“Help!” she cried.
Owen raced down the alley, slippery with grime, grabbing the crate as he passed it. He dashed between the dogs and stood over Anabelle, using the crate to shove at the hound gnawing on her skirt. It yelped, backed off, and the other dog growled, pinning Anabelle with its fierce glare. Owen swung at its head, knocking it off its feet. As he did, the first mutt launched at him, locking its jaws around his forearm.
Pain buzzed up his arm and into his shoulder. Anabelle shrieked and stumbled to her feet.
“Run!” he called to her. While one dog whimpered and the other used his arm as a toy, she could escape.
He tried to free his arm by swinging it, but the dog only clamped down harder. Brandishing the crate, he kept the other dog at bay.
Anabelle ignored his order—hardly surprising. She fumbled around on the ground and rushed to his side.
He tried again. “Go.”
As though she hadn’t heard him, she raised a long wooden plank above her head. With a primal scream, she slammed the board onto the head of the dog on Owen’s arm.
Instantly, the dog released him and cowered; the other followed suit. Owen jabbed the crate at them a few more times, and at last, they ran away.
He stood there, trying to catch his breath, for several moments. Realizing he no longer needed the crate as a weapon, he tossed it aside. Blood trickled down his arm and soaked his sleeve.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking in her torn clothes and smudged face.
“I… I don’t think so.” She leaned against the wall as though her legs might not support her.
Without thinking, he pulled her to him and wrapped his good arm around her. He inhaled the clean scent of her hair—a haven in the dankness of the alley—and savored the pressure of her body against his. There were questions he needed to ask, but for now, it was enough to hold her.
He kissed the top of her head, and she lifted her face to look at him. “I see your spectacles are still intact.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Yes.”
With one hand, he carefully removed them and tucked them in his pocket. Then he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and, at last, her mouth. Cradling her face in his hands, he parted her lips with his tongue and tasted her. He didn’t attempt to keep his desire in check. Instead, he kissed her as he’d longed to—hungrily, feverishly, possessively.
As though she were actually his.
Anabelle responded. She clung to him, and her tongue
tangled with his in an imitation of something more intimate. When he deepened the kiss, she moaned and speared her fingers through his hair like she wanted him closer still.
His heart ached with the irony of it all, because he knew that what she really wanted—what she’d been attempting to do that very night—was to run away.
Owen lost track of time. He didn’t want to let her go, or stop kissing her, or scold her for trying to leave him in the dead of the night. If they hadn’t been standing in a damp dark alley, they might have shed their clothes and explored each other. God knows he would have liked to. Instead, he contented himself with running a hand over the front of her dress, brushing the undersides of her breasts and teasing the peaks into hard little nubs. He imagined himself unbuttoning the back of her dress, slipping the sleeves off her shoulders, and loosening her corset. He would hold the perfect weight of her breasts in his hands, draw a rosy nipple into his mouth, and suckle her till she—
“Your Grace,” she said, breaking off their kiss.
Damn it. Her formal manner of address froze him like a dip in a frigid lake. “Owen. Or Huntford, if you can’t bring yourself to say my Christian name.”
She swallowed and worked her throat, but no sound emerged.
He muttered a curse, grabbed her hand, and pulled her along to the street. As they walked beneath a lamp, he saw that the lower half of her skirt was missing, but at least her chemise covered her legs.
“I’m sure you must think the worst of me, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” she said. “But, please, let me explain.”
God, she looked earnest, trustworthy. Her wide eyes and forthright expression chilled him to the core. What kind of person could be so deceptive, so skilled at lying? And what kind of fool was he for harboring a sliver of hope that she could explain away payments to doctors who didn’t exist and clandestine meetings in the middle of the night?
“I’m not interested in your excuses. We had a deal. Your dressmaking services for three months in exchange for your freedom. You were attempting to renege on that.”
“That’s not true. I would have returned before dawn.”
Her words almost made him double over, like a punch to his gut. He wondered on how many other occasions she’d snuck out of his house for a rendezvous, risking her life to meet with someone. He tried to squash the jealousy that made his blood simmer. “My, but you are a conscientious employee.”
