Page 11 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 11

I am a damn fool.

Alexander snarled the thought, glaring up at the dark ceiling of his bedchamber. Dawn crept over the horizon, silver light slipping between the edges of the curtains. Still, he could not sleep. Not with Penny's scent lingering on his skin, not with the feel of her arms around him like some longed-for fever dream.

Friends.

Christ. Why the bloody hell had he said such a thing? He knew why. Her smile always defeated him. One curve of her lips and his resolve fractured, exposing all the jagged edges he kept hidden. With a sharp exhale, Alexander threw back the sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He dressed himself without calling his valet, shrugging into breeches and a loose shirt, then tugging on his waistcoat and boots with practiced efficiency. His body protested with every movement—bruised ribs and knuckles and the deep ache of overuse, but he welcomed the pain. It grounded him.

Descending the stairs, he moved through the silent townhouse to his study. The hearth had burned low in the grate, casting a dim amber glow across the wide oak desk.

He sat and reached for the ledgers. A quick scan of the bank papers confirmed that the ten-thousand-pound draft from last night's fight had been deposited. He rubbed the back of his neck, easing the stiffness, and opened his account books.

In the last four months alone, he had earned over thirty thousand pounds from underground bare-knuckle bouts. A fortune sum for any man—unless that man had inherited the ruin his father had left behind. A letter from Milton lay to the side, unopened. He broke the seal, scanned the contents, and huffed a bitter laugh. Another invitation. This one promised a match against a renowned fighter from Leeds. The purse was fifteen thousand pounds.

Alexander leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Tempting. But his body was still healing. The wound above his brow had barely stopped bleeding. His knuckles cracked and popped every time he flexed them. The ache in his ribs still stole his breath if he moved too quickly.

And yet...

He looked down at the books. There were numbers that needed resolving, creditors to be paid, and tenants to be reassured. With methodical precision, he set to work. Several hours passed in silence, broken only by the scratch of his quill. He drafted letters to estate stewards outlining improvements and investments. He allocated funds to purchase new tools and livestock, repair aging tenant cottages and refurbish crop storage sheds.

He placed one thousand pounds each into his sisters' dowries—something he had vowed to do since the first match he fought. Then, he tallied the servants' back wages and set aside two full years of their salaries, ensuring their loyalty and peace of mind.

When he leaned back in his chair again, the sun was high, casting golden rays through the tall windows. The room was warm and heavy with the scent of ink and wax.

He exhaled slowly, and his belly rumbled.

The butler entered with his usual soft efficiency and bowed. "My lord, the Earl of Radbourne has come to call."

Alexander did not lift his head. "Show him in."

Let the scolding begin, he thought dryly as he closed the ledger, wiping a smudge of ink from his thumb.

He needed the reminder—needed someone to call him a fool aloud since his thoughts had already done so a thousand times over. And still... even now... he couldn't banish the memory of Penny's arms around him, the softness of her body pressed to his, and the aching temptation to kiss her.

Hell . He truly was a damn fool.

The Earl of Radbourne entered the study without ceremony, his green eyes gleaming with their usual blend of mischief and calculation. Alexander rose from behind his desk and wordlessly crossed to the sideboard. He poured two generous fingers of brandy into crystal tumblers, then handed one to his friend.

Radbourne took it with a murmured thanks and sank into a wingback chair near the sunlit window, crossing one booted ankle over his knee with the ease of a man used to comfort and confidence.

"I haven't seen you at Aphrodite in months," Radbourne drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Then I hear about this fight of yours—hell, the whole of London's talking about it. You flattened Barnabas the Beast."

Alexander's brow ticked upward as he leaned against the edge of his desk. "Was that his name?"

Radbourne gave him a long look over the rim of his glass. "You fought a man without knowing his name?"

Alexander smirked and shrugged. "He was large and angry. That was all the information I required."

A low laugh rumbled from Radbourne's throat. "We miss your scowling presence at the pleasure palace. It's not the same without you glaring at everyone like you're three seconds from tossing them out the nearest window."

Alexander took a measured sip of his drink, savoring the burn. "As a man who recently wed, and who seems to worship the ground his countess walks upon, why the hell are you still at Aphrodite?"

Radbourne's mouth curved into a slow, lazy smile. "Because my darling wife is... unconventional. She forged friendships there before she married me. We return from time to time. Chat with Madam Rebecca and share a glass of wine with the ladies. We watch. We do not partake."

Alexander lifted a brow, skeptical. "You? Not partaking?"

"My wife," Radbourne said solemnly, "would cut off my cock and make me eat it."

Alexander coughed on his brandy.

Radbourne grinned. "But I wouldn't risk it even if she were the most forgiving woman alive. I want no one else. Not after her. Agatha is my heartbeat."

There was something deeply satisfied in his tone—a note of lust and reverence that couldn't be faked. A quiet, unexpected envy pierced Alexander's chest.

He'd been there that infamous night. In the shadows of the pleasure palace, watching as Radbourne's future countess stepped onto the stage in radiant defiance, offering her virginity to the highest bidder. She'd stood tall and unashamed. Beautiful. Unbreakable. Then she danced. Radbourne had outbid every lord, rake, and degenerate without blinking—and then married her weeks later.

