The other room seemed to be a medley of both parlour and bedroom. There were two large armchairs around a grate that did not seem to have any firewood or coal in it, and a bed that had been pushed up against one side of the wall. A tall wooden screen made of three parts stood opposite the bed, and a curtain hung over the back wall, slightly damp and woven with an old-fashioned design that would not have looked out of place at Alexander’s housekeeper’s rooms.
“Here you are,” said Teresa, limping into what was possibly the parlour, and gesturing that he should take a seat – which he did not.
“This – this is your home?”
Teresa threw him a grin as she pulled back the curtain, and slowly disappeared into a room that Alexander had not noticed before. “For now. ‘Tis not pleasant, I know, but the rent is incredibly low, and that enables me to keep much of my own earnings.”
A twinge of bitterness clenched at his stomach. So, she brought people here: and then what, make love to them on that bed? He found that his eyes were drawn to it over and over again, despite his resolution to keep his eyes away.
“It . . . it is well situated for town,” he said to the curtain.
A laugh trickled through it, and her voice said, “Incredibly convenient, do not you think?”
Alexander flushed. He was not a fool; he knew there was a world beneath his feet, beneath his station, even, in which love was shared and sold between men and women.
He just did not expect to literally pluck it from the Thames, and go home with it.
“Are you sitting down and making yourself at home?” came the voice through the curtain.
Alexander looked down at his breeches. They were no longer soaking wet, that was for sure, but they were still mighty damp.
“No,” he called through, feeling a little foolish talking to a curtain. “I would hate to get your upholstery damp.”
“There now,” she said, coming back through the curtain with a heap of clothes in her hands. Alexander jumped. “Great minds think alike. Well, I am not entirely sure of your size, but I have the knack of guessing it, and I think that these will fit.”
Thrusting the heap of clothes into his hands, she smiled at him.
“Fit?” He repeated, stupidly.
She nodded, raising an eyebrow. “My lord, you are currently dripping wet. Do you want to remain so?”
She was so very beautiful. She herself had not changed, and still remained in that clinging and damp gown that she had been wearing when she had been, by the sound of it, disposed of by a previous client, but she cocked her head slightly as she accepted his gaze.
“When you are quite finished,” Teresa said quietly, “the screen awaits you.”
Alexander grinned. It was easy to ignore the peeling wallpaper and the creep of damp on the floorboards when you had a distraction like Teresa. No wonder she trucked only with dukes and earls.
As he changed behind the screen, he could hear her bustling about in the room, and a flare of light around the screen and a crackle told him that a fire had, thankfully, been lit.
“I would ask you why you seem to have such a collection of fine gentleman’s clothes,” said Alexander drily as he emerged from the screen. “But I have a feeling that I know the answer.”
Teresa curtseyed with a grin, awkwardly with her ankle still clearly painful. “La, sir, ‘tis my fault that some of my guests leave in such a hurry, not fully dressed?”
“What, when their wives may realise that they are gone, or their pocket watch tells them that they are late for an appointment?”
He had not intended his words to be quite so dark, and he saw a flash of – what was that? Annoyance? Irritation? Perhaps even embarrassment? Something flickered across Teresa’s face, but it was gone like a swallow swooping over a field in the glory of summer, and she smiled.
“Please, my lord, seat yourself.”
There was something about the way that she looked at him; something in the crinkle around her eyes. Was she laughing at him? Alexander found that the new cravat and collar he had donned seemed a little too tight after all, and the silk shirt seemed to make him hot.
“Thank you,” he managed, folding himself in the armchair. Now that he was beside the fireplace, he noticed something that had not caught his attention before. “You have nothing on your mantlepiece.”
Teresa, moving around the screen to collect his wet things, did not look around. “And what would you have me put there, my lord?”
Alexander shrugged. “Portraits of loved ones. Letters. Invitations. Flowers. Ornaments, you know. A clock, perhaps.”
She snorted as she pulled out a chair and stood it before the fire, hanging his wet clothes on it to dry, leaning on her good ankle. “And where would I procure such things? I have no Dukedom, my earnings come from me and no one else.”
He stared at her. A curl of blonde hair had cascaded down her cheek, and he watched it move as she leaned forward to unfurl his cuffs so that they dried properly. Here was someone without all the trappings of wealth, all the security that a fortune gave. He had met such people, of course, but they either fell into the category of servant, dependent, or high born descendent of a financial nightmare.
No one like Teresa.
“But you must have family,” he said, with a smile.
It was not returned. “Why do you want to know about my family?”
Alexander shrugged, and watched her move back towards the curtain. What was behind there? Surely not a bedroom. There was a bed here. “Polite conversation; fear not, I would ask any young debutante the same questions.”
And receive no replies, he thought darkly. Not after they had found out that I was the dangerous Duke of Caershire, rake.
Teresa’s laugh once again echoed through the curtain, and he smiled. There was something musical about it, and the tension in her voice had disappeared.
“Though I am honoured to be classed as a debutante, I do not think that I quite cut it, as my favourite earl who plays golf tells me,” Teresa grinned as she returned once more, this time carrying a white cotton gown. “Yes, my lord, I have family, no my lord, they do not live in London, yes my lord, I miss them very much, no my lord, we do not write.”
