But his heart knew, even if his mind did not. The moment that he had seen her, that flailing hand desperate for a rescuer, his stomach had lurched and his instincts had taken over.
Teresa Metcalfe was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with: wake up every morning with, spend the long days with, and ravish every night.
It would be his honour to be her Duke, and she – she would be his Duchess.
She moved gently in her sleep, but did not awake.
Alexander smiled, and as slowly as he could, got out of the bed. Now that he saw it in daylight, he could see the sad dilapidation of the room: what appeared to be a magical room, exotic and unknown, was just a room. The silks were torn in a few places, the cushions stained with red wine, and the carpet was not the pure white that it had seemed when he had entered it, eyes full of lust, heart full of love.
And yet she was the same. Teresa slept on, unknowing that she was being examined by a man who loved her.
Alexander thought quickly. If he was to see her again, then it would not do for him to be found with her, this morning.
His reputation may be bad, but it would disappear entirely if he was to be discovered leaving a courtesan’s bedchamber.
Yes, he would have to leave. He could return that evening; he would return that evening, and he would bring with him so much hope and expectation that she would undoubtedly, be a little overwhelmed.
Alexander looked at her with just a hint of nervousness. Did she feel it too? Surely as they had made love last night, each learning from the other, each giving just as much pleasure as they received, she had felt the connection. Had known how she had driven him wild – had experienced that emotional tie just as strongly as the physical one.
He bit his lip. Well, it was too early to ask such questions now; perhaps when they were better acquainted. Perhaps, and his loins tightened at the very thought of it, after he had taken her on another journey to ecstasy, he could ask her.
But now what he had to do was leave, and leave fast. His clothes – or rather, the clothes that Teresa had given him to wear after his own had become drenched in Thames water – had been scattered around the room as their hunger for each other had consumed them. Surely his own clothes would be dry by now?
Pushing aside the curtain as quietly as he could, Alexander discovered his dry clothes before the smouldering fire, and hastily dressed. Inside his waistcoat was his pocket watch, entirely useless now that it had been soaked in water, and his pocketbook, thankfully safeguarded by its leather exterior from the water.
There was fifty pounds in it, an insurance against being caught out. Alexander hesitated.
Teresa’s father and sister – Helena, was it? – needed money. They needed it badly, and without it, Teresa would be forced to go out tomorrow evening, and . . . and find another client.
Bile, hot bile rose in his throat as he considered another man walking into this room, another man being led to the chamber behind the curtain, and Teresa starting to take off his –
Alexander swallowed it down. That did not have to happen; if he left the money for her here, she would not need to find another client for a long time. And by then, he would be back with her.
After pulling on his boots, which felt uncomfortably tight after their time in the Thames, Alexander crept forward to the curtain once more, and poked his head through.
Teresa, like a Grecian goddess who had just spent a night with a mortal man, was still barely covered by the silk sheet, naked, fast asleep.
Alexander’s face broke into a smile; one of love, and care, and desire, and hope for a future.
He could not put that hope into words: not yet. But he hoped that soon, he would be able to make Teresa incredibly happy.
Darting around the room, his eyes took in possible places to put the money so that Teresa would easily find it. settling on the small table beside the bed, he strode over silently, placed it gently there and then moved her earbobs onto it, to ensure that it did not move, and then made for the curtain once more.
“Alexander?”
Teresa stared at the figure through her golden eyelashes, and tried to resurrect some memories to go along with that handsome face. He looked incredibly familiar, and there was none of that sick feeling that usually accompanied her morning conversations.
“Go back to sleep, Teresa,” it whispered, and the face broke out into a smile.
Alexander. It was Alexander, Duke of Caershire.
“Alexander,” she murmured, and smiled at the warmth that his name flowed through her body.
There was a slight dip in the mattress as he sat beside her. His hand cupped her cheek, and then gently pushed back some of her long blonde hair so that she could see him properly.
“Good morning,” he whispered, gazing at her with such affection that Teresa could not help but broaden her smile.
“Hello,” she replied. She was almost shy now, heartily conscious of her naked body beside his clothed one. “You are awake early.”
Alexander chuckled. “I have no idea what the actual time is, my pocket watch is full of Thames not time, but the sun is certainly up.”
Thames. Thames, not time. Teresa almost gasped as the memory came flooding back: of course, that rascal Harold had tipped her into the Thames when she had refused him service, and then – the water, the sharp coldness in her lungs, that terrible panic that had rose in her as she had desperately –
And then the tug to safety, the rescue by Alexander. “You saved me,” she whispered.
Alexander beamed, and her heart lurched as she saw it. What had she done: handed over her heart as well as her body last night?
“It was my honour,” he whispered, “but I have to go, I cannot remain here now.”
Teresa smiled at him. He was such a good man: and he understood her like no one ever had. Why, he had not scorned her when he knew what she did to survive, to keep her family afloat.
