Alex hauled his grandmother and Miss Lacey away from the blast as fast as he could. Darby dragged Wiltmore and his other niece behind them. When everyone in the group emerged from the cloud of smoke, Alex checked each of them to make sure no sparks from the explosion had landed on their clothes.
Damn, but he hated fires.
His heart pounded out of his chest, his nostrils burned, and the boom still echoed in his ears. It was just like his nightmares—where he was a boy, unable to breathe, clinging to his father while flames licked his neck and singed his flesh.
“What on earth happened?” his grandmother asked meekly.
“One of the rockets must have misfired,” he said. “Is everyone all right?”
The ladies and Wiltmore answered in the affirmative. Darby nodded. “None the worse for wear.”
“You have some embers on the back of your jacket, your grace,” Miss Lacey said, frowning.
She pressed her closed parasol firmly against one of his shoulder blades and a spot on his side.
“There,” she said, brushing ash off his sleeve. “The sparks are out, but I fear your jacket may be ruined.”
He didn’t give a damn about his jacket. “Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” Darby said. “The hedges took the worst of it, and they were still damp from the storm. If they’d been dry, the whole garden might have turned into a tinderbox. We’re fortunate.”
Alex arched a brow. It didn’t feel like luck was on his side tonight.
And yet, above them the fireworks display continued. The acrobat walked on her tightrope.
Meanwhile, he still tried to tamp down the panic that had flooded his veins.
Miss Lacey placed a hand on his arm and spoke softly in his ear. “Shall I tell the duchess it’s time to leave? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind missing the end of the show, and we’ve certainly had our share of excitement for one night.”
Alex wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of that place, away from the whizzing rockets and deafening explosions and suffocating smoke. But the sight of Miss Lacey’s pink cheeks and sparkling eyes had him shaking his head. She was obviously dazzled by the tightrope walker and the fireworks display, and if he was honest with himself … he was a little dazzled by her.
“No. It will be over soon. Enjoy the show. We’ll leave immediately after.” And within the hour, he’d be in his study with a glass of brandy—or three—in a futile attempt to ward off the terrifying dreams that would plague him tonight.
Miss Lacey shot him an assessing glance, and her pretty eyes narrowed with concern. As though she knew.
He pretended to turn his attention to the tightrope walker, but in actuality, he was doing two things: periodically checking the hedges in case a few remaining sparks caused them to burst into flames and planning an escape route for his party in case another rogue rocket should suddenly hurtle their way.
Miss Lacey stood close—as though she wished to keep an eye on him. Completely unnecessary, of course. But nice. Her mere presence caused his demons to retreat—for a while, at least.
He reached for the folded parasol she held and inspected it, frowning at the broken spokes and burnt silk. “I don’t know why you haven’t disposed of this by now—it’s beyond ruined. Order a new one and bill it to me.”
“I intend to keep this one. I rather like the black spots and its jaunty angle when it’s opened.” She took it back, pointed the tip at his side, and arched a brow. “And it still could be of use—as a weapon, of course.”
“Touché.” He closed his fist around the top of the parasol while she held the handle, initiating a mock tug-of-war. And when their gazes locked, the air between them crackled.
For the space of several heartbeats, neither of them moved. Then they heard a woman behind them whisper loudly—as though she’d had too much wine. “Seems the Duke of Blackshire has a new paramour.”
“I’m not certain whether we should offer her our congratulations or condolences. He can’t be content with one miss for long,” her companion replied.
On the opposite end of the parasol from him, Miss Lacey’s smile faded a tad.
“Who is she?” asked the first woman.
“I’m not certain, but I believe I saw Lord Wiltmore with their party, which means she must be…”
“… one of the Wilting Wallflowers? With the duke? One can only surmise he lost a wager.”
“Or perhaps someone dared him to flirt with her.” An unladylike hiccup escaped her, and both women fell into fits of laughter.
But all the sparkle was gone from Miss Lacey’s eyes … and it gutted him. She released the parasol and looked away.
“Pay no attention to them,” he said to her. “They’re foolish and drunk.”
“I know,” she said, despondent. “But they’re simply saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Would you like me to speak to them? I will, if it would make you feel better.”
“No. It would only create more of a scene.”
God, he felt helpless. She’d comforted him earlier, and he could think of nothing to say. “Would you like to leave? I’ll gather everyone so we can go.”
“No. Do not worry about my feelings. I’m used to the insults. I’m just relieved that Julie and Uncle Alistair didn’t hear them.”
Damn. He felt like the villain in a bad play. He’d carelessly labeled her and her sisters the Wilting Wallflowers before he even knew them. And now he was catching a firsthand glimpse of the suffering those thoughtless words had caused her. How could he have been so callous?
