Chapter 2
Sometimes your body speaks a language you don’t yet understand.
—Venus’s Love Notes
Frances was dreaming. She was lying in the soft grass, listening to a stream burble past. Well, it was really more a torrent than a burble and too loud for a dream. And then it stopped abruptly and the ground shifted . . .
No, it was the
mattress
that shifted. Oh God, now she remembered. She was at the Crowing Cock. The Findleys must have taken pity on some late traveler and let him share her room. The sound could only be that of a man using a chamber pot.
She cracked open one eye. Sunlight leaked around the curtains. Good Lord, it was morning.
Her heart slammed against her rib cage. She’d been completely exhausted, but she’d never slept like one dead before. Had the man guessed she was female? And if he had...
Don’t panic.
She took a quick mental inventory. Her clothes all seemed to be in their proper places; she didn’t feel any different than when she’d got into bed last night. Surely she would if he’d . . . done something.
Men might be officious and overbearing and oafish, but most of them weren’t dangerous. The Findleys wouldn’t put a violent blackguard in their best bedchamber.
She opened her other eye and turned slightly so she could see her companion.
Zeus, he was naked!
She squeezed her eyes shut immediately, but that didn’t help. The image of his tall, lean, powerfully built body with its broad back and wide shoulders was imprinted on her eyelids like a candle flame she’d stared at too long.
At least he wasn’t
completely
naked. A pair of flannel drawers covered his narrow hips.
“Don’t be afraid, lad. I won’t hurt you.”
The words were soft, the tone one might use with a skittish horse on the verge of bolting.
She’d like to bolt, but he was standing between her and the door. At least he had a pleasant, educated voice—and he hadn’t yet discovered she was female.
He chuckled. “You’re acting a bit like a turtle, don’t you think? You may pull your head into your shell, but I can still see you.”
He was right, of course. She forced her eyes open.
Mistake. He was still virtually naked, and now he was facing her. She’d never seen an almost naked man. Muscles shaped his arms; brown hair sprinkled over his chest, narrowing to a line down his flat stomach to—
She snapped her gaze up to his face. Oh God, if she’d thought Mr. Littleton handsome, she’d much mistaken the matter. Littleton had been merely pretty in a weak, over-cosseted way, like a pampered housecat.
This
was a tiger.
Hazel eyes, fringed with ridiculously long lashes, studied her.
She dropped her gaze to the coverlet. His beautiful eyes were far too direct and uncomfortably probing. If she wasn’t very, very careful, he’d discover her secret.
“I really won’t hurt you.”
Ha! That was likely what the tiger said to the . . . what did tigers eat?
Anything they wanted to.
Why the hell wouldn’t he put on his clothing? Ah,
finally
he reached for his breeches.
If she tilted her head just slightly, she could watch his muscled legs slide into—
What was the matter with her? He was only a man, a breed she’d never been especially enamored of and now had vowed to avoid entirely.
An almost naked man . . .
That must be the problem. There must be some sort of animal magnetism at work. Perhaps that explained why so many supposedly intelligent women were willing to give their lives over into a man’s keeping. With luck, he’d dress and leave quickly.
She pushed herself to sit, feeling slightly more in control in that position.
“The Findleys think you’re too young to go up to London by yourself,” he said.
“I’m not.” Of course, she might not be going anywhere if Daisy was lame. This entire undertaking was one disaster after another.
He lifted a brow but didn’t argue the point. “They want me to see that you get safely to your brother.”
“What?!”
Blast it, she’d squeaked like a girl.
He only smiled. “You
are
young, aren’t you? What are you—thirteen? Twelve?”
She wasn’t going to discuss that. “I can’t travel with you, sir. I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, that’s easily remedied.” He stepped closer. His chest was just inches from her now. Was the hair on it soft or wiry? It looked soft—
Damn it, where was his shirt?
“I’m Jack Valentine,” he said, and extended his hand.
Oh God, the rake!
She shouldn’t be surprised. The man exuded seduction the way most men sweat. He could probably scratch his arse and women would swoon.
He did have a very nice arse . . .
She should
not
be thinking about the villain’s bottom.
“It’s a hand, boy,” he said, speaking in that soft, almost gentle tone again, a tone that made her insides melt. “Take it. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
She could well believe whatever seduction he promised wouldn’t hurt. He could probably make even the Almack’s patronesses do whatever he wanted.
“Frances Haddon,” she said, finally laying her hand in his.
He shook it firmly, his grip warm, dry, and strong, and then released her. Her palm tingled. She’d never touched a man’s ungloved hand before.
“How did you get to the Crowing Cock, Master Haddon?”
Why
wouldn’t he put on his shirt? “I rode, sir.”
“A long way?”
“Y-yes.” She wasn’t about to tell him where she’d come from. She did read the gossip columns occasionally, and if she remembered correctly, he knew her cousin. Not that Lord Trent would have mentioned her; he likely didn’t know she existed. His grandparents had cut all ties with her mother when she ran away with Benedict Hadley.
He finally moved away to put on his shirt. Thank
God
. She let out a long breath.
Zeus, had he heard her?
He didn’t give any indication that he had, but his face was covered at the moment.
Even his stomach was chiseled perfection.
“I came in my curricle”—his head popped out of his shirt—“but we can tie your horse behind and still easily make it to London today. As you can see”—he nodded toward the window—“the sun is out. The roads ought to be good.” He wrapped his cravat around his neck and lifted an eyebrow. “Of course, that all assumes you get out of bed sometime.”
“I only need to splash some water on my face.” She’d like a nice, long soak. Every muscle ached from her awful ride yesterday, even muscles she didn’t know she had—she flushed—especially in the area between her legs. But obviously that wasn’t possible. She climbed out of bed very gingerly.
