My Dark Duke by Kitty St. Claire

CHAPTER FIVE

LILLIAN COULD NOTdeny how tempted she was by Thorncastle’s offer - and not only for the safety that his protection might afford her.

Her whole body hummed and thrummed with desire, as she climbed the steps to the boarding house, and there was a strange ache between her legs. Though she did not fully understand it, she knew it was an ache only Thorncastle might soothe.

She was discombobulated. Not only from the attack, during which she had been certain she would suffer an egregious assault on her person, but from Thorncastle’s kiss.

Lillian had always considered herself an innocent, so the strength of desire she had felt when the duke had pulled her into his arms had shocked her.

She had not resisted his advances, in fact, she had welcomed them eagerly. She had pushed her breasts against his chest, begging for his touch. All sense of reason had left her, as her body had been consumed by fire and longing. She had felt wanton - and, worse, she had enjoyed it.

Lillian tried to compose herself, as she rapped upon the door to the boarding house. It would not do for Mrs Harrod to notice there was something amiss, for she would spend the evening scolding Lillian for not taking the duke up on his offer of employment.

After a few moments, the stout woman answered Lillian’s knock, but from the dark look on her face, Lillian could tell she was already angered.

Had she seen her clambering from the duke’s carriage? Mrs Harrod was fond of peering out her window and spying upon her neighbours and the boarders. There was every likelihood she had spotted Lillian exiting a strange vehicle.

“I need a word with you,” Mrs Harrod said, confirming Lillian’s fears, as she gestured for her to follow her to the parlour room.

“Is there something the matter, Mrs Harrod?” Lillian questioned, as she followed her down the hallway.

“Aye, there is,” the Scotswoman confirmed, as she wrenched open the door and ushered Lillian inside.

“I run a house for Christian ladies, Miss Smith,” Mrs Harrod hissed, once they were alone in the cosy parlour. “I cannot have rough gentlemen knocking upon my door, in search of you.”

Lillian paused before she replied, glad that Mrs Harrod was not annoyed about the duke, but confused as to what exactly she was speaking.

“I don’t understand?” Lillian replied, furrowing her brow. “Two gentlemen called for me? I am not acquainted with anyone in London, let alone any strange men.”

Mrs Harrod harrumphed unhappily, as though she was unwilling to believe her.

“They were looking for a red-haired young lady with green eyes,” she groused, her eyes narrowing. “And you are my only boarder who matches that description. I know what those types of gentlemen are like and, I must say, I’m most disappointed to learn you are mixing with them.”

Mrs Harrod continued on, lecturing her about lost morals and the dangers London posed to a young lady, but Lillian was not listening. Her heart had stopped, as she realised that somehow Lord Bailey had found her.

The Bible, she thought, as panic began to grow in her chest. Her name had been writ across the first page, in big bold strokes. It was possible that the footpad had sold her things on to a fence, who had been warned to keep an ear out for any news on her. Had the two gentlemen knocked on the door of every boarding house on Gracechurch Street, or just Mrs Harrod’s? How much did they know of her whereabouts?

While Mrs Harrod droned on and on, Lillian’s mind was whirring as she tried to plan her escape.

Were the two thugs watching the house at this very moment? She would have to leave London, perhaps for Bristol or Liverpool, if funds allowed. If she was to leave, she would have to escape when darkness fell, lest she be sighted again.

The thought of stealing out into the dark danger of London at night, filled Lillian with dread. She was not a city cat, able to navigate nighttime paths, but a country mouse, who would walk herself into more danger.

Despair threatened to overwhelm Lillian, and though she fought against it, hot tears pricked at her eyes.

“Oh,” Mrs Harrod paused, her voice suddenly filled with concern. “Oh, don’t cry, my dear. I was only trying to scare you into being more careful. I know you’re a good girl, but you’re too pretty to be working with sailors, just like the duke said. Those types of men get ideas into their heads and then they act upon them; I beg you to reconsider His Grace’s offer. You’d be far safer working as a housekeeper for a duke, than mixing with salty tars down on the docks.”

