Page 15 of While the Duke Was Sleeping (England’s Sweethearts #1)

As Adelaide trudged down the main street of Berwick, she did so like the walking dead, one foot mindlessly in front of the other, drawn forward by the promise of a coffee—hot, hot coffee—and the perfect Parisian pain au chocolat. After a sleepless night tossing and turning, she’d risen early. Any thought of asking the staff for a hot drink or breakfast was quickly quashed by the venomous looks sent in her direction by the housemaids she’d passed. The smell must have lingered downstairs, despite her best efforts to dispel it. She couldn’t tell. She’d placed the mixture by an open window overnight, choosing bitingly cold air over the stench, and still it had burned through her nostrils. She couldn’t smell a thing this morning, not even the heavenly scent of the pine trees that lined the streets.

Finding a French bakery in the middle of English nowhere had felt like the only thing that had gone right since Cordelia had fled down the cathedral stairs. Yesterday, in anticipation of a day with the duke and his family, she’d gorged herself. She’d sat at a table outside, bundled up against the cold, and eaten pastry after pastry while she watched the comings and goings of the town.

Now, having spent the past five hours remembering what it was like to kiss the younger Montgomery brother, imagining kissing him again, getting not a wink of sleep, the only thing that could make her face the day was coffee and a pain au chocolat.

A large coffee. Two, perhaps. And two pastries, even three. Lord only knows you need the sugar, Adelaide.

She pushed open the door to the bakery. No, she couldn’t even smell the baking bread. “Bonjour, Madame Moreau,” she said with faked vigor. “Le plus grand café que vous ayez, et trois pains au chocolat, s’il vous plait.”

The woman at the bakery counter tsk ed while reaching for the largest mug. “Je suis désolée, ma demoiselle. Nous avons vendu toutes les patisseries ce matin.”

None left? But it is only half seven! Yesterday she’d arrived at the bakery at nine in the morning, and there had been plenty of her favorite breakfast food left. “Y en a-t-il à l’arrière?” she asked. Surely the baker had some set aside somewhere.

Madam Moreau shook her head. “Non, ma demoiselle. Sa seigneurie les a toutes prises ce matin.” She nodded to the back corner of the room.

Adelaide followed the woman’s gaze. Damn.

Rhett sat reading a newspaper, thoroughly consumed by it, a plate piled high with pains au chocolat in front of him.

She could leave now. He hadn’t seen her. She could dash out the door and not be forced to reckon with his smile or the way her stomach flip-flopped when he looked at her, or the inexplicable sense of belonging that she felt whenever she was in his presence.

She should leave, but then she would have no coffee and no pains au chocolat, and damn it—he was the reason she needed them so badly. “Je vais le rejoindre,” she said to Madame Moreau.

She wove between the tables until she was standing in front of Rhett, her fingers twisting around the handle of her reticule. “Good morning. Do you have enough food there, do you think?”

Rhett looked up and broke into a wide grin that flooded her with warmth from her toes to her scalp. “Della. This is a surprise.”

She arched a brow. “It is a surprise that you’re awake so early, when just yesterday you were complaining about midmorning visitors.”

He wrinkled his nose and rubbed his hands over his face. “I didn’t get much sleep after I left you last night. Any, if I’m to be honest.”

Adelaide wondered if it was the same thing keeping him awake that had kept her up as well. Was he also tossing and turning over the damnable attraction between them, feeling as hot and bothered as she had? Or was that just in her imagination?

Of course it’s your imagination, Adelaide. His brother’s unconscious, perhaps dying, and he’s about to be burdened with a life of responsibilities that he never asked for. How arrogant to think he’s losing sleep over you.

She stuffed her disappointment into the furthest crevices of her mind and gestured toward the pile of pains au chocolat in front of him and the very large coffee that sat beside the paper. “I take it you and I share a similar approach to sleepless nights. Caffeine and sugar.”

He grinned and nudged the plate toward her, unaware of how her body loosened in relief as he did. “Try one,” he said. “These are the best pastries in existence.”

“Clearly, if you’re buying out the entire bakery.” She tried to keep the resentment from her tone. He was sharing, after all.

Rhett stuffed himself with a mouthful. “Someone else bought them all yesterday,” he said, barely intelligible. “I didn’t even get a look-in. You cannot imagine my disappointment.”

Whoops. That had been her. She could imagine his disappointment. She’d felt it through her entire body not two minutes ago. If she had known Rhett was as attached to these misplaced Parisian delicacies as she was, she would have left him at least a couple.

She shucked her coat and sat, tugging off her gloves and setting them aside. There was nothing delicate or ladylike about the mouthful she took, or the groan that escaped her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Her sense of smell might be deadened but enough of her taste remained that she was once more transported to Rue de la Lune, to crisp autumn mornings and bustling streets, women crossing the road with arms full of the last summer flowers, and children running alongside men on bicycles, begging for a sweet or a coin or even a tip of the hat.

