Page 11 of The Duke and Lady Scandal (Princes of London #1)

He didn’t want to let her go, and yet he knew he should.

She’d insisted on tucking herself against him again and helping him inside. Once they stood in his drawing room, he should have released her, and yet he still held on because she was sweet and soft and maddening.

He should be furious with her. He should have sent her home alone as he’d intended.

Something about this woman made him forgo everything he knew he should do and give in to what he wanted instead. And that was a dangerous path.

“Where do you want to sit?”

Her very practical question finally cleared a bit of the haze of the last hour, and he lifted his arm to allow her to step away. But she didn’t.

“I can manage on my own,”

he told her, and it didn’t even sound convincing to his own ears.

Still, he forced himself to disentangle himself from her curves and the sweet-scented warmth of Alexandra Prince. Even her hair smelled of flowers.

“Of course you can, Inspector,”

she said in the tone of one in total disagreement but humoring him to move on. He was quite used to that tone from Helen.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

“Why?”

“We need water and clean cloth to tidy you up.”

“You needn’t mind about that. It’s late and your family must be worried. Mrs. Pratt can see to a cab to take you home.”

“My family is away on an expedition.”

She tipped her head. “Who is Mrs. Pratt?”

“I’m the housekeeper, miss.”

As she had an extraordinary habit of doing, Mrs. Pratt appeared just when she was needed. “What can I get for you?”

“A hansom cab to see her home,”

Ben said as he peeled his overcoat off. Every muscle protested. Demming’s men knew where to land punches and kicks for maximum effect.

“A basin with water and some cloth for washing up, please, Mrs. Pratt.”

Miss Prince’s voice was quiet yet determined as she directed his housekeeper and ignored him entirely.

“Of course, miss.”

Even as she spoke the words, Mrs. Pratt moved past Miss Prince to get a look at him. She gasped when she did. “Oh no, sir.”

“All’s well. I assure you.”

“Should I send for Miss Drake or Dr. Porter? She’ll wish she’d been here to help.”

“No.”

Ben lifted a hand. “Don’t send for her or that damned doctor. Promise me, Mrs. Pratt. It’s a few scratches. Nothing more.”

The housekeeper stared at him skeptically, then finally dipped her head.

“I’ll return with the items directly,”

she told Miss Prince on her way out of the room.

“I take it that Miss Drake is your sister. The one who’s brilliant at chess.”

“Yes, and she’s also a nurse at a clinic in Whitechapel. She’d subject me to a medical once-over, and I don’t need it. I’ve had worse beatings, and far worse nights.”

Miss Prince approached and bent at the waist to get a good look at his injuries. As soon as he met her gaze, a strange energy buzzed between them. She traced every inch of his face with her eyes, though not with the same cold scrutiny his sister would have.

Miss Prince’s gaze was soft, appreciative, as if she quite liked looking at him, even when his face was a garish mess. And he hated how much he relished having her close. She was a delectable distraction he could not afford in his life.

And he needed no clearer evidence than tonight to prove that an association with him was a danger to her. Good grief, what if she’d showed up in Southwark half an hour earlier? What if she’d followed him into that bloody warehouse? After over a decade of police work, there was no doubt a passel of men like Demming who’d line up for a turn at doing him harm. Or doing the same to those he cared for.

He wouldn’t expose her to that.

“Whatever happened here came dangerously close to your eye,”

she whispered, reaching up to brush her fingers gently along the edge of his face. He felt the stroke down the length of his body and shivered.

“One of them wore a ring.”

He held her gaze a moment longer. “Miss Prince—”

“I don’t think there will be a bruise, though that cut may take a few days to heal.”

“You should go.”

She straightened and tipped a sad smile down at him. “You’re wasting your breath, Inspector. Unless you mean to heave me over your shoulder and toss me out, I intend to stay and clean those cuts.”

She thought he did not want her to stay, and perhaps that was for the best. Though the opposite was true. Each time he urged her to go, it was far more effort than it should have been. He did so for her benefit, not for his.

