Drenched with a Duke (Ravishing Regencies Book 2) Page 4

  “But . . . but you sacrificed your name.”

  Alexander nodded. It had not felt like a choice then, and in the darkest of nights he still wished that he had made a different decision. But it was too late now.

  “Well, it was perhaps the stupidest thing I ever did,” he said dully. “My father died six months later, and my brother only had the dukedom for another four before he died in France. Despite all our careful planning, the Dukedom ended up in the lap of the ruined man, and suddenly the family plan had backfired terribly.”

  “You were meant to suffer in silence, in obscurity, for the rest of your life,” Teresa said slowly. “But instead – ”

  “The dukedom ends with me,” Alexander said, with a rueful smile. “Not the fool proof plan that we had intended. Which is sad, really, because it had worked perfectly well for centuries. You have no idea how many Caershires died in prison for their nephew, or hung on the gallows for their cousin, or were forced into an unsuitable marriage for their brother. At least I avoided that.”

  Her eyes were wide, and he realised immediately that he had revealed too much. No one liked to see the dark underbelly of the nobility.

  “And so there you have it,” he said quietly. “No marriage for me, just a bad reputation that I have not earned, and the accusation of love making that I shall now never enjoy.”

  Teresa stared at him. It was incomprehensible, the sacrifice that the man before her had made – and a hollow one, too. There were lines around his eyes that crinkled as he thought of the choice he had made, considered it with disgust and with self-loathing.

  Her heart broke for him. What a man! He was broken, she could see that, but through selflessness, not selfishness.

  She could not help herself. She took his hand once more, and her whole body tingled as it had before. “There are few who would even consider the basic tenents of gallantry,” she said quietly, searching for his eyes and feeling that dull lurch in her heart, “and you are a man who did not think of himself. You left your own desires and hopes for the future by the wayside, and immediately did what you could for your family. If that is not honourable, then I do not know what is.”

  His eyes stared at her, as though parched for kind words. “You think so?”

  Teresa nodded. His honesty had shocked her at first, but it was impossible not to warm to such a man. “You may feel as though you walk the streets alone, misunderstood and maligned. But I know the truth now, and wherever you are, whatever you do, whoever you are with: you will know that out there, someone, is one more person who knows the truth.”

  4

  What had possessed her to say such a thing?

  Teresa blushed, and it took quite something to force colour to her cheeks now. Honestly, she may owe him a few thanks for rescuing her from the Thames – and she could not help but shudder inwardly at the memory of that moment when life seemed to be drowned out of her body – but what was she doing?

  The last thing she needed, after getting drenched with a duke, was to lose her head. Or her heart.

  She coughed, dropped his hand, and rose from the armchair gingerly, testing out her ankle. It felt much stronger now – a shock, rather than a sprain. “As I say, regardless of what others think, I shall always hold you in high regard. Would you like something to drink?”

  Alexander was blinking at her, as though roused from sleep. “Drink?”

  Teresa nodded. She did not trust her words at this moment; not when a rush of something that felt unnaturally like affection was overwhelming her. This was not how it went. This was not what happened.

  “What do you have?”

  She tried not to colour with embarrassment. “A little tea, but not much. No milk, or lemon, or anything.”

  Poverty was not something that she was typically ashamed of, not really. But she was now.

  There was a crinkle in his forehead as Alexander looked at her, but he said nothing except, “That sounds delightful, thank you.”

  Teresa smiled, despite her inward shame. “Well, you were certainly raised right, that is all I will say.”

  The escape to the small kitchen was welcome. She fanned herself, trying to cool down her beating heart, that flutter that seemed to betray her. What was she doing, getting her emotions tangled with this man? He was a Duke, not a fool; he may feel as though his reputation is ruined forever, but give it a few months, wait for another scandal to overtake people’s minds, and it would soon be forgotten.

  He would be married within the twelvemonth, she thought, and sadness ebbed into her mind.

  And then she shook herself. He is not for the likes of you, she reminded herself. Not for you.

  As she carried the kettle and teapot through to the parlour, she could not help but be aware of his gaze that watched her at every moment. This was not unusual. Men liked to look. They liked to touch more, but they knew that would cost them, and so the staring was something that she had become accustomed to.

  But not like this. Alexander, Duke of Caershire, was not looking at her like a wolf looks at a lamb, but how a man desires a woman. That was it: he desired her. And not just for her body, perhaps.

  “I seem to have revealed a great deal,” he said in a low voice. “I hope that you do not mind hearing my confession.”

  Teresa stood the kettle over the fire, and peered into it. Plenty of water. “‘Tis hardly a confession, no fault lies with you.”

  Alexander shrugged. “Then whatever the opposite of a confession is, then. Either way, I am grateful. You are . . . . you are a good listener.”

  “It comes with the job,” she said automatically as she fell into the empty armchair, and regretted her words instantly. She saw the flush of jealousy, the struggle to maintain it, and then the brief equilibrium in which he managed a nod.

  He was a good man. She watched him, revelling in the chance to see such a man without needing to lead him into the secret chamber where she delighted and pleasured the men who handed over those precious pieces of gold.

