Addicted to the Duke (Imperfect Lords #1)(7)

Fear stabbed his gut like a pitchfork through hay. “You are in mourning. Who has died?”

He was rewarded with one of her special smiles. A smile that lit up the world and hugged everyone in its presence. His soul warmed simply from being in her presence.

The fortress around his heart always took a hammering at the sound of her laughter and warm smile. She hid nothing of herself. She was open, brave, and giving, all the things he was not. She was perfect. And he hated perfection.

He was sinfully imperfect, but he hid behind his physical image of the handsome, honorable, wealthy duke, but it was all lies. No one really saw his dark depths or knew his sinister vices.

Since his captivity by Murad, his life had been a constant battle, with himself and his own driving needs. He had two great vices in his life: women and opium. Only one of these was entirely under his control: women. Although he no longer craved the opium pipe, he knew if given the chance he’d pick it up faster than a beggar boy finding a gold coin.

His body craved the comfort both provided, a way to forget his dark past and the demons haunting his nights. Over the past few years, in an attempt to break his opiate habit, he’d used his looks, charm, and fortune to bed countless women, to sink and lose himself between soft thighs, to feed off their warmth, until the chill in his heart melted, if by only a fraction. He was a master of managing, seducing, enjoying, and ultimately disengaging from the well-born matrons with whom he habitually dallied.

He should not be craving the woman standing looking so vulnerable and beautiful before him. What was wrong with him?

Still, he hated to see her like this. Her hands trembled in his and he wished he could pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be fine, but he had no idea what trouble she was in.

They stood staring at each other until Aunt Eliza gave a quiet cough and said, “Come, you two, sit. Hestia, could you ring for tea, please, and I’m sure His Grace can see to pouring himself a brandy from the sideboard.”

Alex reluctantly let go of her hands so she could make for the bell to order tea. To his surprise, like a parched man at a fresh spring, his eyes followed her every sway, every step, drunk with her beauty. He let her ethereal spirit calm his soul.

Hestia might look waiflike, but he had witnessed her strength and courage. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable and watched her defy her rapist.

Her beauty drew many an eye, the long golden tresses, the sea-blue sparkle of her eyes, the lusciousness of her lips and her body. She was built for a man’s interest, all curves and full body. Yet it was the warm heart and goodness that attracted him more while proving she was not for him.

He had a blackened soul.

Once seated with drink in hand, he waited for Hestia to speak. He had spent a fair amount of time in this room over the years, yet nothing in this room had changed. He’d not stepped into the earl’s house since the fateful night Hestia’s father had made him promise to discourage her in every way. Alex had been surprised that the earl would think he would encourage a young woman like that. It did not take anything to agree to his vow.

He would never offer for Hestia.

Fine with him. He was never going to offer for any woman. He had nothing but disappointment to give them.

He looked between the two women. “What is this all about, Hestia?” he asked. “You are both in mourning and it’s starting to worry me.”

To his horror, Aunt Eliza’s eyes welled with tears and a dainty white handkerchief appeared. He sat forward in his chair and looked at Hestia expectantly.

“My father has been declared dead.”

He almost dropped his glass. “Why have I not heard? I saw no announcement in the paper.” The earl had saved his life by helping to free him from Murad’s clutches. He respected the man for some things, but not for leaving Hestia to be brought up alone.

He asked, “How, why, where?”

Hestia stopped him by saying, “He’s not dead. I said he has been declared dead.”

“Don’t be disingenuous, dear. Tell His Grace the story properly. Start at the beginning.”

He nodded in Lady Eliza’s direction, somewhat puzzled at her acceptance of him being in this house since she had usually given him a cool reception. Alex was sure she knew of the earl’s dictate, maybe even some of his sordid past. Lady Eliza had been Hestia’s chaperon since her mother died when Hestia was eight. Why was she now so insistent in allowing this discourse?

“Have you heard of our distant relative Fredrick Cary?”

He gave a puzzled nod. “Yes, he is your father’s second cousin.” He was not about to inform them that he knew the man well. Fredrick had been known to frequent the same soirees as Alex: opium parties at particular houses in London’s East End.

“He is Father’s heir. My father is an only child, and he has only me. So his second cousin Fredrick will inherit the title and the estate.”

The thought astounded Alex, as he did not consider Fredrick a good man. It seemed doubly ironic that the earl had forbade Hestia a match with him, when an even bigger despot would be his heir.

“But you just said your father is not dead.”

She blinked back tears and her aunt sighed. “I believe Fredrick is sick of waiting for my brother’s estate. Did you know Fredrick claims to have been to the Mediterranean recently?”

“His ship goes there regularly, to trade,” he confirmed. Fredrick was one of the biggest suppliers of Turkish opium to England. He wasn’t about to admit how he knew that piece of information. It was not often that Fredrick sailed with the ship. He preferred to pay a crew.