In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,75

.

She feinted left.

Lila made it no farther than a foot past him before Hugh had an arm wrapped about her waist.

Just like that, she was transported to St. Peter’s Field all over again.

She was the girl on the grass.

Or rather, one of the thousands of them.

Throwing the fist this very man had taught her, Lila opened her mouth to scream, but all sound was robbed by the weight of his palm.

“I’m not happy with you,” he said, and it was the evenness of his tone that managed to ease some of the fear that he intended to kill her here, now. That, and for the weight of his hand, there was still a tenderness to the hold he had on her. “Can I move it?”

Lila gave a jerky nod, her head bobbing wildly of its own volition. For the hungering to be in control of her breathing, she’d have traded him her soul if he’d asked for it.

The moment he released her, she rushed to put the pianoforte bench between them. With his stealth and agility, it was a flimsy protection. He could crush her in a heartbeat and be gone before anyone ever found her.

He wouldn’t. Not the one who’d made love to her so passionately and touched her so tenderly.

And yet . . .

Rage tightened his features, from the hard corners of his unforgiving mouth to the blue of his eyes that had gone near obsidian.

And then . . . he smiled. A glacial grin that sucked any heat from the room.

This was bad. This was bad, indeed.

Chapter 18

Of course, he’d known by her speech and ways and familiarity with these parts of London that she was of a station far beyond his. But having it confirmed here and now, in this place, made that divide so much more vast.

And she’d not told him. Nay, she’d not trusted enough to share the truth of her origins with him . . . when he’d let her deeply into his life. Far more than he had any person before her.

Or ever would again.

Lila March lived in Mayfair.

And she was a lady.

Those lies of omission should be the source of the rage battering away at him.

Instead, it wasn’t only what she’d failed to share . . . it was how much she’d been unwilling to when he’d given her every part of himself.

Nearly every part, a taunting voice reminded. Not Peterloo . . .

And yet he’d laid his black soul bare, and all the while she’d withheld every part of herself.

He resisted the urge to laugh with bitterness.

Hugh skimmed his gaze over the gleaming wood instruments, all neatly arranged in a half circle upon the parquetry floor. Why, the pianoforte she stood near was worth more than any of Hugh’s collective scavenged items. And where it hadn’t mattered earlier that morn that he’d had nothing, now he was reminded once more of the sparsity of his existence. That he was still the same poor soldier, begging for work and forced back into a world of fighting—different battles from the ones he’d fought on the Continent, but battles nonetheless.

To give his restless legs the outlet they craved, Hugh took a slow turn about the music room. The music room he could fit his entire four-room apartments into, four times comfortably. He fought the urge to throw his head back and give himself over to the cynical laugh asking to be set free.

Only there could be no doubting in a house such as this one that there’d be servants upon him in an instant, and the only future he’d have after this night would be a trip to first Newgate and then the gallows.

The primal goal of self-preservation that had guided his existence brought him across the room, and he turned the locks on the double doors with a rapid click-click.

All the while, he felt Lila’s gaze on him, following his every movement.

“You followed me?”

“I followed you to be sure you made it home safely,” he said tightly, and her eyes filled with such tenderness and awe a dull flush settled into his cheeks.

She’d made something romantic of his following her.

But then, you did set out after her to be sure she didn’t come to any harm. It wasn’t that you were sneaking after her.

Her heart met her eyes. “Oh,” she whispered as if he’d handed her the most beautiful of compliments. “Thank you?”

He yanked at his collar. “Are you thanking me?”

“No?”

Except it was another question, and an erratic laugh escaped him. “Bloody