“It’s the most extraordinary thing,” Rhett said, interrupting her recollections. “These are exactly the same as pains au chocolat from Boulangerie des étoiles. It’s this tiny, hole-in-the-wall bakery on the corner of Rue de la Lune—”

“In Charonne,” Adelaide said, her mouth still half full.

“You know it?” Rhett’s excitement was palpable.

Adelaide nodded. “I was there last autumn. Every single thing they baked was divine. I had to let all my waistbands out, and I regret none of it.”

“What were you doing in France?”

“I… Uh… We were in Paris to prepare my wardrobe for the season,” she lied. “Mother is so preoccupied with having the most exclusive of everything. It wasn’t enough to have a French seamstress; the clothes had to be sewn in France. Although the joke is on her. I’m fairly confident the dressmaker was not French at all. The sound of her r’s was off.”

He snorted as he laughed. “I visited Boulangerie des étoiles on my last day in France, right before I returned to England. Their pain au chocolat was my last meal, so to speak.”

Adelaide pursed her lips. If she was to have one final meal, it would probably be from that boulangerie. “How was Madame Desjardins, do you know? When we last met, her son had just been accepted into la Sorbonne.”

Rhett took a long sip of coffee, just as Madame Moreau set Adelaide’s on the table. “Yes, Francois is doing exceptionally well there, apparently. In his last letter, he mentioned he was working with Jacques Barbier and that there would be an exhibition in the Musée de l’Orangerie.”

Adelaide put a hand to chest, so relieved. “Oh, I’m glad. She was thrilled when he was accepted. I wonder when the exhibition is.”

Rhett leaned forward in his chair, toes bouncing against the stone floor. “If you visited that often, you must have met Marco.”

“Marco the mime?” Adelaide let out a peal of laughter at the thought of the Italian performer who frequented the street corner near the bakery. Truly, what people could get away with when in face paint was remarkable, although given what she was currently getting away with in the disguise of someone else, she shouldn’t be surprised. “He stole a red ribbon from my hat and turned it into a flower, which was so diverting, I didn’t realize until I was back in my room that I never got the ribbon back. That cost two shillings!”

“Did you get to keep the flower?”

“For a week, until it died. I would still have that ribbon now.”

Rhett leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms behind his head, as relaxed as she’d ever seen him. “He might have stolen your ribbon, but he stole my dignity.”

She snorted. “Oh, is that where it went? Clearly, he never returned it.”

Rhett rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, hilarious. But in all seriousness, it’s hard to look dapper when you’re covered in flour.”

Adelaide choked on her coffee. She had actually seen Marco play the same trick on a gentleman bedecked in the finest of coats. She was quite sure there would have been violence if it wasn’t for the delighted applause of the women who had stopped to watch the performance.

“It was so pleasant to sit at a table outside and watch him interact with stuffy English aristocrats. They did not know what to do with him.” For a second, she thought Rhett might have picked up on her slip—stuffy English aristocrats didn’t generally refer to themselves as such, but he grinned, too excited by their conversation to mark her error.

“You know, he taught me how to do the wall.”

The wall had been one of Adelaide’s favorite skits. It was simple but so effective—an ever-shrinking box forcing Marco to fold up into himself. But it was an illusion. There were no cinder blocks or stone, just hands hitting hard against the air. Something about the idea of being trapped by an absence of walls resonated. She was trapped by a lack of bricks and mortar, but not for long—not once this absurd situation concluded.

She shook off the maudlin turn of thought. “Show me.”

Rhett cocked his brow at the challenge and stood. He tugged the edges of his jacket and stepped around the table to where there was space. The other patrons of the bakery sent him sidelong glances, but he did not seem to care. With an expression of fierce concentration, he held up one palm and then the other, repeating the pattern until he reached the top of his “wall” and peeked over, his eyebrows raised in shock and his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Adelaide dissolved into a fit of giggles. “Close,” she said. “You’re so close. You just need to be more firm with your hand movements. Here, let me show you.”

She stood and joined him in the free space between tables. “First, you need to relax your shoulders and make sure they’re square, otherwise you’ll not get a consistent depth to your wall.” She placed both hands on his shoulders, unprepared for the sudden zing that bounced through her, setting her heart fluttering. Don’t be stupid, Adelaide. It was nothing more than static. With a steadying breath, she eased his shoulders into place and gave him a wan smile that she hoped disguised the immodest thoughts she was having.

His returning smile was brittle.