Having her near had ignited something in him from the moment he’d met her, and he could no longer tell himself anything different.

“Here we are.”

On the tray Mrs. Pratt delivered were clean bandaging, a basin of water, sticking plaster, and a pot of tea.

“This is perfect. Thank you, Mrs. Pratt.”

Miss Prince beamed at seeing the teapot, immediately poured two cups, and handed him one.

“I’ll be near if you require anything else, though you seem to be in fine hands, sir.”

Mrs. Pratt’s mischievous wink was, thankfully, offered while Miss Prince had her back turned.

He couldn’t blame his housekeeper. In the seven years they’d employed her, he’d never invited a lady visitor into their home. Indeed, he’d avoided the very idea of involving himself with a lady for the very reasons that he could not let himself get used to Miss Prince’s company.

“Let me have a look,”

she said in a near whisper, and then she was touching him again.

She cupped his chin and nudged his head up, then she drew so close the skirt of her gown brushed his knees. He spread his legs and she moved between them to get closer.

Her movements were efficient, but her touch was light. As if she feared causing him more pain.

He’d never allowed anyone to fuss over the injuries he’d sustained on the job over the years, but her touch lulled him. Soothed him.

“There. The cut near your lip is slight.”

Her thumb swept along the edge of his mouth. “But I could put sticking plaster on the one near your eye.”

“Don’t bother.”

She moved away from him, and he stood, stifling a groan when his body protested.

“Then I think I’ve done all I can,”

she told him as she folded the cloth neatly and stepped away to lay it beside the basin’s edge.

Ben couldn’t resist taking a step closer to her, touching her. He reached out and she slipped her hand into his. “What possessed you to come tonight?”

She lifted her gaze to his and looked at him with an earnestness he rarely saw from anyone. “I had to. I can’t fully explain it. Something told me I could be of help.”

She looked away for a moment and smiled ruefully. “And perhaps something in me didn’t want to be left behind.”

Her honesty, without any pretense or caution, was refreshing.

“You did help, but it was reckless. And now you must—”

“Leave it to you, I know.”

She slipped her hand from his and crossed her arms. “It involves my shop now, Inspector. Did Mr. Demming say why he was watching Princes?”

“He claimed that he was looking for me.”

Ben shrugged because the explanation felt as inadequate now as it had when Demming offered it an hour ago.

“You don’t believe him?”

She could read him now, and that, if nothing else, told him the dangerous effect she had on him. He prided himself on withholding his emotions, not letting them cloud his reactions or judgement. Somehow, after a few days’ acquaintance, that necessary, practiced mask was slipping. At least with her.

“Not entirely, no. But Alexandra . . .”

Ben reached for her again. It was ridiculous how natural it felt. “Try not to worry.”

She let him take her hand and then drew closer, until their chests were but an inch apart.

“This will become an official investigation now. Demming will go to ground, but I will find him again. And Lord Holcroft.”

“So I must wait to hear from you?”

She seemed to hate that notion and didn’t try to hide it.

He wondered if it was that she wished to hear from him or merely wanted an end to this matter.

One thing he knew—he needed to devote more resources to resolving it, to finding out if there was a plot and ensuring that none of those involved posed a threat to her and her livelihood.

“I’m not patient either, but I’m asking you to be.”

He stroked his thumb across the backs of her fingers. “In a few days, I promise you I’ll know more.”

“Oh, but I am patient.”

She lifted her hand to trace her fingers across his knuckles, almost absentmindedly. Her touch was delicate and yet tantalizing. When she encountered an abrasion atop one knuckle, her brow puckered. “Well, about certain things. I’ve been waiting all my life. Usually, it’s only my tongue that gets me in trouble.”

“Is it?”

He locked his gaze on her mouth. How could he not?

Her breath quickened as did his own, and her fingers stilled atop his hand, though she made no move to pull away. When he lifted his gaze to hers, he saw heat there. A spark of the same desire he felt whenever she was near.