She recoiled as though he’d cracked a whip. “You don’t believe me.”
“Whether or not you were going to return is immaterial. You violated the terms of our agreement.”
“I had a good reason for leaving. And I
would
have come back,” she said, stomping her foot for emphasis.
“I don’t think you would have. Do you know why?” He closed the distance between them, leaned over, and spoke into her ear. “You wouldn’t have been able to. You’d be bleeding to death in a godforsaken alley while those dogs feasted on your flesh.”
Anabelle choked on a sob and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I know. But I had to see them. I still need to.”
Them
, not
him—?
“Who?”
“Mama and Daphne. I received a letter from them today, and Daph said Mama’s gotten worse. My sister is impossibly cheerful, so when I read the dire news I had to see Mama for myself.”
“If that’s true—”
“It
is
true.”
“—then why wouldn’t you have just asked me to visit them?” He added, “During a civilized hour of the day?”
“I
did
ask you,” she retorted. “On the first day, I asked if I could say good-bye to them. You refused. You don’t seem like the type of person who changes his mind.”
He vaguely remembered the conversation. In retrospect, it was not well done of him. Although in his defense, he’d been livid because of the threat to his sister. And after spending the night under a bridge he hadn’t been inclined to grant Anabelle any favors.
“Things have changed since then.” It was true. He still didn’t know if he could trust her or even if her mother was truly ill. But now, he wanted to know. He
wanted
to believe her.
“Is your sister expecting you tonight?”
She shook her head. “She would have been furious with me for taking such a risk.”
“Your sister and I are of the same mind. Even if you’d managed to arrive safely, chances are your sister and mother would have been sleeping. We’ll return to my house now. In the morning, I’ll escort you on a visit to your family. We have other matters to discuss also, but at the moment, my primary concern is getting you home in one piece.”
Belatedly, he remembered her spectacles were in his pocket and gave them to her.
She settled them on her little nose and narrowed her eyes. “Your arm,” she said, taking his wrist. “This gash needs to be cleaned and dressed quickly.”
Actually, it felt as though the bleeding had slowed. He would survive, but he couldn’t say the same for his jacket. His sleeve was in tatters and pitted with puncture marks. “I’m all for getting home quickly. And avoiding dogs of all breeds.”
“What if the dogs are… that is, could they be…?”
“They looked more hungry than rabid.”
She reached and traced his eyebrow with an index finger. “Your eye is cut and swollen. You were more badly hurt than I realized.”
Owen touched the heel of his hand to his bruised eye and winced. “This isn’t from the dogs. My friend, Averill, did it.”
“Your
friend
did that to you?”
Owen smiled. “Yes, but he walked away with a fat lip.” He wasn’t sure why he felt obliged to mention it. Cursed pride, he guessed.
“How charming.”
“You’d like Averill.” Owen snorted. “All the ladies do.”
“Yes, well, I’ve never been one to blindly follow the pack.”
Her response pleased him. She inspected his arm more closely before releasing it. “You should send for a doctor.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “But all I really want to do right now is find my bed.”
She nodded and yawned. “An excellent idea.”
He quirked a brow at her, and even in the darkness, he could see the flush creep up her cheeks.
They walked side by side, in silence, down the deserted
streets until they reached his house. As he ushered her up the steps toward the entrance, he said, “The front door isn’t nearly as adventurous a means of entry as, say, a window, but at least one can walk upright through it.”
She blushed again. “How’d you know about that?”
He thought fondly of her bottom hanging out of his library window, and leaned close to her ear. “I saw you. I saw everything.”
Her mouth opened, and he had the fierce and sudden urge to kiss her again, but from the dark foyer he heard a throat clear. Dennison. The butler rounded the corner holding a lantern aloft.
“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” Dennison’s eyes took in his and Anabelle’s tattered clothes before flicking to the grandfather clock against the wall.
“Perfect,” Owen answered cheerfully. He enjoyed tormenting his butler. To Anabelle, he said, “Good night, Miss Honeycote. Rest up so that you’ll be fresh for our outing in the morning.” She fled to her room like the wild dogs still snapped at her heels.
