Drenched With a Duke, Page 2

  Teresa stared at him, calculating. Well, knowing that he was a Duke certainly turned things around a bit; now that she took a closer look, she could see the unmistakable signs of wealth. But pennies in your pocket were worth more than guineas in someone else’s, and she had no time to waste.

  “I would have curtseyed, had I known,” she said with a cheeky grin, and she saw the answering preen in his stance that she knew would come. My, but weren’t men predictable? “Good evening, my lord.”

  His surprised face drew level with hers, even though she was walking as fast as she could – almost running. “You – you do not want my protection?”

  “I do not need your protection,” Teresa said hurriedly, and with just a little of her irritation seeping through. “To tell the truth, my lord, I have somewhere to be, and it is not a somewhere that you should be seen. Go away.”

  Darting down a side alley, Teresa broke out into a run – anything to be rid of this puppy of a Duke. But she had underestimated him; his reflexes were quick, and so were his feet, and within twenty seconds he had caught up with her, caught hold of her, and thrust her against a wall.

  “God’s teeth, let go of me!” Teresa cried, and then, in a desperate hope that the knowledge would release her, exclaimed, “I am a courtesan, you fool!”

  2

  The woman stopped struggling, and for the first time, Alexander was able to look at her properly.

  He was utterly transfixed. Golden blonde hair falling in soaking wet waves down her neck, her large blue eyes gazed at him, defiance and fear mingled in their huge irises. There was strength in her steady gaze, but a vulnerability too.

  His hands were on her arms, and he was suddenly conscious of her damp and heaving chest, rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. Her gown, a green or blue he could not tell, clung to her body as she shook slightly with cold.

  Teresa Metcalfe was stunningly attractive, and Alexander hardly knew what to do with himself as her last words echoed in his mind. “I am a courtesan, you fool!”

  “A – a what?” He said stupidly.

  She was barely moving, and yet he could feel the resentment in her, and he dropped her arms as though they had burned him.

  “A courtesan, a lady of the night, whatever you want to call it,” she said with a curling smile. “And I can tell by your shocked expression, my lord, that you have little to no experience of such matters.”

  Alexander flushed; he could not help himself. Two hours ago he had been at Almacks, waiting for a girl who he had felt attracted to, one of the most eligible young ladies of society. Now he was standing in a back alley of London, arguing with a courtesan.

  “May I suggest that you keep it that way,” said Teresa in a low voice. “I would not want your wife to be disappointed.”

  Alexander laughed darkly. “I have no wife to speak of, nor intended, nor mother actually, if it comes to that. I would not worry on their accounts.”

  His gaze raked over her. There could almost be no difference in age between them, and yet what different lives they had led; he, the son of a Duke, now a Duke himself. She, a woman who offered men the pleasures of her body – and the more that he looked at her, the more conscious he became that those pleasures were likely to be very delightful indeed.

  He shook his head. That was no way to think of her, not a path that he was going to go down. Becoming transfixed by a pretty face, perhaps. But considering taking her into his arms, his bed –

  “I did not know,” he said stupidly, and cursed his tongue for once again stating the obvious.

  She laughed. It was a pretty laugh, but there was an edge to it. “My dear Duke, do you think that we all wear signs around our necks with a price list? Goodness, I should have known you for a prude the moment that I saw you, you have never known of such things and far be it for me to enlighten you.”

  Alexander stared at her, and then shook his head once more. “There is much bitterness in you, is there not, Miss Metcalfe?”

  For a second, he thought he saw something; a glimpse into sorrow, or something deeper, in those blue eyes. But then it was gone.

  “Life has dealt me a hand, and now I must play it,” she said briskly. “And as I said before, I actually have an appointment with a young gentleman who shall, between us, remain nameless. If you will excuse me.”

  Teresa Metcalfe, woman of the night, started to walk slowly back down the alleyway. Alexander stared after her; even from a short distance, soaked to the skin and in the dead of night, there was no denying that she was an incredibly attractive woman. There was something about the way that she walked, perhaps, or the curve of her gown – though, and he smiled to himself, perhaps if every woman strode the streets of London in damp and clinging gowns, there would be riots in the street.

  He bit his lip. If he had met her at a dance hall, been introduced by mutual acquaintances over a cup of tea, or come across her at a music recital, he would have liked to get to know Miss Metcalfe better.

  A great deal better, whispered his darker self. With far fewer clothes on.

  Alexander started walking, hardly knowing why, after her. She represented everything that he despised: a bad reputation, sensual depravity, the dregs of society. And yet he could not keep his eyes from her.

  “Wait,” he called softly, and was astonished to find that she did. There was a tightening in his body as he gazed at her, as those eyes turned to him, as she twisted and the silk fabric, barely covering her as it was, tighten across her hips.

  “What do you want, Caershire?” She sighed.

  Alexander raised an eyebrow as he reached her in five long strides. “I would not have expected you to address me correctly. Most people call me Duke, or Alexander.”

  It had been a pet peeve of his father’s and to his shame, it was one he had inherited.

