Chapter 3

Tessa stepped out of Fortnum Mason and onto Piccadilly cobbles, a ridiculous sense of triumph coursing through her.

She'd managed to procure the last two pounds of jasmine tea that would grace the town of London for three months, at least, depending on shipping schedules from the Far East.

Tea…her one indulgence in life.

She adored the stuff. The way it made one sit down for the time it took to drink a cup or pot, depending on her mood. Otherwise, she didn't stop in her day. It was all go…go…go…one quick decision to be made after another.

Tea forced one to sit and consider—and enjoy.

And this London day was a rare lovely one—the cloudless sky above, the air sun-warmed, yet crisp. Even so, one was hard pressed to enjoy the pleasant day as Piccadilly was one of London's busiest thoroughfares with all manner of folk. Impatient Londoners who kept their heads down as they trudged from one errand to the next. Folks traveling through, their heads up as they attempted to gather a sense of their surroundings and pick a direction. And that was only those on foot. Horse carts trundled along, pulling all manner of loads from chickens to potatoes, even dirt…Hackney coaches with their fares…The odd dandy in his cabriolet, broad smile on his face, not a care in the world.

Tessa tended to duck her head down and keep her reticule tight against her body to ward off pickpockets, as she kept her feet moving.

Today, however, just before she did so, she spotted something unusual up the block—a familiar form. A male form that she wouldn't have given a second glance a week ago, but now caused her gaze to stick—tall and broad, golden-brown hair tucked behind his ears and falling in loose waves below his shoulders.

A man who'd tipped his hat to no fewer than three other gentlemen in the ten seconds Tessa had spent observing him.

The Marquess of Ormonde.

After their encounter a week ago, she'd mostly put the man out of her mind. A spoiled aristocrat who didn't like not getting what he wanted was no concern of hers.

Even so, she couldn't deny that a small part of her reveled in having thwarted the man. Lords should be thwarted every so often. A good thwarting was medicine for the soul, and she was only too pleased to have delivered it.

She snorted.

Aristocrats.

Except he hadn't been the only aristocrat involved in that conversation.

Apparently, she was one, too.

Though it had been two weeks since the news was delivered, it still hadn't entirely sunk in and found purchase within her.

Lady Tessa.

The great-granddaughter of one duke and the sister of another.

Still, a feeling of unease regarding the Marquess of Ormonde crept through her. She'd insulted the man—to his face.

Simply, there was something about him—this golden lord of the ton—and something in her that wanted to test him and see if there was a chink in his armor.

For that was what she'd detected behind his amiable eyes.

Armor.

One only needed armor if one was guarding something precious or…secret.

What was the Marquess of Ormonde's secret?

Ahead, he cut a quick right onto a quiet side street, and Tessa was left with a decision to make—continue along Piccadilly and on toward home, which was where she'd been heading with her choice batch of tea. Or…

Make a left onto Sackville Street.

Which she shouldn't do.

But a few seconds later, that was exactly where her feet found themselves pointing.

Then she had barely an instant to locate Ormonde before he slipped into a shop. Instinctively, she crossed to the other side of the street to minimize the chance of running into him. He could've been paying a quick visit. After all, she knew nothing about his daily life or the sort of business he conducted in the course of a day.

She knew nothing about him.

And yet…here she was, following him.

As she passed the shop from across the street, she cut a glance over and read the discreet sign.

Blanton Co.

A jewelry shop.

She reached the end of Sackville Street with another decision to make. She should walk on to the next street over and make her way back to Piccadilly. But wouldn't it be much simpler to double back?

And, really, why shouldn't she cross the street to get a better look into the shop? She was a lady, and it was no uncommon occurrence for ladies to peer through windows when pretty baubles were on display. No one would question her presence or her interest.

When she reached the shop, however, the glare from the midday sun made it impossible to see inside. Perhaps a proper lady wouldn't cup her hand onto a windowpane and press the tip of her nose to the glass to peer into a shop—but Tessa was only a lady come-lately.

Her inspection revealed several cases placed about the shop and a single occupant. A woman of middling years…who was observing Tessa with curiosity.

No sign of Ormonde.

