“Oh, John, that’s awful.”
“Most things are,” he said again, growing more flippant the more emotional he became.
“I’m ever so sorry.”
“You’re the true victim of his lug-headedness too. He promised me once, when I was very ill and he was a blubbering mess at my bedside—he assumed, as many do, that because I was sick, I couldn’t hear—that he’d never take my place. That he’d never marry, or have children, that the line would die with him if I never got to be duke. Which of course has the dual benefit of enraging our father. Godonly knows how Alexander thought he could manage to escape matrimony, handsome devil that he is.”
“He—That?That’s his reason for—?”
“My father had no use for him, and so Alexander spent his childhood making sure thathehad no need for my father. He left me to be the heir, and avoided anything to do with the dukedom. Then I got sick, and my father had no use forme, and thatreallybothered Alexander, so he took up every vice he could find and made every investment he could afford to distance himself from the family name. Which actually worked rather well for everyone, not the least the women of London. And now neither of them knows what to do with me, so they keep me here.”
“Keepyou here?”
“My father to wait out my death, and Alexander to magically prevent it with fresh air. Of course, I’m an adult, I could leave any time, I suppose. But to do what?”
“What do you want to do?” The question rose out of Harriet’s throat on instinct alone, and she was quite grateful for it. She’d learned too much about Alexander to feel anything other than indignant, both toward him and on his behalf. But before she could sort out her feelings on the matter of her husband, she wanted to do something for John. “I hope I’m not overstepping. I often do. But it seems a shame to me that you’ve been stuck here when you aren’t dying.”
“Iamdying, I assure you. Just not quite so quickly as my family thinks.”
“Well, what is it that you’d like to do? I’m availing myself of anything you might want. I have little power and not as much money as you might think at my disposal, but I’m rather good at talking people into agreeing with me.”
“Perfect, I’ve got plenty of money and I’m still a duke’s son. Together we might just be unstoppable.”
“Yes, now we only need to think of what it is we want.”
“I know what I want. I want to go to a ball.”
“You haven’t been?” Harriet asked, shocked.
“I got sick when I was nineteen, and before then I hadn’t seen any reason to go. I wasn’t interested in finding a wife.”
“Not even a public ball?”
“Don’t sound so horrified.”
“Oh no, if anything, I’m envious. I find balls dreadful. Of course, you must go and experience that for yourself. I know just the one.”
“You’ll have to teach me how to dance. It’s beenyearssince I’ve learned. I’m sure they don’t even dance the minuet anymore.”
“Oh dear, I fear … well …”
“Bad news about the minuet, then?”
“It’s only … I’m glad you say you have a lot of money. We’re going to need it for the dance instructor.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
ALEXANDER STOOD INSIDETEMPLE OF THEMUSES LATER THAT WEEK,watching people bustle in and out, their arms full of books. He’d been in a few times before, but now he came almost daily, waiting for the stacks to arrive. And now it was here: Harriet’s dictionary. Not that any purchaser might know she was behind it. No, he’d ruined that for her. Or Mr. Dawkins had. They both had.
Without a single mention of Harriet—he’d checked—here sat a proud, fat stack ofDictionary of Modern Cant and Vulgarities. Privately, he thought the book might have done better with a different title. Although the wordvulgaritiesmight entice.
For over an hour, he’d been hovering over the books, almost daring anyone to purchase a copy. After the fourth bookseller of the day asked him if they could help him find what he was looking for, Alexander decided a more leonine method of circling and stalking might work better. So he pretended to browse all the thousands of offerings the bookshop boasted, hardly processing a single title as he kept watch over his paper flock.
He was drawing his fingers along a section of German plays, feigning interest as best as possible—but not so much as to getanother shop attendant over to offer their services—when he glanced up.
The wind was knocked out of his chest. There, frowning over the stack ofVulgarities, was Harriet. In a drab, unadorned day dress, with her chestnut hair in a simple bun. Had he not known her, he likely would have overlooked her. But hedidknow her. He knew precisely how her hair felt running through his hands; he knew the soft skin and lush curves hidden under that plain dress. He knew how she tasted. He knew her sighs and her smiles and her laughs. Not that she was going to be sharing any of those with him again. Certainly not now. Indeed, she looked … defeated. Worn down.
The observation gutted him.
