Chapter Twelve

L unch was utterly interminable.

Jess had never realized until that afternoon how torturous tea could be. Or how perfect a scone would be to hurl across the room as a projectile.

Even now, as she determinedly kept her gaze firmly focused on her plate and its little sandwiches and cakes she hadn’t touched at all, she could feel Lucien’s eyes on her from across the room. It had been like this for the past hour. Whenever she did accidentally glance in his direction, she met that scoundrel’s gaze, and the smile he gave her only frustrated her more. Because she knew his smiles weren’t for her. They were for the audience of ladies sitting around them, who made no attempt to hide their gawking curiosity about the true nature of Lucien and Jess’s acquaintance.

With a heaving sigh, she pushed her plate away. She couldn’t bring herself to eat a bite.

Lucien, meanwhile, seemed to have a voracious appetite. He was either so famished that he couldn’t resist a third plate of the miniature cakes, tiny sandwiches, and citrus biscuits—or he was attempting to use food as a way to avoid Lady Holkham’s chitter-chatter. The woman hadn’t stopped talking since he joined her at her table, but then, how often did Lady Holkham have the ear of a duke, an ear she was currently talking off?

Jess smiled in petty revenge. The blasted man deserved every boring minute of it, too.

Yet due to an accident of table arrangement—and the cruel humor of fate—Jess and Lucien faced each other across the room. She spent the lunch ignoring him, while he used the time to stir up trouble by sending her flirtatious glances.

Her gaze wandered across the room to him.

His eyes met hers, and an amused smile curled at his lips. But this time, that devil didn’t stop with merely a smile. This time he lifted his teacup to her in a toast. And winked.

Jess glanced away, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. Good lord , he’d winked! Every woman in the room saw it, too. Or at least it seemed that way from the titillated whispers that passed between the ladies at the possibility of the rumors being true, that the most notorious rakehell in Mayfair had been domesticated.

Jess knew better.

“He won’t stop looking until you stare him down,” Viscountess Bromley muttered to Jess from her chair beside hers at the table. The woman stared blatantly across the room at Lucien, going so far as to lift her lorgnette for a better view. “Your determination to ignore him only encourages him to continue. To make it worse, in fact.” She arched a brow and mused, “If they didn’t have to shave, I would believe that men stop maturing completely at age twelve. They simply replace rocking horses with racing horses and toy soldiers with real ones.”

Jess stifled a laugh, only for her amusement to fade beneath the reality of her situation. “I can’t stare him down,” she admitted in the same low mutter as the viscountess. “He’s a duke.”

“Which means he deserves it more than anyone else. Besides, I would love to see Crewe bested. It would entertain me for days!”

Jess didn’t know Viscountess Bromley very well, but the woman’s unconventional reputation had always preceded her. Flamboyant, outgoing, and not at all passive in any way, Lady Bromley had reached that special point in life when she could do or say pretty much whatever she wanted, and all of it was simply chalked up to eccentricity.

“Tell me, my dear.” Lady Bromley leaned closer to Jess. “Is there any truth to what the gossip pages are reporting about you and Crewe?”

She prayed her cheeks didn’t look as heated as they felt. “He’s a rake!”

“So no truth to it, then?”

“Absolutely not!”

But the critical look that Lady Bromley gave her told Jess the woman didn’t believe her. Not at all.

“Hmm.”

So did that.

Jess was forced to admit the awful truth. “What would a man like him want with a woman like me?” Her heart tore just a bit as she explained, “I’m not at all his sort. I’m middle-class and proper.” Then she had no choice but to add, “Even if he seems to be turning a new leaf toward goodness and being charitable.”

“Turning a new leaf, is he?” Lady Bromley reached for the teapot and refreshed her cup. Then she mused, half to herself, “Lord Bromley was an odd one. Liked to collect all kinds of exotic things and put them on display in our house. Gave him and his chums something to talk about, I suppose, after dinner when the ladies had gone through to the drawing room and they were left to their port and cigars.” As she told the story, completely apropos of nothing as far as Jess could tell, she slowly stirred in a drizzle of honey. “One of this favorites was an old leopard skin he’d picked up at the docks, most likely from some sea captain with a route to Africa.” She splashed in a bit of milk. “For twenty years, that skin lay on the floor in front of the fireplace in Bromley’s study. Twenty years.” She slid a knowing look at Jess over the rim of her teacup as she raised it to her lips. “And not once, in all those years, did its spots ever change.”

The warning was not lost on Jess, yet she pointed out the obvious. “That leopard was dead.”

