“It’s a cottage Rafe turned into a retreat. Damien and I are staying here for the party. It’s been a godsend. I would be afraid of what might be waiting for me in my bed every night if we were staying at Wintermarsh.”
She turned in order to see his profile. “Are you suggesting young ladies might await you in bed in order to seduce you?”
“Or to simply catch me in the parson’s mousetrap.”
“That’s rather jaded.” She faced the front.
The cottage was small but charming, and a lantern flickered through the windows. A man-sized shadow flicked the curtains aside. Damien Northcutt peered out. Simon merely raised a hand and continued along the path. Jessica relaxed in his hold. She hadn’t been sure of his intent, but it seemed he was as honorable as he declared.
Needles and leaves softened the clomps of Moonlight’s hooves. “You and Mr. Northcutt seem to be great friends.”
“Besides family, of course, I would count him as my one true friend.”
Surprise had her twisting to study his profile once more, but the shadows were deep under the trees and his expression remained a mystery. “You are friendly and amusing and kind. How could you not possess more friends than you could count?”
“You are the kind one.” His laugh was rueful. “I used to have scads of friends. Or at least, I thought I did. One of them turned out to be unworthy of my trust, and as a result, my sister was almost irreparably harmed. Rafe saved her. And me, if you want to put a fine point upon it.”
“You were betrayed.”
“Indeed. It cut more deeply than I can describe.” He was quiet for a moment, as if needing to gather himself. “Afterward, I cut the hangers-on out of my life. I quit drinking and gambling and chasing skirts. I became the sober statesman you see now.”
“Not so sober if you are wooing a lady’s maid, Your Grace.” As soon as the teasing words were out of her mouth, the sympathy she felt was replaced by disquiet.
If she confessed and told him she was Jessica Tremaine masquerading as a maid, he would never forgive her. His trust had been badly broken long ago and healed like a poorly set broken leg, leaving him forever hobbled.
“And what of you?” he asked with a lightness that felt forced.
“What about me?”
“Has there been an event that shaped your outlook on life for good or ill?”
His question cut to the wound she carried. She should make something up, yet what came out of her mouth shocked her, for it was the truth. “My mother killed herself.”
He tightened his arm around her and brushed his lips over her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
“I found her hanging from a rafter.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
He whispered words of comfort, but it was his physical nearness that gave her the courage to continue. He was a rock to cling to in the tempest.
“I screamed for help and grabbed her legs, thinking to save her, but it was much too late.” The regrets she had hoarded slipped out. “It was my fault. I should have done more.”
“That’s ridiculous. You were a child.”
Anger she had tamped down for years bubbled out. “It’s wrong of me, but sometimes I’m so angry with her for leaving. That’s sinful, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s understandable. You have every right to feel anger and grief and regret.”
His absolution meant more than she could put into words. Taking his hand, she pressed a kiss into his palm. Moonlight shuffled to a stop. Simon cupped her face and brought their lips together in the gentlest of kisses.
Jessica wrapped her hand around his forearm. The sinewy strength reignited the need in her belly. He broke away first, and only her pride kept her from reaching for more.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For listening to me and allowing me to listen to you. Our burdens lessen when we share them.”
As a matter of fact, she did feel lighter. Not carefree—she would never qualify as such—but it was as if there was room for something more than anger and grief and regret.
He turned Moonlight down a narrower side path. Jessica closed her eyes and allowed herself to simply enjoy his closeness. The next thing she knew, he whispered in her ear. “Wake up, beautiful girl.”
She started upright and popped her eyes open. “What happened?”
He chuckled. “You fell asleep in my arms.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I’m only sorry it was on the back of a horse and not in a feather bed.”
A blush ignited. “Your Grace, you shouldn’t say such things.”
“Perhaps not.” He dismounted and left her tottering on the saddle. But not for long. He took her waist, and she slipped into his arms like a rag doll. “Our picnic will have to wait. You have to rise early to take care of your mistress.”
“The house party is nearly over.”
“I thought the week would be interminable, and now I don’t want it to end.”
She didn’t want to ask what was next. Nothing could be next.
“May I beg a favor?” Simon folded the blanket and gathered the basket with the uneaten tarts and uncorked champagne.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Be careful what boons you grant, Miss Blackwell.” A wicked smile flashed across his face before he became serious once more. He gathered Moonlight’s reins. “Will you look after Miss Tremaine’s bruises and let me know if things progress in a more violent manner between her and Goforth?”
“What would you do if the situation did progress?”
“I would act to protect her.”
Jessica was beset by a myriad of feelings. Chiefly among them was a warmth she couldn’t describe, but there was a green spike of jealousy underneath. Jealousy directed at… herself. Damn and blast. Her masquerade was growing more complicated by the minute.
But as she’d said, the house party was almost over. Her grasp at happiness would soon leave her empty-handed. She couldn’t give him up now. Not yet.
“Shall we plan to meet again?” she asked tentatively.
