All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke (7 page)

Clasping a trembling hand to her mouth, she tried to focus but couldn’t think under that smoldering gaze that awaited an expression of her own feelings. He wasn’t a friend anymore. He wanted to be her lover. Something she didn’t want. Something she didn’t need. Not after Philip. “I need to go.”

“Stay.” He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want you leaving angry.”

The aching in his voice pulled at her heart. She hated it. It meant she still felt love for the boy she once knew. The one who had been too young for her to love in the way she had always wanted to. She shook her head. “I shouldn’t stay.”

“I’m not letting you leave angry.” His baritone voice was strained and low. “If you walk out that door with the intention of never seeing me again, I will walk out after you.”

She closed her eyes, knowing he meant it. “Martin. For one moment, forget that I am angry. Forget that I am hurt. It will pass; it will fade. But what will not pass and what will not fade is the trust you broke in me.”

“I will mend it.”

Her eyes snapped open. “You say it as if it can be easily done. Do you expect me to forgive all? Merely because you reappear in my life and use your good name to persuade my father to receive me again?”

“The Jane I once knew had the ability to forgive me anything.”

“I’m not the same Jane you once knew.”

“And I’m not the same Martin you knew. But that doesn’t mean we should turn away from what we used to mean to each other.” He strode toward the scattered letters and lowered himself to the floor. His dark hair cascaded into his eyes as he gathered them together in a pile. “I took these with me on tour,” he murmured. “They never left my sight.”

She turned to watch him, noting how carefully he stacked each one. It was as if they truly did mean everything to him. Even after all these years. It was as if she truly meant everything to him. She couldn’t help but be touched knowing it. She had scribed hours of her hopes and dreams and passion into each and every one of those letters.

Propping them against his waistcoat, he rose to his full height and strode back to the desk. He quietly set them onto the surface of the desk, wrapping and binding the sash back around the stack.

Hauntingly, it reminded her of the way she used to tend to and wrap the letters he sent. She honestly didn’t know who was the bigger fool. He or she. All she knew was that throughout the years they had been apart, she had never once forgotten her dear Martin or…Mister X.

And to think, they had always been one and the same.

A shaky breath escaped her as she drifted toward him. She paused beside him, setting a hand on the desk. “I need a brandy. Before I leave.”

He glanced up, his fingers stilling against the sash he had tied. “Of course.” Pushing aside the letters, he leaned over and took up a filled glass. He held it toward her. “Take it.”

Reaching out, she took it, her fingers grazing his. Her hand trembled from the contact as she drew the glass away from that hand.

He leaned against the desk and, holding her gaze, raised his filled glass in silent salute.

Wanting to tamp down the nervousness she felt, knowing she was having a brandy with Mister X, she held up her glass in turn. Bringing the drink to her lips, she gulped down the welcoming smoky burn that warmed her tongue and throat. It was surprisingly divine and reminded her of exactly that: better days.

Leveling the empty glass, she glanced toward the decanter. “I need one more glass. Before I can leave.”

He slowly set aside the brandy he hadn’t touched. Picking up the decanter, he removed the crystal stopper and poured more brandy into her glass. “I didn’t realize you liked brandy.” His tone was low and conversational as he set the decanter back onto the silver tray.

She fingered the filled glass. “I always had a glass of brandy before going onstage. It had a calming effect.” She lifted the cool glass to her lips again, savoring each additional sip.

Martin took up his glass again, still leaning against the desk. Tilting it, he tossed the amber liquid back with impressive swiftness. He poured himself another glass. “I hope, in time, you will forgive me.” He tossed back another glass. A breath escaped him.

She blinked, the warming effect of the brandy dazing her. She finished what was in her glass and settled against the desk close beside him, her skirts bundling against his thigh.

He paused.

She silently held up her glass.

He silently refilled it.

And then refilled his own.

They drank glass after glass after glass in silence until all the brandy in the decanter was gone and Jane knew she was mentally and physically compromised.

She held up her empty glass, trying to focus. “I think we need more brandy.”