Without a staying thought, Tessa reached for the door handle. The door didn't budge, which only made sense. Jewelry stores didn't leave their doors unlocked for all and sundry to stride through and steal their wares.

From the other side of the glass, the proprietress inspected Tessa for thirty additional seconds before she moved. She must've deemed the unusual lady worthy of entry, for she took the key hanging from a long chain around her neck and turned in it in the lock. The bell jingled lightly overhead as Tessa crossed the threshold.

"How may I be of assistance to you, Miss…?" asked the proprietress leadingly.

Tessa opened her mouth to reply with her usual Miss Siren.

Except…She was no longer Miss Siren.

She was now Lady Tessa.

Further, she quickly surmised that being Lady Tessa in this fine jewelry shop would get her farther than being a mere Miss.

"Lady Tessa Calthorp," she said with an abundance of confidence used only by those bent on absolute virtue or absolute vice.

The proprietress's smile broadened, and Tessa could see she'd been wise to wield her title. What use was it, anyway, if not to be applied as a crowbar to prise open all the places one wished to enter?

Come to think of it, a title could be bloody useful.

The key turned in the lock behind Tessa as she gave the shop a quick scan, confirming no sign of the marquess. If he was here, he would be obvious. There was no hiding the Marquess of Ormonde.

The metaphor of the ox in the china shop came to mind.

The proprietress smiled at Tessa. She was waiting.

Right.

Tessa drew herself up to her fullest height, which was several inches taller than the other woman. "I would like to see your, erm, jewels."

Jewels?

Was she now the Queen of England?

"And what sort of jewels would suit you, Lady Tessa?" asked the proprietress, moving behind a case with a glass top, waving her hand to indicate a few said jewels.

Would she have to buy some jewels before this was all over? And all because she'd let her curiosity get the better of her and followed a marquess into a jewelry shop?

She supposed it would serve her right.

"Perhaps," began the proprietress, her gaze doing a slow up-and-down appraisal of Tessa's person, "a signet ring?"

Tessa could see why the woman would suggest that piece of jewelry. Not every woman—or, indeed, lady—strode about London wearing cravat and waistcoat with her skirts. In fact, she only considered it a shame that she couldn't wear trousers, too, for they called to her innate sense of practicality.

But, alas, trousers would've been a step too far beyond society's narrow view of appropriateness for ladies.

"Oh, yes," she began, only noticing a narrow doorway in the opposite corner of the shop. Perhaps Ormonde had somehow squeezed his broad shoulders through…

The proprietress's eyes lit with delight. "Oh, those are my favorite."

Tessa glanced down and found that her finger was pointing…

Toward a necklace of pink pearls.

The proprietress opened the case and slid the pearls off black velvet, the strand long and sinuous, each perfectly round orb glowing with iridescence. "They're so lovely and feminine, aren't they?" she asked, a dreamy quality had entered the woman's voice.

"Erm, yes," said Tessa, unable to pretend much interest—what had a strand of pearls to do with her, anyway?—as she leaned back and craned her head around for a glimpse down that corridor. "Do you have another room in your shop?"

The proprietress glanced up, sharply. "Why do you ask?"

Tessa's brow wanted to lift with curiosity. The question had been a simple one—and the expected answer equally simple: yes or no.

Was the proprietress protecting something…? Or…someone?

Perhaps the man who had slipped into this shop not five minutes ago?

Lord Ormonde.

And Tessa knew: She wasn't leaving this shop until she found him.

"This is quite indelicate of me," she began. "But do you have a ladies' retiring room that I might use?" She gave a dainty, self-effacing laugh that didn't suit her at all. "I'm afraid I find myself in desperate need of a bourdaloue."

The proprietress smiled, sharpness softening. "Of course. I'll show you the way. An afternoon of shopping will do that to a lady."

Not thirty seconds later, Tessa found herself alone in the privy room with not the slightest inclination to relieve herself and feeling three ways a fool. What was she doing here, following the Marquess of Ormonde? How was his business any business of hers?

Then she heard it—a low, muffled sound through the walls. Voices, low and masculine, engaged in conversation, both muted. One low and agreeable. The shop owner, presumably.

The other deep and commanding…a familiar voice.