“What I mean to say is . . .”

Ben slid his fingers along the curve of her jaw as she’d done to him not ten minutes past.

“What you mean to say is . . . ?”

he prompted.

“Sometimes I blurt out whatever is on my mind. People don’t like it.”

“I rather like it.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Mmm. I don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

He trailed his fingertips along her bottom lip. Touching her was addicting. The more of her skin he traced, the more he wanted to explore.

When he reached up to cup her nape, she closed her eyes. The sign of trust made him swallow hard.

He did not want to harm her, endanger her. But good God, how he wanted to kiss her.

“Alexandra.”

The word slid over his tongue like rich whiskey. He loved speaking it aloud, and that she allowed him to.

“Yes.”

Her thick lashes flicked up, and she looked at him with what seemed like yearning. She drew the edge of her lower lip between her teeth, then reached out to lay her hand against his shirtfront.

“I know I should go,”

she whispered, “but nothing in me wants to.”

She studied his shirtfront, teasing her fingertips along the line of buttons. When she looked up at him again, he couldn’t stop himself.

He traced the backs of his fingers along her check, then bent to kiss the skin he’d touched. Tracing his lips up to the delicate shell of her ear, he told her the rawest truth.

“I don’t want you to go.”

The words seemed to set something loose in her. She reached up, threaded her fingers through his hair, and arched against him, letting her body fall into his. She closed her eyes again, and her lush mouth trembled slightly.

He’d never been hungrier for a woman in his life. But if he kissed her, he’d lose the ability to protect her. To protect himself.

But she was far more tempting than he could resist. All reasonable arguments fled, and it was only him and her and this precious closeness. A desire so strong it blotted out everything but the need to taste her lips. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone more. Never seen a woman and known in that same moment that he wanted her—and he could admit to himself now that the attraction had been there from the moment she strode into his office, talking so quickly that his brain couldn’t catch up.

He stroked her cheek, and she opened her eyes. He saw everything amid the silvery blue—her curiosity, her boldness, her willfulness, and desire too. For him.

He bent his head, and she responded with a kiss so eager that it stole his breath. With both arms wrapped around her, he pulled her closer. She arched onto her toes, and he all but lifted her off them so that her soft curves melted against his body.

When he teased his tongue along the seam of her lips, she opened to him immediately. And she learned quickly, tracing her own tongue against his lower lip.

Her scent drove him mad, and he wanted to find the spot where she’d dabbed the floral concoction on her neck, between her breasts, behind her ear.

He traced a path down to the base of her throat, just above the collar of her high-necked gown, and yearned to release each bloody button that kept every inch of her from him.

When he reached for the first button, he heard a scratch at the front door and stilled.

Helen was home.

It took all the willpower he possessed to stop touching Alexandra. But he forced himself to, gently setting her back on her feet and then lifting his hands from her body.

Her eyes slid open when he did, and shock was soon chased by disappointment in her eyes.

“What on earth has happened to you?”

his sister called from the drawing room threshold, her gaze assessing his wounds, the blood on his shirt.

Helen still wore her overcoat and stared from Alexandra to him with curiosity and concern knitting her brow.

“I’ll be right as rain tomorrow,”

he told his sister.

She lifted one dark brow and then strode forward, offering her hand to Alexandra.

“Hello. I’m Helen Drake, and you are?”

Ben winced at her curt tone. It wasn’t unkindness, just his sister’s usual efficient manner.

But Alexandra, in her own straightforward way, didn’t seem to mind. “I’m Alexandra Prince, and I’m pleased to meet you. Apparently, we’re both better than he is at chess.”

To his shock, Helen immediately softened, even chuckled. “I’m glad to hear he admits that to someone. He rarely will to me.”

Still holding Alexandra’s hand, his sister added, “Perhaps together we can give him enough pointers to bring him up to snuff.”

“That sounds like a worthwhile challenge.”

