Page 97 of Dukes All Night Long

J o was out of her seat before the carriage lurched to a stop.

She beat Oliver to the handle and flicked the door open with decisive flair.

She wanted him to think she was above it all—their past, the unnerving way he could always make her feel—but she wasn’t.

It was all an act, and Jo worried that if she spent any more time in his presence, he’d catch her out as the bad actress she was.

But old habits died hard, and politeness forced Jo into a pause. “Thank you for escorting me home, Your Grace,” she offered demurely. She lifted her chin, knowing her imperious expression always drove him crazy. “Have a good night.”

Oliver’s hand lashed out, landing on her thigh. He curled his fingers along the muscle, causing bolts of lightning to zip up her spine. “Wait,” he growled. “That’s it?”

Jo narrowed her eyes. She yearned to shove his hand away but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “What more could there be, Your Grace?”

“For fuck’s sake, Jo. Stop calling me that!

” Oliver ripped his top hat off his head and threaded his fingers in his hair.

A long, gnarled scar peeked out from beneath a thin patch of black hair, just above his ear, snagging Jo’s eye.

He stilled, recognizing what had caught her attention.

Quickly, he replaced his hat, angling that scar away from her.

Jo hesitated. All she had to do was step out of the carriage. And then this whole terrible night would be over.

But she didn’t.

“What were you doing tonight, Ollie?” she asked gently. Her voice was low, as if speaking louder than a whisper would break the seal of this intimate moment.

Oliver winced, avoiding her gaze, shifting his weight in his seat. “So, you’ve given up on thinking I was with a woman?” he teased, but there was no amusement in his voice, only rough emotion.

Jo didn’t answer, allowing her silence to speak for her.

Oliver frowned but went on. “The doctors say I’ve recovered. And, for the most part, I have, but…” He trailed a hand over his temple. “I still have a difficult time sleeping. Headaches plague me. The doctors prescribe me laudanum, but sometimes I need…more.”

More .

Now it was making sense to Jo—Oliver’s unhealthy complexion, his slight weight.

If a man was in the Limehouse District in the middle of the night and not looking for a woman, he could only be in search of its infamous opium dens, dark, wet, crowded rooms where people could lose themselves in the drug, sleeping and dreaming their troubles away.

An atmosphere primed for forgetting. Even forgetting themselves.

Jo’s brow pinched. Because she still hadn’t willed herself out of the carriage. And her heart squeezed at the way Oliver’s cheeks flushed at his confession. This was a man unused to embarrassment. And yet he’d divulged this secret all the same. To her.

She closed the carriage door. “I’m truly sorry that you had that happen to you, Oliver,” she said. “I wanted to see you, to check on you. I tried, actually. Once. But your butler said you were sleeping, so I left, not wanting to disturb you.”

Oliver cocked his head, one side of his lips kicking up. “Is that right?” he asked.

Jo frowned. She didn’t understand his tone, couldn’t read it, and it put her on edge.

Probably because she was lying—she had visited him one night, and his butler had told her that he was sleeping. But she’d gone to his room anyway, because she had to see him with her own eyes. She had to know he was still whole and living in the same world as her.

But Oliver didn’t have to know that. And Jo wasn’t about to tell him.

“Yes, it is,” she lied, finally scooting away from the door, causing Oliver’s hand to slip from her thigh.

Like magic, her chest relaxed, and she could fill her lungs with a fortifying breath.

“And I was right to do so. Look at you. A picture of health. Well…besides the, well…besides the headaches.”

What on earth was wrong with her? Jo’s mind had gone to mush.

She couldn’t hold a thought in her head.

Not with the way Oliver was looking at her, with that knowing smile and arched brow.

Like he was poking fun at her. Laughing at her.

Oliver reminded her of quicksand—he worked so slowly that it was too late before you realized he was pulling you under.

With trembling hands, she reached for the handle once more. “I should go,” she said, not waiting for a response.

Oliver tried to contain her again, but Jo had learned from her mistake. She slipped out of his clutches and ran down the carriage steps, but she could hear his boots clicking behind her, following her.

“Please, Your Grace,” Jo said. “It’s been a long night. I just want to go to sleep.”