Ormonde.

Tessa poked her head into the dim corridor. The proprietress had returned to the front of the shop, which was where Tessa should most definitely go. Instead—and predictably, it must be admitted—her feet pointed in the opposite direction, and she was creeping down the corridor, one slow step at a time, praying she didn't locate a creaky floorboard.

She found the door cracked a sliver wide enough for her to peer inside, her heart racing. Two men, as she'd suspected—the proprietor and Ormonde. Floor-to-ceiling cabinetry on every wall, no chairs. And upon the few open shelves…

Objects.

She blinked and attempted to comprehend what she was seeing in this room with all manner of strangely shaped objects. Some glass, others jeweled…Some bulbous and squat…Others long and slender…

The pull of curiosity drew her closer, her face now firmly pressed against the door, even as strange sensations fluttered through her body.

Those objects…They were utterly foreign to her and…evocative.

She squinted. What was that he was holding?

Long…cylindrical…

Phallic.

She knew enough of anatomy to know that much.

Ormonde slipped the object into an interior pocket of his greatcoat.

Whatever it was, it wasn't for public viewing.

His head turned to the side, his profile presented as if his ear had picked up a sound. The breath caught in her lungs. His gaze slid over and met hers through the crack in the door. Eyes locked, her heart became a heavy hammer wreaking havoc through her chest, and his face went dark as thunder.

Right.

Then he was crossing the room, and, at last, Tessa's survival instinct kicked in. She jumped back from the door as if it had caught fire, just as it swung open. Panting, they stared at each other.

"You?" he said, utterly bewildered.

Well, he wasn't alone in the emotion.

Survival of this moment pushed to the front of Tessa's mind, leaving her no option but to leg it.

She'd taken two steps when she felt it—a large, masculine palm, planted between her shoulder blades, marching her down the corridor, like a child who had done something shameful.

When they emerged into the sun-bright front of the shop, a feminine voice sounded behind them. "Lady Tessa?"

Tessa didn't slow. "If you could please unlock the door," she tossed over her shoulder, "I'll be on my way."

She needed to get out of this shop and away from Ormonde—away from the press of his solid, unyielding palm—tout suite.

"Shall I set the pearls aside for you?" asked the proprietress, bemusement clear in her voice. It wouldn't have been every day that a marquess marched a lady out of her shop.

"Pearls?" asked Ormonde at the very moment Tessa said, "That won't be necessary."

Her eyes caught his over her shoulder. The look in those sky-hued depths had her feet stuttering over themselves.

Challenge.

Thisman was the amiable Marquess of Ormonde? A man liked by all, with not a single enemy in the world?

Yet he didn't feel precisely like an enemy…

Nemesis.

That descriptor felt more accurate.

"Let's see these pearls, shall we?"

His hand fell away from her back.

And strangely, she felt the loss.

Unexpected, that.

The proprietress swept into action. "They're absolutely divine, my lord. Just arrived from the South Seas two days ago."

Ormonde directed smiling, summer-blue eyes toward the woman. She didn't stand a chance—no woman did.

"Is that so?" he asked.

The distinct feeling came to Tessa that he was toying with her. "Truly, I must be going," she attempted.

Her protest landed on deaf ears.

Pink pearls slinked through the proprietress's fingers as she held them to the light. "They would be so lovely with Lady Tessa's peachy skin and strawberry-blonde hair."

"Let's see them on her, shall we?"

Now, Tessa knew Ormonde was toying with her—positively intent on doing so, in fact.

If he meant it as some sort of punishment, well, he was succeeding.

The proprietress stepped around the case, pearls in hand. As she made to drape the necklace around Tessa's neck, Ormonde reached out to stop her. "Please, allow me."

"Oh," gasped the woman on a giggle as he deftly slipped the pearls from her hands and stepped into her place before Tessa.

Her gaze had no choice but to lift and meet his. Within those clear blue depths, she detected a hot white blaze.

Oh.

He unlatched the amethyst clasp. Then, an end in each hand, he reached around her neck. Goose bumps cascaded up her arms and across her body. Though her lungs had forgotten how to breathe, she knew his scent—cedarwood. As if through cotton, she heard the tiny clasp click and lock into place.