Alexandra looked back at him as she released Helen’s hand. “It’s late, and I should be getting on my way. Good evening to both of you.”

She offered him a nod, and then strode from the room.

“I should see that she gets off safely,”

he told Helen, but Mrs. Pratt appeared in the hallway. She’d collected Alexandra’s coat from the hall rack.

“I’ll make sure of it, sir,”

Mrs. Pratt told him.

When the two of them had headed toward the front door, Helen stepped closer, scrutinizing his injuries.

“Apparently, you were wrong, brother dear,”

she told him archly. “You did indeed see her again. Your lady with a spark.”

Dressing for the Wellingdons’ dinner party took Allie far longer than she’d intended.

She kept getting lost in thoughts of the previous night. The wild impulse she’d followed to go to Southwark, and the overwhelming relief she’d felt when she found Ben, despite the state Jack Demming’s men had left him in.

And then that kiss. The memory was sharp and bright in her mind—she imagined she could still catch the scent of him on her skin, still feel the hardness and heat of his chest against hers.

Had he reached for her first? Or had she pulled him closer? She’d never experienced anything like it in her life—one moment they were two people with an odd magnetic pull between them and then they were kissing. And it changed everything. It no longer mattered if she had been too bold or if he had broken some rule of etiquette by touching her too freely.

The kiss hadn’t been awkward or hesitant or anything she’d imagined her first kiss might be. As soon as she was in his arms, she felt that it was right where she was meant to be.

The clock struck eight, and she realized she’d gotten caught up in those moments again.

She forced herself to finish washing and dressing, and then patted the pretty assembly of curls and jeweled pins that Lottie had arranged her hair into at her nape.

Ten minutes later, she alighted from the carriage the Wellingdons had sent to fetch her, wondering if she should keep the details of the previous night from Jo. They told each other almost everything, and Jo could read her as others couldn’t. But her friend would be happily distracted this evening.

Jo was always happiest in her element, surrounded by her siblings and her books and all the musical instruments she so excelled at playing. And because Lord Wellingdon was that rare sort of father who was as kind and encouraging to his daughter as to his son, he engaged Jo in the sorts of political conversations that were common at their dinner parties.

The challenge came when Lady Wellingdon was about.

Jo’s mother had taken against Allie, or more accurately against the Prince family altogether. The countess thought her father’s and brother’s exploits were “unseemly,”

and the lady seemed to fear that Allie would lead Jo into a life of dangerous adventures, stubbornly ignoring the fact that Allie had never had any of her own.

Lady Wellingdon was never cruel. She steered toward the chilly edge of civility and never offered any true warmth. Still, for Allie, spending time with Jo made it all worthwhile.

“Miss Prince, I’m so pleased you could join us this evening.”

Lady Wellingdon welcomed her as soon as she entered the family’s sumptuous drawing room.

“Thank you for the invitation, my lady.”

Allie smiled and watched as a series of expressions played over the countess’s features while she assessed Allie’s dress.

“What a vibrant color you’ve chosen for your gown.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The raspberry-colored gown was cut well, and Allie loved all its flounces. Since she didn’t read ladies’ magazines or care particularly about fashion, she wore what pleased her.

“Heavens, you look divine,”

Jo enthused as she came up behind Allie, wearing a rich blue gown that matched her eyes.

“So do you.”

They exchanged a quick hug, and then Jo pointed a look at her mother over Allie’s shoulder. “I’m taking her to the library, Mama. I want to show her my newest bookstore acquisitions.”

Lady Wellingdon harrumphed lightly. “Don’t dally, Josephine. More guests will arrive soon, and you two mustn’t cloister yourselves among piles of books forever.”

“She has no idea she’s just described my idea of heaven,”

Jo whispered as soon as they were past the drawing room threshold.

Allie tried suppressing a chuckle, but it didn’t work.

Once they were inside the Wellingdons’ impressive library, Jo slid the door shut and turned eagerly to Allie.

“Has there been any news from Inspector Drake?”

“News?”

