“Obsession can be a slippery slope,” Sebastian said mock-wisely. “Some might say you are protesting too much and that the loudest arguments can lead to the deepest falls. Mark my words, friend. You will soon be a besotted husband to your enemy’s sister.”
“That is completely absurd. What I am feeling is physical frustration. I have not had a woman since I married her. It ismerely a lingering itch I have yet to scratch. I have avoided attachments long enough, and if I ever form one, it will not be with a Hawthorne. She will merely warm my bed, and nothing more.”
Those two words again. Yet he tasted the lie before the words came out. After all, Juliana Cavendish, nee Hawthorne, was not the type of woman who would be called upon merely to “warm a bed.” She was a woman perfectly capable of setting a house, even his world, on fire.
After his declaration, Cassian stood abruptly.
“I enjoy your presence, as usual, friends, but I must take my leave. I cannot handle more wisdom for the night.”
He left them to their knowing smiles and stepped out into the dark.
Even in the midst of London’s distinctive odors, Cassian could smell Juliana. Violets. Fiery and haunting. It was not just her scent that kept his mind reeling back to her, and he was painfully aware of it.
He stepped into the night, the warmth of the brandy helping him withstand the chill. He climbed into his carriage, his mind already ahead of him, in the halls of Stonevale, where a certain minx was waiting for him.
She would be in the library at this hour.He knew it without knowing how. That she retreated there in the evenings, that she preferred books to the drawing room, that she tucked her feet beneath her on the chair by the window, and forgot, temporarily, to be angry with him.
Insufferable woman.
He stared out at the fog swallowing the gaslights one by one.
The way she had looked in that corridor.Her hair loose, her nightgown wholly inadequate against the cold, the candlestick raised above her head with every intention of using it. He had been knocked flat by his own wife in his own house, and he had found it, God help him, the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in years.
Go home, Stonevale. Your wife is waiting.
The thought settled in his chest with an unfamiliar warmth that he chose not to examine.
The carriage turned through a narrow passage, cutting through one of the city’s less reputable quarters to avoid the congestion of the main thoroughfares. Cassian paid it little attention. He had ridden this route before.
At any other time, he would have ignored the usual dealings there, which included illicit trades in coin and flesh, among other things, until his eye caught something that straightened him in his seat.
His own carriage. The Stonevale crest was unmistakable even in the dim light, tucked partly into an alleyway as though someone had hoped it would go unnoticed.
“Stop the carriage,” he commanded, a growl vibrating from his throat.
“Your Grace?” the coachman asked, startled. He had never made such an order before. After all, what would a duke do in a rough neighborhood? It was dangerous.
“I said, stop the carriage. Now.”
She would not.The thought arrived with absolute certainty, followed immediately by the knowledge that she absolutely would, and had, and was at this very moment proving him right in the worst possible way.
The horses drew up. A cloaked figure slipped out of the shadows and moved with quick, purposeful steps into the gloom. The walk of someone who had made up their mind and was pressing on in spite of sense, safety, and a husband who had expressly forbidden exactly this.
He did not need to see her face.
Of course,he thought, with a fury that was threaded through, against his better judgment, with something that felt dangerously close to admiration.Of course she did.
He reached for his cane, his jaw set hard.
If she was meeting a lover in this filth, he decided with a cold clarity that left no room for argument, there would be consequences neither of them would enjoy.
He stepped out into the dark after her.
“What are you doing here, girl, with your fancy mask?” a man with a scarred lip and a pockmarked face asked. “This ain’t a place for ladies unless they’re sellin’ something plenty worth the trouble.”
Juliana shuddered at the thought. She did not expect to be noticed the very moment she entered a nefarious establishment aptly named The Devil’s Pint. But who was she trying to fool?Even as she kept herself tucked into her cloak, it was clear she did not belong there. The establishment reeked of desperation.
She had expected the smell of gin, but her nostrils were assaulted by the stench of rotting fish, unwashed bodies, and sour food. While her family had teetered on the edge of poverty, she had never encountered anything like this. She was indeed coddled and cared for, despite her complaints about gilded cages. Here, she would be trapped in dirt and shadow, wholly unprepared for it. Even as she feared what she would see, her eyes scanned the darkened room, where soot gathered as tallow candles flickered their flames against peeling wallpaper. The floor felt sticky under her shoes. She noted that she might not be able to escape notice if she entered the grand house still wearing them.