Time stayed its inevitable advance into the future and held still—for them.

Which was empirically impossible.

Yet…she was presently experiencing that very impossibility, at this very moment.

It was as if with the click of the clasp he'd cast a spell and bound her to him.

"Methinks," began the proprietress, "the pearls would complement a different sort of dress, perhaps?" The words emerged with hesitant diplomacy.

But they were enough to push Tessa from this strange, never-ending moment with the marquess. She cleared her throat. "You mean a long strand of pearls doesn't complement a cravat and waistcoat?"

The proprietress didn't notice the irony in Tessa's tone. "Oh, no," she said with a firm, definite shake of the head. "A silk ballgown, to be sure."

Ormonde didn't release Tessa's gaze. "We'll take them."

Shock strummed a harsh chord through her. "We will?"

The blue of his eyes darkened to indigo. "My gift to you."

Tessa opened her mouth, only to snap it shut.

"And the clasp, milord?" asked the proprietress, taking the pearls from Ormonde, who had already removed the necklace and stepped away from Tessa, leaving her standing in the center of the room, stunned. "Shall we switch the amethyst to sapphire to deepen the blue of her eyes?"

He shook his head. "The amethyst will bring out the violet hue, did you notice it?"

The proprietress nodded her approval. "Oh, lovely eyes, Lady Tessa has."

And that was the matter settled without Tessa having been consulted once.

Not five minutes later, she was stepping onto Sackville Street cobbles, a bundle of tea in one hand and a jeweler's box of pearls in the other. She thrust the box forward, toward Ormonde. "I cannot possibly accept such a gift." She hoped her absolute tone would settle it.

He stepped backward and waved the box away. "You can."

She exhaled an irritated sigh. "I cannot. I don't even know you."

Something unknowable flashed behind his eyes. "Now, you do."

She tried for a different angle. "I don't wear jewels."

"You should."

No other angles available to her, she said, "I shall have my bank deliver a cheque to you."

"It will be returned."

Was anyone else aware of how blasted stubborn this man was?

A hackney coach rolled to a stop a few yards away, depositing a lady and gentleman onto the cobbles. Before Tessa could gather her wits, Ormonde had neatly arranged for the hackney to drive her home.

After she gave the coachman her address, Ormonde very properly handed her up into the carriage. She tried not to think about the hand holding hers—the very hand that had tucked the intriguing glass object into an interior pocket of his greatcoat…the very hand that had pressed into the place between her shoulder blades.

Her gaze narrowed on that hand, and her brow crinkled. The knuckles were bruised, and a few abraded.

Then she was settled inside the coach, the door shut behind her, and rolling down Sackville Street. Unable not to, she glanced out the back window, only to find Ormonde striding in the opposite direction.

She didn't at all like the feeling of disappointment presently swirling through her, as she settled against cracked leather squabs and set her gaze ahead. The marquess had left her holding tea, pearls, and a thought.

In all the kerfuffle about the pearls, she hadn't time to ask him about the private room…and the objects housed within.

And she suspected that was rather his intention—obfuscation and distraction.

What was it she'd seen? What was it the marquess didn't want her to know about him? And why did he sport a different injury every time she saw him?

Until this afternoon, she hadn't wanted to know anything about the Marquess of Ormonde beyond what she already knew.

He was a member of The Archangel—for social rather than gaming reasons, she suspected, for she'd never once seen him partaking in the club's vices.

And he always paid his quarterly dues on time.

Those had been all the facts she'd cared to know about the man.

Now, she wanted to know more.

For, now, there was something she very definitely didn't know.

Something unrevealed in his eyes.

Latent.

That was the word for the Marquess of Ormonde.

Much lay hidden within this golden lord, waiting to be revealed.

Last week, when he'd barged in to The Archangel, demanding better odds, she'd dismissed him as a spoiled aristocrat—one of many she came into contact with on a daily basis.

But she saw now he wasn't a spoiled aristocrat.

Well, doubtless he was a spoiled aristocrat, but he wasn't only that.

He was something more…different.

And he was hiding something.

Against her better judgment, Tessa was intrigued.