She curtseyed again with a mocking smile, and then disappeared behind the screen.
Alexander swallowed. Nearly five feet away from him, Teresa Metcalfe was peeling her gown and chemise off, and nothing but a flimsy wooden screen was hiding that sight from him.
The shot of desire, unbidden yet not unwelcome, exploded through his body. His gaze stared at the screen hungrily, as though willing it to – what? Fall over? Disappear?
The desire was growing in his stomach, like a hunger that only Teresa could satisfy.
An elegant wrist rose from the screen as the damp blue gown rose above it, and then dropped to the floor.
Alexander swallowed again, and shifted slightly so that the painful tension in his loins did not get trapped in his britches.
“Now I have to ask you,” came Teresa’s voice, and Alexander stiffened, “a question that may shock you.”
Nothing could shock me anymore, he thought wryly, but he said aloud, “Please do.”
He almost gasped as she turned behind the screen and leaned slightly to retrieve something. A flash of cream shoulder was there and then it was gone, as though he had imagined it. Alexander clenched his fist, desperate to remain in the moment.
“Why, after knowing what it is that I do, are you not afraid to be seen in my company?”
Alexander grimaced. He had known that this question would come from her, sooner or later. How could it not? It was a reasonable one, and she must have been wondering it as soon as she discovered his title.
And then he started, as Teresa’s mischievous grin peeked out from one side of the screen.
“Come on now, no secrets,” she said, eyes sparkling.
Alexander opened his mouth, but she had already disappeared once more behind it. A creaking sound began, and he
closed his eyes, trying not to think of the corset that was currently being removed from the warm, wet flesh of Teresa.
“I lost my reputation two years ago,” he said hurriedly. “After an . . . an incident with a young lady. She was ruined, and both of us lost our reputations.”
There was a moment of silence as Teresa considered this. Alexander found himself desperately wishing for another glimpse of her, and heat rose in his chest. He was a guest in her home, and all he could think about was her naked form?
Well, it was now.
“I think I heard about this,” came Teresa’s voice, and his stomach clenched as two delicate hands rose to pull the clean white gown over her head. “She was rather beautiful, was not she?”
This was not a conversation that Alexander wanted to have, but he could see no way around it. Countless others had asked him similar questions; most of them hungry young men, desperate to touch but forbidden by society’s rules, who wanted all of the sinful details.
Details which Alexander had been unable to give them.
“She was,” he said quietly as the curve of her neck became visible for a brief moment as she leaned down to pick something up. “I believe that she lives with an aunt now, in Cheshire.”
“So what you are saying is,” Teresa’s voice floated up from the screen, “that you indulged in licentious pleasure with a young woman. She is now banished from society and living in the middle of nowhere, and you are here, in the heart of society, continuing on as though nothing happened?”
Alexander felt the bitterness and the anger rise up pin him, but he was not going to let them overcome him. “It is not like that, exactly, no. Miss Wrottesley decided that she would rather be away from society, and so she receives a – a generous stipend, shall we say – where she and her family can live in relative comfort.”
Teresa stepped out from the screen, and Alexander audibly gasped.
There was nothing wrong with the gown, at first glance. It was white, it was cotton, and it was pretty, in a simple way. No embroidery, no lacing, no print.
No, what made it the most incredible outfit that Alexander had ever seen was that she was wearing it without corset, and without being properly dry. Small damp patches across her stomach were completely transparent, giving him a view of taut and yet soft skin. Her breasts, unconstrained by whalebone, were pert and rounded, and a drop of water had cascaded from her still dripping hair to leave a trail down one breast to the nipple. The trail left a transparent track, and it was a loin-clenching look that Teresa gave him.
“My, how the mighty have fallen,” she whispered, and Alexander almost groaned aloud. It was impossible, surely, for her not to realise that she was doing this to him? Of course not, she was well-practised in this art – and yet how could she stand there, in a gown with no chemise on, as he could very clearly see, talking to him with those luscious lips?
“I – she – it was agreed,” Alexander managed, pulling his eyes upwards to meet hers. “She . . . Miss Wrottesley . . . decided that it was best.”
“For you,” Teresa said with a smile. “Not for her.”
Although painfully aroused by the sight of her, that did not entirely distract Alexander from her words. He swallowed down the bitterness that rose from his heart. “I would not say that I have had an easy ride of it, either. My reputation here is sullied, and few have continued their acquaintances with me. My club has expelled me, and – ”
“Oh, your club has expelled you!” Teresa threw up her hands in mock horror, and sat gently in the armchair opposite him. “Why did you not say so? That is surely the cruellest punishment of all!”
“And I cannot marry!” Alexander snapped. “You should try to even converse with a woman who believes that you are going to rip her clothes off at any moment, it leaves you completely isolated!”
His anger was real, but so was Teresa’s mirth, and it incensed him. He glared at the fire to avoid glaring at her, knowing that his traitorous eyes would not stay long on her beautiful face.
