Pride & Passion. Charlotte Featherstone

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      Isabella slipped into a black velvet wrap, and reached for the bonnet Billings held out to her. “Tell Black that we shall be at Sussex House. We’re having lunch and indulging in gossip, Billings.”

      Billings smiled ruefully before bowing. “Do enjoy, madam. Lady Lucy.”

      Lucy shot Isabella a smile. Suddenly the day didn’t seem as miserable as she first thought. And maybe, during the course of lunch and gossip, she might find something useful that would aid her in finding Thomas—and keep him safe from Sussex’s hands.

       CHAPTER TWO

      SOMETIMES A SOUL was just born fortunate. Sometimes they weren’t. Adrian York, the Duke of Sussex, firmly believed that. Some men were lucky enough to bring themselves up and change their fortunes.

      Himself, he was something of an enigma—and a fraud. He’d been born a damn unfortunate, and then something had happened. The stars and planets had aligned, and something in the cosmos had shone down on him, making him the most fortunate soul that had ever graced the ballrooms of London. He’d been gifted, not once, but twice. Something more than an enigma, he thought with a sardonic smile, but a downright lucky bastard.

      He’d given thanks to his maker, had glanced up at the black velvety sky nearly every night and stared at the twinkling stars, wondering why it had been him they’d decided to favor with such fortune and luck. For him, it was always a question of why—the unanswered question leaving behind the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth, when there were so many unfortunate souls who would never experience such blessings. Fortune had shone down upon him, despite his being a fraud, despite knowing that he was wrongfully gifted by the Fates.

      For the last twelve years he’d walked with Lady Fortune. Everything he had touched had turned to gold. The ton admired him, his peers tried to emulate him and the stars had never failed to shine down upon him. That was, until a fortnight ago, when he had trudged down the front steps of Lord Stonebrook’s London town house, utterly defeated and numb after returning a lace handkerchief belonging to Lucy that had been in the possession of a man whom he had witnessed kill another in cold blood.

      The memories of that day still ate away at him. He had wanted Lucy to deny any knowledge of the man, to show outrage that the scrap of lace had found its way into the stranger’s possession. But she had not, and it only confirmed what he did not care to think about—that she was not only involved with the Brethren’s enemy, but also that she had an intimate connection with him.

      “So cold-blooded,” she had murmured as she looked up from her lap and the piece of lace he had placed in her hands. He had made it clear then that the man was his enemy, and that he would find him—and destroy him. “There is not an ounce of warmth in you,” she said. “No heart. No passion.”

      If she only knew how those words pierced him, haunted him during the darkest, coldest hours of the night. He could still see her, sitting on the window bench looking small and sad—and pale. How he had wanted to hold her, to show her that he had just as much passion—probably more so—than she could imagine. But she did not want him. She wanted someone else. His enemy. The enemy of the Brethren Guardians. It was his penance for the years of taking what Fortune had bestowed upon him, taking what he didn’t deserve.

      She had vowed to stand between them, her lover and him. To protect Thomas, not him. He had warned her that any attempt to do so might, regretfully, make her an enemy of the Brethren as well, but she hadn’t flinched at that. In fact, she seemed to already know and understand what would happen if she chose to cast her lot in with this shadowy figure he and his two fellow Guardians hunted.

      Nothing had ever distracted him from his duties as a Brethren Guardian. Theirs was an ancient order, handed down for generations. In his, Black’s and Alynwick’s blood surged the blood of crusaders, who had kept three sacred relics safe from the world. There was nothing that had ever persuaded him to abandon the cause he had sworn an oath to keep secret, and sacred—until now. Until Lucy.

      Damn if he wouldn’t sell his soul—and the relics—to the Devil himself to have Lucy in his bed for just one night. Gone was his honor. His moral compass. She had tied him in knots, and still he allowed her to pull the strings tighter and tighter.

      He should be repulsed by the thought of himself as a helpless marionette, moved and manipulated by her slight hands, but he could only smile in mocking amazement. He’d lived his life controlled and ordered, never once allowing the passionate nature that lurked within him to surface. For years he feared someone discovering his secret, and his controlled aura had been the only way to ensure it was kept safe. But now, after all these years of honing the skill, he’d let it all go down to the cesspool.

      “Adrian, it is downright frigid in here. How can you bear it?”

      His private thoughts shattered, he looked up from his desk, and the journal that lay open, in time to see his sister, Elizabeth, stroll carefully into the room.

      “I hadn’t noticed the chill. I’ll stoke the fire.”

      She fumbled over the turned leg of a table, her hands outstretched before her, searching for obstacles. Rosie, her liver and white springer spaniel pressed against her, her muzzle nudging Elizabeth’s wrist, steering her away from danger. Tamping down the impulse to go to her and help her, he rose from his chair and turned his back, his attention on the fire.

      Elizabeth was a proud woman. And damn stubborn, too. Two traits they shared, inherited from their tyrannical father. Elizabeth was blind, and because of it her pride and stubbornness had grown twofold. Lizzy would not thank him for his help.

      “There!” she said, letting out a loud sigh. “We’ve made it, Rosie.” The spaniel gave a little whimper as she struggled up onto the settee. “Poor love, you’re getting as big as a barn.”

      Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but grin at the spectacle the spaniel made as her hind paws scratched and pawed for purchase against the leather. Rosie was having her first litter, and Adrian hoped to the devil her offspring would be as intelligent and trainable as she. It had been his very great desire to breed her and train her offspring to assist the blind, like Rosie assisted his sister.

      Rosie finally made it onto the settee and set her head in Lizzy’s lap. Lizzy’s fingers brushed along the dog’s long ears and a deep sound of contentment—a little growl, really—filled the room. It was followed by the sounds of Rosie burying her head into Lizzy’s damask skirts, and the subtle snore of self-satisfaction.

      Lizzy laughed and continued to stroke the dog’s fur. “Now, then, will you cease having the maids move that table, brother? I am forever banging into it.”

      “My apologies, Lizzy. But it’s me moving it. I like to watch the moon at night, and the table seems to follow it.”

      He turned in time to see his sister’s exasperated expression turn to one of longing. “Oh, the moon. Is it big and fat and hanging low in the sky? I just loved a November full moon.”

      This was a side of Lizzy no one saw but him. In society she was put-together, so seemingly in control. She never let on that her sightlessness bothered her, but at home, when they were private, he saw her frustrations, and wiped away the tears of sadness. He, of all people, understood what it was like to live in a world full of cruelty and distaste when one was not, in polite society’s estimation—desirable. Neither he nor his sister had been what their father wanted, and СКАЧАТЬ