My Dark Duke by Kitty St. Claire
CHAPTER THREE
LILLIAN GAVE Asigh of relief as she neared home. Her day had been long, and the walk from the West India Docks even longer.
Her feet within her sturdy boots ached, along with her lower back, and she longed for the respite of her bed in Mrs Harrod's Boarding House.
As she finally reached the corner of Gracechurch Street, Lillian stiffened in awareness. She would not, as had happened the previous night, allow herself to fall victim to any villainous footpads—not that she had much left for them to steal.
The memory of the previous night rose in her mind's eye, as she traipsed along the footpath, which was lined with uniform, brown-brick houses. The thief had come out of nowhere, snatching at her basket with great skill, though Lillian had unconsciously held on to it for dear life—a fool's errand, for she had found herself shoved to the ground for her efforts.
For a moment, Lillian allowed despair to overwhelm her, as she recalled that the young lad had made off with everything she held dear. Not just her coin purse, but her mother's locket, and the leather-bound Bible which her father had gifted her last Christmas.
Mrs Harrod ran a respectable establishment, but she had warned all her girls not to leave any valuables in their rooms, and Lillian had duly obeyed. She regretted her choice to lug that heavy book around London every day, now that it was lost to her forever. And it was not just the loss of a dear father's gift which worried her, but the fact that her name—the name of a murderess—was written upon the inside jacket.
If anyone were to recognise her, she thought, before pushing away that ice-cold thought.
She was being fanciful, she assured herself; there was no one who would think to link the hardworking Mary Smith with Lillian Hamilton. No one would ever think that the daughter of a Reverend—himself the second son of a Baron—would ever deign to live in a boarding house for women, and eke out a living working in the purser's office of a shipping company.
Lillian paused at the steps of Mrs Harrod's, readying herself for the stream of questions which she was certain the inquisitive Scotswoman would throw at her the moment she walked through the door.
However, as Mrs Harrod answered her knock, she was not brimming with questions, but instead with excitement.
"You should have warned me, lass," she hissed, as she steered Lillian down the hallway toward the parlour room. "I only had some dry Madeira cake to offer him; had I known he was coming, I would have baked some fresh shortbread."
"I—what—who?"
Lillian had no idea what it was that the neat, little Scotswoman was speaking of, but as Mrs Harrod pushed open the door of the parlour room, comprehension dawned on Lillian.
"Ah, Miss Smith. How nice to see you again."
The Duke of Thorncastle stood as both ladies entered the room. Lillian, through a mixture of surprise and exhaustion, merely stared back at him dumbly.
"Say hello," Mrs Harrod whispered beside her, giving Lillian a sharp elbow to her ribs in encouragement.
"Ouch," Lillian grumbled, wincing at the bony prompt. "I mean, good evening, Your Grace."
There were one hundred questions on the tip of Lillian's tongue—not to mention a hundred obscenities she longed to fling at the duke—but she remained silent.
One did not speak to a duke, unless first spoken to, after all.
"You are probably wondering what I'm doing here," Thornecastle said, waving a casual hand for Lillian to sit.
"That's quite right," Lillian answered in clipped tones, before hastily adding a "Your Grace" at Mrs Harrod's scandalised glare.
A brief, wicked smile crossed Thorncastle's face, before he reassumed his air of hauteur. He took a seat, once both ladies were seated, and cleared his throat before he deigned to illuminate Lillian as to the reason for his presence.
"As you well know, having been both his housekeeper and keeper of Parish accounts," Thorncastle began. "The Reverend Hamilton contributed to many charitable organisations—especially ones which assisted spinsters required to earn their own keep."
Lillian frowned; what on earth was the man wittering on about?
"I myself am patron of such a charity and having heard that the previous housekeeper of my old friend, the Reverend, had fallen on hard times, I felt compelled to offer assistance."
"Such a good man," Mrs Harrod breathed, her eyes glistening with tears as she listened to the duke.
Such a good liar, Lillian thought dourly to herself—though, on the lying front, she wasn't exactly in a position to cast stones herself.
"I have spoken with Mrs Harrod," Thorncastle bestowed a smile upon the Scotswoman, who quivered with delight, "and I have arranged for your board here to be paid for by my charity."
"That's really not necessary, Your Grace."
This time it was impossible for Lillian to conceal her true feelings, and the definite bite to her tone earned her another definite poke in the ribs from Mrs Harrod.
"Don't be so ungrateful, girl," the boarding-house proprietor hissed, her round cheeks rosy with indignation. "'Tis a fine thing His Grace has done for you."
Lillian took a deep breath to compose herself. She would not allow Thorncastle to waltz in and upend her day for his own amusement, she thought.
"Indeed, it is," she agreed, plastering a sickly-sweet smile upon her face for Mrs Harrod's benefit. "But I am thinking of the other ladies that His Grace might help, instead of me. Ladies who might truly need—and want—His Grace's assistance. I cannot accept his offer, for their sakes."
"Such a good girl," Mrs Harrod sighed, beaming across at the duke. "Always thinking of others."
"You are a great judge of character, Mrs Harrod," Thorncastle's voice was deadly serious, though he caught Lillian's eye as he spoke, and despite herself, she smiled.
Poor, unassuming Mrs Harrod had become caught in their crossfire, and was so innocent that she believed herself seated betwixt two saints instead of two sinners.
"Despite your protests, however, Miss Smith," Thorncastle continued, "I am afraid it is too late to object. Your bill for this month has been settled."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Lillian replied, through gritted teeth.
