The Secret Seduction: A Steamy Regency Novella Page 6

  He wasn’t just attracted to her beauty. He wasn’t just tempted by her mischievous, rebellious nature. He liked her determination. He wanted to be around her just to see what she would do next. She’d surprised him today, too, thanking him for the books he’d given her and then apologizing. She’d made amends quickly, ready to change when wrong. She’d be mercurial if her actions weren’t so … premeditated. He laughed, remembering her falling from her crouched position behind the couch. She’d planned the whole damned ambush in order to discover the identity of her book fairy. The beautiful, adventurous minx.

  “Did you see that?” she whispered, jumping up and down before him.

  “You were perfect.”

  “It’s Act Two now. Your turn!”

  “Ah yes, the act-long sword fight.”

  She chuckled. “Isn’t it fun?”

  He leaned in and whispered, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  “What?” The sun of her face dimmed, but just a bit.

  “For good luck.”

  She peeked back out from behind the cloud. “Oh. Yes. In that case.” She angled her cheek up at him.

  He pressed her chin between his thumb and forefinger and changed the angle of her face so her lips faced him instead. He dropped a short, soft kiss there, a promise.

  She inhaled slow, languorously. She enjoyed the scent of him, then? Good. He couldn’t get enough of whatever flowery scent followed her about.

  When he lifted his head, she whispered, “Good luck.”

  He tore his gaze away from her and turned toward the stage. Lord Hellwater already stood tall and bright at its center, brandishing a sword at the audience. An actor wearing monk’s robes entered from stage left. He would challenge Lord Hellwater to a duel. Perplexing, that. Why would a monk incite violence? No matter. The provocation was his cue to enter the scene.

  The monk challenged. Lord Hellwater dropped his sword in the actor’s direction, daring him to approach. The monk let rip a guttural scream and tore across the stage.

  Allison gasped, grabbing Carson’s hand before he could leave the shadowy wing. “The chains! Do you think he sees them?”

  Carson looked toward the center of the stage where Allison had abandoned her chains before her exit. No one had removed them.

  The monk tripped over the chains, stumbling toward the edge of the stage. It wasn’t a very high edifice, but audience members stood right next to it. Someone might be hurt.

  Carson plunged onto the stage and toward the monk’s fumbling body. Just in time, he pushed the monk in the direction of safety.

  Allison’s cry rang through the air. “No!” She must have seen his flight before he felt it.

  For he did fly. Until he dropped, his shoulder hitting the ground in front of the stage with a sickening pop.

  “Carson!” Allison cried.

  Carson clenched his teeth against the pain and rolled onto his back. His eyes squeezed tightly closed, but he felt her kneel beside him. Had to be her. Flowers.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “Carson, your shoulder is … it looks odd.”

  “Dislocated.” Hellwater’s voice carried to Carson through the pain. “Fucking hurts, doesn’t it?”

  Carson groaned in response. “What do I do about it?” he managed to ask between gritted teeth.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Hellwater informed him. “Fixing it hurts almost as much as dislocating it.”

  Warm, soft fingers wrapped around his forearm. He risked opening an eye. Allison hovered over him, her fingers a flutter of soft ministrations, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

  Enough! This may be the most pain he’d ever felt in his life, but he couldn’t make a fuss over it in front of her. He lifted his good arm and turned his palm up, offering it, offering himself. She took it in both of hers, wrapping it tight.

  He tried to smile. Nope. He breathed deeply, unlocked his jaw, and tried again. It must have worked because she lifted a corner of her mouth in the smallest smile he’d ever seen. He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be all right, Alli.”

  Hellwater’s voice boomed above them. “He will be perfectly fine, my dear Juliet. A bit sore for a day or two, but no lasting damage has been done. Now, where’s Max?”

  “Is Max a doctor?” Allison inquired.

  “Oh no, he’s a boxer. But a boxer’s better than a doctor in this case. Max!”

  New pain thrummed through his shoulder. Carson didn’t care who fixed it. A French chef could do it just as long as it got fixed! It felt wrong, all wrong.

