“Then I guess it is to Roberts I must speak, not you.”
Even when they’d been children, Anna’s temper had been a long-burning fire. There’d be no reasoning with her until the flames banked.
“You cannot go out now.” It was well past dark. “And certainly not alone.”
The look she threw at him over her shoulder was icy. “I am not a simpering miss, nor some spoiled lady. The streets do not frighten me, Duke.”
Unease gnawed at his gut. She truly meant to search the city at night.
After they had been nearly riddled with holes just last night? He stepped forward, putting himself in her path. “You will not leave this house.”
Her chin raised. “You have no say in my activities.”
That spark in her eyes... She was a goddess when she stood toe to toe with him. “I am your husband.” No matter that she deserved more, better. Better than him.
“No, Duke,” she said, her voice quiet but no less powerful. “A husband is a partner, a confidant. No idiotic society will tell me any different.” She took a step closer, raising herself further on her toes until she was in his space, taking up his whole view. “And you are nothing but a jailor if you presume to lock me away.” She settled back on her heels, her expression steely. “Good thing there isn’t a single lock in existence that can keep me contained for long.”
She was magnificent. Even as his insides cramped at the idea of her at the mercy of the streets, his heart pounded with the desire to drag her into his arms, to show her all the ways that he did belong to her in every way that mattered.
He backed down, not because her safety was any less important or that he believed he couldn’t find a lock that could hold her, but because to forbid her from looking for her brother, to hold her back any longer, would be to break the promise he’d made.
The only thing she’d asked of him.
He took a single step to clear her path, to show her he would not stop her. Anna was capable of handling herself... in any other scenario. “The man who wishes me harm is still out there.”
“I’ll wear a disguise,” she said, the admission so easy, Jackson knew she’d done it before even last night. “And I’ll leave through the servants’ entrance.”
He nodded. As long as no one knew she was his duchess, she would be safe from the men hunting him.
“Should I expect your man to follow my every move?” she asked.
She’d noticed Roberts shadowing her the past few days. Of course she had.
No use lying. “If not my man, then one of his.”
Her mouth tugged downward at the corners, and Jackson had a feeling he’d disappointed her somehow.
“Good evening, Duke,” she said before quitting the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Back so soon,Your Grace? An unkind absence when your duchess must be reeling from the chaos of a new position and responsibilities,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said as soon as Jackson had been admitted to her private parlor.
“My duchess has no need of my help,” Jackson said through gritted teeth before he thought better of the admittance. He didn’t want to think of Anna. Not when every fiber of his being ached to hold her close again.
“Share. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Jackson’s hands fisted at his sides until he couldn’t feel his fingers. Anna didn’t know how much he wanted to share. If he could, he would lay himself bare for her to accept or condemn, whatever she decided, because he trusted her. Because he cared for her to the point of self-destruction.
He should be here asking after the counterfeiters, seizing any opportunity to further uncover the identity of The Printer, but he’d had no intention of returning to his investigation when he’d stepped through the doors of the Lyon’s Den.
“It is because of my duchess that I am here,” he said, settling into his seat on the opposite couch.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon let out a heavy sigh. “You wish to know more of Lord Brixby’s disappearance.”
Jackson nodded, for once pleased the widow was so sharp on the uptake. “I was led to believe the Bow Street Runners looked into the case but have had no success in locating my wife’s brother.” A small lie—it was less leading and more Roberts breaking into the Runners’ offices off four Whitehall and acquainting himself with a filing room he’d colorfully described as “a stable without horseflesh.”
“Perhaps the wrong questions are being asked,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, as cryptic as ever.
