The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables Book 2) (23 page)

He stood abruptly. “We should go to sleep. My headache is returning, and I’m exhausted.”

Lucy looked up at him tentatively. “I should ask Mrs. Alder to prepare a room for me.”

“You could. But I would prefer you stay here. With me.” He held his hand out to her.

“It’s terribly scandalous, but then I’m a walking scandal about to happen, aren’t I?” She laughed, uncaring about her reputation but also realizing she needed to guard it for her grandmother’s sake. Indeed, if it weren’t for her grandmother, she might have asked Dartford to make her his mistress.

Lucy pushed that thought right out of consideration. She
couldn’t
. She could, however, sleep beside him tonight. It would be an experience that she would likely never repeat. She put her hand in his and let him guide her to the bed. The hem of his dressing gown, made of dark blue silk, trailed behind her.

Mrs. Alder had discreetly provided a night rail for her, which she’d donned beneath the dressing gown before dinner. She shrugged out of his gown, and he took it from her shoulders.

She climbed onto the mattress while he laid the garment on a bench at the foot of the bed. He shucked his breeches and slipped in beside her, then drew her against his chest.

“We’re just sleeping,” he said before kissing her temple.

“I admit I’m a trifle disappointed.”

He arched a brow at her. “Just a trifle?”

“More than a trifle.” She curled her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. He tasted of wine and pleasure, and the ache he’d satisfied earlier bloomed anew, pooling in her belly and spreading out until her breasts tingled and her core heated.

He pressed her back into the bed and kissed her deeply, his tongue slicing into her mouth with delicious strokes. She clutched at his neck and shoulders, desperate for more, but he pulled away.

“You are a temptress,” he hissed. “Sleep.”

He rolled to his back, but held her close against his side. Lucy laid her palm on his chest and fell asleep surprisingly easily.
 

Until a sound jolted her awake. She opened her eyes, uncertain for a moment of where she was. Everything came back to her—the balloon descent, Andrew’s injury, the intimacy that had come after…

Next to her in the bed, Andrew mumbled something. It wasn’t loud, and it was absolutely unintelligible. She rolled to her side, and he vocalized again, this time louder, but she still couldn’t understand him. He lay on his back, his brow furrowed. He spoke again, “It’s cold.”

She leaned up on her elbow and with her other hand smoothed her fingers over his forehead. He didn’t feel cold at all. He exhaled softly, and the creases over his eyes disappeared. She didn’t know how long she watched him, but he slept quietly now.

She settled back against the pillow and realized she wouldn’t find sleep again. She climbed out of the bed and padded to the window. Peeking behind the curtain, she saw that it was no longer dark, but neither was it full daylight yet. The clouds were thick and gray, giving everything a muted tone.

Turning, she glanced around the room, looking for something to occupy herself. She didn’t see any books. Perhaps she could steal down to the library, assuming he had a library. She probably oughtn’t leave the chamber, but it was very early, and she was unlikely to encounter a member of his staff, particularly when he’d said it was rather minimal.

Tiptoeing across the room, she picked up his dressing robe and wrapped it around herself before leaving. She closed the door softly and made her way along a corridor that opened onto a long gallery. She vaguely remembered passing through it on their way upstairs yesterday, but she hadn’t paid much attention in her concern for Andrew.

Andrew.

She liked thinking of him that way and was glad he’d asked her to address him so informally. It, along with everything else that had happened yesterday, introduced a level of intimacy she’d never imagined to share with a man. Honestly, she’d never expected to meet anyone she’d
want
to share that with.

As she strolled the gallery, she looked at the portraits hanging there. She suspected they were former earls and their families, until she came to one that confirmed her theory. It was a family with four children, the oldest of whom was clearly Andrew at around ten years old. He looked a great deal like his father, who stood with his hand on the shoulder of a woman with light blonde hair. A small girl sat on her lap, while another who was slightly older stood next to her, holding her mother’s hand. Both girls were blonde and pale with arresting, dark brown eyes. Andrew stood with another boy in front of their father. The other boy was younger, and of all the people in the portrait, he looked the most engaging, with a mischievous smile playing about his lips that the painter, for whatever reason, had decided to include. Lucy’s heart twisted, thinking that his parents and brother had died. She wondered what had happened to the girls.

“Excuse me, Miss Parnell?”

The soft query came from Lucy’s right, making her jump. She turned abruptly and saw the housekeeper, Mrs. Alder. “Yes?”

Mrs. Alder smiled gently. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure it was you.” She chuckled. “Though I can’t imagine who else it would be. There aren’t that many of us to keep track of. I see you’re looking at his lordship’s family. Such lovely people.” The sad tone of her voice revealed the truth—they were
all
gone.

Lucy turned toward the housekeeper. “What happened to them?”

Mrs. Alder’s eyes narrowed briefly. “His lordship hasn’t told you? Of course he hasn’t. He rarely speaks of them. He also rarely comes here.” She exhaled and shook her head. “I don’t mind sharing the story with you. They all took ill just before the holidays that first year his lordship went to Eton. When he came home, his mother was already near death, and his sisters—Jane and Margaret—weren’t far behind. His father went next, and Albert, the sweet boy, tried to hang on until Christmas, but I’m afraid he didn’t quite make it.”

Lucy’s insides chilled, and her skin felt numb. She couldn’t imagine shouldering such losses in quick succession. “His lordship wasn’t ill?”