“We’re not done,” Oliver snapped.

“We are,” Jo sobbed, alarmed by the tears pooling in her lids. She had to get inside. She couldn’t let him see what he did to her, the emotions he pulled from her as easily as one yanked a weed from between the footpath cracks. “We’ve been done for a long time.”

Jo felt his fingers skim over the cloak she held around her like a knight’s armor.

And for one brief moment, she wondered what it would be like to stop running.

To spin around and fall into his arms as readily as she had when she was seventeen.

Would his lips feel the same? Would they make her feel whole again, make her thighs tremble?

Would he make her forget as easily as the opium he’d smoked that night?

Could she use him as a drug to help her fall asleep?

No.

Because eventually she would wake up. And memories were dangerous things. Jo knew that better than most.

She was steps away from her townhouse. She was reaching for the door, her palm grazing the brass handle, when Oliver caught her.

With determination, he spun her around to face him, plastering her chest again his.

Jo’s eyes were glued to his, engulfed in the deep green pools that were a frightening mixture of fury and vulnerability.

“Why won’t you give me a chance?” he rasped.

“I know you want to.” Slowly, he relinquished his hold on her arm and placed his hand gently on her back, gliding it up the valley between her shoulder blades.

Jo arched under his touch, reveling in the tingle it elicited under all the layers of her clothes.

She bit her lip, begging herself not to whimper or cry out. To withstand the torment. “You had a chance.”

“I want another.”

“You can’t.”

He shook her. “Why not?”

She searched her mind for a reason. A good reason. She told herself that there were so many and that was why she couldn’t latch on to just one. But nothing came to her.

So she lied again.

“Because,” she said, unable to hide the sadness soaking the words, “I don’t love you.”

Then she reached behind her and found the doorknob, twisting it before Oliver could stop her. Struck dumb by her response, the duke didn’t move as she escaped from his embrace and slid inside her home, closing the door swiftly on his face.

*

“My lady?”

Hand on her chest, Jo glanced up to find her butler, August, blinking at her from the base of the stairs in the foyer. She’d known the man for most of her life; his stalwart presence had been such a comfort when, after her husband died, he’d left her father’s service to come work for her.

He didn’t miss much. And now the ordinarily stoic man regarded her with confusion and concern as she peeled herself away from the door.

Jo lifted the veil from her face and offered him a small smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I told you not to wait up for me.”

August nodded, his composure relaxing; however, Jo could tell it was for her benefit. She’d done little to quell his anxiety. “It’s my job, my lady. Are you sure everything is all right?”

“Of course! I’m just tired—”

The front door rattled against her back, clipping her spine.

August stepped forward. “Should I answer it, my lady?”

“No!” The door continued to shake, the pounding growing louder with every second. Jo plastered herself against it like she was under siege from marauding Vikings and only her puny strength could keep them at bay. She modulated her tone. “I’ll handle it. Please…you can retire now.”

August only became warier. But at least this man knew his place. He listened. Jo certainly couldn’t say the same about the scoundrel beating down her door.

No, now Oliver was plunging through her door.

In her initial excitement, Jo had forgotten to lock it, and only came to that realization when she felt the heavy wood push her forward. She saved herself from flying to the floor, regaining her balance in time to find Oliver on the wrong side of the threshold.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed.

Calmly, Oliver closed the door behind him, shutting it with a definitive click . “I told you I wasn’t done.”

“Your Grace, Lady Jo isn’t receiving visitors—”

Oliver’s voice cut off the butler like a freshly sharpened blade. “August, you are a good man, but if you attempt to stop me now, I won’t be responsible for what I do to you.”

Jo rubbed her temples, the pulse beating through her shaking fingers. She could not believe this was happening. But she recognized that determination in Oliver’s eyes. He would not leave until he was finished. She would have to see this out.

“Thank you, August. But that will be all,” she said firmly.

Oliver smiled. To his credit, he waited until the butler climbed the stairs, not moving until the servant was out of earshot.

Little good that would do, Jo thought bitterly.

The entire house would be gossiping about her tomorrow.

And they would tell their friends and families.

After all she’d done to curate a respectable reputation, this fiend had ruined it in one night.