Chapter 4

17 Sloane Street

The address Lady Tessa had provided the hackney driver.

The address Julian was presently standing opposite at six in the morning.

From his place propped against a plane tree across the street, he'd watched her enter the townhouse fifteen minutes ago.

He shouldn't be here.

Epsom Downs was where he belonged. It was only a few days until the Derby. The entirety of his thoughts should be concentrated on making merry and ensuring that Filthy Habit was safe and would fulfill his promise and win.

Annoyingly, however, an increasingly sizeable part of his brain wouldn't stop thinking about Lady Tessa Calthorp.

The woman had come as a shock when he'd gone to confront The Archangel's bookmaker. He'd formed a very definite idea of the sort of man he would be dealing with—older…balding...wire-framed spectacles perched atop his nose...possibly hunched over…

What he hadn't expected to encounter was an actual siren.

Fire in the belly...You don't seem to have that.

How dismissive she'd been of him—as a horse owner…

As a man.

Even now, those words sparked something elemental to life inside him.

Oh, he felt a fire all right.

To prove the woman wrong.

She thought him a spoiled lord, which, in truth, took him aback.

Everyone immediately liked him.

His lived experience had borne out as much.

Everyone—except Lady Tessa.

You are content not to win.

He would simply have to prove the woman wrong.

Which was why he was here.

Well, if he was being honest with himself, that wasn't the only reason.

Three days ago…

Blanton Co…

She'd seen him in the jeweler's private room reserved for the select few who knew of its existence.

There was that reason, as well.

She hadn't known what she'd seen. Of course, she hadn't. For all she was a gaming hell owner, Julian sensed Lady Tessa remained an innocent about what went on between men and women behind closed doors.

Someday, however, she wouldn't be quite so innocent, and she would understand what she'd seen and what sort of wares were being purchased by the Marquess of Ormonde.

Yet, strangely, he wasn't embarrassed.

It was a secret between them—a bond, however slight and tenuous.

And he might like sharing a secret bond with Lady Tessa Calthorp.

So, here he was at six in the morning, standing opposite her townhouse when he should be in Epsom.

And why?

To make a wager with her.

Since he was going to prove her wrong, he wanted to make sure she felt it.

Right.

He pushed off the plane tree, dusted off his greatcoat, and crossed the street. Up the short flight of stairs to her doorstep and he was giving the brass knocker on her glossy black front door three solid raps.

He waited.

A small part of him insisted it wasn't too late to leg it down the street. He could easily round the corner before the door opened.

And none would be the wiser.

Except him.

He would know.

The door cracked open a scant sliver, and Julian experienced a wave of relief that he'd left it too late to leg it. A confused silver-blue eye peered out at him, followed by the gathering of a single eyebrow. The door swung wide to reveal Lady Tessa in full.

He'd thought to see her as he always had—waistcoat buttoned, cravat neatly knotted, hair pulled back into a tight chignon. The self-contained Lady Tessa he'd become accustomed to.

But standing before him with a quizzical expression on her face was an altogether different Lady Tessa. Waistcoat and cravat gone...hair looser, possibly in a plait down her back...shirt narrowly parted, revealing a V of ivory skin—skin that suggested curves beneath white muslin…

Her throat cleared, and his gaze startled up. He'd been caught staring, and blast if he didn't experience a sheepish flare of heat.

Of a sudden, the reality of the moment struck him, and he felt his brow crinkle. "It's dangerous for a woman to be opening doors at odd hours. Don't you have a butler?"

An eyebrow winged toward the sky. "Do you intend me harm, Marquess?"

"Of course not."

An unbothered feminine shrug. "There you have it."

"You still haven't answered my question."

She sighed. "The housekeeper and cook will arrive in a few hours for their duties. Mine is a late-rising household, particularly since?—"

"Since?"

"Since my sisters moved to my brother's mansion in St. James's Square."

By way of explanations, Julian liked this one even less. "You live here—alone? Without a man in the house?"

"And yet somehow I manage." No mistaking the sarcasm in her voice.

"Your brother is a duke, Lady Tessa." Julian wasn't leaving this be. He was absolutely in the right. "You need protection."

She stifled a yawn. "Is there a reason you're knocking at my door at dawn and haranguing me about my living arrangements?"

She made no move to invite him in.

He offered her the amiable, lopsided smile that so charmed every lady in the ton—and many a gentleman, too. "May I come in?"

She remained uncharmed and unmoving in the center of the doorway. "I was just about to retire to—" She frowned. "You're not leaving until you've stated your business, are you?"

"No."

She released a heavy sigh and stood aside, granting him entry, and shooting the bolt behind him. As she swept around him, her shoulder just brushed his in the narrow receiving hall. As he had in the jeweler's, he caught her scent—crisp lemon.

That would be her scent, of course.

He followed her down a dimly lit corridor to the kitchen and noted the tidiness of the house. The furnishings were fine, but without a sign of lace doilies or such fuss. He saw, too, he'd been correct about her hair. It fell in a long, thick red-gold plait down the center of her back, the ends just touching the small of her back. Unbound, they might reach the top of her arse.

A sweet arse, too, he knew without yet knowing.

