In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,44

had known the truth, he’d not have treated her differently. Scarred and marked and cynical as he was, he’d likely known hells far greater than what she’d endured that day.

At the time, the promise she’d made to not ask Hugh any questions about his past had been an easy one to make. When she’d decided to seek him out, she’d done so not wanting to know the secrets he carried, or how he’d come to be a ruthless fighter who, by society’s reports, had killed men with his bare hands. Nay, to ease her own anxieties and fears, she’d simply wanted the lessons he could impart—she’d wanted nothing of the man he was.

Now, she wondered . . . and wished to know.

How did a man who spoke refined King’s English, and who wore fine garments befitting an affluent gentleman, come to live in the rookeries?

The hack came to a stop, and Lila pressed the handle, letting herself out. She jumped down. As she started for those nineteen and a half steps to the back of his fighting club, there was a spring to her step. Even with her cloak, there was a remarkable freedom of movement afforded by the breeches.

And there was also an increasing ease in leaving her household.

Nay, that wasn’t entirely correct. There was a growing comfort in coming here to be with Hugh Savage. And in her speaking with someone who didn’t know her as Lila the Recluse, who’d gone mad in Manchester.

Hugh didn’t know Lila’s history, and as such, she’d found a freedom in being someone—anyone—other than the person she’d become after Peterloo.

A lie.

A lie was what she’d given him.

A memory slid forward: a brief but telling exchange between Hugh Savage and his partner.

I don’t have dealings with the nobility . . . I don’t trust them . . .

She stopped at the top of the stone stairway and looked down.

It wasn’t really a lie. He’d not asked her if she was a lady of the peerage.

As such, one might argue it was simply a lie of omission.

One who is a liar, that is.

A man such as Hugh Savage wasn’t one who’d forgive any lie. And yet what choice had there been? Even as she attempted to reassure herself about the choice she’d made, guilt knotted up her stomach. No longer just the twinge it had been two days ago. That sentiment was growing.

Furthermore, their time together was limited. When Lila’s family returned, she wouldn’t be able to sneak about as she did. Yes, soon she’d be gone, and he’d never know the truth of her identity.

Neither of which, as she made her way down the stairs, eased her guilt or made her feel better . . . in any way.

Because she found she enjoyed being with him. Short though the time had been, she’d spoken more, and felt more, than she had in so long.

Lila lifted her hand . . .

This time, the door was opened before her fist hit the panel.

“Good morning, Hugh.” Her heart lifted at the sight of him. Like all their meetings prior, he rarely bothered with a jacket, and where that had first shocked, there was a comfortable intimacy to his preferred state of dress . . . or undress, rather.

He scowled. “Are you going to come inside?” he asked, and she sprang forward.

“Yes, I . . . oh, this is one of those rhetorical questions.”

“Brava, Flittermouse.” He pushed the door shut behind her. “You’re late.”

Because I was hanging around your steps, feeling all degrees of guilt. Unable to meet his eyes, Lila made a show of removing her cloak. “I’m here now.” She set the garment down over the low ledge that separated the seating from the arena and faced him. “And another thing.” She rested her hands on her hips. “I’ve told you, I’m not a mouse. I’m not a bat. I’m a woman.”

“Aye, that I see.” His lashes swept down, an inky-black blanket that obscured his eyes but still couldn’t conceal the burn of the stare he raked over her.

And all her indignation went out the proverbial window as she had confirmation to the question she’d had upon leaving . . . he desired her. Because she was the Earl of Waterson’s sister, none of the boys in the village had ever been anything but respectful around her. When she’d just turned eighteen, a woman by society’s standards, her life had fallen apart. As such, there’d been no stolen looks or heated touches. Moments of passion and