“So are the hearts of most peers.” She punctuated the moral of her story with a long, loud sip of tepid tea.

Jess dropped her gaze to her untouched plate, her mind swirling and her heart aching, although she wasn’t exactly certain what it was aching for. She paid little attention as Lady Holkham stood to call an end to the tea, thanked everyone for supporting the charity for which she was a patron, and invited them to linger by strolling around the house and gardens. The footmen opened the French doors leading out into the gardens, and the harpist who had played during lunch wheeled her large harp out onto the terrace.

New excitement rose through the room. The ladies’ curiosity to poke about in Lady Holkham’s flowers could barely be contained.

At least now Jess could make her quiet goodbyes and slip away for home. Not a moment too soon, either.

“Don’t look now, my dear,” Lady Bromley murmured, “but a dead leopard is headed straight for you.”

Jess’s gaze darted up just in time to see Lucien arrive in front of her table.

“Hello, Miss St Claire.” His velvety voice tingled down her spine and made her catch her breath. Goodness, he was handsome, even as irritating and infuriating as he was. “I trust you had a pleasant tea.”

She clenched her teeth and forced out, “Simply delightful.”

He gave a low chuckle, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Glad to hear it.” He inclined his head toward the viscountess. “Lady Bromley, so good to see you again. I hope you’ve been well.”

“Very well. How kind of you to say, Duke.” Lady Bromley’s lips curled like the cat who’d gotten into the cream as she rose from her chair, then waved at someone on the other side of the room in greeting. “Agnes—there you are!”

Jess craned her neck but saw no one waving back.

“Lady Agnes needs to speak with me,” the viscountess said, although Jess couldn’t see Lady Agnes Sinclair anywhere in the room. If she were even in attendance at all. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She darted away before Jess could stop her.

Lucien’s amusement only grew. So did Jess’s irritation.

He held out his hand. “Take a turn about the garden with me.”

“No.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and his amusement faded when he saw Lady Holkham winding her way through the tables toward him, slowed in her hunt only by women who wanted to chat with her. “If we don’t go soon, we’ll both be stuck conversing with Lady Holkham.”

“I don’t mind her ladyship.” She cocked her head and leveled a blistering glare at him. “And you deserve to be trapped into a conversation about hats and muslin prints.”

He circled the table to stand behind her and leaned over her shoulder to speak in a low voice so the nearby women couldn’t overhear. “But a turn about the garden fits into your plan. What better way to attack my black reputation than by letting me spend time with a wholly respectable, proper miss like you?”

“And ruin mine?” she returned in the same low tone. “Every lady here already wonders if the rumor of our engagement is true.”

“Then come with me. We’ll talk, and when we’re done walking through the garden, I’ll announce that the rumors are completely unfounded and take my leave.”

Lady Holkham was rapidly approaching.

“If you don’t,” he warned in a low voice, “then I’ll continue to press the rumor that we’re engaged until you leave me standing alone at the altar, the wounded hero undone by love.” He leaned down to confide, “I might prefer that, actually. Just think of all the women who will be lining up to heal my shattered heart.”

“You’re an absolute beast,” she ground out.

“Yes, I am, and best you remember that.” Punctuating his warning, he straightened away from her and held out his hand again. “Now take a walk with me through the garden. Please. ”

He was right, drat it. He wouldn’t leave her alone without causing a scene, and any attempt she made to brush him off would only remind everyone of his rakish reputation.

“If I have no choice.” She haughtily sniffed and rose from her chair.

The blasted devil sent her a victorious smile as he put her hand on his arm and led her toward the French doors and the garden beyond—and swiftly away from Lady Holkham.

At least the day was beautiful, Jess decided, as he guided her down the terrace steps and into a garden filled with late summer flowers. The other ladies had also paired up and were strolling arm and arm along the paths winding around miniature plantations, a walled rose garden, various arbors, and a fountain in the shape of a pineapple. But even the surrounding beauty couldn’t tamp down the fury churning in her chest.

As soon as they were far enough away from the other guests not to be overheard, she snapped out, “How dare you! To have such rubbish published in that gossip rag, then show up here—”

“You left me no choice. If I’d called on you at your home two days in a row, everyone truly would believe we had an understanding. This way, we can claim it’s nothing but a spurious rumor.”

Biting sarcasm dripped from her voice. “How very gentlemanly of you.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“So very desperate, then, are you?” She glanced up at his profile and saw his jaw tighten. “Good to know my plan to reform you is working.”

