“She’s no master manipulator.” Alex wrung out the sponge over Sirocco, then tested the temperature of the water running off the animal’s side. It was still slightly warm, so the beast needed further cooling.
“Greyland,” Ellingsworth said soberly, “I can see you’re troubled. Speaking of it might provide some relief.”
He stared pointedly at his friend. There was no sense in prevaricating, not when Ellingsworth proved both perceptive and determined. He needed to speak of Cassandra to someone, and Ellingsworth was here, waiting for him to unburden himself. “What I say to you can go no further than this stable.”
“I’m as silent as our equine friend here,” Ellingsworth said with a grin, then he grew more serious. “Truly, Greyland, I’ll say not a word to anyone. Not even Langdon, if you wish.”
“I do,” Alex said.
“Very well.” Ellingsworth’s brow creased with a rare display of concern for someone other than himself. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Is she making herself problematic? There isn’t . . . a child?”
Cold alarm shot through him. “God, no.” Though he wasn’t entirely certain. There was always a possibility. But Cassandra would have told him, had their one night together produced a babe. She might be proud, but she wouldn’t condemn a child to a life of poverty simply for the sake of her self-worth.
“She and I . . . became lovers,” he finally managed. “In Cheltenham. We went to bed together, and the next morning, she’d vanished. Until I saw her the other night at the gaming hell, I’d heard nothing from her for two years.”
Ellingsworth’s brows climbed in surprise. “Who is she?”
“A gentleman’s widow. Her husband’s cousin cheated her out of her widow’s portion. I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I tried to help, but to no avail. She has nothing and no one. She’s orphaned, and her sodding cousin ran to the Continent.” Simply stating these words aloud filled Alex with fury, that someone as decent and gentle as Cassandra would have been treated so abominably by a man who was supposed to help protect her.
“Thus the necessity of employment at the gaming hell,” his friend deduced. “Not the most suitable work for a respectable woman. Surely she’d accept you as her protector.”
“She isn’t that kind of woman,” Alex snapped.
Ellingsworth’s mouth was wry. “There is no that kind of woman, Greyland. Morality is a fragile, illusory thing that men invent to keep women tractable.”
Alex dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Suffice it to say, that path is not one she chooses to follow.”
“And yet . . . ?” Ellingsworth prompted.
“And yet . . .” Alex took the bucket and strode toward the pump in the courtyard. He pulled on the handle, and fresh, cold water poured from the spout. When the bucket was full, he brought it back to the horse and resumed his work.
“You went to her,” Ellingsworth exclaimed.
“I kissed her,” Alex admitted.
“Judging by the look on your face right now, it wasn’t very good.”
Alex opened his mouth to speak, but his friend cut him off.
Ellingsworth continued. “The kiss wasn’t very good—it was a thing of unequaled magnificence.”
Heat bloomed in Alex’s face. He wanted to deny it, but then nodded in acquiescence. Everywhere he was hot, even thinking about what it was like to taste Cassandra again. The desire between them was fiercer than before.
Ellingsworth clapped his hands. “Langdon owes me a hundred pounds!” He grinned. “He was convinced you’d simply walk away from the woman, but I had faith your blood wasn’t made of sleet.”
A flare of outrage blossomed, that his friends would actually bet on him. But he should expect no less from two rich, idle men.
“Take your hundred pounds and damn the both of you,” Alex muttered.
Ellingsworth raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, then lowered them. He peered closely at Alex. “There are no scratches on your face.”
“What of it?” Alex demanded.
“She must have enjoyed the kiss.”
“Was that another bet?”
Ellingsworth didn’t bother looking affronted. “For a man who kissed a beautiful woman, and she took pleasure in it, you’re terrifically choleric.”
“She did enjoy it.” He’d felt the way she’d opened for him, the tight press of her body against his, her frantic breath. He’d seen her passion-glazed eyes and swollen lips.
He struggled to push those images away. “But it matters not, because I can’t have her.”
His friend straightened. “Whyever not? You’re a duke—the Prime Minister hangs on your word. Dozens of noblemen will leap like jackrabbits to obey your command. Anything you want is yours.”
“That’s why I can’t have Mrs. Blair.” Alex tested the water coming off the horse again and was satisfied to find it cool. He wanted to dump the rest of the bucket over his own head—or maybe throw it at Ellingsworth.
Instead, he grabbed some drying cloths from a peg and wiped down the animal. “A genteel widow with nothing to her name. No possessions. No family. She’s at the mercy of the world.” His jaw tightened. “All the power belongs to me. I could ruin her with my attention.”
“What if,” Ellingsworth posited, “your attention was more honorable. Take her as your mistress.”
Alex straightened. His hands clenched into fists. “What?”
Ellingsworth appeared to warm to the idea. “You can remain lovers. Have new kisses of unequaled magnificence—and more. And you’d keep her generously supported. A house of her own, jewels, servants, a carriage. Women love carriages,” he added confidingly. “More than jewels.”
It took every measure of Alex’s control to keep from punching his friend. “How the hell can you suggest that?”
Ellingsworth held out his hands as if even discussing the topic was ridiculous. “Lady Emmeline is an earl’s daughter. Who is Mrs. Blair’s father?”
Alex struggled to recall, but his mind came up with nothing but haze. “Can’t remember. Some landed gentleman who must have been the son of a baronet. I’m not certain.”
“Exactly my point,” his friend said, aiming his finger at Alex. “She was working in a gaming hell, for the love of Christ. It’s not as though she has outstanding prospects. Becoming your mistress would be an advancement for her.”
Alex tossed down the cloth he held and strode over to Ellingsworth. He gripped his friend’s neckcloth in a vise and gave him a shake.
“Don’t ever insult Mrs. Blair again,” Alex said through gritted teeth.
Ellingsworth’s eyes were round with shock. “It’s not an insult,” he managed to gasp. “It’s realism.”
“She’d never sell herself that way.”
His friend struggled to pry Alex’s fingers from the silk around his neck. “Have a care. My valet will pillory me if I return to him with a destroyed neckcloth.”
Alex released Ellingsworth with a shove. The younger man stumbled back before regaining his balance.
“Women have few ways of making their way in this awful world,” Ellingsworth said, trying to smooth out the mass of wrinkles at his throat.