“I know what it’s like to be the subject of gossip,” he said. It was true. Not the gossip, but the fact that he was the subject of it. “The best course is to pretend like you don’t care.”
“You probably don’t even have to pretend.”
If she only knew. “You might be right. Or maybe I’ve just become very good at pretending.”
She sighed forlornly. “I suppose it’s been a trying evening for both of us.”
“It hasn’t been a complete loss.” Impulsively, he reached for her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and gave a little squeeze.
She blinked in surprise and looked up at him.
He held his breath, wondering if she’d pull away. Hoping she wouldn’t.
Because holding her hand was the best part of his whole damned day. Hell, it might be the best part of his year.
* * *
Beth didn’t pull away, even though she should have. A few seconds ago, she’d felt sad and miserable and angry about a stranger’s snide remarks. Now, all she could think about was the warm pressure of the duke’s hand and how her whole body tingled from that simple touch.
Of course, she was just providing more fodder for nasty gossip, but she wasn’t sure she cared. Their hands were mostly hidden by her skirts. The duke brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, sending delicious shivers up her arm and making her pulse race.
Perhaps he wasn’t as cold-hearted as she’d thought. He seemed truly sympathetic, and he certainly had nothing to gain by comforting her. It wasn’t as though he was interested in her in a romantic sense … or was he?
Impossible. Just yesterday, he’d seemed to detest her.
When she’d recovered her senses sufficiently to speak, she attempted to change the direction of the conversation. “This night did not go as smoothly as I’d hoped, but I feel certain that the duchess’s next two wishes can be accomplished with less drama, your grace.”
He winced at her use of formal address. “You should call me Alex.”
“No, I shouldn’t.” She could hardly imagine it.
“And I should address you as Elizabeth.”
“What’s wrong with Miss Lacey?” she asked.
“Nothing’s wrong with your surname. It’s perfectly fine.”
“I’m glad you approve,” she said dryly.
“I shall use it when we’re in the company of others,” he said, “but when we’re alone … I like Elizabeth.”
“My sisters call me Beth. So did my parents, when they were alive.” She wasn’t quite sure why she’d shared that fact.
“Fine, then I shall call you Beth too.”
Oh, but he was good—making it seem like he was accommodating her wishes. Still, she couldn’t allow it. “I don’t think that would be wise. I’m practically a member of your staff.”
“No,” he countered. “You don’t work for me.”
He was correct, if one discounted the deal they’d made. But there was no sense in splitting hairs. After all, once he’d succeeded in sending his grandmother away, Beth was unlikely to see him again.
And the truth was that she found it difficult to argue with him as long as he caressed the back of her hand like he was … flirting.
“Fine. Address me however you like.” God help her, she was weak.
He grinned like he’d won big at the gaming tables. “Thank you … Beth.”
She attempted a cool nod, as though she were quite accustomed to having handsome gentlemen hold her hand and whisper her given name under a sky lit with fireworks. “You made your grandmother happy tonight,” she said. “I thank you for that.”
“She does seem happy,” he agreed. “But I find myself curious. Are you happy?”
Beth blinked. She’d never really stopped to consider the question. In the years after her parents’ coach had careened off an icy bridge and left her and her sisters orphans, she’d been busy simply trying to survive. But then her sister Meg had fallen in love and married an earl, and they no longer had to worry about money. Meg was certainly happy, and Beth was happy for her. But she suspected the duke was asking her something altogether different.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “It seems that I am always worried about something.” It was true. From the time she was a girl, she’d worried about everything from scarlet fever, to catastrophic storms, to the once-very-real possibility that she and her little family would land in the poorhouse. Beth had always had a knack for spotting potential trouble and latching onto it until the threat was resolved. How else was she supposed to protect her sisters and her uncle?
“What are you worried about right now?” He looked at her earnestly, as though her answer mattered very much.
She thought about the stormy boat ride, Roscoe’s threats, the nearby explosion, and the gossipers’ barbs. Maybe it was the duke’s solid presence or his deep voice, or the pressure of his calloused thumb on her hand, but all of those worries melted away and she simply existed in the moment. The evening air kissed her skin, a light breeze tickled the curls at her nape, and the fireworks lent everything around her a magical glow.
“Nothing.” She let out the breath she’d been holding and smiled. “For once, I’m not worried about anything.”
She closed her eyes and breathed, feeling light and free.
The boom and crack of several rockets fired in quick succession startled her; the spectators applauded and cheered.
“The show is over,” the duke murmured.
He released her hand, and the crowd around them grew restless. The malicious whispers behind her grew louder. A group of revelers near the hedge grew rowdy. Uncle Alistair looked confused and began to wander.
Beth sighed. The magic, it seemed, had fled.