Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (21 page)

Fortunately there was a healthy squirrel population; Shakespeare would be busy for as long as needed.

“But there’s no music.”

“I shall hum.” He turned to face her. “We will start with the waltz.” He started untying her bonnet. He couldn’t waltz with a bonnet poking him in the face.

Her eyes widened in alarm, and her fingers flew up to stop him. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Relax.” He gently shook off her hold and finished with the ribbon, lifting her headgear off and placing it on a nearby bench. “Let’s just have fun.” Had she ever had fun? He offered her his other hand. “Trust me.”

That was the heart of the problem, wasn’t it? Whom had she been able to trust in her life? No one but herself.

He would convince her to trust him.

She hesitated, but then gave in. “Oh, very well, but this is ridiculous.”

He didn’t waste time arguing. He began to hum and then to dance.

“You’re a bit flat, you know,” she said.

“Quite likely. I’ve been told I can’t carry a tune. You’ll be delighted with Miss Addison’s efforts when I take you back inside.”

“I don’t think she approves of me.”

Frances was moving easily with him now that she wasn’t focused on getting the steps right. He urged her a little closer—closer than would be permitted in a ballroom. But it was just the two of them—and Shakespeare and the squirrels, of course.

“And why do you care what Miss Addison thinks?”

She stumbled slightly. He caught her. Their bodies were almost touching.

“I don’t care.”

He could smell the light, clean scent of her hair and skin.

“It’s all right if you do,” he said. He wished it was summer, when they’d have on far fewer layers of clothing. “No one likes to be disliked, but we all are, by someone.”

Did she feel it, this heavy, dark, insistent thrum? Did she know what it was?

He did—all too well. But he hadn’t felt it in a long, long time, and he’d never felt it with a marriageable woman.

Marriageable? Good God. Mama was supposed to save him from having to marry Miss Hadley. He was far too young to wed. Ash and Ned had made mice-feet of their early nuptials. And Miss Hadley didn’t even like him much.

The throb of attraction wasn’t persuaded. If anything, it intensified. His brain was arguing with his body, and his body was winning.

Well, he might as well enjoy the sensations for the moment. His thinking would clear once he wasn’t in such close proximity to the woman.

He smiled and led her through a turn. “You will find it hard to believe, but even I am disliked by some people.”

Her eyebrows went up theatrically. “Really? How shocking.”

Good, she was teasing him—and she was dancing very well, even without music, since he couldn’t talk and hum at the same time.

“And you aren’t devastated by that knowledge?” Her tone was still mocking, but there was a thread of sincerity there, too.

“I am not, because I am liked by the people I care about.”

And he cared about Miss Prickly Hadley. He moved them deeper into the trees. What he was going to do was very stupid, but he didn’t care. The heavy beat in his groin was begging him to do
something
to satisfy it.

This would hardly do that. In fact, it would likely make the pain greater. If he was lucky, Frances would slap him soundly, and that sting might distract him from this deeper ache.

“Though there is one person I find I care about very much, but whom I suspect doesn’t like me at all.” They were in the most secluded spot in the little park, completely alone except for the birds and squirrels and Shakespeare.

“Really? And who might that be?”

Did she know her body was moving so closely, so well with his? Could she hear the seductive note that had crept into her beautiful voice?

Her mind probably didn’t know, but her body did.

“You,” he murmured. He stopped, bent his head. “I care about you.”

And then he brushed her lips with his.

She’d never been kissed before. She’d never wanted to be kissed. In truth, she’d never thought about kissing at all.

Jack’s lips were dry and firm. They skimmed over her mouth with the slightest friction, but the effect was devastating. Heat pooled low in her belly and her chest ached.

He lifted his head. His hazel eyes were warm and lazy and fearfully intense.

A thread of panic whispered through her stunned brain. He would see all the way to her soul if she didn’t look away. But she was like a mouse entranced by a snake. She couldn’t move.

Gently, he pulled her closer until her body touched his from breast to thigh. Her bones turned liquid; she had to lean against him, unable to stand without his help.

This was a
very
bad idea. She should push away from him immediately. She knew he would let her go.

But need and wonder and curiosity silenced her good sense. She
wanted
to find out what would happen next.

His mouth came down again. It touched her forehead and her temple and her cheekbone. Her lips ached for it to touch them, too, and she sighed with relief when it finally did.

And then the heat in her belly exploded into a raging furnace, and what little caution she had left evaporated. She slid her hands around his back, straining to bring him even closer. A hard ridge pressed into her stomach; she wanted it lower, pressing against the part of her that ached the most.

She was turning into someone she didn’t recognize, but she didn’t care.

And then Jack raised his head. She made a small sound of distress and displeasure and tightened her arms, but he loosened them and stepped back.

“It’s time to take Shakespeare inside, Frances. Miss Addison must be wondering what has become of us.”

Miss Addison? Who was . . . oh yes, of course! The elderly woman playing the pianoforte. How could she have forgotten her name for even an instant?

“Yes.” She cleared her throat, and her befogged brain cleared, too. Good God! She’d been clutching Jack, pressing against him. “Yes indeed.”