Allie’s stomach flipped, her cheeks flushed, and it took everything in her not to confess all that happened the previous night.

“Was he not looking into what you overheard? If he hasn’t, tonight you can take your concerns to the man I sent you to at the start.”

“Haverstock?”

“Indeed, Sir Felix and his daughter, Lavinia, have both been invited. You can tell me if you find her as difficult to converse with as I do.”

Jo collected a book from a table near the door and came back to show it to Allie.

“Do you think if I proposed this to our bicycle club, we could convert them to a book club for the winter?”

Jo handed over Bicycling for Ladies, a dark blue clothbound volume with a cheerful lady bicyclist on the gilded cover. “I ordered it from America and can send for more if we choose it.”

Allie flipped through distractedly. Bicycling had given her a sense of freedom and independence when she’d sorely needed it after emerging from a childhood feeling as if her body was weak and illness-prone, but tonight she struggled to think of anything but Benedict Drake.

“It looks perfect,”

she told Jo with as much of a smile as she could muster. “You have my vote, and I’m sure the others will agree.”

Jo beamed. “Excellent. I’ll put an order in for more straightaway.”

She set the book aside and gestured to the shelves her father had designated for her collection. “I don’t really have any new acquisitions you haven’t heard about. I just wanted a moment to chat with you on our own. But if you see anything you’d like to borrow, you know you’re always welcome to.”

“Do you have anything on travel to Ireland?”

The ideas for a trip that she’d scribbled down in her notebook that day in the coffee shop felt distant now, but she still dreamed of a journey to Ireland one day.

“Are you planning a trip?”

Jo all but bounced with excitement.

“I thought perhaps a research trip for my book.”

“If you need an assistant, I’ll beg Papa until he relents.”

Allie laughed. “You’d be an excellent research assistant.”

“I’m quite serious.”

Jo laced her arm around Allie’s to lead her out of the library. “Mama will be entirely focused on Olivia’s coming out next year, so I might be able to escape.”

Allie doubted Jo’s mother would allow her that much autonomy or that Lady Wellingdon had given up on matchmaking her eldest daughter with an eligible nobleman.

Indeed, as they made their way back to the drawing room, Allie heard distinctly masculine voices.

“Who did she invite this time?”

Allie watched her friend’s face for a reaction.

“Lord Echolston.”

Jo swallowed hard after pronouncing his name. Allie sensed that she quite fancied the handsome young viscount but had yet to admit it.

“He seems kind and always wants to talk with you about books,”

Allie said encouragingly, and Jo returned a mysterious smile.

From the drawing room, the low timbre of one male voice stood out from the rest. Allie jerked to a stop, and an electric ripple of awareness chased across her skin.

Jo clutched her hand. “Oh heavens, I thought it a possibility, but I swear I didn’t know for certain.”

She cast a fretful glance at the drawing room threshold. “It seems they’ve brought Inspector Drake.”

Jo’s eyes widened as Allie picked up her flounced skirt an inch and strode into the drawing room.

He’d been on her mind since she’d parted from him the night before. Since the moment when she’d touched her lips to his and been kissed so extraordinarily for the first time in her life.

He was lifting a glass to his mouth when he saw her.

Allie knew the exact moment because his body jolted the way hers had when she heard his voice. Everything around the edges of her vision blurred, but the sight of him remained clear.

She took two steps forward. He took one. Then he turned a glance toward the young woman and white-haired man beside him.

Miss Haverstock and her father, Allie presumed. In physical appearance, Sir Felix looked exactly as she expected—tall, regal, with snow-white hair and a manicured mustache—but the man’s demeanor, even from across the room, telegraphed displeasure. His brow pinched in a frown, and he grumbled something to his daughter, who wore the same serious look as her father.

“Oh, there you are.”

Lady Wellingdon waved from her spot on the settee. “Lord Echolston has been looking for you, Josephine.”

“Go ahead,”

Allie urged her.

“But I must introduce you to the Haverstocks.”