Mrs. Alder shook her head. “No. For whatever reason, he was spared. For a long time, he wished he’d gone with them.” She looked down at the floor. “Sometimes I wonder if he still does. All those dangerous things he insists on doing.”
Like racing and ballooning
, Lucy thought. The housekeeper squeezed her hands together and looked at Lucy. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t say such things.”

Compassion propelled Lucy forward, and she briefly touched the housekeeper’s arm. “I hope I’m not too familiar, but please don’t regret telling me what happened. It helps me…understand him better.” In truth, her mind was spinning from this revelation. She felt as if she ought to have known, which was silly. Their relationship had only just progressed. Perhaps he’d planned on telling her. Except he’d clearly avoided the topic when it had come up.

Mrs. Alder nodded, then tipped her head to the side. “You and he are close, then?”

It didn’t make sense to deny it, and she saw no reason to conceal the truth from the housekeeper. “I suppose so, yes.”

“You should know there hasn’t been a visitor to Darent Hall since they died. Not one.” Her gaze was warm and hopeful. “This is an important occasion. My husband and I noted it last night. I hope
you
won’t think
me
too forward, but we’re rather pleased.”

Oh dear. Did they expect something permanent? Despite what had transpired and feeling as if their connection had deepened, Lucy didn’t know what it would mean in terms of the future. Neither one of them wanted to marry. Even so, a tiny voice at the back of her mind quietly said that marriage to Andrew wouldn’t be bad. And it would be better than ending their association, which she found she didn’t really want to do.
 

Yes, they were close. Closer than she ought to be comfortable with.

“I should go,” Lucy said, half turning. She considered trying to explain the realities of her relationship with Andrew but decided it didn’t matter. If Mrs. Alder wanted to believe that Andrew might find happiness, who was Lucy to crush her hope? She couldn’t help but wonder, however, where Andrew actually found happiness or if he did so at all. She thought of what Mrs. Alder had said about his dangerous activities. Was that what made him happy? The notion gave her a chill.

“Just let us know when you’re ready for breakfast.” Mrs. Alder nodded once, then turned and walked toward the stairs.

Lucy stood there for another moment before retracing her steps back to Andrew’s bedchamber. As soon as she stepped inside, she heard thrashing and shouting from the bed.

Lifting the front of the dressing gown lest she trip over the hem, she hurried to Andrew’s side. He gripped the coverlet in one hand and twisted his body this way and that. His face was contorted with pain or anger or some other sinister emotion or probably many emotions.
 

She couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he had to be suffering a nightmare. Tentatively, she touched his shoulder. “Andrew, wake up.”

He knocked her hand away. She locked her jaw with determination and clasped him more forcefully. “Andrew! Wake up!”

He grabbed her forearm and sat upright. His eyes came open. They were dark and wild. “Who are you? Did you come to help them?”

“Help who?” She didn’t understand him at all. “Andrew, it’s me, Lucy.”

The furrows in his brow deepened. He stared at her, and gradually his eyes lost their savage haze. “Lucy.”

She relaxed and let her hand settle on his shoulder, her fingertips caressing his heated flesh. He’d somehow lost his shirt, she realized. Which meant he was nude. She tried not to think about that.

“You were having a nightmare.”

His breathing was rapid, the muscles of his neck tense. He pushed her to the side and jumped from the bed, heedless of his nudity. “You need to go.” He stalked to his dressing chamber, leaving Lucy to stare after him in confusion.

Was he still in the throes of whatever he’d been dreaming of?
 

She followed him, slowly, uncertain of what to say or do. He nearly ran into her as he came back into the chamber, now wearing a forest-green dressing gown. His skin was pale, his gaze haunted. He almost looked ill.

He backed away from her. “What are you doing? I told you to go.”

She frowned. “Andrew, tell me what’s wrong. Were you dreaming of the balloon descent?” It was the only thing she could think of that might have him this upset. It had been quite a tumble, and he’d been agitated afterward. Not quite like this, but similarly.

He lifted his hand to his mouth, and she could see that he was trembling. Apprehension squeezed her lungs. “You’re scaring me. Please tell me what’s wrong.” She stepped toward him, but he evaded her, moving around her entirely.

“I asked you to go. I’ll send Tindall and Mrs. Alder to assist you.” He went to the door and didn’t turn when he spoke. “It was a mistake for you to stay here. I want you to leave. And don’t come back.”

He left the bedchamber, closing the door firmly behind him.

Lucy stood there and stared, her mouth hanging slightly open for a moment before she snapped it closed. Confusion and hurt ripped through her. Why wouldn’t he share with her what had happened? Weren’t they…close?

Not really. She thought she knew him, believed they were friends who trusted each other, but she’d clearly been wrong. She hadn’t even known about his family.

Her face felt hot, her throat tight. She was such a fool. He’d behaved so differently from other men. She’d let her guard down, and he’d taken advantage, as all men did. Now that he’d gained all he wanted from her, he was tossing her out.

Lucy swallowed and straightened her spine. This was nothing—a hitch in her plan. She didn’t need Dartford, and if he came forward to expose her to Grandmama now…well, that would be unfortunate. But Lucy would weather the storm, just as she had every other calamity that had tried to beat her down.

No, she
didn’t
need Dartford. What’s more, she didn’t want him either.

Chapter Thirteen

A
ndrew opened his eyes and blinked at the canopy overhead. For the first morning in a week, his body didn’t feel as though it had been beaten to a pulp. Instead, he just felt stiff and sore in a few places. He pulled himself up, eager—also for the first time in a week—to greet the day.