She suddenly understood why women allowed themselves to be seduced. Something in men’s kisses turned their minds to mush. Well, now that she was aware of the danger, she would guard against it.

 

 

The next morning, the day of Ned’s and Ellie’s wedding, Frances stood in the blue drawing room with Shakespeare, waiting for Ellie to come down. She hadn’t slept well—she’d kept dreaming of Jack and waking hot and uncomfortable, the coverlet in knots. Now she was trying hard not to look at him.

“What can be taking the women so long?” Ellie’s father asked no one in particular. He was standing by the hearth, dressed in his clerical robes,
The Book of Common Prayer
in his hands. He looked happy, proud, and perhaps a little nervous.

Ellie was still upstairs with her mother and the duchess. They’d invited Frances to join them, but she hadn’t wanted to intrude. She didn’t belong, not really. Yes, Ellie had asked her to be her witness, but that had been because none of her sisters could come, being busy at home with their families.

“Last-minute preparations, I’m sure,” the duke said. “You’re married; you know how women can be when they are dressing for a special occasion.” He grinned. “And I suspect my dear duchess has been weeping all over your daughter.”

The vicar grinned back at him. “As has been my wife.” He glanced over at Ned. “Tears of joy, of course.”

Her
mother would never cry at
her
wedding . . .

Damn it, what the hell did it matter? She was never getting married. And her mother had done far too much crying, all because she’d made the grave error of wedding a rake.

Ned laughed. “Of course.” He looked eagerly at the door for what must have been the hundredth time.

But what if this wedding
were
hers—hers and Jack’s?

Frances bent down to scratch Shakespeare’s ears and hide her blush. Blast it, she was going insane. She was
not
going to make her mother’s mistake.

The sooner she talked to Frederick about getting her funds and finding that cottage, the better. Jack had sent a letter to Frederick’s new rooms, asking her brother to call on them at his earliest convenience.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. He was standing on the other side of the vicar with Ned. “Poor Ellie might have finally come to her senses and realized tying herself to my dull-as-ditchwater brother was a mistake.”

Ned punched him in the arm, and Jack laughed—the sound drew her as the Sirens’ songs had drawn sailors to their deaths.

He was so handsome in his black evening wear and snowy white cravat. Her silly heart started dancing an idiotic waltz like the one they’d danced in the park. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and she watched his lips curl into a lazy sort of smile. Oh. She met his gaze—it was intent, hot, and . . . laughing. He winked.

She jerked her eyes back to Shakespeare.

Thank God Ellie arrived then, looking beautiful in a white dress with red ribbons and a fine lace veil.

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long,” the duchess said, walking arm in arm with Ellie’s mother. Mrs. Bowman’s eyes and nose were red, and she carried a crumpled-up handkerchief in her right hand, but she was smiling. “As you can see, the delay was well worth it. Not that Ellie doesn’t always look lovely, but she looks especially lovely today, don’t you think, Ned?”

Ned nodded, his smile almost blinding.

“You
are
a beautiful bride, Ellie,” the vicar said, before straightening his glasses and opening his prayer book. He cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

Frances left Shakespeare to go stand beside Ellie.

“‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here . . .’”

Ellie was almost glowing with happiness. Had Frances’s mother looked this happy when she’d married? She’d been only twenty-one and had left her home, her family, and her friends for the man she must have loved beyond all reason.

Or had she simply been young and rebellious? Had she regretted her decision almost immediately, realizing that kisses and a handsome face were not enough?

Ned took Ellie’s right hand in his and recited after the vicar. “I, Edward Walter Valentine, take thee, Eleanor Ursula Bowman, to my wedded wife . . .” His voice was so strong and confident.

Had her father sounded confident, too? Had he ever intended to keep his vows?

Jack looked uncharacteristically serious, paying strict attention to the vicar’s words. What sort of husband would he make?

It might be comforting to have a partner, to not be so alone . . .

But men always left, didn’t they? Or at least they left her. Her father. Frederick.

“‘With this ring I thee wed’”—Ned slipped the ring on Ellie’s finger. “‘With my body I thee worship . . .’”

Oh! Hot need shot through her, and her eyes went unwillingly to Jack’s. He had the same hungry expression he’d had in the park when he’d kissed her.

Frederick had best come back and give her her money before she did something dangerously stupid.

 

 

Jack stood by a pillar near some open windows and surveyed his parents’ ballroom. Ah, there was Miss Wharton. He’d been dodging her all evening again, but at the moment she was dancing with Stevenson, a tall, thin, hook-nosed boor. He almost felt sorry for her.

As expected, Ned’s and Ellie’s wedding ball was a shocking squeeze. Hundreds of elegantly clad bodies crammed into a space that would better accommodate half—or even a third—their number. Clearly, no one lucky enough to receive an invitation had declined. They all wanted to see the Duchess of Love’s London-averse second son. And if Ash, whose odd marital situation had fascinated the gabble-grinders for years, were here as well, Father would have had to station armed guards at the doors to keep the
ton
out.