He was looking at her as he tied his cravat. Please, God, let her disguise hold. Her thin, unremarkable figure must be good for something.
“You don’t want to change?”
Of course she did, but there was no way she could do so with him in the room, even if she had something to change into, which she didn’t. “I didn’t bring other clothes.” She’d been far too angry to think about packing when she’d left Landsford.
She was always cool, calm, and rational. She never lost her temper the way she had yesterday—and she never would again. See where it had got her? In a bedroom—in a bed!—with London’s premier rake. Her stomach churned with self-disgust.
And then Lord Jack laughed. Oh! Her stomach suddenly shivered instead. His laugh was so warm and seductive.
Seductive! Exactly.
“As I remember,” the dastardly rake said, “young boys aren’t terribly concerned about their appearance—another sign that you aren’t very old, my grubby young friend. Older youths are generally more interested in soap and water. However, I’m afraid I can’t be seen downstairs with such a disreputable-looking whelp.”
He came toward her, and she reacted instinctively, jumping back. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten about the boots she’d left at the foot of the bed last night; she stumbled over them and went crashing to the floor onto her already sore behind.
And then to make the situation a complete disaster, she burst into tears.
She slapped her hands over her face and struggled to regain control, but the damage was done. He
must
know she was a female now. And she’d spent the night alone with him in a bed . . . and they were still alone . . . and he was the king of all rakes . . .
She needed to pull herself together immediately and—
She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder.
“Don’t cry, lad.”
“I’m not crying,” she muttered between her fingers. And now he knew she was a complete imbecile as well. Of course she was crying. But she was going to stop. She
was
stopping.
“I know you aren’t crying,” he said in a strangely bracing sort of way. He’d hunkered down in front of her. “You’ve no need to cry. You’re safe with me.”
Ha.
She was ruined. It was a very good thing she’d never had any serious intention of getting married. Littleton had just been a momentary aberration. Now if only she could get out of this room in one piece . . .
Lord Jack was rubbing her shoulder. She tried to wiggle free, but then he caught her other shoulder, too, and shook her just a little.
“Francis,” he said, “I swear on my honor you’re safe.” He paused, and then said even more gently, “Did one of the older schoolboys or one of the schoolmasters hurt you? Is that why you’re running away?” His hazel eyes were warm with understanding and compassion as he handed her his handkerchief. “You don’t need to be ashamed or frightened that I’ll do the same thing to you.”
What was he talking about? She blew her nose. Whatever it was, he clearly still thought she was a boy, and that was all she cared about. Well, except she didn’t want to accept compassion when none was called for. “I’m all right.” She flushed. “I just fell on my sore bottom.”
His eyes widened, and then he laughed again.
Damn it, that sound did the most ridiculous things to her insides. It was no wonder that he was such a successful rake. His laugh must have women falling at his feet.
Except her, of course. She was made of sterner stuff.
Well, she’d already fallen, but that had been the boots’ doing.
“It’s very sore from riding yesterday.” She didn’t want him thinking she was a mewling milksop. She blew her nose again and sniffed. “I don’t usually cry.”
“Of course you don’t,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Not used to a long day riding, then?”
She nodded. She made a brief attempt to get up on her own, but she was too sore to manage it. So she had to take the hand he was still patiently extending and let him haul her to her feet. He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing.
He was at least six inches taller than she. It made her feel odd—weak and feminine and dependent.
She was not dependent on anyone, certainly not this man.
Except she likely was. If Daisy was lame, she’d need a ride to London. Damnation.
“I can’t imagine how you could stand to sleep in your clothes,” he was saying, “but at least fix your bedraggled cravat.”
She’d been hard-pressed to tie a credible knot the first time; how likely was it she’d manage the feat with Lord Jack watching? Not very, but she went over to the mirror and tried anyway. The result was a lumpy mess.
Lord Jack’s expression rapidly moved from surprise to dismay to amusement, ending in a carefully neutral look. He didn’t say a word, but Frances felt the need to defend herself.
“You make me nervous.”
“Very nervous, apparently.” The blasted man was obviously biting back a laugh. “My apologies.”
“And the cloth is very limp.”
“Indeed it is. Limp cloth makes cravat tying the very devil. I’d lend you one of mine, but unfortunately I don’t have an extra. I’m traveling light.”
Why was he traveling at all? He must have left in the middle of the birthday ball. Likely there was some scandal involved.
Better not ask. She definitely didn’t want him asking questions about
her
reasons for being on the road.
“Let me give it a try”—he smiled at her in an oddly conspiratorial way—“if you don’t mind the help, that is.”
“Very well.” She was never going to be able to tie the cravat successfully herself.
Lord Jack smiled again, as if he knew just how grudgingly she accepted his aid, and stepped behind her. His long, capable fingers made short work of dismantling the linen disaster and retying it into something approaching respectability.
She stood still and stiff. Her heart had started to pound, and she felt slightly breathless, trapped by his body and his arms, surrounded by his heat and scent, as his hands brushed close to her breasts. She should be impatient and annoyed, but this felt more like excitement.
She glared at herself.
Stupid!
She wanted nothing to do with men. She was going to ignore them all once she got Puddington to give her her money.
And in any event, this storm of feeling was all one-sided. Lord Jack thought she was a boy.
“You don’t like my efforts, Master Haddon?”
“What?” Her eyes flew up to meet his in the mirror. One of his eyebrows was cocked; he looked both amused and puzzled. She dropped her gaze back to the cravat. “Oh no, it’s fine.” He’d really worked a miracle with the poor, limp linen.
He gave a theatrical sigh and stepped back. “That’s a relief. From the way you were scowling, I was certain you were going to ring a peal over me. Now get your boots on, and we’ll go down to see what we can find for breakfast.” He grinned at her. “You must be famished, and I’ll admit to being rather hungry myself.”