“Is that why you hired an investigator to pry into my past?”

Her heart stuttered, but she refused to be cowed. “Is that why you spread that rumor about us being engaged?”

“No, that was simple blackmail,” he answered and led her toward the deserted back corner of the garden, far from anyone who could overhear. “I’ll stop ruining your good reputation if you stop ruining my bad one, including calling off that dog of an investigator you’ve hired to dig up information about me.”

The accusation in his voice inexplicably stung. She hadn’t done anything out of malice. “I did it for Amanda. I need to protect my sister.”

“You need to leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that. Not until her situation is resolved.”

He stopped at the end of the path and turned to face her. “Then the war—and our engagement—continues.”

Exasperating devil! She drew her hands into tiny fists at her sides. “Everyone knows I would never marry a man like you.”

He froze for a moment, then glanced away, over her shoulder and down the meandering path toward the house. “Is the thought of being married to me really that abhorrent?”

“Yes.”

The corners of his lips curled. He knew she’d just lied to him. Blast him!

“My feelings about you have no bearing whatsoever on—”

“Under here.” He lifted the long strands of willow branches that dangled like an impenetrable curtain around the tree at the end of the path. “Quickly.” His smile turned into a grimace. “Lady Holkham is on the hunt for us.”

A glance back toward the house told her he wasn’t lying. Lady Holkham was on her way into the garden, most likely looking for Lucien. Taking pity on him—although only God knew why—Jess ducked beneath the willow’s branches, followed quickly by Lucien, who then dropped the branches into place and shut out the rest of the party.

And the world, too, it seemed.

The dappled afternoon light barely penetrated the thick layers of sweet-smelling branches arching over them, and all noise of the party faded away. A roughly hewn bench fashioned from an old crate sat by the tree trunk. It was most likely put there by one of the gardeners Lord Holkham employed to make his wife’s garden one of the best in London or by house servants who needed a place to gather away from prying eyes in the kitchens. Lady Holkham surely was clearly not aware it was there. She would never have allowed such a common accessory in her garden. No, she would have insisted it be gilded and decorated with peacock feathers.

“If we’re caught together,” Jess asked, crossing her arms in chastisement, “do I get to slap you again?”

“That depends.” Lucien sat on the end of the crate and kicked out his long legs, settling in to wait for Lady Holkham to abandon her search and return to her other guests. “Do I get to kiss you the same way I did before?”

In the dappled shadows, he couldn’t see the flush racing across her cheeks. Thank goodness.

She wisely ignored his baiting. The quickest way to extract herself from this current mess was to drive ahead, so… “I hired Mr. Stevenson weeks ago,” she explained. “I needed to learn exactly what kind of man you are in order to find a way to convince you to marry my sister.”

“Force me, you mean.”

“If that’s what it takes.” She’d always been determined to see this through to the end, yet now she found herself plagued by niggling doubts. But she would never admit to those. “You would have done the same to size up an enemy.”

His eyes narrowed on her for a moment. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re right, I would have.” He leaned back against the tree trunk behind him. “So tell me…what torturous display of my non-existent benevolence have you planned on unleashing upon me next?”

Guilt pricked her as she remembered the pamphlets she’d ordered, yet she feigned innocence. “What makes you think I have any plans?”

He silently arched a brow.

“Oh, all right.” She heaved out a breath as she sat beside him on the crate and admitted, “I ordered a set of reformist pamphlets in your name to hand out in Westminster.”

“Which pamphlet?”

She bit her bottom lip and fixed her attention on the tip of her shoe just sticking out from beneath her hem. “ The Washerwoman of Finchley Common by Lady Hornblower.”

“ The Washerwoman …” His voice trailed off in stunned disbelief and ended with a long blink.

“It’s a wonderfully enlightening tract,” she rushed out the justification, “filled with all the benefits of living a pious and austere life and of the virtues of abstinence from vice.”

“Abstinence from vice?” he repeated, deadpan. “Funded by me ?”

She vigorously nodded her head, not daring to look up. My! Her shoe needed a new bow on its toe. “You can be quite generous when it comes to matters of reform for working-class women.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that,” he drawled. Then he pressed suspiciously. “And what else? Why do I suspect you wouldn’t have stopped with a mere pamphlet?”

She twisted her toe into the ground. “And perhaps I’d planned to tell Lady Hornblower that you wanted to…give her a large donation to fund her reform work…if she dedicated her next tract to you.”

He fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed, a belly laugh so great that the branches stirred around them. He grabbed himself around the waist and nearly fell off the crate.

