Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

H e'd lost her.

She'd been there , so present, so in tune with him. She moved with him in the dance as if they were mirrored halves that together made a whole, a perfect complement.

And then he'd said something to make her face shutter. What had he said?

Jack searched his mind, which was usually a very disciplined place, but something about this woman made his senses unable to assemble the proper information. His gaze snagged on the arresting shape of her face, particularly those full lips with the ever-present pucker, as if she were amused by everything she saw. The scent of almonds, rising from her neck, made his mind blank and his mouth water. The husky sound of her voice feathered his ears and riled his brain to all sorts of fevered imaginings.

And the feel of her, so much sweetness. Warm, pliant skin. Supple muscles in her arms, a delicate strength in her fingers as she clasped his. Every sensation cloaked in a veil of silk, from her gloves, his. It was a sweet provocation, tender and thrilling at the same time. Like walking through a field with tall grasses brushing lightly against his body. Like floating beneath the water of the estuary, warm and still, his entire being weightless and alive.

It had been too long since he'd touched a woman. And longer still since a woman had looked deeply into his eyes, held his gaze as if she meant to search his being. As if she wanted to know his secrets, and would keep them close once she knew.

Since a woman had looked at him with interest, real interest, as if she took delight in him? That had not happened since his mother set aside his baby gowns for short pants.

And as for sharing his secrets—he never would.

Perhaps she sensed that, and so the iron wall crashed down in her eyes, like a gate locking in a prisoner, or a door locking out a supplicant.

He wanted a way back in.

She was speaking. "Do go on."

She stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the far wall, where guests lined in chairs along the wall watched the dancers with languid attention.

Jack swallowed hard. His damnable mind would not function. It circled one thought: how soft and delectable her skin appeared on the slope of her elegant neck and that soft hollow beneath her ear, where a crimson eardrop dangled. The luscious sweep of warm beige skin across her decolletage, the delicate divot between her collarbones, the way the setting of the ruby pendant drew his eyes to the faint shadow of cleavage. Most women pushed their breasts up and out for a man to admire, but Mrs. Wroth kept her bosom tucked away as if it were her own business, and only a favored man would be allowed to view.

Or touch. His mouth went dry.

"Go on about what?" What would bring that curious sparkle back to her eye?

"The problem you need solved, of course." They reached the end of the promenade and she turned from him to walk behind the line of other women.

By the time they reached their place at the top, he had it. "Where did you and Mr. Wroth live?"

She met his gaze, startled, and reason fell out of his head for a moment. He'd thought her eyes were brown. Now they appeared a deep-blue gray, the color piercing.

"Northeast of here," she said tersely, holding her palm a fraction from his.

He curved his fingers against hers. He wanted to touch so much more of her.

"What brought you to Bath?"

"Employment." Her lips pursed, flattening that pucker he'd noticed. Full, delicately drawn lips, the color of a primrose in spring. His head went hazy.

"You must have married young."

She faltered in a step as they circled one another. "Too young." Her brows drew together. Fine, feathery brows, black like her lashes.

"That was my error as well. Were you happy?"

She froze, then stepped back. The pattern required him to step back also, but he wanted to hear her answer.

She refused him. "You are married?"

"Widower."

She withdrew to the ladies' line, and he wished the musicians would play faster, so he might draw near her the sooner.

"I am seeking a governess for my—daughter," he said as soon as he could take her hand for another promenade. He liked her firm grip, the strength of mind it suggested.

"How old is the child?"

"Almost ten."

"Have you considered a girl's school?"

"That is not for us. She is—shy."

He glanced to the side as they passed smiling couples, wondering how much of their exchange was being overheard. With the music, the click of heels on the floor, the chatter of conversations flowing through the large room, he doubted anyone paid any attention to them.

Anyone not paying close attention to Mrs. Wroth was a fool. She carried herself with a steady grace, as if she held a weight on her shoulders, but bore it gently. A widow—did that account for the faint shadow of sadness in her eyes? A woman who had knowledge of the ways of men with women.

Of the ways a woman could pleasure a man, and he her.

His gut tightened at the thought, heavy with heat. This would not do.

"She is an intelligent child, but rather solitary. I believe she would prefer to remain at home."

"And home is?—?"

"Norfolk." He pictured it in his mind's eye, the pebbled front of Holme Hall, battered by the salty winds of the North Sea. He wondered what she would think of the red hulking block of it, that haunted shell.

His companion blinked. Her eyes were a deep blue after all. "Norfolk is the other side of the country."

He nodded, keeping his expression carefully neutral. She narrowed her eyes and peered into his face as she stepped close. The scent of almonds and honey assailed him.

She swayed back. He clasped his fingers around her hand without thinking.

"Why come to Bath for a governess? Surely there are clever and capable women in your area." She appeared to search her mind, her brows drawing back over her startling eyes. Their wide setting gave her a look of deceptive innocence. "Norwich. King's Lynn. Even London would be closer."

"I have family here. And—" He paused. "I've had difficulty engaging a local woman. Or rather, not engaging, but keeping."

She tugged her hand free and moved in her figure, dipping her torso with a bend of one knee. The fabric of her gown rustled with invitation.

"Tell me about this child," she said.

His aunt had been exactly right to recommend Mrs. Wroth to him. She appeared every inch the intelligent, capable woman he needed. Difficult to intimidate.

Impossible to scare away.

"My daughter is not to blame. There are—legends that circulate about the house. Wild stories, no basis of truth."

Lies .