T
he next morning, Anabelle dragged herself out of bed. Her legs were leaden and her eyes puffy. All night long she’d been haunted alternately between visions of Mama coughing into a blood-splattered handkerchief and the duke being eaten alive by ferocious dogs. On top of that, she anxiously awaited her visit to Mama and Daph.
On one hand, it was generous of the duke to escort her. She’d see for herself how Mama fared. On the other, the thought of him seeing their humble living conditions made her stomach knot like a novice’s embroidery thread. It wasn’t precisely embarrassment that made her reluctant to show him their rooms. It was more than that.
Introducing the duke to her sister and mother was tantamount to inviting him into her other life—her
real
life. The one she’d return to after serving out her term working for him, and she didn’t like the idea of him briefly stepping into it to satisfy his curiosity—or worse, to cater to them as though her family were some sort of charity project.
They might not have much, but they had pride. And, more importantly, they had each other.
After hastily washing her face and dressing, she went downstairs, ate breakfast, and returned to the workroom. She had much to do, and since she suspected the duke would sleep for a few more hours, she intended to make as much progress as she could.
Today she was starting a new walking dress for Olivia. Each dress she completed brought her closer to freedom, but she still had eighteen to go and would not compromise her high standards of quality no matter how much she longed to be home. She would make the walking gown itself from white India muslin, but the pelisse would be a lovely gold color, trimmed with a broad band of lace. The rich color matched the golden strands in Olivia’s hair, and Anabelle could hardly wait to show it to her.
As Anabelle measured amber silk for the pelisse, Olivia entered the nursery for her usual mid-morning visit.
“Good morning,” she said, looking slightly puzzled. “I passed my brother on my way back from breakfast, and he asked me to fetch you.”
Anabelle swallowed. “He did?”
“Yes, and he looked ready to pay a call on someone. Have you any idea what he is up to?”
“I think so. Excuse me a moment.” She set down her measuring tape and retrieved her reticule from her bedchamber next door.
When she returned to the workroom, Olivia was staring at her. “Why do you and Owen both look so tired this morning?”
Anabelle laughed—a bit too loudly—in response. “I’m
afraid I stayed up late last evening. It won’t affect progress on your new dress, though. I shall return in a few hours and spend some more time on it.”
Olivia smiled as though amused. “Excellent. I’ll stop by and perhaps we can have a nice chat.”
“I’d like that.” Anabelle hurried past Olivia and down the staircase to find the duke waiting in the foyer. Dennison stood at his side, holding the duke’s hat at the ready.
“Shall we go?” the duke asked her.
She patted a hand to her head, relieved to find her cap securely in place. “Yes.”
He took his hat and jammed it on his head before ushering her out the front door. The gray sky hung low and heavy, and cool raindrops pelted Anabelle’s face. She wrapped her shawl more tightly about her and hoped she wouldn’t resemble a wet rat by the time they reached her home.
But instead of setting off down the street, the duke shepherded her toward the most elegant coach she’d ever seen. It waited just a few steps away, the shiny black finish of the cab so polished she could see their reflection in it. A painted gold “H” decorated the door of the cab, marking it as the duke’s. In case there’d been any doubt.
“We’re riding in
this
?” she asked.
As if to answer, one of the footmen stepped forward and opened the door, revealing plush black velvet seats and squabs. Anabelle couldn’t wait to run her fingers over them and test whether the nap of the fabric was as thick and soft as it looked.
The duke helped her in, and when she would have chosen the rear-facing bench, he guided her to the forward-facing one before joining her there. The moment the
footman shut the cab door, the duke banged the roof with his fist and the carriage rolled into motion.
The cab was more cozy and intimate than Anabelle would have expected. With the shades lowered to half-mast, the dreariness of the day outside remained at bay. Although the interior was spacious, the duke’s long legs sprawled across the floor, and the top of his head nearly touched the ceiling. She could smell his shaving soap, and heat emanated from his body. His dark hair was damp from the rain, and his eye had turned a rather nasty shade of purple. Though the line of his mouth was grim, his lips were full. The feel of that beautiful mouth on hers—warm, wet, and insistent—came flooding back to her.