Jess scowled in consternation. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, yes it is!” He gasped to catch back his breath. “Lady Hornblower’s tracts dedicated to me? Good Lord! You really are a merciless chit, aren’t you?”

Her mouth fell open. “I don’t think—”

“The French were less devious at Waterloo,” he forced out between breaths.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she repeated back his earlier words and tried for a haughty sniff.

Instead, it emerged as a bubble of laughter, and her hand flew to her lips to stifle it. It was no use—she couldn’t help but laugh along with him. Oh, they were certainly a pair!

As their laughter died away and the current animosity between them faded, he nudged her with his shoulder. “Would you have really done that to me?”

She smiled with a tinge of embarrassment and looked away, giving him his answer. Then she said, “Well, at least I don’t have to do any of that now. I’ve declared a temporary truce.” She paused before confessing, “I’ve written letters to Amanda, asking for the complete truth—not that I believe my sister is lying, mind you.” Not exactly . More like not telling the full truth. “I should hear back within the fortnight.”

“Then you’ll know I’m not lying to you.”

“Or that she’s not.”

He shook his head at her obstinacy and once again kicked out his long legs. And once again, Jess became aware of how large his presence was in this small space of the secret bower around them, how the masculine scent of him mixed with the earthy scents of the garden and enveloped her like a morning fog. A delicious fog.

“It isn’t your responsibility to fix this situation for your sister,” he said quietly, suddenly serious.

“Yes, it is.” Jess broke off one of the small branches overhead. “We don’t have any male relatives to defend us.” She laid it on her lap and stripped off one of the small leaves. “Our father left us several years ago. He was never the same after Mama passed away.” Then she tried to lighten the conversation by turning it back on him. “As you know, some men aren’t meant for domesticity and children.”

She didn’t glance up from the twig as she tore off another leaf, but she could feel his curious gaze on her.

“What did you do to survive?”

She shrugged away his concern. “We made do.”

“Jessamyn.” He took her chin and gently turned her head to look at him. His solemn expression told her he’d brook no dissembling.

“Thanks to Auntie, we weren’t destitute by any means and still firmly ensconced in the middle-class.”

“I didn’t mean finances.”

No, he didn’t. She could see that. In the dappled sunlight, only concern showed on his face, but how far could she trust him? “Do you really care about the plight of half-grown children?”

“More than anyone would believe,” he murmured and softly stroked his thumb along her jaw. “What did you do?”

She closed her eyes beneath the unexpected comfort of his gentle touch. “Aunt Matilda had come to live with us when Mama died, when we were only ten and eight. She had inherited a bit of money from her late brother—not much, but enough to lease a decent house for us, pay for school, and keep us in fashionable clothes. Papa didn’t really care what we did as long as we didn’t cause problems.” Or complain about his drunkenness and wastrel’s existence, or demand anything at all from him except to be left alone. In that, he was exemplary.

“Your father didn’t remarry to give you a new mother?”

“There was no point.” Nor was there a woman in her right mind who would have taken him for a husband. “We had Auntie, and we had each other.”

“But he left.” Lucien’s voice was a soft as the warm summer air tickling at her bare arms and neck. “Why?”

Because I criticized him and drove him away… But she would never tell him that. Instead, she dissembled, “A spinster aunt and two opinionated daughters freshly out of the schoolroom with sharp tongues and a desperation to find their places in the world, his eldest possessing too much fire for his comfort…” She opened her eyes and gazed up at him, then came as close to admitting the truth as she dared. “What man wouldn’t want to leave a household like that?”

“A damn fool.”

His concern for her nearly undid her. So did the way he cupped her cheek with his large palm and gently tilted up her face as his gaze dropped to her mouth.

“I like your fire, Jessamyn,” he murmured and rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. “It doesn’t drive me away. It only intrigues me more.”

She held her breath even as her heart jumped into her throat. He was going to kiss her again, she knew, and this time, it wouldn’t be one of those fluttery almost-kisses which were all he’d dared to take on the terrace. This time, there was no one to see them beneath the willow tree, and she knew he planned on taking the kinds of kisses they’d been denied before. Electric tingles of anticipation and apprehension battled as they raced down her spine, and she trembled.

The corners of his mouth turned up in an amused smile at her reaction when he wasn’t even kissing her yet. Then he leaned toward her to do exactly that—

“Is it true?” she asked suddenly, just as his lips were about to touch hers.

He froze, but every word he whispered tickled warmly against her lips. “Is what true?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “Were you really a mercenary in the wars?”