Of Silk and Steam
Page 92

Her heart swelled a little in her chest and she rested her hands on his, still shy enough that she was grateful for the darkness. “I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.” This time she nipped his lip playfully, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him against her.
“Again,” he growled.
“Leo!” She slapped his chest and he laughed, then leaned down to plant a toe-curling kiss on her passion-bruised mouth.
“You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.” A kiss against her cheek now, breathing the words into her ear. “But now…”
“Now?”
“We’d best be getting back. Or Blade will be taking all of the credit for this, no doubt.”
Twenty-nine
Three days later…
Leo paced through the study, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited. The clock ticked steadily in the stuffy silence of the room, and an enormous tiger’s head mounted on the wall stared back at him through button eyes. Someone had half drawn the heavy velvet drapes, so that the room seemed even smaller, and he had to avoid several ornate mahogany chairs with their studded red leather seats. The chessboard was set out between two stuffed armchairs, the game frozen in motion, as if merely waiting for its players to return.
He avoided the chess game for a good quarter hour, then stopped in front of it. He’d been in check last he looked, but someone had moved one of his pawns, as if trying to draw out the game.
Devil take him, the bastard was actually withdrawing, offering him a chance to pursue this. Leo frowned, his fingers itching toward his own black knight. He could see the strategy behind it, see how in eight moves he could get himself out of trouble if he did something now.
Except he never had any intention of making that move. He was done with the game and what it represented. Caine could sit here and rot, staring at that chessboard and waiting for him to return so that they could finally resume play. A wait in vain. The only reason he was here was because the queen had requested it of him.
Lips thinning, he turned away, flipping the drapes open to let some bloody light into the room.
The door opened behind him. Leo didn’t turn, but he could feel that cool, rational gaze burning over the back of his neck.
“Havers said you had called,” Caine said. “Imagine my surprise.”
“I’m only here to deliver a message,” Leo replied.
A harsh laugh. “Of course. What is it?”
He tugged the envelope from within his coat. “How should I bloody know? The queen asked me to deliver it personally.”
Caine broke the seal and read it. “I’m to be reinstated as a councilor. Along with…” His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
“Mina, Lynch, Malloryn, Rosalind Lynch, Sir Gideon Scott…and the Devil of Whitechapel,” Leo added with a nasty smile. “Her Highness feels that more classes require representation on the Council.” He bowed. “Now if you’ll excuse me?”
“Is that all you came to say?”
Leo paused. “By the way, I’m getting married. You’re not invited.” With those parting words, he strode toward the door.
“Wait.”
Caine’s demand echoed through the room. Leo ignored it, his fingertips turning on the brass door handle.
“Damn you, wait!”
Leo arched a brow as if to tell the duke to hurry up.
“I have something for you…and for your fiancée.”
Of all the things he’d expected, this was not it. Caine crossed toward the polished walnut writing desk in the corner, hunting through it with an unusual lack of aplomb. He scattered papers and pieces of parchment until he came up with a leather-bound journal. Dusting it off, Caine peered at the cover for a long moment. Not a single change occurred in his expression but Leo wondered what the devil the book was. The gravity with which Caine beheld it…
With a faint sigh, Caine stood, opening the journal to remove a faded photograph. He offered it to Leo.
A young woman stared out at the viewer with wide, luminous eyes, the faintest of smiles curling the edge of her full mouth. A monstrous hat, smothered in ostrich feathers, dominated the picture, but Leo could see that she was pretty, and that the edges of the picture had been handled often enough to show signs of wear. Something cherished then, perhaps.
“For you,” Caine said bluntly. “It’s of your mother.”
Leo’s gaze jerked to his. “My—” Mother. He hadn’t even recognized her. A heavy feeling settled in his chest.
Words were written on the back of it.
For Marguerite… Here’s to more stolen waltzes, skating in the park, and lemon-flavored ices.
Your friend and admirer, Corbet Duvall
“The Duke of Casavian was courting my mother?”
Faint contempt flickered in the hooded depths of Caine’s eyes. “He wasn’t a duke then, just a fool freshly up from Oxford. I won her.”
Of course he did. Caine rarely failed whenever he set his mind to something. Leo’s jaw locked. Was this what had sent the Great Houses of Caine and Casavian into their deadly feud over the years?
“I am not a good man, nor a kindly one. I am what my father made me, as I have tried to make you. A duke. A man of power. Marguerite…for a brief moment in my life, she made of me something else. She made me happy. And when she was gone, so was her light in my life, and all I had left was you.
“It took me a long time to be able to look at you and not see what I had done.” The duke toyed with his sleeve. “I know you think I despised her, but the truth is…” His voice roughened. “I shall never forgive myself for what I did to my Marguerite. The doctors said afterward that she wasn’t built to accommodate children. I should have left well enough alone.”
No. Caine wasn’t going to do this to him. Leo steeled himself. “Who wrote that pretty speech?”
To give him his due, the duke didn’t try to lie. “Madeline. She seemed to think…” He sighed, then added stiffly, “The sentiment was mine. The words…”
Hers. “You should take care of her. She may be all that you have left someday.”
“Leo—”
“Why did you never let me speak her name? Or show me her photographs?” The sleep deprivation, the strict discipline and harsh training as a child…he thought he understood that now, but the rest…