She didn’t see the Duke for several days.
But every night she dreamed of the beasty with the squirmers.
Sometimes it was the tiny thing she’d seen in the filthy puddle at the gaol. And sometimes it was the huge monster that had attacked the Thames. And sometimes Tiffany thought she saw a woman’s face, pale and distressed.
She longed to ask Aunt Esme about it, but after the supper that never was, Elinor had kept her too busy. She insisted on taking Tiffany walking every day in Hyde Park, which was terribly busy with other people who would not admit they were there for a glimpse of the Duke too. They attended card parties and supper parties and musicales, and after a while people began to speculate that the Duke had left town for some reason.
‘You should have danced with him again,’ Elinor told Tiffany.
‘You think he left because we only danced once?’ she said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Elinor, although her face disagreed. ‘I meant you should have taken your chance. I have invited him to our house party for Cornforth’s birthday.’
‘Has he replied?’
‘No.’ Her face said this was not acceptable. ‘But he is a duke. I am sure he is very busy,’ she allowed.
Tiffany assumed it was because he was waiting for his bruises to heal. She had only caught a glimpse or two at the gaol before Aunt Esme whisked her away in a hackney, but all three of the men had looked somewhat worse for wear.
And then one day there he was, striding along Rotten Row as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The bruises on his face were faded, but visible enough to provoke whispers from everyone he passed. His eye was blackened, his lip cut. It should have made him look like a thug, and yet it only made him look like the more poetic kind of pirate.
He greeted Tiffany and Elinor quite elegantly, and conversed with them about the weather as if everything was completely normal. Tiffany could feel Elinor straining like a dog on a leash, desperate to ask what had happened but too bound by politeness.
‘I was considering going to Vauxhall Gardens tonight,’ he said. ‘I hear they have the most impressive gas lighting and I should like to see it. Will you be there?’
Elinor loathed Vauxhall Gardens. It wasn’t just that it was gaudy and a little dangerous, it was that anybody who could pay a few shillings was allowed to enter, no matter their class or refinement.
Tiffany had always wanted to go.
‘Oh, we adore Vauxhall, don’t we, Theophania?’ Elinor said.
‘We do?’ said Tiffany. ‘I mean, we do. Adore it. Yes. We might have supper there,’ she said, twisting the knife. ‘In one of the boxes.’
The supper boxes were notoriously expensive and while the Cornforths could easily afford it, Elinor objected strongly to the idea of being put on display for the hoi polloi to gawp at.
‘That sounds very exciting,’ said the Duke, his eyes on Tiffany. ‘If I take a box, will you join me?’
And then Elinor had to say yes. She bragged about it to everyone else they met that morning, and spent most of the afternoon criticising Tiffany’s wardrobe.
‘He is taken with you. He might offer for you!’ she trilled.
‘Wonderful,’ muttered Tiffany. All her plans to be a failure this Season being derailed by one piratical duke. One lying, manipulative duke, she corrected herself. The fact that he looked like an illustration for one of the more excitable kinds of novel was neither here nor there.
‘You will be a duchess! A duchess, Theophania! No, no, none of those bold colours, she must have something delicate and innocent,’ she snapped to Morris.
Morris put away the blue dress Tiffany liked and brought out a pink one she hated.
‘Much better. You must be on your best behaviour, Theophania. None of your strange moods and answering back. Gentlemen don’t like it when you answer back. Do try to be agreeable.’
The instructions went on throughout the evening as they travelled to Vauxhall Gardens, which in itself was quite the trip. Tiffany had never travelled south of the river, or been on any watercraft larger than a punt on a boating lake, so the ferry crossing the Thames came as something of a shock.
Elinor clutched at Cornforth’s arm, her eyes tightly shut, the whole way.
Tiffany gazed in wonder at the panorama of London set out before her. The half-built Regent Bridge on her right, the many wharves of Mill Bank on her left, the grandeur of Parliament rising in the distance.
Parliament. Had that creature—she couldn’t help thinking of it as the beasty with the squirmers, thank you, Gwen—really been intending to threaten the government? The river seemed quite peaceful now, with ferries and boats going about their business. Had Tiffany simply imagined everything that had happened that night at Somerset House?
