Kitabı oku: «The Historical Collection 2018», sayfa 18
Chapter Thirty-Two
“God’s liggens,” Ash grumbled when they finally reached his suite. “That was our last dinner party.”
“It was our first dinner party,” his wife pointed out.
“Precisely. One was enough. I thought they’d never go home.”
“It’s only ten o’clock. I thought our guests left rather early. We’d scarcely finished opening Christmas gifts.” She unloaded an armful of objects onto the bed. “I must say, Nicola’s is the most delicious.”
With that, Ash heartily agreed. He stole a bite of plum cake from the slice in Emma’s hand. “All her talk of science and precision is only a ruse, I tell you. That woman is a witch with an enchanted oven.” He plucked a mysterious knitted thing from the heap and dangled it from his thumb and forefinger. “What is this? Is it for the baby?”
“Perhaps. But who can know with Penny.” Emma took it from his hands and turned it this way and that. She counted the holes that one might surmise were meant for chubby infant arms and legs. “One, two, three, four . . .” She poked her finger through another round opening. “Five? Oh, Lord. I think she’s made us a jumper for the cat.”
“Good luck dressing him in it.”
She gave him a coy smile. “I think Khan appreciated your early Boxing Day gift.”
He went to the dressing table to remove his stickpin and undo his cuffs. “The man’s been going on and on about being owed a pension. I managed to get my revenge.”
“How is giving him a cottage at Swanlea a form of revenge?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He can’t get away from me now. He’ll be wishing he were a butler again when I send our son over for cricket lessons.”
“Oh, and there’s this one.” Emma sat on the bed. She lifted a hand-bound scrapbook into her lap and paged through it lovingly. “What a dear Alex was. I can’t imagine how much effort this must have taken, compiling all these headlines.”
Ash was a bit peevish. “Well, what about the effort I went to, generating them?”
His wife ignored him. And justly so.
Miss Mountbatten’s gift was secretly his favorite, too. She’d collected all the broadsheets and gossip papers with the Monster of Mayfair’s exploits splashed across them, then carefully cut and pasted them into a memento book. The closest thing to a biography he’d ever have, and considerably more interesting.
He turned away from the dressing table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope that scrapbook has an empty page or two.”
“It won’t need any.” She raised an eyebrow in warning. “The Monster of Mayfair will not make the papers, ever again.”
“Too late, I’m afraid.”
Ash reached into a drawer for the early copy he’d wrangled of tomorrow morning’s Prattler. Then he held it up for her, revealing the headline:
Duke Tells All.
She gasped. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, but I did.” He read aloud from the first paragraph. “‘The Duke of Ashbury reveals the tragic tale behind the Monster of Mayfair and professes his undying love for the seamstress-turned-duchess who healed his tortured soul.’” He flung the paper on the bed near her elbow. “Sensationalist rubbish, naturally.”
She covered her mouth with one hand and reached for the newspaper with the other. He watched her face as she scanned the page. Her eyes reddened and watered.
Ash didn’t make much of it. Along with feeling poorly in the mornings, she seemed to be on the brink of tears at any time of day.
She sniffed. “This is best gift I can imagine.”
“Is it? I suppose you don’t need the other, then.” He pulled the small box from his pocket and placed it on her lap. “I’ll let you have it anyway. You never did have a proper one.”
She stared at the box with weepy eyes.
“It’s a ring,” he said.
“I love it.”
“Emma, you haven’t opened it.”
“Yes, I know. I don’t have to. I love it already.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No it’s not. We won’t unwrap this child in my belly for months yet, and I already love him.”
“Or her,” he added.
Ash had taken to hoping for a “her.” A baby girl meant they would need to try at least one more time.
After a moment, he grew tired of waiting on her and opened the box himself, revealing the ring—a heart-shaped ruby set in a gold filigree band.
“Oh,” she sighed.
“Don’t weep,” he warned her. “It’s not even that big of a stone.”
Sitting down beside her, he removed the ring from the box and slid it on her third finger.
She held her hand away from her body and wiggled her fingers so the ring could catch the light. Then she hopped to her feet and ran to the dressing room. When he followed, he found her standing before the full-length mirror, admiring her reflection as she pressed her hand to her chest, then laid a finger to her cheek, then extended her hand as if offering Mirror-Emma an opportunity to bow over it for a kiss.
