Page 14 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 14

A week had passed since that fateful night at Aphrodite. The memory lingered like a bruise beneath her skin, flushed and tender. But now, Penny stood in a grand ballroom awash in golden candlelight, her gloved hand resting lightly on the crook of the Duke of Merrick's arm as he led her through a waltz. Her mother beamed from across the room, her fan fluttering with pleased excitement.

This morning's scandal sheet had printed a rather flattering sketch of her and the duke from a recent outing in Hyde Park. The accompanying lines hinted with unmistakable certainty that a proposal was imminent. Lady Penelope Dodge, soon to be the Duchess of Merrick.

The thought made Penny's stomach twist.

She tilted her head to meet the duke's gaze as they swept through the turn.

"Are you woolgathering again, Lady Penelope?"

She flushed and met his gaze. "I greatly enjoyed our visit to the Royal Museum, Your Grace."

"It was my pleasure," he said smoothly, his voice cultured, mild. "You have a keen eye for beauty and history."

"I was quite captivated by the Egyptian exhibit," she said. "I've always wanted to see the pyramids. I intend to one day."

To her surprise, he didn't scoff or politely redirect. Instead, he considered her with thoughtful interest. "Then I suppose we must add Egypt to our future travels."

Her breath caught. The idea of a future with him—a real one—felt oddly solidified in that moment. And perhaps she could be content. She could learn to treasure gentle affection, measured kisses, and a man who would not ask for the parts of her soul that still belonged to someone else. They moved gracefully through the final steps of the waltz, and as the music faded, the duke lifted her hand and bowed. "I look forward to claiming the last waltz of the night. You dance beautifully, Lady Penelope."

She offered a polite smile, even as her heart pounded. He had never danced with her twice in one evening before—this was the duke making another public declaration of intent. A part of her had come to understand his nature: measured, thoughtful, bound by propriety. He was waiting, she suspected, to let more respectable time pass since the death of his wife before formally making an offer. And from their quiet conversations, Penny sensed this delay was also for the sake of his children.

She was grateful for it.

Because even as she spent more time in his company—sharing laughter and quiet walks—she wasn't yet ready to walk into his arms and step into the role of duchess. Not when her heart still looked elsewhere. "Thank you, Your Grace."

As they stepped aside, Penny moved toward the open terrace, craving a breath of cool night air. But as she passed a marble column, her steps slowed. The murmur of male voices drifted from beyond the railing.

"Bainbridge is mad, I tell you. Taking on Kellerman? The man's never lost a match. Comes from Leeds. Built like a beast."

"They say he's only fighting for the purse. Fifteen thousand pounds if he wins. I am betting on Kellerman. Heard the match is tomorrow night."

Penny froze, her fan slipping from her gloved fingers.

Alexander .

Her heart clenched in fear. She took a step back, retreating into the shadows. The conversation blurred in her ears, but the name Kellerman and the words never lost echoed.

She found her mother holding court among a cluster of matrons, all glittering with jewels and scented with expectation. After a few polite exchanges, Penny opened her fan and leaned closer.

"We must return home," she said softly, urgency threading through her voice.

Her mother blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about, Penny?"

"I have a terrible headache."

"You must bear it for a couple more hours."

"Mama—"

"You've yet to dance the supper waltz with the duke," her mother hissed, her smile still affixed for the benefit of the ladies nearby.

Penny's jaw tightened. "No. I am unwell, and I need to leave."

Her mother's eyes narrowed, displeasure flashing like a blade. "Do not make a scene."

Penny didn't wait for more. She turned swiftly, skirts whispering in protest as she cut across the ballroom with practiced grace. She felt her mother's burning stare on her back, but she didn't slow until she spilled outside. A few minutes later, her mother joined her, lips pressed into a thin line. The carriage was summoned, and soon, they were seated within, the gentle sway of the ride carrying them through the quiet streets. Neither spoke. The silence between them stretched, brittle and tense, broken only by the soft clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

Penny barely noticed the jostle of the wheels or her mother's stony silence. Alexander consumed her thoughts and the knowledge that he willingly bruised and bloodied himself for the survival of his name. For his family. For his pride. She hated the risks he took, even as she understood the unrelenting force that drove him. Her parents disdained him for being impoverished, as would many others in society who shut doors the moment a fortune ran dry.