Despite her fears, Lillian could not help but give a watery smile at Mrs Harrod’s words. The poor woman was all mixed up; if she was concerned about Lillian’s virtue, it was the duke she should be wary of.

“Think on it, dear,” Mrs Harrod finished, awkwardly patting Lillian’s arm. “I should hate to see a good girl ruined; you’ll find protection with Thorncastle. Perhaps you might even meet a nice groomsman or footman, and start a family of your own.”

“Thank you, Mrs Harrod,” Lillian replied, her voice thick with emotion. “Please forgive my tears; I have had a very long day and I long for my bed.”

“I’ve a stew heating on the stove, would you not have a wee bite?” Mrs Harrod pressed, but Lillian shook her head.

“Thank you, but no,” she said, firmly. “I’m really too tired. Goodnight, Mrs Harrod, thank you for your concern.”

The Scotswoman gave Lillian’s hand a squeeze, before bustling off to the kitchen to prepare supper for the other boarders.

With weary legs, Lillian traipsed upstairs to the room she shared with Sally, her mind still preoccupied by her unexpected callers. How long did she have, until they called again?

Sally, who was washing for supper in the basin atop the battered washstand, did a double-take when she spotted Lillian’s tear-stained face.

“What’s the matter, duckie?” she asked, as she dried her hands. “Old Harrod been on at you? Bridget said she was fit to burst earlier over some gentlemen who called looking for you.”

“I don’t know who those gentlemen were,” Lillian replied, as she sat down upon the bed they shared and removed her boots. Her feet ached and the excitement and energy she had felt after her kiss with Thorncastle had dissipated entirely, leaving her flat and lethargic.

“That’s what Bridget said to Mrs Harrod,” Sally answered, with a smile. “Said they were probably just two gentlemen who’d caught sight of you walking down the road, and wanted to learn your name. No harm done, Mrs Harrod will have scared them off.”

Lillian nodded, but was unable to form a response to Sally’s bracing words. The other girl looked at her strangely and Lillian struggled to keep her face impassive.

“You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you, Mary?” Sally pressed, as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “There’s no shame in it. We all have secrets.”

Lillian met Sally’s brown gaze, and the other girl deduced from her eyes that something deeper was troubling her.

“Bridget said the Duke of Thorncastle offered you a position on his staff,” Sally said, in an abrupt volte-face.

“His attentions are not as honourable as he portrayed them to be,” Lillian replied, dryly, as she resumed taking off her boots.

“A man like that, a man with wealth, can protect you far better than Mrs Harrod, if you are in trouble,” Sally answered, with a shrug. “Think about it; life is long, and sometimes it’s easier to share the burden with someone else.”

The gong for supper sounded from downstairs, which caused Sally to smile.

“Thank heaven for that,” she said, brightly. “I’d eat a nun’s habit right off her head, I’m that hungry.”

“That might be more palatable than Mrs Harrod’s fare,” Lillian replied, with a weak smile.

Sally chortled in response and left the room. Once the door had closed behind her, Lillian washed quickly at the washbasin - not minding that the water was cold - and changed into her nightrail.

As she untied her hair and brushed it out, she padded over to the window to look out at the street below. A few pedestrians wandered the road, all rushing home for their suppers. A gentleman loitering outside the house opposite Mrs Harrod’s caught Lillian’s eye, and her heart began to beat at a faster pace.

Was he one of Lord Bailey’s thugs?

Lillian stepped back, so that she was out of sight, and peered at him closely. The man, from what she could see, did not look like a ruffian, but what reason did he have to linger outside her window?

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the gentleman gave a wave to a young woman walking towards him—his wife, perhaps.

Relieved, Lillian pulled the thin curtains closed on the scene below. Despite the innocent explanation for the gentleman’s presence, she could not help but feel a chill of fear. Just because she could not see Lord Bailey’s thugs did not mean they were not there.

After all, they had managed to track her to Cheapside, had they not?