Ash chuckled at her little display of vanity. Then he looked into the mirror and regarded himself.
Other than the small one he used for shaving, he hadn’t viewed himself in a mirror for more than a year.
It actually wasn’t that bad.
Well, the scars looked bad. That wasn’t in question. But he’d grown used to that fact by now, and he felt a bit stupid for avoiding his own reflection all this time. It wasn’t as though he could change it.
He stepped forward, embracing her from behind and laying a hand on her stomach. “What if he’s afraid?”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of me.”
She leaned back against him. “Oh, my love. Don’t ever think it.”
“I had hoped—” He cleared his throat. “I had been thinking, if he’s raised with me from the beginning—in the country, where there aren’t so many people about . . . maybe he wouldn’t be quite so frightened.”
“He won’t be frightened at all.”
Ash wished he could share her certainty. He knew how small children reacted to the sight of him. How they cringed and clung to their mothers’ skirts. How they cried and screamed. How every time, it ripped his wounds open all over again. And how it would gut him to be beheld that way by his own son.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.
He didn’t speak again until he could keep his voice measured. “Even if he isn’t afraid, he’ll have friends. He’ll go to school. Once he’s old enough to know, he’ll be ashamed.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know how boys are. How they treat one another. They tease; they bully. They’re cruel. When he’s a young man, it will be different. Then I can teach him about the estate, his responsibilities. But as a child . . .” He blinked hard. “My father was perfect in my eyes. I couldn’t bear to be a source of shame to my own son.”
“Our children will love you.” She turned in his embrace, putting her arms around his neck. “Just as I do. When they’re still in arms, they’ll tug at your ears and tweak your nose, and coo and laugh just as all babies do. A few years later, and they’ll beg to ride on your shoulders, never caring if one of them is injured. When they go to school, they will be nothing but proud. A father who’s a scarred war hero? What could be more impressive to boast about in the schoolyard?”
“Being injured in battle doesn’t make a man a war hero.”
She stared deep into his eyes. “Being their father will make you their hero.”
His heart twisted into a knot.
Drawing him down to her, she pressed her forehead to his, nuzzling. “It will make you my hero, as well.”
He put his arms around her, clinging tight.
Emma, Emma.
Had it truly been only a matter of months since she’d burst into his library? Little could he have known that a vicar’s daughter in a hideous white gown would be the ruin of all his plans. The undoing of him, as well. What had she done to him? What was he going to do with her?
Love her, that was what.
Love her, and protect her, and do anything she asked of him and more.
Perhaps he hadn’t accomplished any feats of extraordinary valor at Waterloo. But he would do grim, bloody battle for her, and for the child she carried, and for any other children God saw fit to give them.
He made a silent vow to her—and to himself—that he would never hide the scars again. The entirety of his wretched past had led to this moment, and to deny them would be to deny her. Others might view the scars as his ruin. Ash knew the truth. They were his making.
And Emma was his salvation.
He turned her around so that they both faced the mirror. “Well, if this is a portrait you’d be willing to hang in the stairwell . . .”
“Proudly. And it’s going in the drawing room. Right over the mantel.”
“It will have to be a large painting to fit us all.”
“All?”
“You, me, and our ten children.”
Her eyes went wide in the mirror. “Ten?”
“Very well. You, me, and our elev—”
A furry lump of gray uncurled from an open hatbox, stretched, and walked over to rub against Ash’s leg, emitting a sound like the rumbling of carriage wheels over cobblestones.
He amended his statement once more. “You, me, our eleven children, and a cat.”
“This is becoming a very crowded portrait.”
“Good,” he said.
And, to his own surprise, he meant it.
Good.
Then he caught her hand and turned it over, peering at her fingertips. “Have you been stitching?”
“Goodness, the way you say that. As if it’s embezzling or smuggling.” She pulled her hand away. “As a matter of fact I have been stitching. I’ve been working on your Christmas present.”
“What could that possibly be? You already have me full up on waistcoats and trousers and every other possible garment.”
“Oh, this present isn’t a waistcoat, nor any other article for your wardrobe. It’s mine to wear.” From the back of the closet shelves, she withdrew a small bundle. “Be forewarned, if you dare compare it to unicorn vomit . . .”