  “Bollocks!” Allison breathed in the mumbly way she had when she spoke aloud without realizing it. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “That bad, then?” Perhaps he should just turn his head the other way and—

  “Don’t!” Allison’s hands dragged his face back around toward her. “You don’t want to see. Trust me.”

  “Take his shirt off.” The deepest voice Carson had ever heard parted the gathered crowd. “Sit him up, and take his shirt off.”

  Lord Hellwater pushed the gaping crowd back. “Do as the man says. Quick now.”

  The deep voice and the boxer were one and the same, then.

  Allison tugged at him. “Sit up, Carson. You must.”

  Using his one good arm and Allison’s help, Carson sat up and tugged off his shirt.

  Allison gasped. “Oh. Don’t look,” she commanded. “Can you move it?”

  He groaned, this time not from the pain. “Don’t look” weren’t exactly the words you wanted to hear when baring your chest for the first time to the woman you wanted to marry. He shook his head, and the movement sent pain vibrating down his arm. “I don’t want to. Try to move it. Don’t think I. Could. Even if I wanted.”

  Allison pressed her lips together, an anxious expression he’d never seen from her before, and a shadow fell over them both.

  Carson looked up to find a bear of a man standing above them.

  The man crossed his arms over his chest and frowned down at them. “Dislocated all right. I’ll have to pop it back in.” He knelt, focusing on Carson’s shoulder. “Can you walk?”

  Carson looked to Hellwater. “This the boxer?”

  “Lord Trevor, meet Mr. Maximus Brooks. Mr. Brooks, meet Lord Trevor.”

  Mr. Brooks rolled his eyes. “We can sit here and exchange pleasantries, or we can fix the man’s damned arm.”

  “Of course, of course, get to it!” Hellwater swept out of the way with a theatrical bow.

  Mr. Brooks turned back to Carson. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Help him up then, Miss.”

  Carson leaned on Allison, swallowing his cries and curses. Damned if he’d cry or curse or, worse yet, faint in front of that beast of man and Allison. She’d likely leave him swooned on the floor and follow the gigantic Mr. Brooks off to her next adventure. Not going to happen. She’d find her next adventure, and each one after, with him.

  “Sit on the edge of the stage,” the giant instructed.

  “How often have you done this, Mr. Brooks?” Allison asked.

  “Often. I’m going to touch your arm now, Lord Trevor.”

  “Just do it.”

  “It’s going to fucking hurt.”

  Carson nodded curtly. “Just. Do it.”

  Mr. Brooks placed his hands at Carson’s elbow and shoulder. He sighed. “You’re going to scream like I’m killing you because it’s going to hurt like fucking hell, but don’t worry. It hurts less every time it happens.”

  “I don’t plan on it happening—AAARRRGGGBLOODYFUCKINGHELLISRIGHT!”

  “There. It’s done.” Mr. Brooks stepped away, and Carson grabbed his arm to his side. “Good job. You didn’t pass out.”

  He still might do so. The night was young. Hell, the day was young, and his arm throbbed. He risked a peek at the shoulder. It seemed to be in the right place now, but it already pulsed blue and yellow. How the hell would he hide this? Even the air touching his arm seemed to vibrate it w
ith pain.

  Cool fingertips on his cheek turned him away from the sight. Allison hovered worriedly above him. “It still hurts?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you want to squeeze my hand?”

  What would that help? “Do you want me to mangle it?”

  Allison jolted back an inch. She’d sweetly offered help, and he acted like an ass, taking out on her the dawning realization he wouldn’t be able to hide this from his mother. “What do you think,” he asked, offering an olive branch. “Carriage accident or mugging?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s quite clear this isn’t going to be an injury I can easily hide. Oh sure, I’ll put my shirt back on, and she won’t be able to see anything—”

  “There will be quite a bit of bruising,” Mr. Brooks said.

  “Thank you,” Carson clipped. “As I said, a shirt can hide bruising, but I won’t be able to move the arm much without cursing like a sailor for some days.”

  “Weeks, maybe,” Mr. Brooks added.

  Carson turned to the boxer. “Thank you for your help, but must you really interject?”