When she closed her eyes, she remembered Father Thames standing waist-deep in the water, and the thrum of power that had been raised in her when she and the other witches had helped him ward the river. Father Thames held them safe in his hands.
The other witches. I am a witch.
She opened her eyes and looked at Elinor, huddled fearfully against Cornforth as the boat rocked gently with the river. I am a witch and I am not afraid.
Tiffany concentrated on her favourite colours and styles to wear. As the sun set over the river, she imagined herself gowned in the sparkle of the light on the water.
And when they handed their cloaks to an attendant in Vauxhall Gardens, Elinor gasped, because Tiffany’s gown had been transformed into a shimmering confection of mermaid green and blue.
‘But—you were wearing the pink—’
‘I changed my mind. Oh look, there is Miss Brougham. I shall go and say hello.’
Indeed, rather than mingling with the sort of people Elinor was terrified of, the Gardens were full of people they knew. Tiffany strolled past the circular Gothic Orchestra with Miss Brougham, and paused to speak to Lady Selby by the Turkish Tent. Set in a wide arc around the central garden were the famous supper boxes, open to the evening air, where anybody might watch you eating supper. Waiters bustled by with tiny plates of servings so small even Elinor would find it hard to leave a ladylike amount.
And everywhere, there was light. Strings of glass bowls filled with pale, wondrous gas light, the warm glow of oil lamps by the supper boxes, the candles being brought by busy waiters. Light danced and glowed on the faces of the revellers, bounced off the clinking glassware, and glittered on the gown Tiffany had projected onto herself.
It would only last a few hours. But for those few hours she could wear what she wanted to, for herself.
‘Lady Tiffany! Won’t you join us for supper?’
Of course. The real reason so many people of quality were here this evening. The main attraction himself, the Lost Duke.
Tiffany turned and smiled politely. The Duke had a supper box, probably the one with the best view of the festivities, and he was lounging on the seating like a large tomcat, scarred face and all.
She allowed her expression to turn insincerely regretful. ‘Good evening, Your Grace. I am quite afraid I have plans with my family. I regret—’
‘Your Grace!’
Tiffany said one of Nora’s rude words inside her head as Elinor rushed up with unseemly haste.
‘How kind of you to invite us! We should be delighted, shouldn’t we, Cornforth?’
‘As you say,’ he murmured, and gestured Tiffany and Elinor ahead of him. Elinor, who so hated the idea of being watched by all sorts of people as she ate, was now giggling girlishly as she shuffled around the booth.
The box held a few other people, who moved aside to let them in. Tiffany, with grim inevitability, found herself sitting next to the Duke. There were no chairs, merely benches to be shared, which seemed very improper to Tiffany. She could feel the Duke’s leg against her own. His leg!
The Duke made introductions to the rest of his party: an artistic-looking woman and her glamorous kinswoman, a dark complected gentleman in an exciting waistcoat, and a beautiful lady he warmly introduced as Miss Nayak.
Tiffany smiled and nodded at them all until she got to Miss Nayak, who gave her a knowing smile. It was Madhu. She wore a gown of deep, beautiful pink that made her complexion glow, and an elegant striped turban with an ostrich feather. Around her neck was a jewel that could have bought half of Mayfair, and the gold ring still glinted in her nostril.
Tiffany forced herself not to look if the Duke was still wearing the gold ring in his ear.
‘How very wonderful to see you here,’ Madhu said. ‘Would you care for some ham? It is very good, although sliced so thinly I think you could see a candle through it.’
‘Have you seen what they consider to be a chicken?’ said the African gentleman, Mr Noakes, gesturing to a small roasted bird on the table. ‘I have seen bigger pigeons.’
‘The wine could come in larger bottles too,’ said the artistic Mrs Carrington, and she and her kinswoman Miss Ross giggled together, their cheeks pink.
‘I will take that hint,’ said the Duke, and gestured imperiously. Some things he did not need to be taught, Tiffany thought. ‘The red champagne, was it not? And two more of the Burgundy,’ he said to the waiter who hurried to his summons. ‘And … perhaps some Madeira?’ He turned to Lady Cornforth, who nodded, wide-eyed at the profligacy. Burgundy did not come cheap at all these days, after the French war.
