The Duke Undone by Joanna Lowell

Author:Joanna Lowell [Lowell, Joanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

When they reached the passage at the back of the canteen, she released his wrist, throwing a pained look over her shoulder as she sped ahead, turning down another corridor. He followed.

They were passing under the side stages. The stage machinery made curious obstacles. He watched her navigate around levers and piles of rope. The air was colder but thicker, more redolent of perfume and also horse manure. A goddess peered from a doorway, waiting for someone, not them. The sound of the orchestra deafened. She reached the stairs and climbed. He took the first few two at a time to close the distance between them. When she swayed backward, he caught her against his chest and propelled her up to the narrow landing. In the alleyway behind the theater, cabmen were waiting for the actresses, smoking pipes. His ears rang.

He steered them a ways down the street, then spun her around so she faced him.

She didn’t want to face him. Her eyes darted everywhere else.

“You told Yardley where to find us.” He moved closer, towering over her. “Why?”

She stood by the streetlight, in that glowing circle. The silk of her dress glowed jewel bright. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, pushing against the lightweight fabric. He ran his eyes over her, the smooth outline of her natural form.

Slowly, things were clicking into place. She’d dressed to stand out, to draw curious eyes, to him.

“Next time paint the dress on your body.” His mouth curled with derision. “See if that gets you more attention.”

Her lips had parted. She was flushed—not with emotion, with drink.

“Was there ever a Mrs. Nixon at the Albion?” He laughed humorlessly. “I’m twice the fool.”

She stared at the ground, the broken glass glittering by her feet.

“He didn’t see you,” she said. “Those men did, with the mustaches, but they’ve nothing to report. I’m the only one who drank.”

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and met his eyes. Suddenly, she looked vulnerable. Miserable. He forced a laugh.

“What men? Reporters?” Christ. What kind of trap had she orchestrated? She’d tried to blackmail him. Perhaps she’d tried to blackmail Yardley as well. Told him what she knew about Effie and his own late-night pursuits. Threatened to tip off the Pall Mall Gazette. Yardley was devoted to suppressing gossip, removing the tarnish from the Weston coronet. Had he come to the Albion to protect him from Miss Coover? To keep him from making a very public and irreversible mistake? Drunk and on display with a flagrant wanton. “Answer me.”

Miss Coover said nothing. He could see the dizziness sweep over her.

“You’re stewed.” He took her arm and pulled her out of the light, into the mouth of an alleyway, where they weren’t displayed to passersby.

“A smidgen stewed. But so what?” She tried to break his grip. “You’re not,” she said. “That’s what matters. Although”—she tried to free her arm again, and he dropped it like a hot coal—“I don’t know why I care. You’re determined to sabotage yourself. If not tonight, some other night.

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