“I will not.” He held up one hand in an oath. “On my honor.”
“Very well, then.” She held two of the tiniest straps he’d ever seen to her own shoulders, and let the remainder of the bundle unroll, all the way down toward her toes.
Ash was speechless.
Black silk—and not much of it. Black lace—even less. A few spangles here and there—the perfect amount.
Emma Grace Pembrooke, I love you.
“Well?” She cocked one hip in a saucy pose. “Do you like it?”
“I can’t tell,” he said. “You’d better put it on.”
Epilogue
“Now, Richmond. Be a good little boy while I’m gone. Don’t give your godfather any trouble.” Emma tickled the babe’s pudgy chin.
“Don’t waste your breath,” her husband muttered. “He’s not going to behave himself. He’s my son, after all.”
Khan smiled down at the infant in his arms and spoke in a baby-friendly baritone. “The little marquess could pass the entire afternoon squalling and soiling his clout, and he’d still be easier to handle than his father.”
“That sounds about right.” Emma smiled, turning to her husband. “Well, my darling. What shall we do with our afternoon?”
“What indeed.”
They strolled away from Khan’s cottage, back toward the house. The late summer’s afternoon was drowsy and humid, and Swanlea was abuzz with bees and dragonflies.
“You likely have some estate business that needs your attention,” she said. “I have a few letters I should write.”
He said in a bored tone, “Oh, truly?”
No, not truly.
A rare leisure afternoon free of the exhausting demands of parenting? Just the two of them, alone? They both knew exactly how they were going to spend that time.
It felt like they’d waited ages. Ash preferred they keep the baby close at night, and Emma was glad to agree. But it did take a toll on one’s sleep, and the few bouts of lovemaking they’d managed had been, by necessity, hasty and furtive.
“How fast do you think we can get back to the house?” she murmured.
“We don’t need to get back to the house.”
His grip tightened over her hand, and he led her off the green. They found a secluded patch of grass within the wood, and then it was a storm of kissing and touching and a great deal of disrobing. Emma tugged at his coat sleeves and unbuttoned his falls. He helped her free of her petticoats and stays.
Once he had her down to her chemise, he slipped a hand inside to cup her breast. Two deep moans mingled in their kiss—one his, one hers. Her breasts were emptied from nursing, but still sensitive. Her heart was tender as well, wrung by loving pangs.
The more buttons he slipped free, the more uneasy she grew. She put her hands over his. “Just leave the shift?”
He seemed to read her thoughts. “Really, Emma. Don’t be absurd.”
“My body’s changed. You’re not the only one with some vanity.”
“I’m not even going to dignify this with conversation.”
The shift fell, joining the jumble of discarded clothing on the grass. Within moments, they added their bared bodies to the heap, tangling their tongues, limbs, breaths, hearts.
From there it was easy. Familiar. They made love in full daylight, not hiding anything. He moved against her, inside her. She held him tight in every way she could. They reached a toothache-sweet climax together, as if simultaneous bliss wasn’t a rarity but the most natural thing in the world. The sun rises; the wind blows; orgasms arrive in tandem.
And after that moment of transcendent bliss, when she brushed the damp hair from her brow and smiled up at her husband in satisfaction, Emma couldn’t have thought him any more perfect.
Author’s Note
And now, a few words about badminton.
During the Regency era, badminton as we know and love it today did not exist. There were shuttlecocks, and people amused themselves batting them back and forth with rackets called battledores. “Battledore and shuttlecock” was all the rage in early nineteenth century England. There were no nets, no boundaries, few rules. It was anarchy.
However, no modern reader (that I know, at least) was forced to play “battledore and shuttlecock” in physical education class. We played badminton. So even though the rules were not formalized until the 1860s, I decided to use the word “badminton” anyway. Call it an artistic liberty. Or perhaps an athletic liberty?
Interestingly enough, the game of badminton owes its name to a duke. According to a family legend, the game was invented by the Duke of Beaufort’s bored grandchildren while they were staying at the duke’s home: Badminton. So I don’t think it’s completely unlikely that the bored Duke of Ashbury might think up the game on his own, do you?