Tiffany smiled and nodded along, trying not to be too obvious as she watched Madhu. She seemed entirely at home in the elevated company, a world away from her kitchen in Aunt Esme’s house. When the wine came, she casually tipped three precise drops from a small phial into the Duke’s glass.
‘What on earth— Is this some ritual from the Orient?’ laughed Elinor nervously.
Tiffany watched the Duke’s throat move as he swallowed. Did all men have beautiful throats or was it just something she’d never noticed before?
Madhu replaced the phial in her reticule. ‘No, it is merely something from my stillroom to help heal the Duke’s bruises. How is Mr Robinson getting along?’ she asked.
‘Much better now, after your tonic. I thank you. Miss Nayak has quite the knack for herbal remedies,’ said the Duke, smiling warmly at Madhu.
I bet she does. Tiffany eyed the painting hung behind him. It was of a horse and rider. She wondered what would happen if she made it come to life and kick him in the head.
‘Every woman should be mistress of her stillroom,’ said Madhu. ‘Don’t you agree, Lady Cornforth?’
Elinor hurriedly swallowed the mouthful of ham she’d just taken. ‘Really? No. I prefer the apothecary. I am far too busy to go concocting potions like some sort of … of…’
Say it, willed Tiffany.
‘…of witch!’ said Elinor, and laughed at her own audacity. ‘Lady Theophania, of course, knows how to make basic household remedies, don’t you, dear? She is quite skilled in all household matters.’
Tiffany nearly choked on her Madeira.
‘Yes,’ said the Duke thoughtfully, taking a cigar from his pocket and clipping the end off it. Tiffany could feel Elinor’s disapproval coming off her in waves. ‘I have witnessed her accomplishments.’
He smiled at her wolfishly, then winced as a tiny painted hoof kicked the back of his head.
‘What a shame you are so injured, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘However did it happen? Falling from your horse, was it? Did you have an embarrassing tumble?’
Elinor glared daggers at her from Cornforth’s other side. Cornforth himself merely went on eating cheese and ham and drinking Burgundy.
The Duke lit his cigar from a candle, which made Elinor whimper in distress. ‘I am not an accomplished horseman, I will admit,’ he said. ‘I prefer sailing. But these bruises were not obtained in so noble a manner.’ He sighed. ‘I must inform you that there are quarters of this city where it is quite unsafe to walk alone.’
‘Then no man of sense would go there,’ said Tiffany.
‘Then I must be a man of little sense, my lady. And it is a good job I did go there, because otherwise who would have been there to defend my loyal manservant? For he was set upon—set upon, I tell you!’
Elinor nearly swooned. The impropriety of the cigar forgotten, her hand clasped to her bosom, she gasped, ‘So noble, your Grace!’
At that point Tiffany realised something. The Duke’s behaviour was outrageous, and he knew it. So did everyone else. The way he lounged like a cat and smoked cigars at dinner and the frankly obscene loucheness of his neckcloth—none of this would be acceptable in any person of lesser ranking. But because Santiago was a duke, and dukes could get away with anything, the rules of polite behaviour were being rewritten to include whatever he did.
Icy fury rose inside her. Of course he got to do whatever he wanted to. Of course! But if she, a mere earl’s daughter, wore an incorrect shade of pink, then Elinor’s head would explode.
Oblivious to her anger, the Duke shrugged modestly and blew out a smoke ring. Tiffany said, ‘Yes, yes, so noble, very chivalrous. I wonder that your heart can even be contained in your chest.’
‘Theophania!’ hissed Elinor. Madhu looked like she was trying not to laugh.
‘I would have done it for anyone,’ he said, and the look he gave the company was one so very smouldering she half expected his cigar to burst into flame. Even Cornforth looked impressed.
‘I am sure you would, Your Grace,’ said Tiffany. ‘A lesser man would have stepped back. Walked on by. Simply gone to the nearest tavern and drowned himself in drink,’ she added pointedly.
‘Alcohol excess is a plague on our society,’ he agreed, sipping his Burgundy. ‘Waiter! A quart of arrack, if you please.’
‘I have observed that many gentlemen consider it manly to drink to excess,’ said Mr Noakes, somewhat bravely.