  The boxer shrugged and grinned.

  Carson returned his attention to Allison. “I can’t tell my mother I was acting in a play when this occurred.”

  “Why not?

  “I told you. About her. About me. Her version of me doesn’t dive off stages. He doesn’t have broken arms.”

  “Not broken,” the boxer said.

  “Mr. Brooks, if you interject one more time,” Carson warned through gritted teeth.

  Allison set her fists on her hips, frowning. “But you do jump off stages to save strangers. You do make the butcher’s wife beam with pride. And these aren’t bad things, Carson. They’re wonderful. You are wonderful. Will you spend your entire life in hiding?”

  He had to spend his life in hiding.

  She blinked, waiting for an answer. But Carson couldn’t say the truth out loud. It burned almost as hot as his shoulder. Living a secret life felt like being split in two, and being perpetually sliced in two by a blazing knife would be easier than breaking his mother’s heart.

  She blinked again, shaking her head softly. “The woman who marries you will either have to pretend with you and hide away herself, creating her own disguise of boring propriety, or she will be one of your mother’s acolytes, a woman who breaks no rules and so has no secrets to hide.”

  The image of Lady Ann rose before him. No.

  Allison twisted her skirts in her lap. “You’ll truly have lost yourself, then. You’ll have to hide yourself day in and day out from your mother and your wife. Can you live like that?”

  “Yes. I have been. It’s not that bad, Alli. You’ll see.”

  She pulled back. “I’m tired of pretending, hiding. I don’t care if my mother thinks you’re perfect. You’re perfect for me. I’m going to ask Hellwater to take me back to Hopkins Bookshop. I … I’m so happy to have met the secret Carson. No, the real Carson. Your two selves make up the kind of man I always wished to marry—kind, adventurous, intelligent, strong. But … I’m so sorry!” She turned and ran, her body quickly swallowed by the crowd.

  What the hell had just happened? They’d been having fun! He’d been riding a wave of fresh hope that he could renew his proposal with more success. Then she’d raved about secrets and walked away. Perhaps he shouldn’t hope for success. He shouldn’t hope for Allison.

  A large hand clamped onto Carson’s naked shoulder. “You’re a right good moron, aren’t you?” The large Mr. Brooks towered above him, one corner of his lip quirked up.

  “What are you still doing here,” Carson growled.

  Mr. Brooks removed his hand. “Thought the performance was continuing. We all did.” He nodded at the rapt crowd surrounding them.

  “Hell.” They’d all been watching, listening to Allison reject him again.

  Mr. Brooks laughed. “Spoken like a man not used to cursing.”

  “It’s not polite.” He winced. Had ever a man sounded as priggish as he did right now? He certainly lived up to his mother’s version of himself. Proud, priggish, prudish. A volley of Ps this time.

  “Are you really going to let her walk off? Maybe I’ll go after her. She has a nice ar—”

  “If you finish that sentence, I’ll punch you.”

  “I’d lay you flat in two seconds, Tom Thumb.”

  No use denying that. The man was massive.

  Mr. Brooks crossed his arms. “Listen, Lord Trevor, she’s right. You can’t live your life being what others expect you to be. Look at Hellwater. He’s an earl who moved to Drury Lane to live with his mistress among the theaters. He’s not accepted most places in society, but he doesn’t care. He’s happy.”

  “I don’t care about what others think. It’s my mother’s opinions that matter. Life has not been kind to her.”

  “You’re a loyal son. That’s good. Virtuous.”

  A compliment. Right? Carson took pride in his virtue. He stretched the rules and boundaries of society, flirted with them, but never did anything truly unforgiveable. Why then did Mr. Brooks’s words strike a chord of unrest within him? Why did the words good and virtuous sound so much like prude and boring? And why did he have to hide the daring risks he took in secret, his forbidden flirtations with scandal and, to be frank, simple fun? He viewed himself as multifaceted: a sportsman, a lover of gothic novels, and a responsible lord, a caring son. Should his mother discover the half of himself he continuously hid, she’d see only an irredeemable rake.

  Allison accepted him. Today she’d met the real him and liked him better for it.