Lillian pulled back the wool blankets which covered the bed she shared with Sally. The feather mattress was thin and lumpy, but she welcomed the respite it offered. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and rested her head against the pillow, but she knew sleep would not come.

We all have secrets.

Lilian wondered what secrets Sally had hidden away from the world and if they were as deadly as Lillian’s own.

Unbidden images flashed through her mind. Mr Hope at the back door to the rectory. His harsh voice when he had told her that the elderly Lord Bailey had finally passed, and that Felix was to take his place.

And then?

Lillian scrunched her eyes so tightly against the memory of that night that she saw stars, but she could not ward off the memories.

Mr Hope had stepped inside to the kitchen, ostensibly to discuss Lillian’s future. Old Lord Bailey had been generous to allow Lillian to stay on so long after her father’s passing, the new baron might not be that way inclined. She was a burden, a dependent on the estate’s coffers and a distantly related one at that.

Lillian had been startled by his words. Not because she had not been expecting them - she had known she would have to leave when old Lord Bailey passed - but because they had come so soon. The baron must not have even been cold, when Mr Hope had come to seek her out.

“His Lordship might allow you to stay, should you decide to prove yourself useful to him,” Mr Hope had finished, his watery eyes watching her closely.

Though he had made no untoward moves, or said anything particularly debased, Lillian had understood exactly what he had meant.

She had tilted her chin defiantly and glared at the odious Mr Hope, so he would know just how little thought of him.

“I would rather choke,” she had snapped, which, in hindsight, had been a poor choice of words.

Mr Hope had lunged for her and grabbed her by the neck. Lillian still recalled being momentarily frozen by shock, until his hands at her throat had begun to constrict.

“Stuck-up little madame,” Mr Hope had growled, as the air had left Lillian’s lungs.

He had pushed her against the wrought-iron stove and the heat from the dwindling fire within had burned through her skirts, igniting her will to live.

She had grappled behind her for something - anything - with which to defend herself. Her hand had clasped the handle of the cast-iron kettle and she had lifted it and swung it at Mr Hope’s head.

The first blow had stunned him. The second blow had forced him into retreat. The third blow…

Lillian curled into a ball and drew the blankets tightly around her, as she recalled how the third blow had toppled Mr Hope over, so that he fell backwards, his head hitting the flagstone floor with a nauseous crack.

Silence had then filled the kitchen, a deathly one.

Mr Hope had lain on the tiled floor, completely still. For a moment, she had watched him, searching for signs of life, before panic had taken hold. She had killed a man, worse, she had killed Lord Bailey’s man. There was no familial love there; he would make certain that she was punished. Her pleas of self-defence would fall on deaf ears.

Lord Bailey would gladly inform the authorities that Lillian had attacked Mr Hope whilst being evicted. He would paint her as mad, as a deranged woman fit for Bedlam - and he would be listened to, for the word of a man - a titled one at that - was worth far more than the word of a woman.

She had to leave. Despite her panic, she had seen that there was no other way. She had to flee.

It had taken her no more than a quarter of an hour to pack what she needed into a battered portmanteau. Some clothes and undergarments, a bonnet and a mob cap, her mother’s locket, her father’s Bible, and the remaining moneys from the tithes her father had collected before his untimely death.

After that, she had left, without a backward glance at the house she had called home for the entirety of her twenty years on earth.

Though the road had been cloaked in darkness, she had traveled along it with ease. When the morning’s light had broken, a farmer on his way to Maidstone had offered her a lift, and from there she had caught the stagecoach to London.

She had lived in a daze ever since, her mind heavy and muddled, as she trudged her way through each new day. The only moments of brilliant clarity had occurred in the presence of the duke. His presence was too commanding to escape even Lillian’s notice; his cruel beauty demanded attention.

Was Thorncastle the answer to her current predicament? He had offered to house her, to protect her, to care for her - for a price, of course.

Lillian had a vague idea of what it was that happened between a man and woman in the bedchamber, but she had never imagined herself partaking in the act - especially with a man who was not her husband.