‘It is not so manly when their behaviour becomes no better than that of a common brawler,’ said Tiffany, and wafted away some of the Duke’s smoke.
‘A gentleman who cannot hold his drink is no gentleman,’ said Cornforth, in that way of his that made you feel slightly guilty for assuming he wasn’t listening at all.
‘I quite agree with you, sir,’ said the Duke. He puffed on his cigar, and remarked idly, ‘Have you been to the new exhibition of art at Somerset House, Lady Tiffany?’
Her nostrils flared. Tiffany was seconds from making the horse kick him again when Madhu said, ‘Goodness, isn’t it warm in this box! I should like to take a turn about the grounds.’
‘I will come with you,’ Tiffany said quickly, and ignored Elinor’s hissed and whispered jibes as she scrambled from the box.
‘Perhaps I could escort you,’ the Duke said lazily from behind her, and Tiffany knew if he tried then she might murder him, so she pretended not to hear him and marched away with Madhu.
She didn’t pause until they were around the other side of the Gothic Orchestra, out of view, and then she took a deep breath and said, somewhat stiffly, ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s no problem. I thought if the two of you argued any more the whole box would go up in flames.’
‘But you’re the one he was flirting with,’ Tiffany said, and didn’t quite succeed in keeping the sulkiness out of her voice.
Madhu laughed. ‘Only to annoy you.’ She reached into her reticule and glanced at Tiffany. ‘Here,’ she said, and passed her a little bottle.
‘I don’t have any bruises.’
‘It’s not for bruises. Although it might cause them. It’s brandy.’
‘Brandy?’
‘Yes. I thought that was best for you right now.’ Madhu gave her a calculating look. ‘Perhaps a cigarette also?’
‘Madhu!’
‘They are very relaxing. No? Very well, then. Let us stroll into the gardens and let the brandy do its work.’
Tiffany didn’t dare take a sip until they were past the last of the supper boxes, because while she might be prepared for some levels of outrageousness, she was not about to start openly drinking from a bottle in public.
Further away from the central courtyards, with their brightly coloured and lit pavilions, there were long walks between tall hedges. Lights burned here and there, but the overall air was one of secrecy.
Tiffany suddenly realised the woods would be full of trysting couples, and blushed. She took a swig of brandy.
It burned down her throat, far stronger than the ratafia she was usually allowed, and without any of the sugary flavour. She shuddered a little, and drank some more.
‘Feeling better?’ said Madhu.
‘A little, yes.’ She took Madhu’s arm and they began strolling. The sounds of the orchestra and the pleasure gardens faded behind them. For a long, lovely moment, there was silence, and she didn’t have to think about the Duke, or being a witch, or the Duke, or Elinor, or the Duke…
‘He just irritates me so much!’ Tiffany burst out.
‘Yes, he’s very good at it.’
‘It’s as if he does it on purpose!’
Madhu shrugged. ‘He does.’
Tiffany blinked at the dark walk. ‘What do you mean, he does?’
‘You do it too. Come along, Tiffany, admit it. You enjoy needling him.’
Tiffany drank a bit more brandy. It was fun to annoy him. She couldn’t lie to herself about that. ‘He lied to me,’ she said, as if that was an excuse.
‘Only by omission. Look at it this way. If he had told you who he was, would you have believed him?’
‘I—’ Tiffany knew she wouldn’t have. ‘Well, what about that brawl?’ she said, emboldened by the brandy. ‘He keeps saying it was to defend his valet, but I could smell the alcohol on him.’ She whispered the last part, despite having a bottle of brandy in her hand.
‘Yes, and I suspect the alcohol is why he didn’t dodge all the blows,’ Madhu said. ‘Tiffany, you should probably ask him a little about how he grew up. About why he took in the boy Billy, and why he defended Robinson.’
‘What do you mean? I don’t care about how he grew up.’ But she did, secretly. She longed to know where he had been and what he had seen, all those ships and voyages and new lands. She wanted to know what it was like to be a child in Chile. What his mother was like. If his father was a scandalous as they all said. ‘And why would anyone pick on Robinson? That’s the part I don’t understand.’
Madhu was silent for a few steps. ‘Robinson,’ she said. ‘Nora has known him a long time. He is a very talented tailor.’