She took his hand and uncurled it, pressing her palm to his, her fingers too. There was no mistaking the spark between them this time. It wrapped itself around her chest and tugged like an ill-fitting corset, stealing all breath. Damn it. You should have been wearing gloves. The warmth from his hand infused hers, skittered across her arms and up her neck as a hot flush. It meandered down her body in a lazy swirl that pooled in her midsection. She would have snatched her hand away if she could, but her body had other ideas. It wouldn’t move. It remained locked onto his, like his hand had become an extension of hers, the two of them the same person, same soul, suddenly made whole in this moment.

Don’t be such a romantic twit, Adelaide. Act normally.

She cleared her throat. “You need to extend your fingers. If there’s even the slightest bend, it will ruin the illusion. You’ll be creating a wall of jelly, not brick.”

He flexed his hand in response, the muscles stiffening.

Her fingers followed, wrapping around his in a caress she couldn’t prevent. She heard his breath hitch and felt his body tense. He drifted toward her, as though pulled by a tide. It scattered her senses, and she could barely see straight. Her vision was simply him. Everything else was obscured by a haze of desire.

He intertwined his fingers with hers with a slight tug that drew her forward. They were close. So close. Too close. There were barely inches between them, and that gap was alive with a beautiful fire she was ready to burn in.

Behind them, a cup clattered on a saucer, and the flame was doused. There were people around. How could she possibly have lost awareness of her surroundings so completely?

“Your wall is leaning more than the Tower of Pisa,” she said, stepping out of his reach.

He followed her with another step, trying to maintain their closeness. “Then you will need to continue your instruction.”

She blushed and turned back to the table. “We should finish our coffees and return to the house. We have a plan, remember?” She looked pointedly at the crowd watching them, and Rhett’s eyes widened.

“Yes.” He swallowed. “We have a plan. Speaking of which, I have some ideas. Shall we discuss?”

“Rhett, come on ,” Della said as they started up the long driveway. “She wanted to do more than divine your future.”

Della wasn’t wrong. The moment the Greek fortune teller asked him to remove his shirt for a proper reading, he’d known how the afternoon would unfold, but teasing Della was fun. Her irritation was cute. She screwed up her nose and gesticulated wildly. There was nothing prim or proper in her frustration.

He tsk ed, knowing it would further rile her. “I think you’re dismissing Madame Pythia’s obvious ethereal talents. She comes highly recommended.”

Della reached both hands out as if she wanted to strangle him. “Because she tells the future half naked . Of course men will recommend her.”

Rhett grinned and spoke with the utmost sincerity. “Clothes impede the communication between her and the otherworld. It is essential that she lay herself bare to the message the universe wants to send.”

Della sucked in a deep breath. “She’s certainly laying herself bare to someone.” She put out a hand to stop him in his tracks. “Truth. Do you actually believe that there are people out there who can tell you your future, fate, whatever they want to call it?”

“Will you give me a truth in return?”

“Yes.” She gave him her hand and he took it, surprised by the resolve with which she grasped his. Few women shook hands with men, and on the rare occasion he’d taken a woman’s hand, it had been limp, like a dead fish.

He stuck his hands back in the pockets of his coat, and they continued along the gentle incline. “I thought there was such a thing as fate, and that she would find me, but now I’ve got this awful feeling that I’m going to have to go and find her. But I don’t know where to look.” He was grateful they were walking. The words would have been harder to say if he’d had to contend with her expression.

Della bumped against him. “My guess is that fate will not be found in an incense-filled den of iniquity, whatever Madame Pythia might promise.”

That was probably true. He was half tempted to ask her honestly, where did one search for a purpose? But that felt too stupid, too childish to ask. Certainly, a man his age should already be well on his journey with purpose in his grasp.

“Your turn,” he said. The firm dirt path turned to gravel and traversed a wide arc. He held out his arm to ensure her balance, and she took it. The sensation of her fingers on his sleeve gave him an internal steadiness he hadn’t known he lacked. He coughed, trying to dislodge the sudden frog in his throat. “What would you do if you were a man?”

“Pardon?” Della stopped walking to look up at him.

“Your options are limited as a young lady, even more so than mine. What would you do if you were in my position?” Perhaps she could guide him toward a purpose he hadn’t thought of.

Della pursed her lips as she considered it. “I would work for the Home Office,” she said quietly.

“As a spy?” Perhaps his earlier guess hadn’t been too far off.

“No,” she said, resuming their journey. “Recording passenger arrivals and departures.”

Rhett stood there, dumbstruck, as she kicked her shoes against the stair rails to dislodge the mud that covered them. “Pardon?”

She had already handed her overcoat to Daunt with an apologetic wince by the time Rhett jogged up the stairs behind her. Rhett, too, expressed regret for his muddy hem and then followed her toward Peter’s study.