He eyed her. “I think we’ve had enough.”

She huffed out a breath, knowing he was right.

He slipped the empty glass out of her hand and set it back onto the tray with his own. He swiped his face and sat on the desk as if he were too exhausted to find a chair.

She tucked herself up onto the desk as well, booted feet dangling. It reminded her of the days when they would sit atop the garden wall and drink lemonade. She missed those days. She had everything then but didn’t realize it. She’d thought she needed more. She thought she needed the world and the adventure and fame that her talent for singing could bring.

Some adventure. She now spent her mornings using a boot to kill roaches.

Repositioning herself beside him, and with the brandy now blurring the edges of reality, she blurted, “I’m not angry anymore. I forgive you. But only because you’re Martin. If it had been anyone else, I would have already left.”

He glanced toward her, his dark eyes searching her face. “You forgive me?”

She nodded and kicked her feet out and in, feeling very much like she was twenty again. She had no doubt the brandy had everything to do with it. “How many glasses of brandy do you think we drank?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“That isn’t good.”

“No. It isn’t.”

They sat in silence.

Not wanting to sit in the awkward quiet a moment more, she poked at his trouser-clad leg. Like she used to when they were younger. When she was trying to get him to say something.

He shifted toward her. “You poked me.”

“I did.”

“Which means you want me to say something.”

He remembered. “I do.”

He shifted his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”

“The first thing that comes to mind.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Quite.”

He nodded and then asked, “Would you stay the night?”

She snapped her mouth shut, stunned by his bluntness. She did ask him to say the first thing that came to mind.

He tilted his head, watching her. “With the weather being what it is, you should stay. You could take the guest room.”

She could feel her face heating. Whilst she could tell he was being quite casual about it, the idea of staying a night, just down the corridor from him, now that they were both well over twenty, seemed risqué. “I can’t. I have a lesson in the morning. In fact, I should probably go.”

He softly tapped a fist against his thigh. “Do you have to leave? Couldn’t you stay another hour? Or two?”

If she stayed, heavens only knew if she’d have the ability to resist him. She, as a woman, knew when to go. She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”

“Can you at least sing something for me before you go? I miss hearing you sing. You used to sing for me all the time. Do you remember?”

She pursed her lips. “I probably shouldn’t. Not in my condition.”

He nudged her. “In our condition, it will sound all the more beautiful. Don’t you think?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “You wish me to sing? Now?”

“God, do I ever,” he rasped, stilling his tapping fist against his thigh. “Sing ‘Ah, Mio Prence.’ Then I will let you leave.”

She was too astounded to object. “That was the first song I ever sang onstage.”

He leaned in. “I know. I was there for it.”

She blinked, almost unable to focus. “You were? You came to my debut?”

“Yes.”

“How is it that I didn’t know?”

“Because I got caned for it and was confined for too many weeks to count.”

Her heart squeezed, searching his face. “You got caned for attending my performance?”

He leaned away and shrugged. “It didn’t hurt.”

She lowered her chin. “You lie. If your father delivered the caning, it probably swelled for days.”

“If it did, I don’t remember.”

She slowly shook her head. Bless him. He had been there for the greatest moment in her life and she never knew. “Do you really want me to sing?” she whispered.

“I won’t let you leave until you do.”

She sighed. Better to sing than to stay. “I shall have to stand for it.” Sliding off the desk, the room tipped and she stumbled.

Martin jumped toward her, catching her arm. He lurched, making them both stumble back toward the desk.

She caught the desk and he caught her.

Righting herself, she rolled her eyes. “This performance will be sadly compromised.”

He slowly released her arm. “I don’t mind. I just want to hear you sing.”

She pointed toward the desk. Or what she thought was the desk. “I need an audience. Sit.”

He promptly did, spreading his booted feet. “All of London awaits.”

“Give me a moment.” Setting a hand to her bodice, she admitted, “I’m not fully prepared. I usually have to loosen the strings on my corset to allow better breaths.”