Yet.

Now there was a presumptuous word.

Yetsuggested he would.

He didn't yet know—and never would, of course.

He shouldn't be here.

But as they entered a kitchen as neat and tidy as the rest of the house, and she told him to sit anywhere he pleased, he found he couldn't quite make himself leave and, instead, lowered into a straight-backed kitchen chair.

"What sort of tea do you prefer?" she asked, her back to him as she began gathering dishes and various foods.

The question caught Julian on the back foot. "Whatever you have will do."

She stopped and turned. "I presently have eleven varieties of tea in my cupboard. You'll have to be more specific."

"Erm…" Flummoxed, he shrugged.

"Black or green?"

He understood she thought she was helping. Except..."There's green tea?"

She considered him for a moment. "How about a lovely jasmine?"

Julian nodded. "Sounds...lovely."

He was fairly certain he'd never uttered the word lovely in all his life.

The fact was, he'd come here with a plan—and matters were not proceeding according to it.

Instead, he was watching a woman with whom he'd spoken on two occasions prepare him tea. She flitted about the kitchen like an especially industrious bird, setting teacups, plates, and cutlery on the table, cutting four thick slices of spice bread and placing them on a white oval plate. Next came a bowl of lumped sugar and a tiny pot of cream.

And she performed it all automatically as if it were what she naturally did in the course of her day—how she lived her life.

How was this Lady Tessa? Was this the same woman who ran a gaming hell?

She kept coming at him from different angles, each time revealing an unexpected part of herself. Beneath her forbidding exterior and fiercely intelligent mind lay yet another part of her...a deeper part of her.

A woman not displeased to be serving him a lovely tea.

Quick on the heels of that thought came another.

This woman who appeared to be hard as nails…

She was a nurturer.

And Julian couldn't help warming to the idea of being nurtured by her.

Tea prepared and assembled on the table, she lowered into the seat opposite him. Her gaze drifted down his face and rested on his jaw for the flicker of a second. So quickly he might've missed it, except he knew what she was looking for.

The bruise.

She busied herself with pouring the tea and transferring a slice of bread to his plate, but he'd caught the glint of intrigue in her eyes. Though the bruise had disappeared, she was wondering about that bruise—and what it meant about him.

Well, let her wonder.

He rather liked that he held some intrigue for this woman who was becoming more complicated with each time they met. Usually, the very idea of being known—truly, fully known—had the muscles of his jaw tensing.

This woman with whom he'd shared a single conversation and whatever that was in the jeweler's shop...how easily she peered beyond the fa?ade and saw him.

In fact…

She might see him for who he actually was.

And the conclusion she appeared to have reached was she didn't like him all that much.

Right.

"Would it be presumptuous of me to infer that you have some business to state?" she asked and tore off a corner of spice bread.

"It would be only natural."

She nodded. "As I thought."

Knowledge flickered within her eyes, and a sense of unease rippled through Julian. She wasn't speaking of the Derby or the odds on Filthy Habit. She was speaking of…

"You are, of course, welcome to have them back," she said.

"Them?"

"The pearls."

The pearls.

He'd bought this woman pearls.

He'd even placed them around her neck, unable not to.

It had been a curious form of embrace. A feeling of being locked inside a moment...at the mercy of its whim.

At the time, and even now, it felt very much like a moment whose vagaries could lead somewhere unexpected.

"Have you worn them?" he couldn't help asking.

She gave a curt, dismissive shake of the head, pursed her generous lips, and blew a cooling breath across the surface of her tea. A shallow sip later, her eyes closed for a moment's bliss. The woman was serious about her tea.

Julian found himself staring. He cleared his throat. "I don't want the pearls."

Her eyes startled open. "No?"

He cocked his head and waited.

Her gaze turned assessing. "Then what—?" Her mouth snapped shut, and a light blush pinked the roses of her cheeks, as another reason for his unexpected appearance at her door occurred to her. "For my behavior at Blanton and Company, I must apologize."

Julian's lungs refused to draw breath—or release it. Was she actually speaking of what he thought she was speaking of?

"Everyone," she continued, "is entitled to privacy, and for my violation of yours, I offer my sincerest apology."

In all his life, Julian had never met a more direct and honest person than Lady Tessa Calthorp.

Yet, while he doubted not the sincerity of her apology, a flicker of something a mite more complicated remained in her direct, honest eyes. Curiosity. She was still wondering about what she'd witnessed.

And though a part of him wanted to confess to her—show her...demonstrate upon her—he wouldn't.

"I appreciate your apology," he said and wondered if she detected the telling rasp of desire in his throat. "I'm not here about that, either."

"It's simply that I have a question?—"

"It's not up for discussion," he said, firm, even as an unhelpful image flashed across his mind—of the object and the myriad uses it could be put to upon Lady Tessa's body.

"Oh," she said. No mistaking the flicker of disappointment in her eyes—and the curiosity that yet remained.

Oh, Lord.

His mouth gone dry, he took a sip of tea.

She was watching him more closely than a sip of tea strictly warranted. "How do you like it?"

"It's…" In all honesty, he hadn't tasted it.

"It's my own blend."