  Teresa smiled, and yet the smile did not reach her brilliant eyes. “It will, perhaps, surprise you to hear that I know many of your ilk. I am not just your run of the hill courtesan, you understand. Oh, no. Most of my . . . friends are from your strata of society, my lord.”

  Alexander blinked. “My – my strata?”

  She nodded. “Dukes, earls, lords of all descriptions. If they have a title, they generally come to me, not one of the street riff raff.”

  “But . . .” Alexander found that his voice was trailing off. Could she possibly mean what he thought she meant? Could all of the men of the ton who strutted about, disowning anyone whose reputations even had a whisper of scandal, really be indulging in . . . “Surely not. I think you will find that many men visiting a – well, visiting you will give false names.”

  She laughed again, and though it was slightly cruel, Alexander found that he wanted to hear her laugh more. “And yet I see them in the society pages, Caershire! I am not blind to the men I meet, no; they may take everything else off,” and she licked her lips in a way that made Alexander’s loins stiffen, “but they still leave their signet rings on, and I have become something of a master at reading them from strange angles.”

  Alexander stared at her. It was all a lie, a sham, then. Society had its rules which punished those who got caught, not those who transgressed. All were liars, all were deceivers, and here he was, desperately trying to keep his reputation as clean as possible, denying himself, denying any sort of pleasure of drink, of cards, of – and here he glanced down at Teresa’s lithe body and clenched his jaw – of women.

  But no one else was. Everyone was enjoying the fruit of temptation, but he.

  “Yes,” breathed Teresa with a smile. “And now I have ruined a little of your innocence, for which you must excuse me. “After all, you would not want to be seen in my company, would you?”

  Alexander baulked, but then thrust out an arm and drew her close to him. “You have no idea,” he whispered in a low voice. “My reputation is already as low as it could be.”

  Teresa blinked.

  His eyes, dark and deep, were incredibly close. That had always been
a rule of hers; nothing too close, nothing too intimate. Nothing that that could start to give a connection, create intimacy.

  Anything, in short, just like this. His hand was strong in the small of her back, but it was not harsh. She did not feel in any sort of danger, and yet a thrill flickered down her spine.

  “Indeed?” She whispered, trying to break the connection between them but unable to look away. “Now that is something that I would not have guessed at.”

  Caershire was breathing deeply now, and as she felt the warmth of him – even through their mutually damp clothes, she tried to think. Caershire, Caershire: hadn’t there been that rumour about him?

  Those eyes. There was a spark of fire in them, but there was also kindness. A sensitivity, deep down there, that she had not immediately spotted. There was a depth then, to this Duke, that she had not seen. Perhaps most people didn’t spot it, perhaps everyone walked past Alexander of Caershire without ever quite knowing. Without investigating.

  Teresa caught herself just in time. No, she did not have the time to start exploring the unique personality of the Duke of Caershire. She had a job to do, a man to find, one with money, and if she did not hurry soon then he would, undoubtedly, consider looking for someone else.

  “Reputation or no,” she said in a whisper. “I simply must go, my lord. Please release me.”

  She was not sure what eventually changed his mind. Perhaps it was the ‘please’, perhaps it was the whisper – a tone carefully crafted by her over the last year, a sort of pleading yet respectful desperation that she used when it seemed as though she was going to lose one of her regular gentlemen. And every coin mattered, every penny mattered.

  Whatever it was, his hand was gone from her waist almost as quickly as it had come, and she staggered a few steps back, so great was the shock of losing the connection.

  He was looking at her now; looking at her shrewdly.

  “You are unlike other women, are you not?” were his words.

  Teresa tried to laugh. “My, I do not know what you mean, sir. How do I compare to the other courtesans that you have run down in alleyways?”

  Alexander laughed, a true laugh. “Admittedly, you are the first; and yet you strike me as someone so different from those that I generally meet. A world apart. As though you came from a different planet.”

  The kindness in his eyes had not disappeared, and now there was another emotion.

  Teresa rolled her eyes. “If you are hoping to ‘rescue’ me, my lord, let me tell you that you are not the first, and are unlikely to be the last. It is a little old, I must say, the ‘I can help you leave this terrible life’ patter, but if you must say it then I must hear it.”

  His brow furrowed. “You – you cannot tell me that you like the life that you lead?”

  His direct question caused her stomach to twist, and Teresa tried to harden her heart. What was this man doing, trying to weasel his way into her deepest emotions, her darkest secrets?

  “I do not think that there is anything wrong with a little pleasure,” she said airily. “Not everyone wants to go through life without it, and you, with your low reputation, in your own words, should know that.”

  She saw the tell-tale signs; the twitch around the eyes, the hesitation to respond, the slight movement of the feet. He was an innocent, no matter what he tried to tell her about his lost reputation. The Duke of Caershire had probably not even seen a woman nude, let alone touched her, caressed her, made love to her –

  Teresa’s eyes widened as she tried to shut off the thoughts that were trailing into a place she would not let herself go. She knew plenty of men like Alexander, and she was wise enough not to lose her head around them.

  He could not save her. No one could.