That’s my story, anyway—and I’m sticking to it.
Acknowledgments
Writing romance novels is a joy and a privilege. However, sometimes writers suffer for their art. And sometimes writers share that suffering with everyone nearby.
For their patience and support, I am forever indebted to my husband, my children, my family, my friends, my editor, my agent, my editor’s assistant, my copy editor, my publicist, my personal assistant, my publisher, my twitter followers, my cats, my pajamas, my coffeemaker . . . and pretty much everyone and everything around me. Except that one neighbor with the drone. You know who you are.
Special shout-outs to Guido, Kirk, Samantha, and Ken for bringing the sexy to this book’s cover.
And always, always, thanks to my readers. If not for you, I would have to wear pants.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
From Duke Till Dawn
Eva Leigh
To Zack
Chapter 1
London, England
1817
A woman laughed, and Alexander Lewis, Duke of Greyland felt the sound like a gunshot to his chest.
It was a very pleasant laugh, low and musical rather than shrill and forced, yet it sounded like The Lost Queen’s laugh. Alex could not resist the urge to glance over his shoulder as he left the Eagle chophouse. He’d fancifully taken to calling her The Lost Queen, though she was most assuredly a mortal woman. Had she somehow appeared on a busy London street at dusk? The last time he’d seen her had been two years ago, in the spa town of Cheltenham, in his bed, asleep and naked.
The owner of the laugh turned out to be a completely different woman—brunette rather than blonde, petite and round rather than lithe and willowy. She caught Alex staring and raised her eyebrows. He bowed gravely in response, then continued toward the curb.
Night came on in indigo waves, but the shops spilled golden light in radiant patches onto the street. The hardworking citizens of London continued to toil as the upper echelons began their evening revelries. Crowds thronged the sidewalk, while wagons, carriages, and people on horseback crammed the streets. A handful of pedestrians recognized Alex and politely curtsied or tipped their hats, murmuring, “Good evening, Your Grace.” Though he was in no mood for politeness, responsibility and virtue were his constant companions—had been his whole life—and so rather than snapping, “Go to the devil, damn you!” he merely nodded in greeting.
He’d done his duty. He’d been seen in public, rather than disappearing into the cavernous chambers of his Mayfair mansion,where he could lick his wounds in peace.
The trouble with being a duke was that he always had to do his duty. “You are the pinnacle of British Society,” his father had often said to him. “The world looks to you for guidance. So you must lead by example. Be their True North.”
This evening, before dining, Alex had taken a very conspicuous turn up and down Bond Street, making certain that he was seen by many consequential—and loose-lipped—figures in the ton. Word would soon spread that the Duke of Greyland was not holed up, sulking in seclusion. His honor as one of Society’s bulwarks would not be felled by something as insignificant as his failed marriage suit to Lady Emmeline Birks. The Dukes of Greyland had stood strong against Roundheads, Jacobites, and countless other threats against Britain. One girl barely out of the schoolroom could hardly damage Alex’s ducal armor.
But that armor had been dented by The Lost Queen. Far deeper than he would have expected.
Standing on the curb, he signaled for his carriage, which pulled out of the mews. He tugged on his spotless gloves as he waited and adjusted the brim of his black beaver hat to make certain it sat properly on his head. “Always maintain a faultless appearance,” his father had reminded him again and again. “The slightest bit of disorder in your dress can lead to rampant speculation about the stability of your affairs. This, we cannot tolerate. The nation demands nothing less than perfection.”
Alex’s father had been dead for ten years, but that didn’t keep the serious, sober man’s voice from his mind. It was part of him now—his role as one of the most powerful men in England and the responsibilities that role carried with it. Not once did he ever let frivolities distract him from his duties.
Except for one time . . .
Forcing the thought from his mind, Alex looked impatiently for his carriage. Just as the vehicle pulled up, however, two men appeared and grabbed his arms on each side.
Alex stiffened—he did not care for being touched without giving someone express permission to do so. People on the street also did not normally seize each other. Was it a robbery? A kidnapping attempt? His hands curled instinctively into fists, ready to give his accosters a beating.
“What’s this?” one of the younger men exclaimed with mock horror. “Have I grabbed hold of a thundercloud?”
