Page 44 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

A lice gripped the newspaper clipping in her hand, smudging the ink in her sweaty palms. She stared out of the window at the passing London streets, so much louder than she remembered.

When she’d first come here, as a girl of nineteen, everything had seemed so… exciting . Her father and mother had supported her curiosity and enthusiasm, allowing her more freedom than she now understood was proper. She had even, on occasion, gone riding in Hyde Park without a chaperone.

The rules were different in London. Ruin was always just around the corner—one misstep and it could find you.

With her leg, every step she took these days was a misstep.

But at least, even after a four-year absence, she was showing her face in London for a cause. So long as she wouldn’t be late.

Opposite her, Jenny sat with her hands on her lap, silently nervous. They’d hired chaise-and-four on the last leg of their journey, which gave them the freedom to arrive at the church directly, a necessity given Alice’s inability to walk far.

She gripped her walking stick as they approached the doors of the church, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. Nerves ran like raw lightning under her skin, and she forced herself to take several deep breaths as they finally came to a stop.

Outside the church, several ladies in beautiful gowns were gathered, empire waists lower than Alice remembered from her older days in London.

She had almost enough time to consider that her dress was frightfully out of fashion before Jenny handed her down, and she approached the door of the magnificent building.

Head held high, she drew in a deep breath, then, without further ado, she threw it open with a crash.

The church was small. Dim. Heavy with the scent of old incense. A few ladies and gentlemen sat scattered in the pews, their whispers hushed.

And at the end of the aisle…

He stood.

As though nothing had ever been closer than right in his world.

The man who had stolen her future—bright, innocent, full of promise.

The villain of her life. Frederick Blackwell. The dastardly Duke of Langford.

For a long moment, Alice simply glared at him.

She only had vague memories of him; he had visited briefly while she was recuperating, but she had been so lost after the deaths of her parents that she had barely recalled his appearance.

And before then, of course, she had seen him occasionally in society.

But they had moved in very different circles.

Now, her mind clear, she was finally at liberty to take him in.

He had dark blond hair brushed back from his face, a sharp nose, full lips, and a dimple on his chin as he smiled.

He smiled . This was not a man whose back was broken from the guilt of what he had done.

If he’d shown remorse, she might have been able to forgive him, but he was so far from remorse as to be happy and moving on.

Resentment rose in her chest, reminding her of her intention. She was going to ruin him one way or another.

“You,” she announced as she lurched her way down the aisle, the wood of her stick biting into her underarm. “How dare you!”

The smile on his face faded as he turned to look at her. And then—the realization burned when confusion flitted across his face. She had every idea who he was; she had been following his fate for years, scanning newspapers and scandal sheets to discover every last thing she could about him.

And here he was, not only marrying a beautiful lady… but oblivious as to who she was.

He had come to visit her, to offer her a strangled apology.

Despite her vague recollections of that time, she still recalled the tangled glory of his dirty blond hair, the pride in his strong features.

The moment she stepped into the church, she had recognized him.

She could confidently say, she would have recognized him anywhere.

Yet, he had the indecency to appear… confused?

“How could you!” she hissed when she reached the carpeted steps he stood on. He blinked down at her, and she ignored the growing whispers behind her, the outrage on the expression of the reverend. All she could think about was the simmering fury in her veins.

“How could you even consider being happy when you ruined my life the way you did? How could you imagine it was fair to stand here and marry Lady Penelope when you carry the weight of murder on your soul? Where is your penance!”

“Penance?” He choked the word., barely more than a breath, strangled in his throat. “What in God’s name are you…”

Then—suddenly—his hand closed around her wrist.

Before she could pull away, he was moving, dragging her through a side door she hadn’t even seen.

They stumbled into a cramped room that smelled of old paper and candle wax—a place she suspected the reverend used to change into his robes. It was crowded with books, mostly Bibles, stacked in precarious towers, and littered with forgotten pieces of holy paraphernalia.

“ You —” she started again, but he released her with a rough gesture.

“Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?” he hissed.

Alice drew herself up to her full height. She had not lost her stick, but she did her best not to lean on it, her weight on her good leg. “You ought to know who I am.”

“Perhaps, but as I do not, I’d hope you’d be so good as to tell me.” His voice was icy.

Alice fell stumped. “My… my name is Alice Ravenshire. Daughter of Lord Brexton.”

“Well then, Miss Ravenshire , I hope you understand the scope of the damage you caused barging in here without an invitation. Do you know who I am?”

His eyes flashed, and she noticed for the first time what a peculiar shade of blue they were—like the sky upon its first awakening, when the dawn light brushed against the horizon, the darkness turning into the softest blue.

When they fixed on her the way they did, however, they were sharp and piercing—nothing soft about them. Her hands misted with sweat as she gripped her stick and held firm.