‘Yes, I see that.’ It was probably best that she didn’t think about how neatly the Duke’s coat emphasised his broad shoulders and narrow waist, how lovingly his breeches clung to his legs, how the white of his linen gleamed against his golden skin…
‘But he…’ Madhu was choosing her words carefully. ‘He was not born a gentleman.’
‘I don’t suppose many valets are.’
‘No, Tiffany. He was not born a gentleman.’
There was an emphasis there that took a moment to get through to Tiffany, and when it did, she stumbled.
Robinson, who was small and neat and spoke in a voice pitched slightly above what one might expect. Robinson, who was almost supernaturally unobtrusive. Robinson, who had said my face didn’t fit. ‘He— You mean, sh—’
Madhu kept on calmly walking, bringing Tiffany along with her. ‘He. Yes.’
‘But … that means…’ Her mind whirled. How had she not seen it? ‘Does he know? Does Santiago know?’
Too late she realised she shouldn’t have referred to him by that name. But Madhu didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘I would imagine so. He is an observant man. An observant man in need of a good valet,’ Madhu added gently. ‘And Robinson is a good valet. Why should it matter what else he is?’
Tiffany opened and closed her mouth a few times. It ought to matter, because it went against the order of everything she’d been raised to understand. But then how many of those things had she discarded since she had met Aunt Esme and become a witch?
How many other new ideas would reveal themselves to her?
She drank some more brandy. It did not appear to be about to run out. ‘Well then,’ she said.
Madhu was watching her carefully. ‘You understand?’
‘I … think so. Those men attacked Robinson because they … well, they saw what I had missed?’
‘One assumes as much. There is a certain type of person who very much objects to another living his life in the way he sees fit,’ said Madhu, on a sigh. ‘You will likely encounter many of them, as a witch.’
‘The former, or the latter?’
‘Both. We do our best to help the latter, of course. And as for the former… Well, healing and understanding are not the only things I can infuse a drink with.’
‘So … Santiago was really just trying to help his valet?’ Tiffany said, in a small voice. I shouted at him.
‘Yes. As he helped Billy. And I strongly suspect he has given his half-brother a job, too. The man might look like a pirate, but he has the heart of a small fluffy animal.’
Tiffany sighed irritably, and drank some more of the brandy.
‘There is always a place for you in our household, you know. Esme may be our senior, but we are all equals.’
For a moment Tiffany allowed herself to imagine it. A household where she could wear whatever she wished, and never go to another ball again if she didn’t want to, and never have to make polite conversation with another crashing bore. It would be blissful.
‘Elinor would never let me,’ she sighed.
Madhu made a thoughtful sound. ‘I could always give her some special brandy,’ she said, and Tiffany suddenly laughed.
* * *
He heard her laughter before he saw her, but that shimmering mermaid dress was hard to miss even in the darkness. Tiffany glowed, her white gold hair and her porcelain skin lit up from within as she laughed with Madhu.
Madre de dios, but she was beautiful.
Had he gone too far earlier? Was she truly annoyed with him? He’d flirted a little with Madhu, partly out of habit because she looked like a princess in her pink gown, and partly to see if it upset Tiffany. And it had. Which had to mean…
Was it possible that he occupied her thoughts as she did his?
She whirled around at the sound of his footsteps, and her eyes widened as if she’d been caught out doing something she shouldn’t.
‘Sant— Your Grace!’
‘Lady Tiffany. I— Miss Nayak. I apologise for startling you.’ He couldn’t stop looking at Tiffany.
‘Not at all,’ said Madhu. She smoothly released Tiffany from her arm and stepped back. ‘If you will excuse me, I did promise the receipt for my paratha to Mr Noakes.’
And she was gone, like a whisper, leaving him alone with Tiffany. Alone on a dark walk, where few other people passed and their only audience was the trees.
‘You escaped the supper table?’
He nodded. ‘The orchestra began to play a favourite of Mrs Carrington and so we strolled out and I…’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘I am perfectly fine, as you see. Madhu was an excellent chaperone. I suspect if anybody displeased her, she’d turn them into a frog.’
He laughed nervously. Could they do that? Could Tiffany do that?