Later, alone in her chamber, Penny sat at the edge of her bed. Her gown slipped from her shoulders, pooling in lavender silk at her feet. Her maid had already gone. The moon spilled across the carpet, illuminating her pale arms and the bare slope of her collarbone.

She should sleep. Tomorrow would bring expectations, a visit from the duke, perhaps more public affection. A future . But instead, she lay back on her bed, hair unbound, eyes fixed on the ceiling. One hand gripped the edge of her coverlet as the other lay on her belly, over the place that still ached at the memory of Alexander's touch.

He would fight again. Another brutal match.

I should not go to him.

But her heart thudded traitorously in her chest, pulsing with one truth she could not silence.

He could die.

And she could not bear it.

The scent of sweat, blood, and cigar smoke filled the underground den, pungent and thick in Alexander's lungs as he entered the ring. The crowd roared, that low, hungry sound of anticipation that reminded him he was both gladiator and spectacle.

Across from him stood the fighter from Leeds, the one whispered about in every betting circle as undefeated—a bull of a man with arms like tree trunks and eyes that gleamed with the promise of violence. Alexander flexed his hands, curling them into fists. His knuckles were already aching, not fully healed from last week's fight.

He wasn't confident. Not even close. All the years of training at Gentleman Jackson's and the past eight months of fighting in the underground hadn't prepared him for this man's sheer brute strength. But he had never let fear guide him before, and he wouldn't tonight.

He raised his chin, scanning the audience. Basil and Raine nodded soberly at him. Radbourne, the devil, was in the corner with his scandalous masked countess sprawled across his lap, a flute of champagne balanced in her hand. No one was cheering among his friends. Their expressions were grim. They feared for him.

He inhaled deeply, the air stale and electric. Even if he lost, the purse for lasting fifteen minutes was two thousand pounds, enough to ease more burdens at his estate. And if he won... fifteen thousand pounds, enough to repair roofs, pay staff, restore some of the lands, and strengthen investments.

Milton had made it clear: survival was the goal. Victory would be a miracle.

He bounced on his toes, trying to focus. But then, a familiar shape at the edge of the crowd caught his attention. Slim. Straight-backed. Lush derriere. A crop of dark hair peeking beneath a gentleman's hat. He stilled.

Bloody hell .

Penny. Dressed again as a man, her face partially shadowed, but he knew her. Knew every inch, every breath, every pulse of her presence. His chest thudded, a sharp ache slicing through his focus.

Why the hell was she here?

There was no time to demand answers. The bell rang. The fight began. The brute came at him fast—a wide arc of a swing meant to break a bone. Alexander ducked, slammed a fist into the man's ribs, and twisted away. The crowd erupted. For the next ten minutes, it was a brutal blur. Blow for blow, grit for grit. Blood slicked his lip, and the sting in his side told him at least one rib was cracked. The crowd's howls blended into a single roar. He fought with desperation. With fury.

And with every glance to the side, he saw Penny. Watching him with a gloved hand pressed against her chest. Not with curiosity. But with fear. With tears in her eyes. And God help him, it gave him strength. He ducked another punch and slammed his fist into the side of the brute's neck, then into his stomach. The man stumbled. Alexander didn't stop darting forward with agility and landing well-placed punches despite his aching muscles. He was faster than Kellerman, and that worked in Alexander's favor. A final left hook landed with a crunch, and the giant dropped like a felled oak.

Silence. Then pandemonium.

Alexander stood swaying, blood dripping from his brow. Then Milton grabbed his arm and lifted it. He was the winner. His knees buckled. He stumbled from the ring. Strong arms caught him. He blinked in disbelief to see her face so close. Penny. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

"You fool," she whispered fiercely. "You damn fool."

He opened his mouth, but only a groan came out. He sagged into her, her strength the only thing holding him up as the crowd swirled in wild cheer around them. Several people shook his hands, and somehow, in the crush, Penny slipped from under his arms.

