Page 56 of Sinfully Daring

He nodded. “If you want to get comfortable with the idea first, with us, I understand. Though, I insist we share a bed from the outset. Is that agreeable?”

Rosamund nodded. Though it was dreadfully unfashionable, her parents shared a bed every night. Mama hated it when Papa went away too, for she complained she could not sleep alone.

“Yes.”

He smiled then and stroked her cheek. “Then we shall be married, and I will be the happiest of men.”

Chapter 15

I do not know what is to become of me. I feel I am living some strange half-life. I am Persephone, tricked into eating pomegranate seeds that condemn me to spend half my life in the underworld. My father believes that is where the man I love belongs. I cannot deny there is truth in it, for I see the darkness in his eyes. I always have. Now I am lying to my family, pretending I have banished him from my thoughts when he consumes them from the moment I wake, and I cannot escape him, even in my dreams.

The moments when I am not with him, I am restless and miserable, consumed with the craving to be with him again. I never knew such desire, such a profound physical connection, was possible. When he is near, I am too reckless, so thoroughly under his spell I fear what I might do. I fear what he wants from me and wonder if I can keep denying him.

When did this happen? How did I fall so thoroughly under his sway? I crave him as some crave opium and that frightens me. I do not want this madness that infects my blood and makes my body ache with the need for him. I long for his touch, for his kisses. How can I bear it? How can I marry a man so full of secrets, a damaged, beautiful man who I can forgive for murder without a second thought? What else would I forgive, what else would I turn a blind eye to, just to keep him? How can turn my back on my family and do the one thing they have forbidden me to do, and how can I live the rest of my life when I know Papa is right? He will take me into the darkness with him. Yet I fear I love him too much, want him too badly to keep saying no.

―Excerpt from the diary of Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

15th July 1842, Doctor’s Commons, Knightrider Street, City of London.

To Fred’s eye, the sombre red brick houses had the look of irritated old men, fusty and outdated as they glowered down at the shaded courtyard. His father headed for a large green baize door, studded all over with great brass nails. Being the Duke of Bedwin, he strode in with the obvious expectation that everyone would leap to do his bidding. He was not disappointed. A lot of red-gowned and white-wigged men surged to their feet with exclamation and hovered about his father like so many chickens, fussing over the last pieces of grain. Fred wondered how his father bore it, for he did not enjoy sycophants, though Fred suspected he was rather used to having things done his way. It was part of the job of being duke, though, and his father bore with them all patiently, greeting everyone politely and without the slightest hint of impatience.

“I’ll leave you to it then, Pa,” Fred said, eager to be away from the old men and the overpowering stench of decay and mouldering paper. He might understand his father’s position, but he could not be sorry that Jules was the heir and not him.

His father turned away from the officer of the court, recognisable from the tight grip he had on a large silver-headed staff. The look on the duke’s face was not encouraging.

“I’ll be fine, don’t fuss,” Fred said, trying to keep the whine from his voice by reminding himself he was a grown man of fifteen years and not a silly child who needed a babysitter. Whining would not highlight that point.

“You’ll take Granger,” his father said, with a tone that brooked no argument.

“Oh, but, sir,” Fred protested.

“You will take Granger,” his father repeated, and Fred was not idiotic enough to make him do it a third time.

His father was a fair man, and Fred admired him beyond anyone, but it did not do to irritate him. Still, it rankled that he could not roam about on his own like his older brother did.

“Yes, sir,” he said, resigned to his fate.

At least it was Granger this time, who was a decent sort, not like that old fusspot Morris, who would snitch on Fred for the least little thing. Irked all the same, Fred hurried out of the stuffy building, eager to be free of the stench of worm-eaten books and musty old robes.

It wasn’t so bad in the end. He had an enjoyable visit to St Paul’s Cathedral and lingered in the crypt and the churchyard, fascinated by the ancient tombs and gravestones of the long dead. After that, he got a hackney coach to Berkeley Square and went directly to Gunter’s where he ordered three cream cakes. It was an extravagance he never would have indulged in if anyone was with him, but Granger had a sister working in the house across the square and had gone to visit with her, so Fred was free to enjoy his own company for once.

He had just sunk his fork into the second cake—a splendid creation of choux pastry, vast amounts of cream and chocolate icing—when the voice to his right struck him as sounding familiar.

Glancing sideways, Fred recognised Humphrey Price, the sneaking little rat. He was the miserable arse that had done his bit to ruin poor Ozzie. Fred could barely restrain the urge to pummel the disgusting prick, but he was not an idiot. For one, Price was bigger than he was. That alone would not have stopped him, but he was with a companion. Mr Travers was a great deal bigger than Fred, and if he made a scene, it would only make things worse for Ozzie, and—and this was the clincher—it would displease his father.

Seething with fury he could do nothing to divert, Fred pushed the cake away, having thoroughly lost his appetite.

“But if she were there that night, Humph, well, it don’t look good, does it?”

“Shut up, and don’t you dare breathe a word. If anyone gets hold of that information, they’ll find out why she was there, and then they’ll find out about the brat, and I ain’t marrying her.”

“Brat’s yours, though,” the big fellow said, his slow speech showing he wasn’t the brightest of fellows.

“So?” Price growled ominously.

Fred writhed with the desire to knock the fellow's teeth down his throat. The miserable wretch. Not content with aiding the late Lady Hargreaves to ruin his sister, he’d also got some poor girl in the family way and would now abandon her to her fate. His stomach roiled with revulsion as he wished he could do something. But perhaps he could. If he could figure out who the girl was, then maybe he could help her? Uncomfortable with playing the part of eavesdropper, Fred reasoned it was in a worthy cause and smothered his finer feelings.

“Still reckon she ought to speak to the police. What if Hargreaves did push her down the stairs? If your girl was there to confront his missus, she might be a witness to murder.”