The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables Book 2) (30 page)

He held her hips and snapped his pelvis, driving into her with a staccato rhythm. His balls tightened and his orgasm rushed over him. He managed to pull out of her and turn, spilling himself into his hand and onto the bed. Damn, he was making a mess.

When he was finished and his body had come back to a semblance of normalcy, he clambered off the bed and went to the cabinet to fetch another towel. He only had himself to tidy this time. He stashed the cloth back where she’d put the others.

He watched her roll over and took in the satiated expression on her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips curved into a smile. She looked content.

There was that word again. That sensation he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt. Or maybe he had. It had just been so long that he didn’t remember. Like love. He wasn’t sure he recalled the emotion, just the pain and longing he’d felt in the aftermath of losing it. The pain and longing he still felt.

His chest tightening, he went to find his clothing and began to dress.

“You’re leaving now?” She’d slipped under the covers and held them to her chest.
 

He could still see a good portion of one breast, however. He was grateful for the view. “Yes, before I decide not to leave at all.”

She smiled. “You could stay—for at least an hour. You seemed to be sleeping well. No nightmares.”

No, no nightmares. But then he didn’t have them often anymore. Except when he was at Darent Hall. The first night he stayed there on a visit, he always had one. Which was why he rarely went there. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that before he’d invited her to stay. He’d either been too shaken up by the accident or too overcome with desire for her. The latter, he decided. Definitely.

“I don’t have them very often,” he said.

“What happened in the morning…you looked…haunted. Is that typical after you have a nightmare?”

“No,” he lied. And he didn’t even need a nightmare to feel like that. In fact, those bleak emotions were creeping over him right now. He had his trousers on and pulled on his shirt. Locating his stockings and boots, he sat on a chair to don them.

She climbed out of bed and walked, nude, to an armoire. He tried not to stare at the alluring sweep of her back and the tantalizing curve of her backside and failed miserably. She pulled out a pale yellow dressing gown and wrapped it around herself, shielding her from his hungry gaze.

He forced himself back to putting on his footwear.

She walked over to stand near him. “I’m not sure I believe you,” she said softly. “Mrs. Alder cares about you. She said you deserve to be happy, that you need to forget about the past.”

He pulled on his boots and didn’t look at her. “I don’t think about it.” He
tried
not to think about it. He started to shake, his flesh feeling chilled. Jumping to his feet, he tucked in his shirt and sought out his waistcoat.

“Maybe you should? Maybe talking about them would help you move past the tragedy so that it doesn’t haunt you.”

He shrugged into his waistcoat. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Her gaze was full of concern and pity. He didn’t want her pity. “Your entire family died within a span of a few weeks. You were young. There’s plenty to talk about. I’m here to listen if you’ll let me.”

Ice coated his spine, and his vision tunneled for a moment. He plucked his cravat from the floor and wound it around his neck but didn’t tie it. He had to walk past her to get his coat and hat. “Please leave it alone.”

He moved toward his coat, and she clasped his forearm—gently but firmly. “Tell me about them. Your mother, your father, your brother.”

The thought of Bertie nearly drove him to his knees. His brother had been so scared, but then he’d tried to be brave for Andrew. Andrew had sat there, helpless, while they’d all died. But Bertie, more than the others, cut him to the bone. He’d looked up to Andrew, and Andrew had said he’d always protect him. He’d told him that just before he’d died—
“I’ll save you, Bertie.”
Even though he’d known it was too late. Logically he knew that no one blamed him, but he still felt such immeasurable guilt.
 

“Tonight,” he rasped into the cool, nearly dark room. “My brother will never have a night like this. My sisters will never have children to love. Why was I blessed? What did I do to deserve to live while they died?”

She wound her fingers through his. Her eyes were wide and so rich with emotion. “Nothing. There’s no reason. Will you let me help you make peace with this?”
 

“I can’t. There’s no peace. And there shouldn’t be. I can’t…I can’t let them go. I’m all they have left.” He pulled his hand from hers and snatched his coat and hat from the chair. He didn’t look at her as he swept past. He stopped at the door but didn’t turn to face her. “You can’t help me, Lucy. No one can.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

Taking deep, gulping breaths, Andrew stole down the back stairs, the way he’d come in earlier with a bit of assistance from Lucy’s maid. Now it was dark and quiet, just the way he preferred things when he was feeling like this—as if a great weight pressed upon his chest and might crush him into oblivion. But wasn’t that what he wanted? Hadn’t he wished for a way to bury his thoughts and be free of the guilt because he’d lived?

He walked briskly through the bowels of the town house to the front, where he let himself out and climbed up to the street. It was very late or maybe terribly early. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t find a hack. It was cold and damp, having rained earlier. He pulled the collar of his coat up and tugged his hat lower over his brow.

It seemed as though his episodes were growing worse. He thought he’d conquered the debilitating terror that came over him when he thought of his family too closely. He’d learned to keep them at bay, to occupy his time with activity and the pursuit of adventure.

He’d done such a good job that he had trouble conjuring his brother’s face and voice. They were hazy, growing hazier by the year. And his sisters were all but lost to him now, their singsong voices indeterminate in his memory. The panic seized him again, that helpless feeling that he was chained to a rock while water rushed in, drowning him.

Stop thinking about them. Think about something jolly. Think about what you’re doing next. Parachuting.