If the blasted man wished to squander his money for nothing, she thought, then who was she to get in his way? At least his generosity might allow her the opportunity to put a little of her wages aside for a rainy day.
"Mrs Harrod tells me you have taken up employment at a shipping office?" Thorncastle continued, as he lifted his cup of tea to his lips.
His tone was idle, but Lillian knew instinctively that this was an act. There was a slight draw to his thick, dark eyebrows and an almost imperceptible edge to his tone, and he was completely still as he waited for her to answer.
Thorncastle, Lillian realised, did not approve.
"Yes." She lifted her chin defiantly. "In the purser's office. I manage the wages for the sailors."
"I hardly think that a fitting occupation for a lady of your gentle breeding," Thorncastle frowned, his mouth sulky.
"Oh?" Lillian resisted laughing, as she boldly met his gaze. "And what do you think is a fitting occupation for me, Your Grace?"
He held her gaze with his blue eyes and gave a slow, laconic raise of his eyebrow. Lillian felt a delicious pang of desire, as she allowed herself to imagine just exactly what the duke thought to be a suitable occupation for one such as she—his mistress.
A brief image flashed across her mind's eye, one of her and the duke, limbs entangled, lounging on velvet sheets. Her fiery red hair was spread across the pillowcase, whilst Thorncastle rained kisses down upon her exposed neck.
Lillian felt a stirring, deep within, so forceful she flushed and looked away.
"I always have need of staff," Thorncastle suggested lightly, though he gazed forcefully at Lillian as he spoke. "I am certain I could find a position for you somewhere, Miss Smith. It would be much preferable to you slaving away at the docks—don't you agree, Mrs Harrod?"
"Oh, yes, Your Grace," the Scotswoman nodded violently. "The West India docks are no place for a woman. How kind the duke is, Mary, don't you think?"
"His kindness is such that it is almost unbelievable," Lillian demurred, with a quick scowl at Thorncastle, who simply smirked.
Outside in the hallway, the gong sounded for supper, causing Mrs Harrod to jump to her feet in a flap.
"I shall have to oversee the scullery maids," she wailed, with an apologetic glance to Thorncastle, "or they might set the whole house aflame with their incompetence."
"Please," Thorncastle stood to his feet, the perfect gentleman, "I do not wish to keep you from whatever needs attending to, Mrs Harrod. Not when you have already shown me such courtesy. I will finish my tea, and Miss Smith may show me out?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Mrs Harrod beamed. "And thank you. Such a fine man you are. A good and upstanding man of the book. You are most welcome in my home, Your Grace, any time you wish."
Thorncastle preened under Mrs Harrod's effusive compliments, though his smug smile faltered a little when she closed the door behind her and Lillian rounded upon him.
"I told you I did not need your assistance," she hissed, mindful the house was busy and they might be overheard.
"And I decided you did." Thorncastle smiled lazily. "You cannot be vexed with me, Miss Smith. I merely wanted to be assured you have a roof over your head and would not end up cast out upon the streets. Though I am not entirely certain you are not already half-way there. What on earth were you thinking, taking up occupation at the docks?"
"You make it sound as though I am working in a bawdy-house," Lillian frowned.
"Perhaps it would be better if you were," Thorncastle retorted angrily, his handsome face wearing the expression of a man who was trying valiantly to suppress great anger. "At least then you would be paid when a man sets out to take your maidenhead, and not have it stolen by some nefarious oaf on your walk home."
A blush stained Lillian's cheeks at his words; no man had ever spoken so boldly to her about such matters. Then again, she reasoned, Thorncastle was not a man, but a devil.
"If I was to entrust the safety of my maidenhead to anyone, Your Grace, you would be at the bottom of the list," Lillian snapped, surprised at how the duke somehow managed to summon the tomcat hidden within. Usually she was a gentle soul, almost placid, but when Thorncastle was near, her claws came out.
"Perhaps you have some sense, after all," the duke replied, giving her a wicked smile which set her stomach fluttering with want. "I am indeed the last person you should entrust your virginity to, if you wish to keep it intact. But, unlike other men, Miss Smith, I would only take you if you agreed to it—I would not take you by force. If you come to my bed, it will be willingly."
"You shall be waiting a long time for that," Lillian bit back, though within her chest, her heart beat erratically with want and need.
"Patience is one of my many virtues," Thorncastle said lightly. "Along with generosity, compassion, and passion."
"And sticking your nose in where it's unwanted," Lillian added, with a snap.
Her temper was frayed by his presence; her whole body felt as though it were not her own, and it was most disconcerting. She had never had such a visceral response to a man in all her years. Her heart beat quickly, her breath caught in her chest, her stomach tightened, and she had an overwhelming urge to flee the room. An urge which was juxtaposed by a second want to throw herself into Thorncastle's arms.
"My interest in you might be unwanted," the duke shrugged, "but I feel it is necessary, if only to assure your safety. London is a cruel town, Miss Smith, and I worry it might eat you whole if you have no one to look out for you."
"How kind." Lillian was dry.
"I am capable of some kindness, despite what you may think."
Was it her imagination, or did a look of hurt flash across Thorncastle's eyes? As soon as she noted it, though, it disappeared, and the duke was as cold and hard as ever.
"Another of my attributes is that I am always keenly aware when I am not wanted," Thorncastle said evenly, standing to his feet and reaching for his ebony cane. "No need to see me out, Miss Smith. I bid you good evening."
Lillian was silent as the duke swept past her toward the door. A lurch of something in her stomach—perhaps guilt—propelled her to speak.
"If your assistance comes without strings, then I am grateful," she said, and he paused.