From Duke till Dawn: 2018’s most scandalous Regency read. Eva Leigh

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      “Let Ellingsworth and me take you somewhere else,” Langdon urged. “There’s a fine tavern in Leicester Square that hosts knife-throwing tournaments. Plenty of pretty wenches to turn a man’s head, too.”

      “No,” Alex said at once. “I’m in no humor for wenches or knives or anything else.” He craned his neck, looking once more for Cassandra.

      A thrill of panic juddered along his spine. Had she disappeared again? No—she was by one of the windows, smiling and talking with a gentleman and two ladies. The vise of his fear loosened. He took an instinctive step toward her.

      “Don’t blame you,” Langdon said, keeping pace beside him. “She’s a striking woman. Got a queenly aura about her.”

      Alex wheeled to face Langdon. “She’s not to be leered at.”

      Langdon’s brow raised as he held up his hands in surrender. “Not a glance. Not a peek in her direction.”

      “Why don’t you go to her?” Ellingsworth asked quietly.

      Alex felt his jaw harden. “It would jeopardize her employment here.”

      “She works here?” Langdon exclaimed.

      In response, Alex glared at his friend. He knew he was being churlish to Langdon and Ellingsworth, but there wasn’t a damn thing about this situation that he liked.

      Ellingsworth placed his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Come on, old man. Let’s get you home. Nothing good will come of lingering.”

      A swell of gratitude built in Alex’s chest. His friends were impetuous and pleasure seeking. Ellingsworth continually made gibes and jests, and Langdon was always in search of gratification. Yet they clearly wanted to protect him from himself.

      He nodded stiffly, then turned and headed toward the exit. It took every ounce of his self-possession to keep from looking back. Toward Cassandra.

      From her vantage near the windows, Cassandra Blake watched the duke’s wide shoulders as he left the gaming hell with his friends. His posture was just as upright and proud as ever—a duke down to his very marrow, despite the shock he’d had tonight.

      She moved through the crowd, nodding, smiling, urging people to play. Yet her thoughts were leagues away.

      Alex wasn’t the only one who had been stunned by the night’s developments. Coming back to London, she’d braced herself for the possibility that she might, just might, see him again. Excitement and dread had fought within her, like two cats scrapping in an alley.

      Please let me see him, she’d think when falling asleep each dawn. Please, let our paths never cross, she’d think as she traversed London’s streets.

      Cassandra had heard through the usual gossip networks that he’d been seriously wooing a young woman of gentle birth. A strange, unexpected—and unwelcome—pain had lodged in her chest at that news. Then, yesterday, that lady had jilted him publicly.

      God, how he must be hurting. She ached for him, even as she secretly rejoiced that the stupid chit hadn’t possessed the good sense to make Alex her husband.

      A duke had to marry, but there wasn’t a single woman alive who was his equal.

      She’d seen the worst of humanity, its greed and selfishness and stupidity. She’d never known anyone who didn’t demand reciprocity in some fashion. Even saints wanted their halos admired.

      But Alex . . . he came by his integrity honestly. He never said what he didn’t mean. He gave of himself because he wanted better for others, without expecting anything in return. It wasn’t weakness—it was true gallantry.

      That had been her undoing.

      She shoved at the tempest of emotion battling within her. “There is a spot open at the hazard table, my lady,” she told a flush-faced woman with graying hair. “I understand the dice favor women.”

      “Do they?” the lady trilled. She walked on somewhat-unsteady legs toward the gaming table.

      Cassandra stifled a sigh. The tables were honest, but the players didn’t always have the best sense. Not my concern. She couldn’t stop people from being fools, and the more rash they became, the more her own profits would go up.

      People came to gaming hells because they wanted to forget themselves. They dropped their dignities at the entrance in exchange for the chance of winning significantly.

      Not Alex. He was a proud man. He’d never allow anyone to see him as anything less than flawless. He certainly didn’t want anybody to observe him hurting. After Lady Emmeline’s rebuff, Cassandra hadn’t known if he would hide. Or make himself visible as a way to let the chatterers know he wouldn’t be felled by a lady cutting him loose. Both were possibilities.

      Cassandra had mentally braced herself, but that had done almost nothing to shield her from the storm of feelings—happiness, terror, pleasure, sorrow—that hit when she saw him again. When he’d spoken her name. When he’d looked at her as though she’d truly come back from the dead.

      Or when he gazed at her as though he wanted to carry her off to the nearest bed and make love to her for days.

      She now pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow. It was always an unruly creature and refused to calm, still pounding away even though Alex had gone. Her feet wanted to run after him. Her body ached for his touch.

      Cassandra hadn’t taken a lover in two years. Not since Alex. Maybe that had been foolish. Now there was nothing between her body and the memories of him, his dark hair mussed, the hard square line of his jaw tightening as he thrust into her. She wouldn’t have believed such an honorable, principled man would make love to her like he was born for the task. As though his only desire was to give her unending pleasure.

      No. Those memories served no purpose. They only put her at risk. But heaven and hell, how she ached for him now. Her knight, her lover.

      “The Duke of Greyland?” Martin Hughes, alias Martin Hamish, asked at her shoulder.

      She turned to him, and saw his upraised brow. Martin was curious. Fifteen years of knowing someone allowed you to recognize their every mood like a farmer knew the shifting weather.

      He jerked his head toward the office, and she had no choice but to follow. They entered a darkened corridor off the main gaming hall, where Martin used a key latched to a watch fob to unlock one of the doors, then stepped inside. Part of Cassandra wanted to flee. She dreaded reviewing her history with Alex, but there wasn’t a way around it.

      Seating himself behind a large oak desk, Martin opened a case and pulled out a cheroot. As he lit the end, Cassandra breathed in the familiar scent of his tobacco blend. Instantly, she was back standing in the yard of one of countless coaching inns, with Martin securing passage to their next destination, their next job. Always, always, they kept moving, for staying in one place meant a greater chance of detection and capture.

      Martin took several draws off the cheroot. He studied its smoldering end. Taking his time. Cassandra stood and waited, her hands clasped in front of her. Trying to hurry him would only make him irritated, and there wasn’t anything to be gained by that.

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