Raine helped him to the carriage, Alexander gritting his teeth with every step. He said little, only glanced once over his shoulder when he heard her—a soft, broken sound. Penny followed, her eyes wet, her expression stricken. She climbed into the carriage without hesitation, settling beside him, ignoring the blood on his shirt and the bruises already darkening his jaw. Raine said nothing, only giving Penny a curious look before shutting the door behind them.

The ride home was quiet but pulsing with unspoken emotion. Alexander did not ask her why or how she came. He just knew that he was glad she had come. When they reached his townhouse, Raine, who had ridden behind his carriage, helped Alexander inside but left quickly, murmuring something about brandy and a warm bed. Alexander didn't reply. Penny followed silently, her eyes wide and teary.

Inside the drawing room, she rounded on him. "You reckless fool," she cried. "He could have killed you!"

"I'm alive," he said hoarsely, slumping into a chair. "And wealthier for it."

"It's not worth it," she snapped, kneeling beside him to inspect the fresh bruises along his ribs.

"Do not tell me what is worth it," he growled. "You weren't there when the debts came due. You didn't see how creditors and dependents looked at me! You do not see the desperation and hope on my mother and sisters' faces."

She flinched, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I didn't come here to argue," she said brokenly. "Tell me what I can do."

He meant to push her away. Meant to tell her to leave him be. But she looked so fragile, so heartbreakingly determined, that instead, he let something reckless slip past his lips. "A bit of pleasure might dull the pain."

Her eyes narrowed. "If you're well enough to think about pleasure, you're not dying."

Despite himself, his lips curved. "You say that, but the only thing keeping me upright is the thought of your mouth on my cock."

It was meant to tease away her fear and anxiety, nothing more. But his heart nearly stopped when she moved—graceful and silent—dropping to her knees before him.

"What the hell are you doing?" he rasped, heat licking through his body.

She looked up at him, eyes fierce and filled with something dangerously close to devotion. "Giving you what you asked for."

"The boundary," he said tightly. "I did not mean it. I only teased."

Penny glanced up, startled—and then smirked knowingly. "Really?"

"Yes."

Her voice didn't waver. "There will be no boundary tonight. The line that you want between us will break every night you step into that ring. On other days, I will pretend. I will smile and curtsy and hold every rule you draw. But not on nights like these. If I ever hear you've been hurt, Alexander... I will come."

His cock hardened instantly, painfully. The truth of her vow shattered something inside him. "Even when you're a duchess?"

Shock flared in her eyes and then she said, "Even then."

His breath stilled. "I won't be with a married woman," he ground out. "My hunger for you won't let me play at honor while I unravel everything you are. I would never compromise my honor so." Even if temptation ate at him every day.

She didn't argue. Didn't need to. Instead, her hands moved to the fastenings of his trousers, and he watched, helpless, as she took him in her hands, her mouth brushing over the head of his cock with the reverence of a woman offering solace and surrender in one breath.

And Alexander—bruised, bloodied, and drowning—let her.

Her mouth was warm, so warm, and when she lowered her head over his cock, a ragged sound tore from his throat. Alexander gripped the edge of the carriage seat, his body shuddering with the restraint it took not to thrust deeper.

Then she looked up at him. Penny's eyes were shimmering, wide with purpose and something more tender, something that cracked straight through his carefully built walls. The sight undid him. She looked utterly wrecked, soft and determined, lips stretched around his cock with devotion in every movement. His heart stuttered. His cock pulsed.

"Christ," he ground out, voice hoarse. "This is madness."

He reached down, tearing the hat and cropped wig from her head, freeing the tumble of dark hair he adored. His fingers tunneled through the strands, cradling her head as if she were something sacred.

And God help him, she was.

He guided her slowly, watching in astonishment and awe as she accepted him again and again, her mouth molding to him, her fingers tightening around the base as if she couldn't bear to let him go.

Then he slid deeper. She made a soft choking sound, and her eyes watered. A curse slipped from his lips. He should have pulled back, stopped—but the sight of her like this, holding on to him, letting him inside her throat... he trembled. "Penny..."

