here. I’ll meet ye there.”
Miss Ware frowned. “You’re walking?”
“I need air.” It was a foolish thing to say amid the pungent smells wafting from the Thames and the tanneries. “I need a moment alone to gather my thoughts.” He needed to walk until the memories waned.
“Does it have something to do with what Mr Barbour said?” Miss Ware touched his upper arm gently, empathy swimming in her vibrant blue eyes. “Did it remind you of how your mother died?”
His throat closed like he’d ingested poison. He coughed to loosen the muscles. “Bad memories are like an army of sleeping assassins. One prod and they wake to attack with lethal force.”
From a woman who rarely showed emotion, he expected words of encouragement, for her to tease him and drag him from his stupor. He did not expect her to slip her arms around his waist, to lay her head against his chest and hug him tightly.
No words were needed.
He closed his eyes, drew comfort from the warmth of her body, and lost count of how long he stood there, holding her close, struggling in the shadows of his pain.
ChapterEleven
Lillian sat in Dounreay’s carriage as they journeyed to Ludgate Hill for their appointment with Monsieur Baudelaire.
The Frenchman’s warehouse had resembled Mr Valmary’s premises, the air plagued by similar smells, the staff equally diligent. The manager, Mr Gibbons, blamed Mr Valmary for almost killing Lord MacTavish, assuring them no one could tamper with the perfumes without his knowledge. He knew an O’Connor but not an O’Malley.
She had walked to the deserted Bermondsey Spa with Dounreay, suggested climbing over the gate and scouring the gardens for the source of the poison.
He’d refused, his face turning ghostly pale at the suggestion.
Gripping her arm, he had pulled her away from the iron railings, quick to remind her the poison was likely imported from the Far East, and they had no business trespassing.
And yet, amid the silence inside his conveyance, Lillian was not busy analysing the evidence. The odd sensations flowing through her body dominated her thoughts. More than an hour had passed since she’d held Dounreay and comforted him, but her heart still pounded. The fire in her chest still burned.
Lillian glanced at him covertly. He kept his gaze fixed on the window, those dark, hypnotic eyes staring at a place far beyond the horizon, and she had to fight the urge to hug him all over again.
Something had shifted between them as they embraced on the roadside. Lillian could not explain it in words, but feared it was more potent than Dounreay’s passionate kisses.
Her lustful cravings always subsided.
This strange ache had not.
Perhaps it was pity.
Yes, it was pity, she quickly decided.
She lived with pain, with constant reminders of what she had lost, with questions and doubts. Wasn’t it normal to feel an affinity with the duke?
“I think we should postpone our meal tonight,” he said suddenly, his tone as distant as his gaze. “As soon as we’ve caught the poisoner, I plan to leave for Scotland.”
The words hit like a hard blow to the stomach, winding her momentarily, almost bringing her to her knees. “All the more reason we should cherish every second. ’Tis only a meal, Your Grace.” It was more than a meal. They could not sate their hunger with venison and sautéed potatoes. Without him, she doubted she would ever feel replenished again.
Panic had her blood surging through her veins.
Life was easier when she tried to ignore him.
“We’re walking a dangerous line, Lillian.”
Relief calmed her pulse. “Oh, you’re worried we will succumb to our base desires. Is that not the point of the game?”
“This isnae a game,” he snapped, his expression as cold as a December frost. “Ye’re fooling yerself. It was a mistake to encourage it.”
A mistake?