“I will return,” he said in a voice that sounded as though it was echoing from a place far away. “Be careful of that ankle, do not try to do over much today. Go back to sleep, Teresa.”
That caressing hand was stroking her hair, and Teresa was warm and almost half asleep already. It did not take much for her to abandon the struggle for consciousness, and slip once more into the welcoming arms of sleep.
When she finally awoke again, it was many hours later. The sun had moved so that there was almost no light pouring into the little room now, and Teresa stirred as the darkness started to descend once more.
It must be late afternoon. She pulled herself up, and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. She had had the strangest dream: a tall, dark man, absolutely delicious in the bedroom who had carried her from a great danger . . .
Teresa looked around. Men’s clothes were scattered about the room, as though pulled off in lovemaking haste, but there was no man beside her.
Alexander. She smiled unconsciously as the remembrance of him filled her mind, filled her heart. She could never have predicted meeting such a man, taking a man like that to her bedchamber. Despite her profession, that was the first truly wanton thing that she had ever done.
And by God, had she enjoyed it. Her cheeks coloured as she recalled the depths of desire they had sunk to together, here, in this very bed.
To think that some people had that connection, that physical and emotional connection, with their spouses. They were able to delight in the deliciousness of the flesh every night, without fear of losing them, with the complexity and joy of loving the person as well as desiring their body.
Teresa squirmed slightly. It was a heady thought – and an even headier one to consider that, perhaps, she and Alexander . . .
It was foolishness, surely. He was a Duke – he was Caershire, for goodness sake, with land and property and duty and responsibilities. When he married, and he would, he would need a wife by his side that would be able to understand the legacy of what she undertook. She would, and here Teresa could not help bu
t smile, need to teach their children, their son, their heir of those same rights and responsibilities.
Was it madness, then, to see herself in that place?
Teresa pulled the sheet over her naked body, and tried not to think about it; but her treacherous heart could not help it. His reputation was ruined, he had said. Then what was the harm in a little more scandal? But then, no one had to know, of course. They could tell the world that he had rescued her, become a drenched duke to save her life, and in that moment –
The fairy-tale story disappeared, and she shook her head. No, it could not be. Even she was not fool enough to think that her countless clients over the last year would not recognise her. Everyone would know that the Duke of Caershire had married a courtesan, and if he felt the ignominy of a lost reputation now, how would he countenance that?
Her heart sank, but his parting words gave her hope. “I will return.”
Teresa swept her hair out of her eyes, and felt the lack of her earbobs. Where had she put them?
Her questing eyes found them on the table beside the bed – on top of a large pile of what looked like . . .
She had not thought it possible for her heart to sink any lower, and yet it did, down into depths of despair, into a dark place that she did not even know existed within herself.
Money. He had left her money. Fifty pounds, when she had counted it.
Teresa laughed aloud, the bitterness in her soul barked out in that breath. And to think that she had thought that they had connected; that he had felt something other than the pleasures of her body.
Here she was, desperately hoping for a future together, and he had already moved on: his debt was paid, and he was ready for the next adventure. He must have felt so embarrassed, she thought angrily, to find himself here this morning. If he loathed his reputation then, how he must despise it now.
No wonder he had run out, early that morning. He had not even stayed to say goodbye properly; just a hurried conversation and a soothing hand to push her back onto the drifting sea that was sleep.
Hot tears splashed down, and Teresa dashed them away angrily. He did not deserve her tears. He did not deserve any of her thoughts, those wild hopes that she had entertained for what: five minutes?
Alexander, Duke of Caershire, she thought bitterly. Just another name to add to the list of man who had enjoyed her body without any consideration of her mind, her soul.
She would not make that mistake again.
7
“You are late.”
Alexander grinned at the man who had just stepped through the doors of White’s gentleman’s club, rain droplets dripping from his top hat and being shaken from his face.
Luke, Marquis of Dewsbury, strode forward with a returning smile. “And you do not seem particularly upset about it, Caershire, which is even more surprising.”
Alexander shrugged, and caught the eye of a servant who glided over to take the order. “Absolutely your best steak for my good friend here, and – ”
“A bottle of claret, and two cigars,” Luke interjected. “On Caershire’s tab, if you do not mind.”
Attempting not to roll his eyes, Alexander nodded at the servant who dashed away. When he was quite out of earshot, he muttered, “You are quite wealthy enough to pay for your own claret, Dewsbury.”
Luke threw him a wolfish grin. “Perhaps. Perhaps not; perhaps my family is collapsing in on itself, and I am too proud to tell you.”
Alexander rolled his eyes. It had not been his idea to meet at White’s for dinner, two days after that incredible night with Teresa, but Luke was his closest friend. If he could not tell him what had occurred within these leather-lined and secretive walls, who could he confide in?
“You said you had news,” Luke said with a questioning eyebrow, as the bottle of claret and two large glasses were brought over. “Not Miss Layland, surely?”
Alexander blinked. “Miss Layland?”