Lady Tiffany scuffed her feet in the dirt. She looked at the ground, at the hedges, at anything but him. Finally, she said, ‘Madhu told me about Robinson.’
His heart skipped. Would she disapprove? ‘She did?’
‘Yes. About why … those men attacked him. And I…’ She straightened and nodded, as if she’d come to a decision. ‘I must apologise to you, Your Grace.’
He blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Because I had … assumed,’ she spoke carefully, ‘that you had been brawling for … your own reasons.’
‘Because I was drunk?’ Santiago said.
She shrugged uncomfortably.
‘Well, I was. But I would have done it if I had been sober. Robinson is vulnerable to men like those stevedores. I will not let him come near the docks again.’
‘Ever? Don’t you live there?’
‘Haha, Lady Tiffany, you know full well I live on Grosvenor Square.’ At least he did when he was duking.
‘That does sound unrealistic,’ she said, tapping her lip thoughtfully. She seemed to have forgotten she was holding a small bottle. ‘Perhaps Aunt Esme can help. Or Madhu. She makes potions, you know.’
‘I do know.’ Santiago smiled, because he rather thought Tiffany was a little bit tipsy. ‘Robinson, William and I have all healed quite well because of them. Without Madhu’s excellent work, I would not be here tonight.’
Her forehead creased. ‘Were you very badly hurt?’
Concern! She was concerned for him! ‘Nothing I have not suffered before,’ Santiago dismissed, as if his ribs didn’t still ache and his shoulder wasn’t yellow with bruising. ‘But Billy is not much of a valet. Should you be telling me about Madhu’s potions?’
‘Probably not.’ She drank almost idly from her bottle, and Santiago knew she must be drunk, because she had explained to him that a lady was never to be seen eating and drinking in the street. ‘Is Mr Nettleship really your half-brother?’
He felt his eyebrows go up. ‘Yes.’ He wondered how to explain the circumstance to her.
‘They said there was some scandal about your father and why he had to leave the country,’ Tiffany said, ‘but I have never been told what it was.’
‘Ah,’ said Santiago. ‘Yes. Well … William would be that scandal.’
Her eyes flew wide. ‘Truly? Oh, my goodness.’ He saw her eyes darting about as she took it in. She glanced up at him a couple of times, as if she wanted to ask him for the details, and he realised he wanted to tell her. To tell her that his father had told him one story and it had taken years to realise he was lying, and that it had only been William himself who could fill in the gaps and make it all make sense.
Tiffany stood there in the shadows, glowing as if she was made of moonlight. He wondered if that was a thing witches could do, like Esme had made that light, or if it was just Tiffany being so luminous.
How was she not overrun with suitors? Why was every man in this city not madly in love with her? Was everybody in England blind?
He wanted to tell her that he’d never seen a lovelier creature, that her eyes and lips enchanted him, that her skin was made of pearls and her hair of stardust, and that her bosom—well, he should probably not be telling her what he thought about her bosom.
But what he said was, ‘Your dress is very beautiful.’
She looked up at him, and smiled. ‘You know a gentleman should never compliment a lady’s dress,’ she said, and smoothed the shimmering skirts with her fingers. Skirts Santiago was instantly jealous of. ‘But I thank you.’ She bit her lip, and confided, ‘Elinor had a fit when she saw it.’
‘Her taste is not to be recommended,’ Santiago said, and she smiled up at him as if he had said the most enlightening thing.
‘No, it is not. And I think I should not let her bully me anymore,’ she said. ‘I don’t like pink. I shall not wear it anymore.’
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Santiago.
‘Or frills. Or flounces. They make me look like an iced cake.’
He laughed, and after a shocked second when her ears seemed to catch up with her mouth, she laughed too. She clapped a hand to her bosom, and as she did, her glove caught on her necklace and it came loose. They heard it tinkle and hit the ground.
‘Let me,’ he said, quickly bending to the ground to look for it. But the necklace was a flimsy thing, a thin ribbon and cameo pendant, and it was pretty dark now, away from all the spectacular gas lighting.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Tiffany, and whispered to herself for a moment before a light appeared, floating gently downwards.
Santiago stared up from her feet. ‘You made that?’
‘It’s quite simple,’ she said, but she sounded quite pleased with herself.
