In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,43
slipped around the corner.
The moment she’d disappeared behind the four panels, he swiped a hand down his face.
He’d always disavowed teaching anyone how to fight. His reasons went back to his earliest days as an orphan on the street, used by Dooley to teach. And whether a person had lived or died had all fallen at his feet. As such, the moment he’d first left London, he’d vowed to never again school others in that ruthless art.
Not for the first time, he questioned his having agreed not only to Lila’s request for lessons but also to let her in here, in this place that was sacrosanct to Hugh and the only two people in the world he’d trusted.
Though your regrets and reservations are not just about Maynard and Bragger or any vow you made to them. It was about the fact that since Lila had shed her cloak and donned a pair of trousers, Hugh had found himself besieged by a hungering that could only be dangerous. He’d not given the thought he should to the person it should be on—the last person he’d vowed to protect.
As if to lend a further edge to that silent taunting in his mind, the faint rustle of fabric as Lila removed those garments filled the quiet.
And an image slid in of her in all her glorious nudity, without lawn or linen or wool between his eyes and her delicate form.
When she emerged a few moments later, her gown and cloak were back in place, as were her serviceable leather boots. Not breaking stride, she marched to the doorway.
“Goodbye, Lila.”
Not bothering with a farewell, the lady slammed the panel hard behind her.
Hugh grinned.
What he’d not expected in taking on the stubborn Lila March as a student was just how much he was actually going to enjoy himself.
Chapter 10
The following morn, making another journey to Hugh’s, she was filled with the same indignation as when she’d left.
It is how you use your time that matters. Don’t forget that tomorrow, Lila . . .
“‘Don’t forget,’ he says,” she mumbled, rocking and swaying as the carriage hit the same bumps and broken cobblestones of East London.
Well, today she’d not make the same mistake. She’d simply failed to know the kind of rules her instructor from the rookeries intended to play by.
When she arrived today, she wasn’t going to squander any of their time, and she certainly wasn’t going to give him grounds with which to cut her lessons any shorter than they already were. As such, when she’d arisen that morning, she’d donned not another dark dress for their meeting, but rather, the borrowed breeches and shirt.
She yanked the curtain aside a fraction and peered out. Clouds hung heavy in the London sky, and the streets were pitched black for it. Restless, she let the curtains fall back into place.
Does your annoyance stem from the lesson he doled out . . . or the fact that you thought he intended to kiss you and you wanted it?
Had wanted it desperately.
Which was, of course, ridiculous: both the idea that she had in that moment, with his hands upon her, yearned for his kiss, and even the idea that he may himself have wanted that embrace.
Why, not only hadn’t he kissed her, he’d sent her promptly packing, and only after his lesson.
Either way, there could be no doubting the fire that had sparked languidly and then unfurled within as he’d schooled her on the twelve places to fell one’s opponent.
Throughout that lesson, his touch had been perfunctory and purposeful. Her body, however, had not cared for any distinction. It had known only a wicked hungering for more of those fleeting caresses. Caresses he’d not intended to be anything more.
With a sigh, Lila let her head fall back and stared at the hood of the carriage.
How long had it been since she’d let herself feel any emotion except fear? Outrage, indignation, fury, pride—an entire maelstrom of emotions all came alive whenever she sparred with Hugh. Hugh, who didn’t tiptoe about her, and who met her eyes squarely. In a world where her own family didn’t know how to be around Lila, Hugh challenged her, and she felt so very alive for it.
Granted, he didn’t know of her scars or the horror she’d lived through at Manchester. Nor, by his own admission, did he want to know anything about her.
Again drawing back the curtain a fraction, she stared out at the streets of St. Giles.