“You have had your time of pleasure,” Teresa said quietly. “And now you have to pay for it. That is the rule of polite society, is it not?”
“It is indeed.” Alexander nodded. “But it is strange to think that I shall now never experience the love of a wife, or welcome children. My family line could be ended, almost certainly will be. And to never know the comfort of another; to live the rest of my days without a lover at my side; to die ignorant of that passion . . . ‘tis a cruel fate.”
He tilted his head to smile at her wistfully, and she leaned forward, her breasts falling towards him.
“I thought you seduced her.” She was staring at him, confusion and suspicion on her face. “Surely . . . surely you cannot die ignorant, as you already know.”
For a moment, Alexander thought that his heart had stopped. Blast, he had been too loose in the tongue – and he had never made this mistake before, what a fool he was! And yet it was impossible to take his words back now, not when those blue eyes were staring at him in wonder.
He sighed, and smiled darkly. “You have found me out, Miss Metcalfe.”
“Teresa, please,” she whispered. “If you are about to reveal a dark and terrible secret – which, I suspect, you are – then I think Christian names are more appropriate.”
He could not help but laugh at the archness of her manner. “Teresa, then. It seems strange to admit this, particularly to you, but there was no seduction. I have never met Miss Wrottesley, let alone touched her. ‘Tis all a lie.”
Teresa’s eyes widened, and she sat back in the armchair, staring at him. “Well!” She breathed. “Now that is the strangest thing that I have ever heard. Who creates such a story as that? Who loses their reputation – their chance of happiness, even – on a lie?”
Alexander shifted in the armchair. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to reveal this great secret, one that he had kept between himself and his closest friend? The secret that he had guarded for so long – reveal it to a woman whom he had met but an hour before?
But there was something about her. Teresa was the kind of woman that you felt would keep a secret, if you told it to her.
She tilted her head as she beheld him, and a feeling erupted in him that tasted like jealousy. How many other men had she wheedled secrets out of? How many others had sat in this same chair, and confessed? Why, this woman could probably bring London down with the secrets she knew.
“You do not have to tell me, you know.”
Her words were soft, and for a moment they did not register in his ears. Then he frowned.
Teresa smiled. “I am not one to force confidences, not ever: not with friends nor clients, if that is what you are concerned about.”
Alexander smiled drily. “That is what I was considering, yes.”
There was a moment – a shared intimacy, an understanding, a connection. And then it was gone, and she looked down into her lap.
He drew in a deep breath. “It was not I that met Miss Wrottesley at a house party in Lincolnshire. Nor was it I who invited her to Loxwich, where she stayed for, I think, several days. But it was my decision to establish the stipend, and I who bear the ignominy of the offence.”
Teresa shook her head. “Why? Why would you do such a thing – for whom? Who is it that you protect?”
For a full minute, Alexander looked at her. There was so much innocence about her, despite her profession. She could not comprehend the depths that one would sink to protect the family name, could not understand the weight of history.
“What you must remember,” he said eventually, “is that my family has been a part of the fabric of this country for longer than the Regent’s family was even here. Longer than Elizabeth. Longer than the Conquest. We have a reputation to uphold, and in my family there is . . . well, I think you would call it a tradition.”
Teresa stared at him, but said nothing.
Alexander swallowed. “The Duke and his eldest son must always be protected. Alwa
ys. Hundreds of years ago, that was more of a physical protection: war, bandits, that sort of thing.”
“But now,” said Teresa slowly, “now it is reputation. You have a brother.”
“Had,” he corrected her. “Mark was older than me, older by seven years. He was the heir to the dukedom, and I was the little brother. Two years ago, when he was enjoying the pleasures of Miss Wrottesley, I was here, studying the bar.”
He watched as the truth dawned on her face like a ray of sunshine. “Are you – are you saying that it was your brother, and not yourself, that deflowered that girl? That you have taken the blame for it?”
Alexander nodded, and smiled. “It feels strangely cathartic to tell another person! Yes, foolish Mark immediately realised after Miss Wrottesley had left that the entire party had seen them depart together, and it would not take long for people to ascertain that they had both been missing for several days.”
“His reputation ruined,” Teresa whispered, “and hers along with it.”
“But that simply can’t happen to the heir of the Caershire dukedom.” Alexander tried to speak without bitterness creeping into his voice, but it seemed an almost impossible task.
Teresa shifted in her seat, and leaned closely towards him, taking his hand in a swift movement that made Alexander throb with desire. “You were brave,” she whispered. “To take that blame from him. To restore your family name. To keep him safe.”
For a wild moment, Alexander wanted to lean forwards and kiss that comforting mouth full on the lips, to taste of that goodness, throw caution to the wind – and then she released his hands, though she remained leaning close to him.
He coughed. “Well, it was not even a question. I raced back to Loxwich, wrote up a contract using my legal training to establish a stipend for Miss Wrottesley, and with the help of a good friend, seeded the rumour myself. That way, it caught the gossips before even a hint of my brother reached them.”
“But . . . but you sacrificed your name.”
Alexander nodded. It had not felt like a choice then, and in the darkest of nights he still wished that he had made a different decision. But it was too late now.