  Mr. Brooks shoved Carson’s shirt toward his chest, his shaggy head shaking back and forth. “I don’t know another red-blooded male who would let that little bit of luscious spring escape in order to please his mama.”

  Oh, God. Mr. Brooks’s point cleaved Carson in two. He wasn’t just pretending to be his mother’s perfect, priggish son. He was a perfect prig, led around by his mother’s apron strings.

  Mr. Brooks clapped Carson on the back. “See you about, mate. Let me know how the drama ends. I hate cliff-hangers.”

  Carson pulled his shirt on, tucking it in and scanning the floor for his waistcoat. “Gone,” he whispered when he couldn’t find it. Just like Allison.

  “I know, my dear boy! How sad.” Hellwater parted the now disinterested crowd milling about the room and stood before Carson with his thumbs hooked in the band of his pants. “The hero abandoned at the sickbed by his lady love.” He grinned and rubbed his palms together. “Hopkins couldn’t have written a more despairing ending, and he specializes in tragedy. Such daring though, my dear boy! I know our beleaguered Joshua is forever grateful.”

  “Joshua?”

  “The monk you saved.” Hellwater waved the information away. “What’s your plan?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “To get Miss Shropshire back. What is your plan? Surely, you’ve been formulating as you sit here like that jackass Bottom,” he scoffed. “Otherwise, you’re no hero.” His lip curled in a sneer.

  “Bottom? What are you raving about?”

  He waved away the question. “Doesn’t matter. What’s your plan?”

  Hellwater insisted he needed a plan. Mr. Brooks wanted to know how the story ended.

  Were Hellwater and Brooks right? Was there hope for a happy ending? Allison had said she loved him—well, she loved things about him. But then she’d walked away. I’m tired of pretending, she’d said.

  Carson didn’t want to pretend anymore either.

  If he wanted a happy ending with Allison, he’d have to tell the truth. He couldn’t pretend to be someone else anymore. It had come to the part of the novel where the hero discarded his disguise, revealed his true identity, and won the heroine’s love. It had always been his favorite part, but discarding a lifetime of secrets wouldn’t be so easy in real life.

  Chapter 8

  Allison studied the dancers at the Wickersham’
s annual ball, wondering about secrets. How many of the men sweeping women across the floor did things no one knew about? How many of the women they held in their arms thought things they told no one? And, more importantly, did those secrets make their lives better or worse?

  She sighed. Secrets. “What a plague,” she mumbled. Like Carson, she’d kept secrets her entire adult life, but she didn’t want to hide any longer. He, however, didn’t mind continuing as he always had—hidden.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she turned to look at the entrance. Carson stood with Lady Ann on his arm. No, not Carson. Carson wore no cravat, rolled his sleeves up, and brandished a fake sword. Carson was a drama-mad pirate. The man escorting Lady Ann was Lord Trevor, perfectly starched and perfectly stodgy. “Perfect,” she sighed.

  An arm slipped through hers. “What’s so perfect?”

  Then another arm snaked through hers on her other side. “What are we looking at so forlornly?”

  Allison looked left then right at the two women who’d snuck up on her. “Miss Cavendish, Miss Nora. It’s good to see you both.”

  The brunette sisters peered quizzically through the crowd.

  Ada, the eldest, turned to Allison. “Where have you been? We’ve missed you at our weekly meetings.”

  Allison had not attended a meeting of the Scandalous London Ladies since her adventure at Hellwater’s. The group had seemed so exciting before, but now the only excitement Allison could imagine sparked within Lord Trevor’s arms. “I’ve not felt well.”

  Nora patted Allison on the arm. “Of course you haven’t, poor dear. You’re heartsick.”

  “What?” Allison sputtered. “No. How could you think—”

  “Because I’ve seen that lovesick look you wear, is why. I thought Ada’s face would stick that way before she and Cass figured things out.

  Allison whipped around to look at Ada, who shrugged, admitting, “It happens to the best of us, and it’s clear it has happened to you, but what I can’t see is who you’ve fallen for.” Ada frowned at the milling throng.