“Your father will, I’m sure.”

Lord Wellingdon had just entered the drawing room and immediately drew the attention of Inspector Drake and the Haverstocks.

As soon as Allie approached the group, Lord Wellingdon greeted her.

“Ah, Miss Prince. You may find this conversation interesting.”

They all watched her as she approached, but Allie’s gaze kept returning to Benedict Drake.

He looked extraordinary in an ebony tailcoat and white tie. And if she didn’t keenly recall every moment they’d spent together, she might not notice the signs of the beating he’d taken in Southwark. Only a slight mark near his eye remained as evidence. Unless there were bruises underneath his clothes.

Considering him without his clothes made her throat dry, and then he was close enough to touch, and she barely resisted reaching for him.

“So glad you’re here, Miss Prince,”

Lord Wellingdon said, welcoming her warmly. “Have you met Sir Felix, Miss Haverstock, and Mr. Drake?”

She shot a questioning glance at the inspector.

“Miss Prince and I have met,”

he said immediately, which drew a mildly surprised look from Sir Felix.

“Go on, Haverstock,”

Lord Wellingdon urged. “Miss Prince will be interested. She’s Octavius Prince’s daughter, after all.”

“Heavens. Is she indeed? A lady with knowledge of history, then.”

Sir Felix lifted a monocle as if Allie required further inspection. “What do you know of Egyptian history, Miss Prince?”

“Not a great deal, I’m afraid. I’ve learned a few hieroglyphics and know enough to recommend items in my family’s shop.”

Alexandra replied more thoroughly than the chief deserved, considering his sneer as he inspected her.

When she glanced Drake’s way, he offered her a reassuring nod.

“As I was saying.”

Haverstock directed his words to Lord Wellingdon, all but ignoring Allie’s reply. “We’ve been invited to a soiree where a mummy is to be unwrapped.”

He side-eyed Allie, as if unwilling to give her his full attention. “I believe your father brought specimens over from Egypt for just that purpose.”

“Perhaps we can get you an invitation too,”

Miss Haverstock put in politely.

A pit of queasiness settled in Allie’s middle.

As a child, she’d perceived her father as larger than life and had been awestruck by his achievements. Now she viewed some of his actions more critically.

“He did not bring them for that purpose,”

she told the group, “but he sold them to collectors, and perhaps that was just as distasteful.”

“You speak thus of your own family’s livelihood?”

The disdain in Haverstock’s tone caused everyone to shift uncomfortably. The older man’s color was high, his speech slightly slurred, and Allie wondered if the glass of whiskey clutched in his hand had been one of many.

“I speak honestly, Sir Felix. Disinterring human beings for entertainment is disrespectful. Eventually, I believe my father came to regret his involvement in the practice too.”

“You disrespect your father by saying so.”

Allie pressed her lips together. He was wrong, but she wouldn’t convince the man, especially if he was in his cups. Still, she found she couldn’t keep silent. “None of us would wish anyone we cared for to be treated in such a manner.”

Haverstock scoffed. “You’re quite naive, Miss Prince. And you’re far too severe in your condemnation for one so young.”

The white-haired man turned away from her, leaving his daughter looking miserable.

From the corner of her eye, Allie noted Jo’s approach. Drake took a step closer before Jo reached her.

“Ladies, would you like to come see the new book Lord Echolston has brought me?”

She glanced meaningfully at Allie and then at Drake too. “You too, Inspector.”

Lavinia joined Jo immediately, but Allie held back.

“May I escort you over?”

Drake asked her quietly.

“Aren’t you meant to be escorting Miss Haverstock?”

His eyes widened and he gave one decided shake of his head. “It’s not what it seems.”

Allie felt awkward and foolish, and she could not bear another moment of Haverstock’s sneering looks or Lady Wellingdon’s unspoken criticism.

“I’m sorry, Inspector. I need some air.”

It was all she could manage before she turned away from him and headed for the Wellingdons’ back garden.