for the moment, Avery knew he looked nothing like a duke’s valet should. Would Lord Granville finally realize Avery’s unworthiness for the position?
“I was approached at the tourney today by a Mr. Thomas Prachett.” The words were spoken softly, but that didn’t countermand their seriousness. “He said that you owed him a great deal of money, lad. What have you to say to that?”
Protests brimmed on Avery’s tongue, but he bit them back. He couldn’t tell the duke the depth of his involvement with Prachett. The fighting was one thing, but if Granville knew he’d been forced into throwing matches? He’d probably be out on his ear in a trice. He answered in as calm a tone as he could manage. “Prachett was my employer before you, Your Grace. My debt to him was repaid long ago. I owe him nothing.”
“I gladly shouldered the risk of hiring you on.” The duke rose slowly, the corners of his mouth drooping. “But I cannot risk scandal in this household. It bears on everyone under this roof, to everyone who bears the name of my family. You must understand the position I am in.”
Lord Granville rounded the corner of his desk, straightening his waistcoat as he did. “The Swansdown Mill is occurring soon. While it might seem best to avoid the bout, I am sure that the bounder would use your absence to poison your—and by extension my—reputation. I believe it would be best if you put in a performance there. Your appearance there as my man should squash any rumor. I shall sponsor you, lad, and I trust that you are speaking the truth of your involvement with Prachett.” The duke leaned heavily against the front of the ornate desk, looking older and more tired than usual. “I have made no secret of the fact that you are my valet and a fighter. But while society has looked the other way, I believe that Prachett may change that if we are not careful.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Lord Granville turned with a wave of dismissal. “Thank you, Russell.”
Avery’s shallow bow went unseen, and he left the room with his chin high, though his heart was heavy and his jaw was throbbing. Another bout? His bruises would be yellow and green, still tender. He had no doubt that Prachett would take his revenge for the loss today. Could he avoid the man?
He’d cost Prachett hundreds of pounds today. Prachett would kill for much, much less. He thanked whatever star watched over him that Leah had left the house before all this occurred. If she ran afoul of Avery’s past, she’d likely never be seen again. He’d find some other way to get medicine for his aunt.
Avery mounted the stairs to the duke’s dressing chambers, the burning pain in his muscles throbbing in time to his steps. He must see to the unpacking, and then he could retreat to his small room, shuck his sodden clothes, and lick his wounds in private.
When he opened the door to His Grace’s rooms, a strange glint caught the corner of his eye. The bureau’s mirror was shining oddly, almost shimmering like the surface of a pond in a rainstorm. Drawing closer, he reached out and pressed his palm flat against the mirror.
The glass was cold, and it sent a shiver through him.
Leah had fallen through the glass as if it were pure air. He’d caught her, pressed her intimately against him. However inadvertent the contact had been at the time, he remembered it with longing now.
She’d laughed with him, smiled at him. She’d never treated him the way so many others had before. She was a woman unlike any other, and he’d allowed her to leave him without telling her so.
Turning, he slumped against the bureau’s slanted front, uncaring for the moment that his wet clothing pressed against the wood.
He’d wanted her. He realized that now. The way a man wants a woman, flesh to flesh and heart to heart. She wasn’t the first he’d wanted physically, but she was the only one that the hole in his chest seemed to scream for.
“Leah,” he whispered as he looked skyward. “Please be safe.”
“Of course I’m safe. Why wouldn’t I be safe?”
He whirled, eyes wide. She stood behind him, bold as brass. He almost didn’t recognize her, coiffed and clothed like a debutante.
“How are you here?” Avery took a cautious step forward, his heart thumping wildly against his ribs. “It is impossible.”
She ran the few steps that separated them, throwing herself into his arms. Closing his eyes, he bent his head to kiss her.
Just before their lips touched, she said, “You’re right. It’s impossible.”
He opened his eyes. He was still alone in the bedchamber.
Clutching his aching, pounding skull, he turned to his duties. It wasn’t the first time an opponent had nearly cracked his skull, but the cruel daydream was particularly painful.
She’d never run to him.
Raindrops ran down the windowpane of Leah’s borrowed room. She trailed her finger down the glass, chasing a droplet. Her reflection, wavy and dim, stared back at her.
Though she’d tried to leave after Miss Stapleton, Lady Chesterfield of course had other ideas. They’d gone shopping for, of all things, more feathers. The hole of Avery’s absence wasn’t healing as she’d hoped. It seemed to be growing wider and more jagged every day.
It wasn’t as if Lady Chesterfield wasn’t kind to her. She was. She’d gone to the trouble of procuring invitations to balls and teas and musicales, all with the express intent of wedding her charge to the Duke of Granville. She’d bought Leah dresses and hats, slippers and gloves. If Leah backed out now, she’d look like a scam artist hell-bent on fleecing a nice old lady. If nothing else, she wanted to prove that old bat Miss Stapleton wrong. She wasn’t a bad person.
Leah’s heavy breath fogged up the window. Pressing her forehead against the glass, she let her thoughts wander back home.
Was Pawpaw okay? He’d been so damn insistent that she find someone to marry. The old-fashioned notion wasn’t that out of the way for him, but the sincerity and demanding nature of his request had been. She drew a little heart in the fog of her breath on the glass. Her grandfather meant everything to her. She couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than the man who’d raised her, who’d shown her what family and loyalty and courage meant.
Courage. Leah’s eyes closed and the memory of Avery’s kiss came unbidden. It had been incredible, a kiss that she could replay a thousand times and never get tired of. The feeling that curled low in her belly and crept up to her chest was hard to define. There was lust there, a familiar and comforting friend. But there was something more. What the hell was going on with her?
Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared as hard as she could, trying to make out the street below her window. No use. The rain was coming down too hard. What a miserable day, and it fit her miserable mood to a T.
“Miss?” Muriel’s head poked through the crack in the door. “I’ve come to dress you. Lady Chesterfield said that you’re attending the Watersons’ musicale tonight.”
Leah yawned and stretched, shuddering as her joints popped like Rice Krispies. She’d been sitting here and wallowing too long, apparently. “Yeah, that’s right. She said they can’t sing worth a crap. This is going to be awful, isn’t it?”
“Oh no, miss.” Muriel pulled a gown, one of the many that Lady Chesterfield had commissioned for Leah, and yet another source of Leah’s growing burden of guilt, from the tall oak wardrobe. Shaking out the pale cream and lace, Muriel spoke matter-of-factly. “Graves has told me that His Grace has returned. He’s to attend tonight.”
“His Grace? Like, the Duke of Granville, that His Grace?” Leah wrinkled her nose in uncertainty.
“Why yes, miss. Lady Chesterfield is quite pleased.” The maid picked at a loose thread on the ivory gown. “Shall I help you to dress?”
Leah reached out and grabbed Muriel’s hands, forcing the maid to turn and look at her.
“Muriel, listen. I need to ask you something, and I need you to promise me you’ll tell me the truth.”
Muriel nodded. “Of course, miss.”
