Page 44

Lesson Two:

If You Must Rescue a Rake, Do So With Minimal PhysicalContact

D orian woke to a number of painfully familiar things.

The faint scratch of a nib gliding over parchment.

A hitch in his chest that meant he’d had what his doctor gently called a “sudden complaint of the lungs”.

A brocade sofa he recognized from one, no, two, passionate encounters.

And most deadly, a delicate, slightly fruity fragrance—quince blossom—that he knew the owner had to order specially from a chemist on Piccadilly.

A scent that had clung to his naked skin on at least a dozen astounding occasions.

Rousing himself because he had to, he blinked away the mist from his mind while wondering what he was doing in her cottage. Their cottage, long ago.

Fucking eons ago.

He’d seen it from the lake for a split-second before the asthma incident. A coincidence, he hoped.

Dorian held his breath and waited, for what he didn’t know. But the moment came, his luck, as it were, and Juliet Fairchild quit the room.

He didn’t have to see her to know, he could smell her.

No one in London, in all the world, smelled as bloody amazing as she did.

He’d bought a bottle of her perfume after they parted, an ill-fated incident he didn’t like to recall, but finally had to toss it out after one too many brawls—and that unfortunate occurrence in the smoking house, where his brother made him vow to steer clear of opium for the rest of this days.

One tended to follow the orders of a duke—because one had to.

So, he switched to the feminine remedy, a steady stream of meaningless encounters.

Meaningless, because only one mattered, and she was lost to him.

Some days, he wished for laudanum instead. Less loneliness attached, even if it included a day spent in recovery. The hollow repetition of loveless relationships had grown tedious, edging into something dangerously close to despair.

It was time for children. A partner. Family .

And now, he had the funds to ask anyone he should so choose without a duke’s agreement—hard-earned freedom, every penny.

Not a cent from the duchy, his blunt was his own .

Although he loved Anthony, but forgiveness had been slow in coming.

After all, the Duke of Everleigh had shoved the most important person in his life out of it.

Time had passed, still, Dorian couldn’t make himself more forward in that arena.

He couldn’t imagine marrying anyone but her.

While staring at a crack in Juliet’s ceiling he didn’t recall being there before, he caught the tantalizing scent of yeasty bread and spiced apples.

She knew he woke from his asthma fits starved.

Of course, she did. Thus, he slowly made his way down the paneled corridor, his legs a little shaky, the norm.

His clothing was curiously damp in patches and smelled faintly of pond scum.

Not unpleasant, more an earthy tang. He was without his boots or his coat.

Thankfully, he’d left his father’s Bainbridge timepiece in his bedchamber so it wasn’t forever lost on this misadventure.

Dorian halted in the doorway, lingering, staring at her slender back, the tight sable twist of hair at her nape, knowing a conversation five years in the making was upon him.

He’d seen Juliet exactly twice since what he—when in his cups—called the disaster.

Once across a crowded ballroom, before they both stopped attending those damned things, and once on Rotten Row in Hyde Park.

She rode like the wind, a beast on horseback.

Though Hyde Park wasn’t the place to show it, not when she couldn’t ride astride as she did in Derbyshire.

He’d watched her, in any case, until she, her mount, and her likely-harassed chaperone faded into the haze of a setting sun, his heart spiraling in his chest.

The tomfoolery, as his brother called it, had started in earnest then.

“I don’t have many supplies here yet,” she said, her voice calm, though a slight quiver lanced through it, giving him the courage to step into her warm kitchen.

“I’ve just arrived for the summer, so I’m…

” She shrugged, a gesture he recalled her making often, one her mother had deemed unladylike.

“Without staff, even. They arrive in three days. They don’t know I’m at the main house yet, as I came early, and I’d rather keep it that way.

My little slice of peace. The dowager’s cottage, everyone calls this place, which strangely suits me. ”

She didn’t have to explain. He loved—or had loved—every unladylike thing about her.

“We’re alone then,” he murmured, crossing to a table meant for staff that she’d already set. Charming, informal Juliet. Dorian frowned as the weight of her words settled over him, his body reacting in ways it shouldn’t.