The pale light was enough to see the necklace by, and he stood with it in one hand, wondering if he dared try to fasten it around her neck. But then he heard footsteps. ‘Quick, put the light out!’
‘Er—’ She gestured at the light, which moved closer to her hand, but didn’t go out. ‘Um—’
‘This way!’ Santiago said, taking her arm and pulling her through a gap in the hedge. The light, thank God, came with her, and then they were in a small grove, lit only by that pale light.
‘I can’t remember how to make it go,’ she whispered frantically, making shooing gestures.
‘Then leave it. For now, leave it, and you can use it to see this by,’ he said, holding out the necklace.
Tiffany looked down at his palm, his rough sailor’s palm, in which her delicate cameo lay so incongruously. Robinson was always on at him to rub lotion into his hands, or at least wear gloves when he went out as the Duke, but some of those calluses were old friends to Santiago.
The delicate shell of the cameo was warm from her skin.
‘Will you do it for me?’ she said, and his heart leapt. And—well, not just his heart. Santiago couldn’t deny that at this point he would rather be taking things off Tiffany, not putting them on her.
But she was a nicely brought-up lady, and he was a duke, and Santiago knew from William what happened when nicely brought-up young ladies were found alone with men. Especially when said ladies had made it plain that they did not wish to marry. Not even a duke.
He moved behind her, and very gently, taking care not to touch her bare skin with his fingertips, brushed aside the curls that clung to the back of her neck.
He failed. Her skin was warm, and damp with perspiration. Just as it would be after he’d spent the night making love to her…
She exhaled, and he swallowed roughly. Stop thinking about making love to Lady Tiffany!
‘My apologies,’ he whispered, and it came out hoarsely.
She nodded, and it made another wisp of hair fall loose.
He wondered what her hair would smell like. How it would feel to stroke his fingers along it, to take the mass of it in his hands. How it would look cascading loose over her shoulders.
He shook himself. ‘My hands are rough,’ he said. ‘Sailor’s hands.’
He saw her throat move as she swallowed. ‘You have travelled very far?’
‘Across the Pacific,’ said Santiago. ‘Across Asia.’ He carefully placed the ribbon around her neck and her fingers came up to hold the pendant in place. ‘Around Africa. I have only been to Europe for the first time this year.’
‘How are you finding it?’ she asked politely.
‘Cold,’ he replied, although maybe that was wishful thinking. He was on fire. His hands trembled. Her skin smelled so delicious.
‘But it is summer now,’ she said.
‘Yes. But it is nothing compared to the heat of India, of Mexico, of Egypt.’
‘You have been to Egypt?’ Her voice was full of longing. ‘Did you see the pyramids?’
‘I did.’
She sighed, and from this angle he could see the magnificent things it did to her bosom.
‘I wish—’ she began, and stopped. Her chin went up. ‘Perhaps I will travel. Now that I am a witch.’
Right, yes. A witch. Not an ordinary young lady he could consider marrying.
Marrying? Where had that thought come from?
Santiago exhaled sharply and made himself tie the ribbon on her necklace into a secure reef knot. Let unfastening it be her maid’s problem.
‘You are so lucky that you could travel,’ she said.
‘It did not feel so at the time,’ he muttered.
‘No? Why?’
He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders. To turn her to face him and kiss her. Take her in his arms, feel all that warmth and softness against his aching body, and kiss her until neither of them could remember their names.
Instead he let his hands drop and said, ‘Because usually we were being chased.’
She half turned then. ‘Chased?’
‘Yes. Whatever scandal you think my father committed, what followed once he left England was even worse. I say I am from Chile, but I remember little of it. We moved constantly, all over the continent. Chasing one scheme after another. Always in debt, in trouble with the wrong person, always gambling and drinking and losing—’
‘That sounds terrible,’ she said.
‘It wasn’t so bad.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘That’s a lie. It was.’
She turned fully then, and looked up at him with her eyes like the ocean tides. ‘Would it help you to know I have never met my father?’
He stared at her. ‘Never?’
‘No. He left before I was born. Wellington—Wellesley, as he was—was very busy in India and my father…’ Her gaze darted away for a moment, then came back. ‘I think my father wanted an excuse to leave the woman he regretted marrying,’ she said, lifting her chin defiantly.