“Don’t know about you,” the other man said drily, “but I seem to have attached myself to an enormous bar of iron. How else to explain its inflexibility?” He tried to shake Alex, to little avail. When he wanted to be, Alex was absolutely immovable.
Alex’s fingers loosened. He tugged his arms free and growled, “That’s enough, you donkeys.”
Thomas Powell, the Earl of Langdon and heir to the Duke of Northfield, grinned, a flash of white in his slightly unshaven face. “Come now, Greyland,” he chided. A hint of an Irish accent made his voice musical, evidence of Langdon’s early years spent in his mother’s native County Kerry. “Is that any way to speak to your oldest and dearest friends?”
“I’ll let you know when they get here.” Alex scowled at Langdon, then at Christopher Ellingsworth, who only smirked in response.
Alex took a step toward his carriage, but Ellingsworth deftly moved to block his path, displaying the speed and skill that had served him well when he’d fought on the Peninsula.
“Where are you running off to with such indecorous haste?” Ellingsworth pressed. He held up a finger. “Ah, never tell me. You’re running back to the shelter of your Mayfair cave, to growl and brood like some big black bear in a cravat.”
“You know nothing,” Alex returned, despite the fact that Ellingsworth had outlined his exact plans for the rest of the night.
Ellingsworth looked at Langdon with exaggerated pity. “Poor chap. The young Lady Emmeline has utterly shattered his heart.”
Alex shouldered past Ellingsworth, only to have Langdon move to stand in his way.
“My heart is not shattered because of Lady Emmeline,” Alex snapped. At least that much was the truth.
“But why shouldn’t your heart be strewn in pieces throughout Regent’s Park?” Langdon mused. “You courted the young lady for several months, and you told Ellingsworth and I that you’d already received her father’s grateful acceptance of a marriage offer.”
“She never agreed to anything,” Alex said flatly.
“A modest girl, that Lady Emmeline.” Ellingsworth nodded with approval. “She wouldn’t have said yes right away. They never do. Nothing to be alarmed by.”
“How would you know?” Alex’s voice was edged. Ellingsworth had little experience with offering for ladies’ hands, committed as he was to a life of reckless pleasure.
Langdon added, “It’d be unseemly for an earl’s daughter to eagerly snap up a marriage proposal the moment it was offered.”
Alex scowled. Despite the fact that, at thirty-eight, he was sixteen years her senior, they would suit well as a wedded couple. Lady Emmeline had been perfectly trained in the responsibilities of an aristocratic wife. Though he wished she stated her own opinion rather than constantly agreeing with him, there were worse faults one could find in a prospective bride.
They could marry at Christmas, eight months from now. It would be a small but elegant wedding, followed by a lavish breakfast and a wedding journey in the Lake District. And then, if everything went well, in less than a year, Alex and Lady Emmeline might welcome their first child—hopefully a boy so the line would be secure. It would’ve been precisely the sort of match Alex’s father would have approved, considering Lady Emmeline’s faultless background and her spotless reputation.
“Look at him now, mooning away,” Langdon sighed, smugly thwarting Alex’s attempts to step around him. “He looks poorly.”
It would be bad form to knock his friend to the ground. Damn the social niceties that dictated a man couldn’t punch another without repercussions.
“Perhaps he should be bled,” Ellingsworth suggested with his habitual smirk. It was his constant companion since returning from the War, as if he refused to take anything seriously.
“I am perfectly well.” Alex looked back and forth between these two rogues whom he called friends. “No need to call for a quack.”
“He’s already had an amputation,” Langdon noted, raising a brow as he always did. “One prospective bride—gone.” He made a sawing motion at his ankle, as if cutting the shackles of matrimony.
Alex glanced down at his own lower leg, as if he could see the invisible links that might have bound him to Lady Emmeline. He’d come so close to becoming a married man and sharing the rest of his life with one woman—the faultless duke his father had bred him to be. It hardly mattered that Alex felt nothing for the gel other than a sense of distant respect. She would have made a fine duchess.
“We were at White’s yesterday when we heard about what happened,” Langdon said with disapproval. “Didn’t even tell your two closest friends that Lady Emmeline had run off with a cavalry officer. No, we had to hear it from Lord Ruthven, of all people.”