He took another sip, determined to have something to say about it this time. "It's...delicious."

And it was.

A smile of delight lit across her face, and he realized this was the first genuine smile he'd seen from her. It had a smile of his own wanting to join in.

"It's a simple composition of Chinese oolong and jasmine."

He took three more gulps. "Truly, it's, erm, lovely."

There was that word again—lovely.

And here was another unexpected moment whose vagaries he wanted to follow.

Soon, however, her smile faded, and she said, "I suppose you'll state your business," and that was the moment gone.

No more beating about the bush..."I'm here about the Derby."

Her brow gathered. "The Derby? Why would we discuss—?" Realization dawned across her face. "Is this about the odds on your horse?"

"Yes."

"I did shorten them."

Julian shook his head. "Not enough."

Lady Tessa's teacup suspended in the air, mid-lift to her mouth. Her eyes flashed with irritation. One positive about her directness and honesty was that her emotions weren't difficult to read.

"And here I thought you weren't merely a spoiled lord," she said.

Julian blinked.

She'd done it again.

Insulted him directly to his face.

A chuckle startled out of him.

When one broke the insult down, it contained multitudes. Fundamentally, it acknowledged as established fact that he was a spoiled lord.

Only, she hadn't thought him merely one.

Another chuckle rumbled through his chest.

Head canted to the side, bemused expression on her face, she watched him and waited.

Best he stated his business before she turfed him out. "Filthy Habit will win the Derby."

She didn't bat an eyelash. "Doubtful."

At last, they'd arrived at the reason for his visit. He'd almost lost track of it himself. "I'll wager you that he shall."

"Feel free to place your wager at The Archangel."

"This wager is private," he said. "Between us only."

A surprised beat of time ticked past. "Why would I do that?"

"You're part owner of The Archangel, correct?"

"Co-owner," she corrected.

"Your brother is known as one of the richest dukes in the ton."

"Given the profligate spending habits I observe in The Archangel every night of the week, I imagine he is."

"Your own wealth must be comparable."

She took a sip of tea and remained silent.

"So, what difference would a friendly wager make to you?"

Friendly?Who was he trying to fool?

She considered him over the next decade of seconds. "I can't decide if you're spoiled or simply foolish."

"I've found the two usually go hand in hand, but I'm neither."

Now, it was dry laughter startling from her. "Is that so?"

"It's the principle of the matter."

"Principle," she repeated. "You mentioned that word the other night."

"One thousand pounds," he said, lest she doubt his seriousness.

"Pardon?"

"One thousand pounds," he repeated.

"A great deal of principle in that amount of blunt." No doubting the shrug in her voice.

"Two thousand."

Her brow lifted, and she shook her head. She might be enjoying denying him—a merely spoiled lord.

His back teeth ground together.

"Five thousand."

Even as the figure left his mouth, he began to doubt his sanity.

The surprised lift of her eyebrows indicated she harbored the same doubt.

Five thousand pounds?

He never placed such wagers.

But this was different.

Lady Tessa was different.

And he was different with her.

In this moment, the woman felt like a madness in his blood.

"Ten thousand pounds," fell from his mouth.

Silence so thick one would need an ax to cut it filled the air before a stunned laugh escaped her. "Then why not twenty thousand?" she scoffed.

Indeed, why not?

"It's a wager."

She blinked, and a line of distress formed between her eyebrows. She was a gaming hell owner; she understood what had just happened.

They'd made a wager.

She'd only stated the ridiculous amount to get him to leave off, but he'd accepted and now here they were—bound by a wager.

One she was no doubt rethinking.

"And if—when—Filthy Habit wins," he began, quickly binding her to it before she could balk.

She cut across him. "I'm good for the twenty thousand, of course."

He didn't doubt it, but he realized something.

He didn't want her twenty thousand pounds.

He wanted..."One night."

"Pardon?"

"One night," he repeated, hardly able to warrant the words emerging from his mouth.

"One night?"

"One night in my bed."

Shock traced through Julian. In fact, he might be even more shocked than Lady Tessa.

He didn't spend the night with women.

Particularly not ladies.

And certainly not sirens.

"You cannot be serious."

"You'll find that I am."

Her eyes narrowed, and five long seconds dragged past before decision appeared within silver-blue depths "You have a wager."

How easily she'd agreed. Too easily..."You don't think Filthy Habit will win."

"We shall see, won't we?"

Oh, how he couldn't wait for Filthy Habit to wipe that smug expression off her face.

"You'll be attending Derby Day, of course," he said.

"I believe I shall."

Good.

He would see her proven wrong in real time.

For now, best he leave before she thought better of the entire matter and changed her mind. He came to his feet and offered a slight bow. "Lady Tessa."

He pivoted on his heel and saw himself out.

With a light step, Julian's feet hit Sloane Street cobbles. Filthy Habit would win…

And Julian would have Lady Tessa in his bed.

At once, a sharp dagger of panic sliced through him.

What had he done?

This must've been how Pandora felt in the instant before she opened the box.

And yet, like her, he wasn't able to curb the momentum and stop himself—even as he understood his debauched blood drove it.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't able to curb it.

And it had everything to do with Lady Tessa Calthorp.