Alexander had not returned to Aphrodite since. "Do Basil and Ambrose still visit?"

"Rarely—and when they do, they never partake. Their wives come along, veiled in masks."

Alexander smiled faintly, a wry curve of his mouth. He knew how deeply his friends adored their wives. Basil, Ambrose—men once renowned for their libertine ways—now utterly besotted. And not once had they tried to cage their women, not in the way society demanded. They allowed them freedom, laughter, and passion. A quiet flicker of admiration stirred in him...perhaps even envy.

He knocked back the rest of his brandy as if that might drown the memory of a woman who laughed like spring and had arms that felt like home. "I'll visit tonight," he murmured.

Radbourne arched a brow but didn't comment. Instead, he leaned back with a self-satisfied sigh. "Good. I came by, actually, to discuss a few investment opportunities. There's a new venture with the East India docks that promises stable yields for the next five to ten years. It's not flashy, but it's dependable. You'll need dependable to keep your creditors quiet and your tenants satisfied. Though I'm damn proud you've become a beast in the fighting pits... we all worry about your stubborn, prideful hide."

"Don't even think of offering me money again," Alexander said coolly.

His friend exhaled heavily. "I won't."

Alexander knocked back the remainder of his brandy and moved back behind his desk. The weight of responsibility settled over him like a familiar cloak.

"Show me the papers," he said coolly, reaching for his inkwell and sealing the door on all thoughts of Penny.

An hour later, Alexander was fully dressed, his supper was hearty, and his mood passable. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat as he walked down the dim corridor toward the front of the house to his waiting carriage. A faint scratching sound halted his steps. He paused, head tilting, then moved silently toward the music room. The door was ajar. Pushing it open, he caught a flicker of movement. A lithe figure was slipping in through the open window, booted feet landing with a soft thump on the parquet floor.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" he snapped.

A shriek tore from the intruder—feminine and far too familiar—followed by a muffled gasp and the sight of a gloved hand slapping over her mouth.

"You scared me!" Penny accused in a fierce whisper, her eyes wide. "Why are you skulking about in the dark?"

"Skulking?" he repeated, his voice a low drawl. "Woman, this is my home. You, however, are trespassing. I ought to summon the city magistrate."

Her lips twitched. "Friends do not call the authorities on each other."

Only then did he look at her properly—and stilled. Penny stood in the shaft of moonlight in a gentleman's ensemble tailored to shocking perfection. She wore a dark emerald waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, the collar starched high, and her cravat neatly tied beneath a black velvet frock coat. Her trousers hugged her slender thighs, tucked into gleaming black boots. A short-cropped wig covered her hair beneath a gentleman's cap, and she clutched a polished cane in her gloved hand with a confidence that might have fooled anyone at a glance.

Almost.

Despite the disguise, the tilt of her chin, the grace in her bearing, and the softness of her features betrayed her. He suspected she had even bound her breasts beneath the shirt.

Alexander blinked, then gave her a long, deliberate once-over. "Why are you dressed as a man?"

She shifted under his scrutiny, clearing her throat delicately. "I thought to keep you company again. Perhaps we could play chess. I am, alarmingly, quite good."

His brow arched. "Shouldn't you be at some dazzling ball, clinging to the arm of your intended and dazzling him with your wit and charm?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I pled a headache. Only my mother went to Lady Chambers's midnight ball."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here. Dressed as a lad."

She mumbled something under her breath.

"I'm sorry," he said with cold amusement. "I didn't catch that."

"I was bored," she snapped. "And I thought to check on the health of a friend. Why are you giving me grief about it?"

Alexander exhaled heavily and dragged a hand over his face. "I'm better," he said tersely. "But I'm on my way out."

He flicked a glance at the clock above the mantle. Midnight. Something in his gut twisted. There was more to her visit than concern. And though her disguise was clever—impressively so—he was too attuned to her not to see through it.

"I'll escort you home."

Her gaze darted away. "No!"

"Penny—"

"I overheard Thomas speaking with Viscount Wimbley," she said quickly, "and he mentioned you might be at...Aphrodite tonight. I—I do not know where that is, but I thought I might convince you to take me with you."

Alexander reared back as if slapped. "You want me to take you to a pleasure palace?" His voice was low and dangerous. "Have you gone completely mad?"

Her gaze faltered. " Oh . I was not aware...."

A beat of silence. Then her voice, softer: "Why are you going there?"

He didn't spare her feelings. "For a woman," he said flatly. "To have her underneath me for the night."

A soft sound left her lips—painful, breathless. She looked away, lashes lowering.

"Enjoy yourself, my lord," she said with brittle dignity. "I shall return home and go to that ball after all."

She stepped toward the window. And he let her. Even as every fiber of him wanted to call her back—demand she stay, demand she explain what was pushing her to act with this recklessness. Alexander stayed silent, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

Moments later, he strode from the room, descending the steps with practiced ease. He climbed into his waiting carriage, gave the order, and let the night swallow him whole. He had not touched another woman in over a year. Not since Penny. Not even the flirtations and invitations at Aphrodite had tempted him.

But by God... that would change tonight.

It had to.

Or she would ruin him all over again.