“You want to record arrivals and departures at the London docks?” he said as they passed a row of dukes’ portraits until they reached the current duke, right next to the study. Peter had waited until he was in his twenties to have the likeness captured. Rhett wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to appear young and inexperienced, or if because becoming the duke at such a young age had been a painful reminder of their parents’ death.

Della entered the study and went straight to Peter’s desk, retrieving a reticule from the floor beneath it. “Aha,” she said, holding it up.

He was pleased. Sure. Whatever. It was a reticule. Mostly, he was interested in the bizarre career aspirations of the ton ’s most delicate flower. “Do you have a particular tendre for England’s most odious locale, or are you a fan of bothersome paperwork?”

Her hip rested against the side of the desk, and her fingers went to the ties of her bonnet, untwisting it until the ribbon was free. “I like stories. It would be interesting to hear why people are coming and going.” She tipped her bonnet upside down and tossed the reticule inside. “Whenever I see people board a ship, I wonder what they think they’re going to.”

Rhett shucked his jacket and hung it on the coat stand by the door. “You would make a terrible records officer. In every country I go to, the queues are horrendous. God forbid you get a chatty records official at the end.”

She cocked her head with a jesting smile. “If you’re going to make fun of my truths, I shan’t give you any more.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, crossing the room. “It’s just that I thought a woman like yourself, daughter of a duke, diamond of the ton , would choose a career with more… grandeur. I thought you’d run a country, or become the Gallery Director at the Royal Academy of Arts.” He stopped too close to her. Her face was in caressing distance. Why did he do this to himself? Why did he put himself in her orbit? Why did she?

If there hadn’t been witnesses at the coffee shop, he might have kissed her. The sensation of her fingers pressed against his had been almost too much to bear. He’d almost let his wall crash down and wrapped a hand around her waist. He’d almost pulled her to him.

He had seen her dressed in nothing but transparent petticoats, for God’s sake, but somehow standing next to her, miming, had been more intimate.

“Joy can be found in the mundane,” she said. His nearness made her nervous. The pulse at her neck fluttered and her tongue flicked across her lips. The room felt heavy with expectation. There were no witnesses around now to act as guardrails.

“Della.”

She shook her head. “It’s my turn. Truth.” She opened the bottom drawer of Peter’s desk and removed those damn sketches. “Why did you sit for these?”

Rhett groaned, running a hand through his hair. “It’s wrong for those to be in his possession. They were supposed to be a source of amusement, not shame.”

Her brows furrowed. “Is that why you posed for them? To entertain people?”

Rhett strode to the fire so that he could get a better look at them. Entertaining people had certainly been one factor. No one thought less of you when you were distracting them from the tedious reality of life. Knowing it would infuriate his brother had been another boon.

But that wasn’t the heart of it.

“I had been told that in order to be a respected artist, I must lay myself bare—show the world the deepest, rawest side of me.”

She joined him near the warmth and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You posed because you wanted to be seen for who you truly are.”

He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. “And all anyone saw in those sketches was a debauched rake. What does that tell you?”

She took his hand and wrapped it in hers. “That no one looked closely enough.”

Her words were devastating. They took a sledgehammer to the carefully constructed facade he’d spent a life creating, and there was nowhere for him to hide. This was the nakedness he’d not achieved in Paris or anywhere else. She saw him, and what she saw was not irredeemably flawed.

He cupped her jaw in his hand. Gods, he wanted her. When she was near, he felt whole. But she wasn’t his. She intended to complete someone else.

“Truth,” he whispered. “Why did you leave Hornsmouth?” He yearned for an answer that would give him some hope.

She swallowed hard. Fear crossed her face, and she gnawed on her lip before speaking. “Rhett, please don’t hate me. The truth is—”

A knock at the door broke the moment, and she sprang away from him.

He sucked in a deep breath before turning away. “What is it?” he asked, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.

Daunt entered. “You have callers, my lord. Apparently, Mr. Gray told the townsfolk that you would hear their concerns this morning.”

“ Damnation .” He looked back at Della. Her brows were furrowed in confusion.

“They want something from the duke. From me.” He turned to Daunt. “Please ask them to return once my brother wakes.”

Daunt didn’t leave his post by the door. He stood there with a disappointed frown—the most emotion Rhett had ever seen on the man’s face.

Della cocked her head. “What do they want?”

“I do not know.” Did it matter? Couldn’t he just go about his business? “What they need is the Montgomery brother who has answers. I am not him.”

Della pursed her lips. “I think you underestimate yourself. The very least you can do is listen. That is, in itself, more than some lords do.”

She looked at him with such a confident, encouraging smile. To her, he was not Lord Everett the Disappointment. To her, he was just Rhett—kind and witty and perhaps even capable.

“You cannot ignore this, Rhett. But I feel as though you’ll surprise yourself.”

He girded his loins. “Very well. Send them in.”