Yes, parachuting. He’d be going up with Sadler again in a few days, and if the conditions were favorable, he’d parachute. He’d meet with him the day after tomorrow and review the procedure.
Yes, parachuting.

With each step, the darkness seeped away, leaving him numb and hollow. Later, when he was finally abed as the dawn began creeping over the horizon, he relaxed. His body felt like lead, deliciously heavy and without feeling. As he closed his eyes, his mind was blissfully blank. But as he drifted to sleep, he smelled flowers and clove and tasted heaven on his lips.

A
s he typically did after a nightmare, Andrew slept rather late. He hadn’t, however, had a nightmare. He’d suffered an attack, but once he’d fallen asleep, he’d dreamed. Of his family and Lucy, and it hadn’t ended badly with cold and darkness and that horrible pain that left him feeling hollow.

Tindall brought him something to eat along with his mail. Andrew ate ravenously and then picked through his correspondence. The third letter he opened made his blood run cold.

Dartford,

I know that Smitty is really Miss Parnell. If you’d like this to remain a secret, deliver five thousand pounds in a package addressed to Mr. Black to the head footman at Boodle’s by five o’clock. I should hate for her to be ruined by your inaction.

Yours,

Mr. Black

The ice in Andrew’s veins melted as hot anger poured through him. How dare this man threaten Lucy? And demand money from him? He crumpled the paper in his fist.
 

Black.

Andrew didn’t know anyone named Black. He did, however, know someone named Greene. It seemed to be too much of a coincidence—both names being colors—but perhaps it wasn’t.
 

He stood up and bellowed for Tindall. He didn’t know where Greene would be at this hour, but he’d run him to ground.
 

It took him well over an hour, but Andrew finally caught up with Greene at a coffee shop on St James’s. He sat with two other gentlemen at a table and looked up when Andrew approached.

“Dart, what a pleasure to see you here. Join us.”

Andrew barely kept his temper in check. “I need a word. Privately.”

Greene’s brow tipped low. He flicked a glance at his tablemates. “Please excuse me.” He rose and motioned for Andrew to follow him to the back of the shop, where he led him into a small chamber that looked to be some sort of retiring room.

Without preamble, Andrew glared at him, his lip curling. “I received your letter. You’ll extort no money from me, nor will you expose Miss Parnell. Give me your word right now, or I’ll summon a second.”

Greene stared at him, his gaze…confused? “I didn’t send you a letter about Miss Parnell. What are you talking about?”

He seemed genuinely perplexed, which sucked the vitriol right out of Andrew. “I thought…that is, you didn’t send me a letter?”

He looked offended, his eyes narrowing. “No. Nor would I extort money from you. I’m aghast—and outraged on your behalf—that someone would. I’m doubly angry that anyone would target Miss Parnell. I hold her in high esteem.”

Greene spoke of her as if he didn’t realize she was also Smitty. Or else he was an exceptionally good actor.
 

Andrew narrowed his eyes at Greene. “You don’t know what this is about?”

“I’m unaware of anything to do with Miss Parnell that would be worth exposing, but judging from your behavior, there clearly is.” Greene’s brow furrowed. “I don’t wish to pry, but if there’s any way I can help, I should like to do so. As I said, I hold Miss Parnell in high regard, and I consider you a friend.”

A friend.

The word made Andrew mildly uncomfortable. Yes, he had friends, but he kept them at a distance. And he didn’t ask them for help. This felt too close—too much like something he could look forward to and miss if it were gone.

Like Lucy.

A knot formed in his throat. He swallowed. He coughed. He didn’t know what to say about their friendship, so he addressed Greene’s other comment instead. “You say you hold Miss Parnell in high esteem. Do you wish to…court her?”

Greene blinked. “I, ah, no.” Then Greene laughed, and Andrew was suddenly confused. “Because you are my friend, I’ll tell you
my
secret. As I told you and the others, I go to balls and dance with an array of misses to please my parents. Miss Parnell is charming in a way most of those misses are not, and that is why I sought her out last night. I am not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with her. I was,
however
, interested in Smitty, and I’m disappointed he moved away.”

Andrew felt like an ass for at least the second time that week. “I didn’t realize.”

Not only had Greene not penned the letter, he didn’t even know that Lucy and Smitty were one and the same.

“Of course you didn’t,” Greene said. “I don’t advertise my preference for men.” He tipped his head to the side with a thoughtful expression. “If you thought I’d written the letter, you decided it had to be someone you know. Is it possible they’re from our set?”

Their
set
. It was like the word friend. It made Andrew feel connected, and the sensation was odd. It wasn’t, however, distasteful, which was both shocking and frustrating. He liked his isolation. Things were much simpler, and there was less potential for loss.

He forced himself back to the conversation and the fact that Greene had made an excellent point. Andrew had assumed that Greene was the extortionist based on his behavior, but now that he understood Greene’s interest in Smitty, he was fully satisfied that Greene was innocent. Which meant it was another of Andrew’s “friends.” But who? He considered sharing the letter with Greene, but then Lucy’s secret would be out, and he couldn’t do that.

“You’re correct,” Andrew said. “It has to be one of our…set.”

Greene exhaled. “I’ll be honest, Dart. When I think of who might resort to extortion, Charles immediately comes to mind. I don’t know him as well as you, but his gambling seems to be a problem.”