  Alexander was dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark complexion. It matched his dark air, but Teresa had a suspicion that in happier times, before this shadow had fallen over his social standing, he had radiated warmth to all those close to him.

  She wanted to be close to him. She wanted to feel those strong hands on her arms, the softness of that dark hair, the rough stubble of his cheek against her neck as he –

  Teresa blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He had been speaking – speaking to her, and she had completely lost track of what he had been saying.

  “I said,” Alexander nodded towards the fire. “I think that the kettle is boiling.”

  Brought back to earth with a bump, she turned and saw that it was almost ready to boil over. A swift movement brought it off the fire using a roll of fabric scraps to save her fingers, and she carefully poured the scalding water into the teapot.

  “That is the second time this evening that you have saved me from hot water,” she tried to laugh, “though this time, it is more of my own doing!”

  Her laughter rang hollow as he stared at her. Eventually, he spoke.

  “Was that the first time that a . . . a client has tipped you into the Thames?”

  Teresa snuggled up into the armchair, and met his gaze. There was something fiery in that look, and she arched her back slightly in pure animal response.

  His eyes flared with longing as her breasts rose and fell, and a spark of power tingled at the base of Teresa’s neck – but this felt different. She had always had this power, always been able to charm the man before her, but this felt different. The desire in his eyes was matched by the longing in herself.

  She coughed, and looked away. “The first time, yes. Although I have once been abandoned at rooms in the Grenier’s Hotel with the bill to pay. I was forced to have a rather interesting conversation with the manager there.”

  “How did you manage to pay it?”

  Teresa glanced over to him and arched an eyebrow.
>
  The shock showed in his face, and there it was: that flicker of repulsion and confusion as his craving for her met the disgust of her trade.

  She could not help but laugh. “Oh, your assumptions are diverting, Alexander!”

  She saw it again: that shiver of pleasure as her lips pursed over his name. It was a shame that she liked him so much; if he had not revealed the truth of his familial sacrifice, she was almost certain that she could take him into that room and make him beg for mercy, and take all the coin on his person.

  “Then you – you did not – ”

  Teresa shook her head, and picking up the teapot, poured out two cups. “No, he was a very understanding man. His mother had been a lady of the night too, and his sympathy ran deep. I am not permitted to go back, of course, but that is of no matter.”

  Alexander was staring at her now, staring at her as though he could see right into her very soul. “Do you ever – I mean, it must be difficult. Being so vulnerable with . . . with so many men.”

  Teresa nodded slowly. “It certainly gets tiresome, after a while. What you must remember,” and she pinked slightly, even she, “is that very few men that I have as clients have any comprehension of my own pleasure. It is a selfish act for them, and so I have to . . . well, go through the motions with many of them.”

  She saw the heat in his face, and felt a little sorry for him. After all, this was her world, not his.

  “You – you pretend?”

  Her face broke out into a grin. “They do not.”

  Alexander laughed awkwardly, but he did not take his eyes from her. There was a kind of earnestness in his eyes, and she could not look away. “But do you not hate it?”

  “Hate it?”

  He nodded, and Teresa tried not to smile. “You speak as though I have much of a choice, my lord. I – ”

  “Alexander, please.”

  His voice was so soft; soft and caring, and Teresa tried not to let a thrill of intimacy overwhelm her. He was not hers, she reminded herself. One day he will go out into the world and marry a real lady.

  “Alexander, then,” she conceded. “I have to earn money, and this is one way that I am, though I say so myself, very good at it. At times I feel the filth of what I do, but then why should I feel all the guilt? Should not the scandal be shared by the men who purchase my body?”

  He really was a handsome man, thought Teresa as they stared at each other in silence. That darkness, and then the light of his eyes, that hope that seems to emanate from every word. Alexander was a man that you could fall in love with.

  “And what will you do,” said Alexander, swallowing, “when you meet a man that you would like to marry?”

  Teresa shook her head sadly. “That is not a future that I see for myself – like you, I suppose, although for very different reasons.”

  She was so aware of his masculinity that it was difficult to think. How did men do it, she wondered. They just seemed to have a presence that filled every inch of the world around them.

  He was shrugging now. “You never know, you may – ”

  “How many men are lining up to wed Miss Wrottesley?” Her words cut across him. “And she lost her innocence to one man, and no others. No; it will take an extraordinary man to take a chance on wedding me. My only hope would be to go away, somewhere my reputation has not reached; though that,” and she was not able to take the strange sadness out of her voice, “will be difficult. Most of my clients own the majority of this country.”

  “How did you start, if you do not mind me asking?”

  There was a tension in him as he reached for the teacup, and Teresa hesitated. Did she really want to open up this dark part of herself? Did she want someone that she had just met to know her story?

  And yet, Alexander and she could have been acquainted for years, the way that he had revealed his truth to her.

  “I do not come from a family with traditions like yours,” she said quietly, leaning back into the comfort and safety of the armchair with her teacup in her lap. “In fact, I do not think it is possible for us to have been raised in more different circumstances.”