“I will, of course, be seeking damages.” There was a coldness to his face that she associated with grand men like him, but underneath it, she thought she sensed panic. “Do you know what you could have done?” He paced from one side of the room to the other. “What people will think?”

“What will they think?” she asked, frowning.

“That I ruined you.”

“But… but… you did ruin me.” She gritted her teeth. “You—”

“I can say with utter transparency that you and I have never engaged in—”

“ Langford .” A man poked his head through the door.

“Rushworth wishes to speak to you.” The man’s gaze flittered curiously over Alice, not even the faintest sense of recognition.

Evidently, no one here knew who she was, and she was enough of a woman of the world to understand what they presumably thought.

That the Duke had stolen her virtue. Perhaps even given her a child.

The disgust on his face seared itself into her soul. Obviously, the mere thought of being with her—a cripple—repulsed him.

She pressed a hand against her stomach; the rejection from this man, though she had no interest in him, cut deep.

He had no right to find her repulsive when he had put her in this state. If she was a cripple, then it was only because of his making!

“Stay here,” the Duke commanded her, then rushed out of the room. The door closed with a decisive thunk behind him.

Frederick’s mind raced as he approached the Earl of Rushworth, standing by the altar with a face of fury. This conversation would not go well.

He racked his brains to think of where he had seen Miss Ravenshire before. Her face, with its high cheekbones and large, almost almond-shaped eyes, held the barest hint of familiarity.

He had not bedded her. He knew that much. Aside from anything, he would have recalled the limp.

Remembering it now, he regretted dragging her away the way he had done. The only thought in his mind had been to minimize the damage to his reputation—damage that had taken place anyway.

“My apologies, sir,” he said to the Earl when he reached him, bowing his head solemnly. “I have not an inkling as to who that lady is, or—”

“We knew your history when you approached me asking for my daughter’s hand.

” The Earl’s chest puffed, and with a sinking feeling, Frederick already knew what the answer would be.

“We decided, after looking at your behavior for the past few years, to give you a chance. I won’t lie that it would have been a boon for my daughter to be married to a Duke.

A Duchess! She would have deserved that.

” His beady eyes narrowed. “But she does not deserve this. Now, tell me, in which way did you wrong the girl?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know who she is.” Aside from a name, but the name meant nothing to him.

He had met more nobles than he could count ever since he was a boy.

Perhaps the name sparked something in his mind, but not anything as certain as a memory.

“I promise you, she and I were not involved in any sort of liaison.”

Rushworth sighed, the anger in his face lessening. “If it helps, son, I believe you. I saw the look on your face when she limped toward you. The eyes never lie.” He shook his head. “But you must understand it from my perspective. Penelope is my daughter. And people will talk.”

Frederick knew. People always talked. Even when they did not understand the scope of the subject they gossiped about.

“I cannot in good faith allow her to marry a man who would—intentionally or not—humiliate her on her wedding day. How many more women will there be coming out of the woodwork? What other aspects of your past will return to haunt you? Once you’re married, your problems become my daughters, and your scandals will taint her too. ”

Frederick could have argued. Part of him wanted to—the part that still believed a marriage with Penelope would somehow allow him to outlive his past. But his past, in the form of a particularly angry stranger, had caught up to him anyway.

And it wouldn’t have been dignified to demand to marry a man’s daughter when he had revoked his permission.

Another scandal to weather. This time, he would be reported to be left at the altar after the unknown woman assaulted him.

A woman, moreover, with a limp. Regardless of the truth, or even what the Earl believed, people would think she was his mistress, abandoned and neglected now he was marrying.

A mistress with a limp, wearing a hideous dress years out of fashion. Evidently poor.

He sighed, pinching his nose. “I understand,” he murmured, retrieving what remained of his dignity. There was nothing more to be done but accept the situation with as much grace as he could muster. “I can’t say I’m anything but disappointed, but I understand your decision.”

“I am sorry, my boy.”

Frederick nodded.

The church felt stifling, and he turned around to find the woman who had ruined this chance he had at carving himself some peace—only to find the door to the vestry was open.

The woman had gone.

How she’d disappeared through the crowd so quickly with her stick, he didn’t know. She barely seemed as though she could walk without assistance.

Thomas approached. “Out the back,” he mouthed, his face creased with sympathy. “The reverend isn’t happy about it, but he’s giving us a respectable way out of here. Come on, man. Quickly now. You can’t stop them talking about you, but at least you can stop them doing it to your face.”

“The girl…” Frederick’s voice was low, tight.

“She’s gone. I don’t know where, and frankly, I don’t care.”

His jaw flexed. “I’ll find her,” he snarled, following Thomas through the dim church and out into the garden beyond. The space was small, cold, bordered by nothing more than a few leafless shrubs.

His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. “I will have my revenge, Denshire. Even if it’s the last damned thing I ever do.”