His bare hands slowly gripped the edge of the desk he was sitting on. “Did you need me to unlace you?”

Her heart flipped. She pointed at him. “The laces stay on, Brandy Boy.”

He stared. “I’m not that drunk.”

“Oh, yes, you are. Or you wouldn’t have said it.” She wet her lips, knowing it had been quite some time since she sang for anyone outside of her students. “I must warn you. I’m out of practice.”

He smiled. “I will revel in it all the same, I assure you.” He swept a hand toward her, announcing he was ready to be entertained.

She nodded and steadied herself. Drawing in a full, well-embodied breath, she released the melody. Closing her eyes, she gave way to the lilting of her voice, taking it higher and higher. She had always felt like she was flying when she pushed her voice to obey. She sang and sang as if she were back onstage, letting her voice drift toward an audience that breathed when she breathed. Dropping her voice in finale, a lavish breath escaped her, knowing she hadn’t sung like that in years.

Reopening her eyes, she exhaled.

Martin stared at her heatedly for a long, pulsing moment. “Do you miss being onstage?”

She swallowed, sensing he was looking at her the way all men had back in her days at the opera: with lustful intent. But coming from him it was…different. “Sometimes. But I would never go back to it. I prefer the quieter life I have chosen. It’s lovely to be able to go into public and not have people crowd around you wherever you go.”

Rising from the desk, he strode toward her and leaned in close, making her fully aware that he had intentions.

Their eyes locked.

She could barely breathe.

His full lips parted and his hand slowly trailed toward her corseted waist, his fingers dragging across the material of her gown. His chest visibly rose and fell beneath his embroidered waistcoat.

She knew, even if she hadn’t swallowed a single drop of brandy, she would have kissed him. But she also knew giving in to a kiss would only lead to more. Much more. Like…a relationship. And sex. She panicked at the thought. “We shouldn’t.”

He paused, his hand trailing around her waist. “Why not?”

“Because kissing leads to things.”

“Does it?” He sounded mildly amused and leaned in closer.

She swayed against him, her skin tingling and aware of his touch. “If I let you do this, it will change everything between us,” she whispered, trying not to look at his lips. Trying not to kiss them. Trying not to need them. “And I’m not…I’m not ready for that.” He was, after all, Martin. Her dearest, dearest Martin. How was she ever going to get past that?

“Will you ever be ready?” he whispered back, the warmth of his breath grazing her skin.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He gently fingered her gown. “Do you want to be ready?”

Despite herself, she nodded. For she knew she didn’t want to spend her life alone. She was tired of it.

He hesitated, as if meaning to say something, then edged back, his hand falling away. He nodded. Stepping back farther, he gestured toward the door. “I will take you home.”

She let out a breath, feeling like she could focus again.

He remained silent for the rest of the night.

Even in the carriage ride.

Even as he assisted her out of the carriage back on Foley Street and into the snow.

Neither of them seemed to be under the effects of brandy anymore. And she was glad for it. It meant whatever was about to be said or done would be done without the blurring of sensibilities. “When will I see you again?” she offered, breaking the silence of the night and the snow-covered street surrounding them.

He captured her gaze. “Do you want to see me again?”

She readjusted her cloak. “Would I have asked if I didn’t?”

He lingered by the open door of the carriage. “Then you will.”

She swallowed, realizing that she was actually pursuing this and him. What, oh, what was she thinking? It was obvious she had missed having him in her life. She missed his quiet passion for everything. The sort of passion she used to feel and have for everything. “When will I see you again?”

“When you least expect it.” Slipping his hand into his inner waistcoat pocket beneath his greatcoat, he withdrew a gold locket. Taking her hand, he placed it in her palm and closed her hand firmly around it. “Tell me your answer when you see me again.” He released her hand. “Good night, Jane. And don’t forget to call on your father at Christmas.” Inclining his head, he turned, hopped into the carriage, and settled into the seat.

The footman eyed her—as if politely refraining from pointing out that she ought to step away—then folded up the stairs, shut the door, and jumped up onto the backside of the carriage.