At least Frances didn’t have to worry about making a mistake on the dance floor—there wasn’t room to take a misstep. And she’d done fine when he’d had his set with her. Who was she dancing with now? He searched the moving mass of people.

Pettigrew. Odd. He’d have thought Pettigrew would have steered clear of Frances. Besides the fact that the fellow usually came to Mama’s gatherings just to eat the lobster patties, he’d been the author of Frances’s disgrace. If he’d kept his lips sealed, Frances might have been able to slip quietly back to the country.

Which would have been a very good thing. An excellent thing. Jack’s life would be so much simpler if Frances weren’t in it. He wouldn’t have had to play dancing master; he would have been able to spend more time searching for the Slasher.

And he wouldn’t have had his sleep disrupted by extremely inappropriate, erotic dreams.

Hell.

Yes, she was making his life hell. She was contrary and argumentative and completely infuriating.

And she had soft lips and a strong will and indomitable courage and she needed him.

And maybe he needed her. He certainly felt an unpleasantly empty feeling at the thought of her leaving.

Well, there was no point thinking about it. She was here, and she would stay here.

So why was Pettigrew dancing with her? Perhaps he regretted his actions and was trying to make amends. That was good. It should help quiet the gabble-grinders.

The man was more lumbering than lithe, but Frances seemed to be managing as his partner. She had a slight crease between her brows, and her lips were moving as if she was talking herself through the figures.

Those lips . . .

He shouldn’t have kissed her yesterday. He’d known it at the time, but he’d been powerless to stop himself. She’d looked so pretty, with her green eyes and pale skin and her short red hair almost glowing in the sunlight. She’d reminded him of a disgruntled pixie.

He shouldn’t have kissed her, but he’d like to do so again very soon. That first time she’d been hesitant and tentative—but not afraid, thank God. Not prudish. She’d obviously never been kissed before. But the second kiss . . .

He shifted position, shielding a suddenly obvious part of his anatomy behind a handy potted palm. The second kiss had been rather chaste, too, but his reaction had not. If he hadn’t immediately escorted Frances back into the music room and Miss Addison’s, er, deflating presence, he might have taught her an entirely different form of dance.

He’d spent far too much time during Ned’s wedding imagining what
his
wedding night would be like if Miss Hadley was his bride. She was so passionate about everything else, how could she not be equally fearless in bed?

“Which young lady has put that grin on your face, my friend? Not my newfound cousin, surely?”

Damn! Thank God for the palm, or Trent would be commenting on more than his smile. “Trent! What do you mean by sneaking up on me?”

“There was no sneaking involved. A herd of elephants could have stampeded by you and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I think I would have noticed elephants in my parents’ ballroom.”

Trent laughed. “It looks like my cousin is dancing with an elephant right now. Have you ever seen Pettigrew capering about like this before? I thought he only came to these things for the food.”

“I was surprised to see him dancing, too, but thought perhaps he was trying to help mend Frances’s reputation, since he was the one who started the rumors.”

Trent snorted. “You’re giving the man far too much credit. If it isn’t edible, it’s not memorable as far as he’s concerned.”

“You may be right.” Pettigrew was now stumbling through an allemande, an action that looked horribly familiar. “You know, I think I
have
seen him dance recently, but the sight was so hideous, I blocked it from my memory.”

“I just hope my poor cousin minds her toes. It would be a shame to have her lamed so early in the evening.”

“Yes.” Jack flinched as Frances did a little hop to avoid being trod upon. Compared to Pettigrew, she must feel quite accomplished.

A cold burst of air came in through the windows and Trent sighed happily. “If I’d realized you’d found the one cool spot in this infernal room, I’d have come over sooner. By gad, this place is stifling with all the candles and the people packed in cheek by jowl.” He wrinkled his nose. “And a great many of the guests need to discover the joys of clean linen and regular bathing.”

“True.” Frances was now being careful to keep her arm fully extended whenever she had to clasp Pettigrew’s hand, better ensuring a safe distance between her feet and his. It was a very good thing she was tall.

But perhaps Trent had sought him out with news. Jack glanced around and dropped his voice. “Any luck finding witnesses to the murders?”

Trent’s brows snapped down into a scowl. “No, and it’s damned frustrating. You’d think someone would have seen something. Someone
must
have. We just haven’t located that person yet.”

Jack nodded. “I didn’t think we’d find anyone to come forward about the killings in Covent Garden, but I was hoping we’d have more luck with the society girls. The damn gossips are busy enough about everything else. You’ve asked the servants, of course?”

“Several times.” Trent started to run his hand through his hair, but stopped himself before he disordered his carefully arranged locks. “You know how busy they are at these things. I’ll wager none of the Greycliffe staff can tell you tomorrow who left this party with whom. If the woman wasn’t struggling or in some way bringing attention to herself, why would anyone notice?”

That was, unfortunately, too true. “So did you talk to Mrs. Black, the woman Lady Barbara said she was getting a ride home with from the Chesterman ball?” If he hadn’t been so damn busy with Frances, he’d have talked to Mrs. Black himself.