Her earlier chills subsided, as she recalled her embrace with the duke. As she recalled the feel of his body against hers, she became warm and flustered, as that same strange ache sprang to life between her legs. If Thorncastle was the only one who could soothe that longing, perhaps he could soothe her other longings too?

A safe house, a warm bed, a few weeks rest for the bone-crushing weariness which followed her…

The door to the room creaked open and Lillian heard the sound of Sally’s footsteps pattering across the wooden floor. The other woman made minimal noise, as she changed into her night garments and crawled into the bed beside Lillian.

“Night, Mary,” Sally whispered, so low Lillian guessed she assumed her already sleeping.

Earlier she had been convinced she would not sleep through the night, but as Sally’s breaths slowed and steadied, Lillian found herself lulled by the comforting sound of another at rest.

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment, she thought, as the heaviness of her eyelids became too great to fight against.

As she drifted into unconsciousness, Lillian imagined a strong pair of arms holding her.

The next morning, as Lillian took breakfast with the other boarders, a knock came upon the front door.

“In the name of God, who’s calling at this hour?” Mrs Harrod grumbled, as she waved for the scullery maid to answer the door.

The girl set down the pot of porridge she was dolling out and left the room. Lillian kept her eyes trained on the table, but inside she was a nervous wreck. Was it one of Lord Bailey’s goons, come to apprehend her?

Lillian strained to listen to what was going on outside and a few moments later, she heard the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching.

“There’s someone here with an urgent message for Miss Smith,” the scullery maid said, as she returned to the dining room.

Every pair of eyes turned Lillian’s way.

“Excuse me,” she said, standing with as much grace as she could muster. “I will be but a moment.”

She walked across the room with the same feeling as a man walking towards the gallows. There was no chance of escape, she was done for.

Outside in the hallway stood a gentleman, whose back was turned as he inspected a framed map of Scotland Mrs Harrod had hung on the wall.

Lillian cleared her throat and the gentleman turned. He was wearing the livery of one of Thorncastle’s servants.

“Oh,” Lillian gasped with relief, her knees weak as jelly. “Excuse me; I was not expecting you.”

“Excuse the early intrusion, ma’am,” the young lad answered, the tips of his ears pink. “But His Grace bid me to call on you, to ask if you’d reconsidered his offer, now that you’ve had time to sleep on it?”

Only the Duke of Thorncastle would be so impertinent as to make demands of a lady before breakfast.

Lillian opened her mouth to deliver a resounding “no” to the footman, alongside a lecture on manners, but hesitated.

She needed safe refuge, did she not? While Thorncastle might not wish to defend her honour - rather the opposite, in fact - he would protect her against harm. He had a retinue of servants at his disposal, surely he would spare one or two to make certain she was safe?

Her decision to escape Kent had been made in a split second - this decision took only a moment more.

“Please tell him I accept his offer,” Lillian said, surprising both herself and the footman.

“Er, I will,” he replied, his face worried. “I am afraid he did not advise me as to what to say if you said yes; I don’t think he was very optimistic about your answer.”

“No, I don’t suppose he was.”

For some reason, Lillian felt a slight thrill at learning she had bested the duke. He struck her as a fastidious man, who liked to be in control at all times. It gave her a small amount of pleasure to think she would now have upended his morning.

“Tell him to send a carriage, when he has worked out the particulars,” Lillian decided, before impishly adding, “Though, if it is not here by three o’clock, I shall have to rescind my offer of acceptance.”

“Yes, Miss Smith,” the footman nodded, keen to assure her he would convey the message. “I shall tell him at once. Good morning to you.”

“And to you,” Lillian inclined her head graciously.

The young man then fled down the hallway, in a rush to tell his master the news. Lillian followed behind him and closed the door, double checking the lock to be sure it was secure.

The enormity of what she had agreed to had not yet sunk in.

She had just agreed to become a man’s mistress.

Worse still, she felt no shame, only excitement.