He had her full attention now, her eyes locked on his. He wondered how much more time he had. He'd been warned that the last dance was called the long minuet for good reason. Long enough to persuade this woman to be his?

Governess. His governess. Muriel's governess.

"We've gone through a dozen women," he admitted. That was counting the vicar's daughter from Swaffham, who changed her mind before arriving, and the gentleman's daughter from Greater Yarmouth, who turned around and climbed right back in the cart after she saw Holme House.

"That would make the next thirteen," she murmured.

"Only a concern for the superstitious." His chest grew heavy. If she were the superstitious sort, there was no hope here.

"Then you must find someone not easily frightened."

Not her, he was certain. Mrs. Wroth seemed as steady as the sea. Moving forward, always, her rhythm unchanged, assured.

Now that was a foolish image. The sea changed all the time, from calm to roaring, from glassy pools to waves that pulled a man under. The ruins of the shipwrecks off the beach below his house gave proof of the tide's implacable power.

If ever a woman could soothe a savage beast, Jack fancied, it was Mrs. Wroth.

"My aunt recommends I find a wife," he blurted.

That proved precisely the wrong thing to say. She wheeled from him early and went back to her place in line, her face sharp and gleaming as diamond in the light from the chandeliers. Confused, the other women scurried to follow.

He noted this. Other women followed where Mrs. Wroth led.

He danced her way, curling his fingers into a fist behind his back. The minuet was a tortuous dance, much like wooing. The man pursued, circling, pleading, while the woman stepped forward, then back, never quite coming into his arms.

Not that Jack had much skill with wooing. Maybe his wife would have been happier with him if he had.

"It has been six years," he said, surprised at the touch of desperation in his voice. Six years since one nightmare ended and another began. One burdened half-life giving way to another.

It had been many years, far longer than six, since Jack had harbored dreams for the future. What was it about Bath, about this ballroom—about this woman—that suddenly planted notions in his head? He hadn't given a thought to a wife .

"Oh, high time you remarried, then."

Her voice cracked, and her lovely jaw drew tight, as if she clenched her teeth. She stared over his shoulder as they wove the figure, a step together, a step apart. How maddening she was.

"And do think," she said, when she'd finished a turn with the ladies and come back to him, "a wife would resolve the governess problem nicely. You should have someone to teach and guide your daughter. As well as a housekeeper, a chatelaine, and a hostess. A cook, in a pinch, and possibly a secretary. Not to mention a body to warm your bed."

Ah, God's teeth. She was talking of beds. Jack's mind fogged with the heat rolling through his body.

Devil take it, he hadn't been interested in a woman for years, but with her floating about him, just beyond reach, he could barely keep himself under control. He wanted to yank her to him and mold every inch of her body to his.

In a crowded ballroom, sultry with the heat of many bodies and the smolder of wax candles.

Maybe he was what everyone said.

"That is what a wife does," he said, trying to bring his mind back to the conversation. "All those things you say."

It would do no good to yank this one about, he could see that. She had too strong a mind. If he wanted this woman he would have to woo her with words, lure her toward him with curiosity and interest and the offer of his own self.

Tempt her with promises, then keep those promises.

She turned away, arms lifted precisely before her, self-contained, wanting nothing. Certainly not him.

"All those things and more." The words floated back to him. "An onerous list of tasks, wife."

Onerous? "The most exalted status a woman can have," he replied. Every woman sought to be a wife, did she not? He'd been taught since birth that the greatest gift a man possessed was the offer of his hand.

Of course, Jack's hand held a paltry offering. A crumbling manor set on crumbling cliffs, howling with wind and clouds. A tiny title and properties whittled down almost to nothing by the previous owner of the estate. A motherless child who feared the world, and—ghosts.

So many ghosts.

"I can think of loftier titles," she said when the pattern brought her back under his nose. So many colors shimmered from her hair, highlights of gold and undertones of red among the tresses of dark brown. They gleamed like silk.

"Queen," she said. "Empress. Ruler of realms."

He was ready to kneel before her, like a knight of old seeking favor from his lady. He was ready to stretch out his neck for the sword.

He was clearly addled. He hadn't been in company like this for too long, genteel, elegant, witty. He was acting an uncouth buffoon.

"I could make you a baroness," he said, because it was the only real item of value he had. But what would that mean to a woman with ambitions of rule?

"That is, my wife. Would be a baron's wife. Not a baroness proper, with a title of her own, but a lady nonetheless. Mine."

"How lovely for her," Mrs. Wroth said.

They froze, gazes locked, her nose at the level of his neck. Then she swept into a careful curtsy, ending the dance.

"Will you help me find someone?" He'd come to Bath with one hope and been given one name: hers. He had nothing else.

"No." She turned away.

He did it then, lost himself—again—and caught her hand. That warm, firm hand in its elegant glove. He could not let her walk away.

Desire punched him in the gut, hard. "Please."

She threw a look over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. Her eyes were violet. Violet . Jack reeled.

"I can think of no acquaintance that would suit your needs, sir," she said. "I wish you luck in your search."

And she stepped away, head high, her red-rimmed gown rustling in her wake.

A gentleman intercepted her on her way, making no attempt to modulate his voice. "Mrs. Wroth! A vision tonight. Met the mad baron, did you?"

Jack's entire chest clenched. So it had followed him here, the whispers, the mockery. That sobriquet he could travel the country and not escape. His feet rooted to the floor as if trapped in damp clay.

"Mad indeed," Mrs. Wroth murmured.

And that was that.

Mad .

What Anne-Marie had reduced him to, and all he would ever be.