Alex didn’t need reminding that the whole world knew about his embarrassment. He’d been ensconced in his study reviewing land reports from his holdings when the butler announced a surprise visitor. Lady Emmeline’s father came into the chamber, pale and shaky and full of abject, groveling apologies. He’d handed Alex a note written by his daughter that stated she’d run off to Gretna Green with a poor but dashing cavalry captain. Alex had stared at the short missive for a good five minutes, trying to understand its significance.
“You should have come right to us with the news,” Ellingsworth drawled. “So you could spare us the humiliation of learning about it secondhand.”
“Forgive me for failing to consider your feelings in all this,” Alex snapped.
What could he say to his friends that would make them understand how the pain he felt was mostly embarrassment, not sadness? He wasn’t even certain he desired their understanding.
He was a duke. The holder of countless profitable estates and assets. A prime mover in Parliament. A frequent advisor to the Prince Regent—though the profligate fool almost never took Alex’s advice. Marriage to the Duke of Greyland would be considered a huge coup for any young lady of gentle birth. But Lady Emmeline had thrown away a chance to be a duchess . . . for love.
That’s what her note had said. “Forgive me, Your Grace. But I love him terribly, as he loves me. You deserve better than a wife whose heart belongs to another . . .”
“Ah, he’s well off without the feckless chit,” Ellingsworth insisted. “Had no backbone, that girl. She trembled like a willow whenever he spoke. A fearful lass can’t be very amusing in bed.”
“Don’t talk about Lady Emmeline that way,” Alex said, but there wasn’t much heat in his words.
He backed away from Ellingsworth and Langdon, thinking perhaps he could dodge around them. But they were clever, curse them, and Ellingsworth edged behind him, blocking him in.
Ah, damn and damn.
Alex scowled at his friends tormenting him in the depths of his ill humor. While he felt no loss of affection from the girl’s elopement with another man, pain lanced him at her desertion. Was there something about him . . . ? Something that made women flee from him? Was he truly that intimidating? Was he—was he unlovable?
But that word, that concept—love. He’d never felt it at home, though he’d heard it existed. He’d seen it in the way cottagers at the family estates acted with their children—the fond looks, the touches and smiles. Love was real, but it had been in short supply for the Duke of Greyland’s children.
His jilting brought back that same, gnawing question. If his own mother couldn’t show him affection, perhaps there was something about him that was fundamentally unworthy of love. An absence, a lack of a key inner component that would cause someone, anyone, to feel for him.
Lady Emmeline would have been a fine mother, raising sons and daughters in a way that befitted their station. She wouldn’t have loved him, but that wasn’t a requirement for marriage. They could have gotten along with mutual respect. If he felt a cold emptiness from this thought, he shouldered it aside. He’d gotten this far without love in his life. He could exist without it now.
Alex still smarted at her desertion but the greatest damage was sustained by his pride. At least neither Langdon nor Ellingsworth looked at him with sympathy.
“He’s definitely going home to sulk,” Langdon said disapprovingly.
Ellingsworth looked horrified. “I never spend a night at home, unless I’m too ill, and even with a scorching fever, I go to the theater.”
“I’ve had a meal out, and now I’m heading home to read a new translation of Euclid’s Elements.”
“You see, Langdon,” Ellingsworth noted. “He’s got a romping good time already planned. He’s no need of us.”
“Right about one thing.” Alex grabbed hold of Langdon’s shoulders and forcibly moved his friend aside. He stepped up into his carriage, but to his annoyance, Ellingsworth and Langdon followed, seating themselves opposite him. “I don’t have need of you.” He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and the vehicle began to merge into traffic.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Langdon grinned in the semidarkness of the carriage’s interior. He pulled a flask from inside his coat, then took a swig. “Stewing at home is for spinsters.”
“I’ve done my duty,” Alex said in a clipped voice. “Paraded my carcass on Bond Street so everyone could get a good eyeful of me, let them know that Lady Emmeline’s sudden marriage has not one speck of impact on me.”
Ellingsworth grabbed the flask from Langdon and took a drink. “You did right by that, old man.” He leaned over and jabbed his knuckles into Alex’s shoulder—as close to showing affection as Ellingsworth ever got. “But your night’s not finished.” He held the flask out to Alex.
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