Alone. Bloody hell.

“There’s tea,” she said, finally turning to face him, leaning a slim hip against the scuffed butcher’s block. “I know you’re likely still a bit breathless from the episode.”

He paused before settling into the chair, his fists braced on the table.

He was breathless, damn her. Still beautiful without trying, her russet strands catching the last slant of sunlight.

Her eyes, a touch too wide for her face but impossibly perfect, shone like the emeralds in his mother’s heirloom brooch.

Her body, lush in some places, reed-slim in others.

He’d once craved every contradiction.

“Tea is lovely, but I need whisky,” he whispered and went about rummaging through her cupboard.

“Bottom cabinet, although I can’t say if it’s soured.”

“I don’t care,” Dorian said, grabbing the bottle, pooping the cork, and taking a gulp.

The brandy was decent, closer to a cooking sherry, but a man had to take what a man could get.

“I’m sorry about this, Jules.” Jules . D ammit, Dorian .

“You know the attacks come upon me unexpectantly, though it’s been almost a year since I had one. ”

“Lucky your friends can swim, isn’t it? You capsized the boat.”

He heard the thread of laughter in her voice. Looking over his shoulder, he grinned. “Holy hell, did I?”

“ Two boats, actually.”

He glanced down at himself. “That explains why I’m wet then.”

The ice of five years’ distance—and part of his heart—melted as they stood on opposite sides of her small cottage kitchen, laughing until they were gasping. Quite sadly, Dorian had forgotten what it was like to enjoy a woman’s attention outside the bedchamber.

Juliet waved a hand, as if that might temper her delight. “They looked like drowned rats, the lot of them. My word, if society doesn’t need a good dunking now and then!”

The sharp crack of thunder sent both their gazes to the window. Seconds later, the rain began, pelting the panes like scattered pebbles. If it kept up, the roads would soon be impassable.

Juliet gestured to the window and the advancing storm.

“We should alert someone that you’re awake, though I’ve no one to send at the moment.

” When Dorian didn’t reply, clearly in no hurry to discuss returning to his brothers, her gaze narrowed, her tone taking on an icy edge. “Your lady friend is probably worried.”

Dorian reclaimed the brandy bottle and took another drink. “What lady friend?”

Unable to contain it, Juliet let her temper fly, tossing down the spoon with a sharp clatter before marching out of the kitchen.

Dorian hung his head for exactly three seconds before going after her.

In the corridor, he caught her wrist, turning her to face him. Pressing her back against the paneled wall, he closed in, looming—an intimidation he’d never wield against any woman but her .

Because she held the cards, and she always would.

“Don’t play games with me, Dare Montrose. I’m exhausted with them.” A fast breath shot from her parted lips, inviting him to do all sorts of dangerous things. “Exhausted by them. And I won’t play them with you.”

His chest pinched, and he grimaced, taking the flash of sympathy that crossed her face and running with it. An attack that sent him to knees before Jules Fairchild might not be a bad thing. “That nickname, please , not here. Bloody society monikers.”

Wrenching her hand free, she crossed her arms over her chest, a silent command for him to back off . “I suppose, seeing as it’s almost dark, raining, and you’re on the cusp of another asthma fit, you’ll want to stay the night.”

He pressed his lips together, knowing a satisfied smile wouldn’t help his case. “The settee was quite comfortable, although I recall it being more useful for—”

Swearing, she slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say another word.

But the images surged, thickening the air.

They’d been lusty, curious, courageous young creatures—sneaking away to this snug cottage every chance they got, tearing at each other’s clothing, leaving marks on his skin he’d concealed with a well-placed cravat and on hers that she’d hidden from her maid.

He’d never made love to anyone else. Never wanted that kind of closeness again, an infinite emotional package laid out before him like a bounty.

The other women were thirty seconds of intimacy after—when Jules had been all night .

And if honesty was required, he would give it to her. “I just want to talk, Jules.”

Her bright green gaze narrowed in suspicion. “About what?”

Dorian’s heartbeat returned to a sedate rhythm. She was going to say yes. “Everything.”