  He looked as though he wanted to interrupt her, but he did not, and she was glad of it. Once she started down this memory trail, she did not want to be knocked off course.

  “My parents had five children,” she said, bringing the cup to lips and tasting to bittersweet cheap tea that she had managed to barter for the day before. “Two boys, three girls. Both boys died in childhood, and I never knew them. My elder sister, Lydia, had a vague memory of a little blond haired boy, but my younger sister Helena and I had no memories of them at all.”

  Alexander looked at her, and said nothing, but he smiled gently, and she continued.

  “My mother died giving birth to Helena, and our father was a fisherman. A simple, working life with his beloved Julia was all that he wanted, but,” and Teresa shut her eyes for a moment to try and ignore the memory of her father, sobbing as their mother was buried. “But he was left a widower of three daughters. Three daughters that he could not afford.”

  “There must have been others,” Alexander said quietly. “Other family members, someone in the parish who could have helped.”

  She shook her head. “He is a proud man, my father. There was a couple in the village over, a couple who had tried for many years to have a child, but God had not smiled on them. He went to them, and offered them . . . offered them one of us.”

  Teresa definitely saw it then: his eyes widened as the revulsion of what she was telling him was suddenly understood.

  “He – he gave you away?”

  Teresa sipped at her tea. “‘Tis more common than you would think. It is usually within families: a sister gives her barren sibling a child, that sort of thing. And so, Lydia went off to become a Marchwood, and Helena and I were raised by our father.”

  A log crackled in the grate, and it drew her gaze, a welcome relief from Alexander’s staring eyes. The disbelief was too strong to bear.

  “When I turned eighteen, it became clear to us – Helena and myself, I mean – that my father was slowing down. He was still fishing, still supporting us, but as he got older, the fish became fewer, and the money was dwindling. Something had to be done.” Teresa tightened her grip around her cup. “I had to do something.”

  “It seems you know just as much about familial sacrifice than I do,” said Alexander quietly. “It is strange; you may not believe it, but I know a little about hunger. My grandfather lost the family fortune, and although my father was eventually able to recover it, I can easily remember the pain of hunger.”

  Teresa stared at him. “You – you went hungry, too?”

  He nodded, and her mouth fell open. “But you are a Duke!”

  Alexander laughed. “I was not always one! In fact, I have only been a Duke for just over a twelvemonth. And you cannot eat a title; it cannot sustain you, it cannot bring bread to your table and meat to your plate.”

  It was almost impossible to comprehend, that this man before her had gone without meals as a child. Teresa smiled wryly. “To think, we could have both almost starved at the same time, at different ends of the country.”

  Alexander matched her smile, and put his teacup down on the mantlepiece. “So when you and your sister – Helena, was it – decided that you needed to work, why did you not find . . . well, a more respectable profession?”

  Teresa smiled sadly, and placed her own cup on the floor beside her chair, her thirst quenched. “There are a very limited number of ways that a woman can earn her keep in this world. I was not lettered enough to be a governess, working as a servant in a great house would not give me enough money to send on to my sister – the postage alone would eat most of my earnings. And so, I went to the nearest town, waited for evening, and found – ”

  “You do not have to tell me.” His interruption was brief, and Teresa looked up to see his hands clenched.

  “A lady of the night,” she finished, with a comforting sm
ile. “Helena and I had talked. We agreed that there was one way that we could think of that would enable us to earn a great deal of money, and that would help keep us. Father is not getting younger, and very soon he will not be able to work at all.”

  She watched the tension dissipate out of him, and continued. “This woman – Madame Blythe – was sympathetic. Mine is not an unusual story, and it was one that she had heard before. She took me in. She taught me.”

  Alexander stirred in his seat, and said in a rather strangled voice. “T-Taught you?”

  Teresa nodded. “Madame Blythe had been working for a good many years, and she was still young. She knew what would tempt a man; what would draw him away from his friends, and into her bed. She knew how to tease,” and now she saw Alexander stiffen, and felt a stirring in herself that had nothing to do with her memories and everything to do with the man before her, “and how to pleasure, and how to drive a man so wild that he could not help but come back to her again, and again.”

  What was she doing? She wanted him, that was now certain – there was no way to ignore that rising warmth between her legs, even if she had not felt it for many years – but riling Alexander up with these taunting and delicious words?

  “And – and you know those things now?” Alexander managed.

  Teresa felt a spark of pleasure flow through her veins at the tightness of his throat. She nodded. “Most of my tricks I never use. I never have to. I like the idea of saving them for a man who is able to raise my own yearning, who makes me plea for release.”

  And he was definitely sweating now, and his fists were clenched, and Teresa found herself wondering what it would be like to have those strong hands hold her, and touch her, and caress her.

  “It has been so long,” she whispered, leaning forward and wetting her lips as she moved, her breasts swaying slightly and she saw Alexander swallow as he tried to fight down the lust, “so long since any man has given me any amount of pleasurable agony.”

  She knew exactly what she was doing now, and part of her cried out for him, and that part was growing and she did not want to ignore it any longer.