His companion chortled as he poured the drinks, waving away the waiter. “But two days ago, you were rigid with rage that Miss Layland would not agree to dance with you at Almacks, and now you cannot even remember who she is? My word, who is the woman who has completely driven you mad?”
Luke laughed as he handed over the glass of deep red, but it faltered as he saw his face.
“No,” he whispered.
Alexander nodded. “Yes, I have met someone – someone who I think you will disapprove of, perhaps. I am not sure.”
Luke’s face broke into a smile. “You dog, you kept that quiet! And here I was, hoping to be able to introduce you to – ”
“No need,” Alexander interrupted triumphantly. “In fact, it was that very night that I met her.”
His friend leaned back in his green leather chair, and surveyed him. “My word. You, and a woman. An actual woman.”
Alexander laughed. “You do not have to sound so surprised!”
“Not surprised, exactly,” Luke shrugged. “Just . . . well, after your most recent outburst, I assumed that I would be burying you alone – ouch!”
He rubbed his arm where Alexander had not-so-gently punched him.
“I am not going to be buried by you, though I do think you will outlive us all,” Alexander said genially. It was difficult to become truly angry at Luke at the best of times, and now that there was so much joy rushing through his heart, it was even more difficult.
“My dear Caershire,” said Luke smoothly, nodding at the servant who brought over their food, “I intend to live forever. Now, tell me about this girl – titled?”
Alexander swallowed. He had promised himself that he would tell his friend the truth – the entire truth, and nothing else. After all, if Teresa was going to become a permanent part of his life, then this was a conversation that he was going to have to get used to.
And yet it was not easy. Was he ashamed of her? No: it was more that he knew society’s opinion of women like her.
“Well,” he said with a sigh. “I think it all started when I rescued her from drowning.”
Luke spat out a very large gulp of expensive claret over the steak that had just been placed before him. “What?”
Alexander laughed quietly, but gave apologetic nods to the men around them who were eating in comparable silence, albeit with disapproving shakes of the head.
“If you do not control yourself, Dewsbury, we shall be thrown out,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Drowning?”
“Drowning,” Alexander confirmed. “Much like you are doing with that nice claret.”
Luke took a large breath, and then hissed, “What do you think you were doing, rescuing women from drowning?”
“What? You think you could have passed by and allowed the Thames to swallow her up?”
Luke shuddered. “No, I suppose not. God’s teeth, what a way to go.”
“Well, she did not,” said Alexander firmly, the memory of her standing by the river Thames in his mind, all shining hair and clinging gown. “I pulled her out, and – Luke, she was absolutely beautiful. I mean, not like any of the young ladies we know.”
His companion arched an eyebrow as he swallowed a bite from his steak. “Caershire, do I detect a hint of love in the air?”
Alexander grinned, he could not help it. “Maybe. Anyway, she and I were both soaked through, absolutely drenched, and after she twisted her ankle, I helped her home.”
“Nice place?”
Alexander hesitated once more. Sooner or later in this story, he would have to tell him. Why not now?
“No,” he said reluctantly. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Dewsbury, I hope you are not easily shocked.”
Luke raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Ah, now this I have to hear.”
Alexander swallowed. It was now or never, and there was no one that he trusted more to consider his story seriously than Luke. My, he practically wrote the book on being a radical within the confines of a title.
“She is a courtesan,” he said in a rush.
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Luke stared at him, and Alexander stared back, trying to discern any emotion or opinion in that blank face. But there was nothing; it was as though Luke had become frozen in time.
“Dewsbury?” He said, after waiting a full minute.
Luke coughed, shook his head as though he was wringing water from his ears, and then nodded. “Courtesan. Right then; continue with your story, Caershire.”
Alexander said hesitantly, “You are shocked.”
It was not a question, and Luke did not treat it as such. “Only because it is you, Caershire. After the year that you have just had, attempting to repair your honour . . . it just surprised me, that was all. Please, continue.”
“Well, at its very basic level, I am sure that you can – can guess what happened,” Alexander said slowly, unconsciously lowering his voice. “But Dewsbury, she is incredible, an incredible woman. We talked for hours before we – and we have so much in common, there was such a connection between us, and – ”
“Caershire,” said Luke slowly, and Alexander saw the kind look on his face falter slightly. “Caershire, that is what they do. That is what a courtesan is, a soft and kind ear along with a delectable body.”
“This was different,” Alexander said determinedly. His memory took him back to that laugh Teresa gave when she had caught him out in something ridiculous, that arch of her back as she leaned forward to pass him the tea, the confidences that they shared in that little room.
Only Luke’s voice could have brought him back to the present.
“. . . anyone else,” he was saying. “I hate to say it, you know that I do, but I just do not see how you can assume that – ”
“We made love, Dewsbury.” Alexander smiled gently. “‘Twas no transaction: no money changed hands, there was no expectation of such. By God, she invited me to her bed, she and I – we shared words of such . . .”
His voice trailed away as the smile deepened.