The duke huddled in the street, his coat collar up around his ears, his top hat pulled low to shield his face from the light drizzle that had started a quarter of an hour past. He’d been there for hours; if he didn’t find himself a warm drink and a hot bath soon, the great rumored charms of the ‘rogue’ duke may very well hereafter be known as the ‘rogue’ duke sans a handful of digits.
“Must be soaked through by now,” Madam said, a note of reprimand sounding.
Camille bit her tongue and watched the stupid man rub his hands together to return feeling to what must have been numb fingers through ridiculous gentlemen gloves. “It’s his own fault if he’s cold. No one is holding him here.”
Madam snorted.
Hands going to her hips, Camille whirled on the older woman. “What?”
Madam leaned back in her leather chair and fixed Camille with an amused look. “We both know who is keeping him here. If you were hoping for a declaration of affection”—she nodded at the window—“there’s your answer.”
“In what sane mind is catching a chill romantic?”
“Men are idiots, Angel.”
Camille sneered, her gaze cutting to the man on the street outside. “He wants another tumble is all. Since working here, I’ve seen clients, grown men, for heaven’s sake, ambush Victoria with rites of love.” Mr. Richmund’s poetry was so painful, they’d all sworn off sonnet fantasy for the foreseeable future. “Men spout flowery nonsense until they get what they want.”
Madam stood and crossed the room to share Camille’s view. “I’ve always believed the louder a man shouts his feelings, the shallower the depth.” Her gaze turned to the duke, wrapped up like a sausage in a pastry crust. “Funny, he didn’t say a word after he’d been escorted out.”
‘Escorted’ was a fine term after the guards known as the Stallions had thrown him out on his ass.
Camille frowned. “Spit out whatever you have to say.”
Madam rolled her eyes. “I’m saying,Angel, no one isthatgood a tumble to gracefully andsilentlysuffer one’s toes rotting off for.” She tapped her nose and pointed to the alley. “And if you have any interest in seeing that handsome face in your bed again, oranywhere else, a cup of hot Earl Grey wouldn’t be out of the question.”
*
Camille found teatoo civil a drink for what must be done. The man could not stay in the streets, where the dampness was known to take even the healthiest of men. But he would not be permitted to stay, either.
When she stepped into the streets, steaming cup in hand, his gaze shot to her, though he made no effort to stand or speak. Camille’s body tingled at the intense stare. With only his eyes visible between his hat and collar, the pale-brown color glowed.
She extended the cup to him, careful to stay under the overhang and out of the rain. “Here. It is hot water and lemon.”
At the idea of hot anything, he stirred from his heap of coat and limbs and accepted the cup with a “Thank you,” though he remained seated. He took a sip, his gaze fixed on her face, as if she would disappear the moment his eyes left her.
Camille had never realized the power of someone’s stare. The man did nothing but sip down hot water, but the silence between them was alive. His gloved knuckles wrapping around the cup conjured images of leather whips and embraces against her breasts and shoulders, while his lips on the cup suggested other, more scandalous, embraces someplace lower.
Her growing arousal felt like a weak betrayal of her body. This was not acceptable behavior, from either of them. She’d accepted their intimacy yesterday as a gift, one she was not permitted to enjoy again. Once was forgivable, a continued liaison was not; selfishness would only lead to ruin. “You’re an idiot.”
He didn’t answer until he’d drained the cup and set it gently on the cobblestones. When he looked up at her, some color had returned to his pale face. “Yes, well, I make up for it with stubbornness and excellent hair.”
She wouldn’t smile. “Why are you here?”
“I told you I would come.”
She scoffed. “And you’re a man of your word.”
“I told you I was.”
“Men say things all the time. Rarely are they true.”
“You are a cynic.”
His easy assessment pricked her temper. “Two interactions and you make great leaps to claim knowing my character, sir. You overstep yourself.”
“Ah, yes.” He leaned back against the alley wall, somehow managing to look distinguished with his knees pressed to hischest. “There’s that pride again. I admit our acquaintance has not been long, but I can claim to know you better than most, a fact you cannot deny.”
Mention of their intimacy and her lack of experience shifted the power in the conversation, and Camille could find no way to take it back.