‘We have this in common,’ Santiago whispered.
‘He has barely been back to England since—once to claim the earldom after his father died, and once last year when Wellington returned home. He made no attempt to see me either time, and whenever I tried to find him I was rebuffed.’
Her eyelashes trembled. He wanted to take her in his arms for an entirely different reason now. To hug her close and tell her that such a father was not a man worth missing.
Not that such knowledge helped. He had told himself over and over that he owed his father nothing, that to stay in Sao Paulo and wait for him, to continue to follow him from country to country, to allow himself to be dragged down to his level would all be madness. That he owed nothing to the man who couldn’t even remember his name.
That had not helped the guilt when he did, eventually, board a ship bound for Manila and left his father behind for good.
‘But perhaps that is better,’ she said.
‘Better?’ That the man had missed out on knowing his extraordinary daughter?
‘Yes. Better than knowing him and being continually disappointed.’
‘Being disappointed? In… him?’ There was simply no way he could be disappointed in her.
Tiffany nodded. Her moonlit ringlets bounced.
Santiago shook his head. ‘How do you— You are the only person I know who understands any of this.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘I wish I did not.’
‘And your mother?’ he asked. From such a lack of information about her, he had to assume she had died.
Tiffany sucked in a sharp breath. ‘We don’t talk about her,’ she said.
‘But— Is she—?’
‘I have no idea,’ Tiffany said, and inhaled rather too raggedly for his liking. ‘I stopped asking a long time ago. I assume she is still living but I know nothing else. I am told I cannot know. What use is that to anyone?’
‘Tiffany…’ He wanted to take her into his arms. She looked so lost and alone—abandoned by her mother and her father, and left in the care of a sister-in-law who clearly saw her as a burden.
I don’t think you are a burden. I think you are extraordinary.
He watched her compose herself, patting at her hair and her cameo pendant, and bestowing upon him a bright smile that was almost convincing. ‘Perhaps we understand each other better than we realise,’ she said, and something tore within him.
Santiago shoved at his hair, but dammit, he was wearing a stupid hat. He took it off and ran his hand through his hair anyway.
‘I am a duke! But I have no idea how to be.’ The words spilled out of him. ‘My father not only failed to prepare me for this, he wanted me to fail. He refused to tell me a thing that would be useful. He wanted to destroy his father’s legacy by sending back a South American street rat to flail around and drag the family name down into the dirt.’
‘You are not a street rat,’ she said. ‘You are a successful trader! How many ships do you own?’
‘Thirty-one, but that is not the point—‘
‘Isn’t it? I know I said trade isn’t respected here but money is, and you appear to have made an awful lot of that.’
He put his hands on his hips, hat dangling from a finger. ‘I thought talking about money was vulgar.’
‘It is, but that’s not my point.’ She came closer and he couldn’t help breathing her in again. ‘Santiago, if you were a street rat and now you’re a successful businessman, then you’re clearly capable of making a success of yourself. Of improving yourself and becoming very impressive—’ She broke off.
‘You think I am impressive?’
In the darkness, he could see her white bosom rising and falling. Her eyes flashed with passion. Say yes. Say you think I am impressive.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
It would be so easy to kiss her right now. Sweep her into his arms, plunder her mouth, drag her to the nearest bench and have his wicked way with her. He wanted to, so badly it made him a little insane.
‘Mi amor,’ he breathed. He had never called anyone that before.
‘Tiffany!’
Both their heads whipped around at the loud whisper.
‘Tiffany! Your family is looking for you!’
Tiffany stepped back from him hurriedly, and ran her hands over her hair, her dress, her bosom, quite as if they had been kissing and she had to check she was in order.
He nearly stepped after her. Nearly.
‘Madhu?’ she called, and that woman stepped through the gap in the hedge.
She took them both in with a glance, nodded briskly, and said, ‘Come. You have been with me all evening. Good evening, Your Grace.’
She held out her arm for Tiffany to take, and she did, but not before she’d turned back to Santiago and said, ‘Good evening, Your Grace. I hope to see you at our house party.’ She pressed something into his hand.
It was her necklace.
And then she was gone, taking the witch light with her, and he was alone in the darkness.