  “I have money to make,” she said baldly, and saw with a hint of vindictive pleasure the wince that these words caused Alexander. “I have already experienced . . . well, shall we say a parting of the ways with another of my gentleman this evening, and – ”

  “A parting of the ways?” He interrupted, taking a step towards her. “You do not mean – you cannot mean that one of your . . . your friends was the one who pushed you in?”

  Teresa could not help but laugh, even though the situation was quite ridiculous. “Oh, Caershire, see this is exactly what I mean! You are not ready for my world, not in the slightest, and it would surely be best for you if you just went home, and forgot that you ever saw me.”

  She was shivering now, shivering badly, and if she did not want to wake up with a large red nose, she would have to get dry. Her rooms were close, if she could just rid herself of this drenched Duke and change –

  “. . . reprehensible,” the drenched Duke was saying, as Teresa smiled at her new epitaph for him. “No gentleman should treat a lady, not even an – ”

  “Even?” Teresa said sharply. “Even? My word, do no tell me that you are one of those gentleman that separates out the good and the bad, us and the others?”

  She saw a flush, confirming her suspicions.

  “I – I think that there are rules,” he said eventually, bowing his head slightly, unable to meet her gaze. “Rules to follow, and those who do not – ”

  “Deserve to be outsiders?” Teresa stared at him. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? And on the subject of ridiculous, do you know what madness it is that we have been standing here for the last ten minutes, arguing in an alley?”

  Spreading her arms, she looked around the place in mock horror.

  “It cannot be ten minutes,” he said, pulling a golden pocket watch out of his waistcoat with some difficulty. “It was just after midnight when I rescued you, and now . . .”

  His voice trailed off as a long stream of water poured out of his pocket watch as he opened it.

  Teresa sighed, and shook her head. “And I had been so close to finding my – my friend, too.” Rapid calculations told her that she would need to find two gentlemen tomorrow night; that, or work on the one day each week that she gave to herself. “It has been a rather bizarre pleasure, my lord.”

  She swept into a low curtsey, and as he returned it with a low bow, she took advantage of his lack of concentration and took off again.

  The shivering was starting to get worse, and Teresa brought her hands to her lips in an attempt to warm them. All she had to do was get home, and then –

  A stone, a rock, a loose brick: she did not know exactly what, but something caught her foot, and she fell, all her weight on her ankle which sparked in painful protest.

  “Ouch!”

  Teresa staggered to her left, and there was a strong arm there, one that caught her own and balanced her, one that took her hand and placed it on his arm.

  “You need to get warm,” said Alexander’s voice, and it was filled with nothing but concern. “And you will not get far on that ankle now that you have sprained it. Lean on me.”

  She may be proud, but she was not stupid. Teresa leaned gratefully on his arm, and was impressed at his strength. He did not waver at all.

  “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, unable – or unwilling – to meet his gaze. “I . . . I think you are right. Home.”

  “I will accompany you – not as protection, just as a crutch,” he said, pre-empting her immediate objection.

  Teresa scowled. “Well, to think that you are going to get your way after all, Caershire.”

  She chanced a look at him now, and was shocked to see the genuine concern in his face. There were some men, she knew – she had met many of them – who felt that giving a woman their protection, a little help, made them heroes.

  Not Alexander, Duke of Caershire. One look at him and you could see that his heart was true, and his concern indisputable. He may consider her profession lowly, but he did not judge her by it.

  He was a strange man, to be sure.

  “I-I do not live in a respectable neighbourhood,” she said quietly, without shame. “I know that you jested about having a bad reputation, but I must tell you that being s
een there – ”

  “Who said that it was a joke?”

  Fighting this amount of goodwill was starting to become exhausting – but Teresa was not completely fooled. This man wanted something from her, and if he was like any other man that she knew, it was one thing: her body.

  Well, he was a Duke. He fitted well into her existing clientele, and far be it for her to turn her nose up at a potential earning opportunity.

  “Come now, what street?”

  He was speaking kindly to her; kindly, without presumption, without moving his hands over her body, without a question. Teresa smiled at him, and told him the address.

  “Now, can you put any weight on your ankle?”

  His words, calm and soothing, seemed to still something raging inside her. She could not take money from this man: he was too . . . good was the only word that she could think of to describe him.

  If she was not careful, she could almost say that she liked him.

  3

  Try as he might, Alexander found it impossible to hide his revulsion at the state of Miss Metcalfe’s rooms once they arrived.

  “Here we are,” she said as she came to an abrupt halt outside a door with far too many locks on it. “Just wait one moment . . .”

  Releasing his arm, Teresa thrust one hand down her gown as Alexander tried desperately not to look, and retrieved a large key.

  “Just the one key?” He said, trying to smile. “That does not seem overly safe, and almost ridiculous, considering the number of locks.”

  She shrugged, and threw him a grin. “‘Tis all a little for show anyway – anyone who knows me, knows that I often forget to lock up anyway.”

  He stared at her. How could anyone live like this – live knowing that all their possessions, their belongings, their treasures were just a large yet easily opened door away from thieves and brigands?

  His question was answered after they stepped – or rather he stepped, she hobbled – inside. There was a short corridor leading off to two rooms. One held a sink beside a small cupboard without a door. There was half a loaf of bread, two eggs, and an apple inside.