Her hands gripped his thighs, her mouth working him with slow, devastating precision, her tongue gliding under the flared head of his cock as if she were learning him by heart. Every flick of her tongue, every pull of her mouth, was a pleasure and ruin tangled into one. A shiver racked through his frame as he caressed her cheek, her jaw, then down to the curve of her neck, where her pulse fluttered like wild wings. Alexander fucked her mouth a bit deeper, and her eyes watered more, but she took him.

He growled, thrusting deeper into her mouth, his fingers flexing in her hair. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

Her eyes widened, dark with desire, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

"Swallow every drop when I come in this hot little mouth," he said, voice rough with need.

She didn't stop. If anything, she became bolder—stroking, sucking, licking until he was panting her name like a desperate man. Pleasure seared through him, powerful and blinding. A surge that wasn't just physical but something deeper, soul-deep. He climaxed with a ragged shout, his cock jerking in her mouth, his release torn from him in waves as she swallowed him down.

When he finally sagged back against the velvet seat, chest heaving, she rested her cheek against his thigh, one hand still curved gently around his now-softening cock, as if to hold him there, grounded.

His heart beat like a war drum in his chest.

He looked down at her, rumpled, wild-haired, eyes luminous and mouth kiss-bruised and felt something dangerous stir in him.

Not lust. A deeper, more complex longing. He brushed her hair back from her temple with shaking hands. "You undo me even when I damn well know I should have more control when it comes to you."

Then, heart still thundering, he pulled her up into his arms and held her because words no longer seemed enough. Alexander held her for long minutes, ignoring the pain inside his body. Her body was soft against his, her breath still uneven where her cheek pressed to his chest. His hands moved slowly along her spine, memorizing the fragile curve of it, the weight of her in his lap. A war raged inside him—desire, tenderness, the need to keep her, and the brutal demand to let her go.

Eventually, she stirred.

Without speaking, he slid his arms beneath her knees and shoulders and carried her to his bedchamber, the quiet hush of the night folding around them. Penny didn't protest, only burrowed closer, her head tucked against his neck. In his bedchamber, he set her on the edge of the mattress. The bruises from the fight still throbbed along his ribs and shoulder, but he barely noticed them when she reached for his coat and helped ease it down his arms.

He let her. Her fingers were so gentle—slow and reverent as she undid the buttons of his waistcoat and slid it off. She touched him as if he might break, and he didn't know how to tell her that it was only under her hands that he ever felt whole.

When she reached for the damp cloth, he grunted. "You don't have to—"

"I know," she whispered. "But I want to."

She bathed him silently, her hands moving carefully over his bruised torso, dabbing at the small cuts. He watched her in the candlelight, his throat tight. She didn't speak. Neither did he. Then she reached for the liniment the physician left on the last visit and tenderly rubbed it into each wound, blowing air on the wound whenever he winced. Good humor washed through him, but he did not stop her. Once finished, Penny pulled the covers back and helped ease him beneath them. For a moment, she stood by his bed, uncertain. Then she bent, pressed a light, almost chaste kiss to his cheek, and turned away.

He let her get to the door before exhaling a low, rough laugh. "Bloody hell," he muttered, dragging himself upright. "Wait."

She paused, hand on the knob.

"You'll have to wait while I dress. I'm taking you home."

She glanced back, her eyes wide and shimmering. "You don't have to. You are hurt."

Penny said it as if that would quell the relentless urge he felt always to ensure her safety. "You shouldn't be out alone at this hour. And you certainly shouldn't have to walk."

She opened her mouth to argue. He silenced her with a look. Ten minutes later, dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, he carried her to his waiting carriage, settling her gently inside. They didn't speak on the short ride, the quiet between them comfortable.

When they reached her street, he stopped the carriage at the shadowed edge of the mews. She opened the door but hesitated, halfway turned toward him. He reached out, cupped her cheek, and kissed her forehead, tender and achingly careful.

Then his voice, low and hoarse, brushed against her skin. "Remember the boundaries, Penny."

She nodded slowly, but her gaze clung to him, and for a moment, he thought she might kiss him again. She didn't. Penny slipped down from the carriage and disappeared into the shadows. He watched the door close behind her until the flicker of candlelight from within vanished... and still he remained, staring after her, aching.