“I would like that very much.” He shot her a glance. “There is a gazebo at the edge of the gardens overlooking the lake. It would offer pretty views of the moonrise.”
“And solitude.” Jessica might be inexperienced and innocent, although less so after this evening, but she wasn’t a fool.
“And solitude,” he repeated with a ruefulness she couldn’t help but find charming. “If you would rather, I could meet you in the kitchens under Mrs. Potts’s eagle-eyed gaze.”
She laughed. If his plan was to woo her, it was progressing splendidly. The evening had been a revelation. Her confession had lightened the yoke across her shoulders, and she was certain his admission of past regrets had been unusual for him.
Of course, his admission meant he could never discover her true identity. Their liaison must end at the conclusion of the house party. Tomorrow night might well be their last evening together.
The stables came into view. All was quiet. The house and its occupants slumbered. He stopped at the edge of the path and set the basket down. Taking one of her hands, he linked their fingers. “Will you be all right?”
He was referring to sneaking back into the house, of course, but the question resonated deeper. For the first time in a long time, she thought she might survive with a piece of her soul intact.
She leaned up to brush a kiss across his cheek, the first bristles of his night beard making an appearance. “Thank you.”
He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Until tomorrow?”
“Until tomorrow.” She scampered toward the servants’ entrance, unable to stop herself from pausing in the doorway and looking back. He hadn’t moved. She raised a hand in farewell, and he threw her a kiss in exchange.
One fact crystallized. Her childhood infatuation had deepened until she felt like she was drowning. She loved a duke.
; Chapter 14
There were advantages to being an early riser during house parties. Many of the ladies remained abed until luncheon after enjoying the late-night revelries, especially since the week of entertainment was coming to an end.
Voices had Simon pausing outside the drawing room doors. If necessary, he would tiptoe past and beg breakfast directly from Mrs. Potts. Minerva’s husky laugh mingled with Rafe’s deep voice. Simon sighed and entered the drawing room with a murmured greeting, not surprised to see the Wyndams had joined his sister and Rafe. Marcus tended to rise early to tend to his horses.
Simon was, however, more than a little surprised to spot Miss Tremaine tucked into the corner of the settee between the couples. Coffee, his preferred morning drink, was steaming from a pot on the table. He gratefully poured a cup and added a single cube of sugar.
“Dare I ask what the plans are for the day, Minerva?” Simon savored the strong brew, already perking up after his long evening with Miss Blackwell.
“A walk around the estate this afternoon if the weather holds and cards tonight. I expect you there to partner with the young ladies. And then tomorrow we will prepare for the dance. I’ve invited half of Lipton, so it should be a merry time.”
“I suppose I’m grateful you aren’t planning to auction my hand off as a parting gift,” Simon said dryly.
“I might consider it if you were in the dun.” Minerva sent a nakedly affectionate glance toward her husband. “I’ve been known to make bargains with the devil before.”
Simon barked a laugh, drained his cup, and poured another.
“You’re not hard on the eyes, as I’m sure you know. You could have your pick of ladies.” Delilah tilted her head and studied him as one would a marble bust before turning to draw Miss Tremaine into the conversation. “What do you think, Miss Tremaine?”
It was obvious the conversation was the last thing she wanted to be a part of. Dressed in drab brown, she sank into the corner like a mouse hiding from a barn cat. “He’s not ugly, I suppose.”
Rafe choked on his sip of coffee. After regaining his composure, he wagged a finger at Simon and grinned. “Not ugly. That’s how I’m going to describe you from now on.”
Miss Tremaine looked mortified, and if possible, she curled in on herself even more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Don’t pay them any mind. You are now a fast favorite with this bunch for putting me in my place.” Simon smiled ruefully, hoping to set her at ease.
A comfortable silence fell. Or at least comfortable for everyone else. Miss Tremaine glanced around with wide eyes and obvious nerves. “I’m sure when you meet a lady of appropriate breeding, you will settle down.”
“If only.” Minerva poked him in the leg. “The house is full of ladies of appropriate breeding, and my brother shows no interest whatsoever. It’s almost as if someone else has already garnered his affections.”
Minerva tread too close to the truth for his comfort. He kept his face blank and his tone light. “I’m waiting for you to provide a ledger with notations for each. Width of hips. Condition of teeth. Family history of lunacy. Anything else I’m missing?”
“A copy of her bloodlines from Debrett’s, Your Grace?” Miss Tremaine held a hand up to partially hide her smile, but her teeth were straight and in fine shape, he noted.
“I concur, bloodlines are very important when it comes to breeding.” Marcus banged a fist on the arm of his chair like a gavel.
Delilah rolled her eyes. “Then why did you choose the daughter of a cit?”
Marcus leaned over to brush a kiss over his wife’s mouth. “Because, unlike Simon, I needed the coin.”
Delilah shoved him away with a laugh. Simon watched Miss Tremaine watch the couple. She stared as if observing a rarity in nature. While he couldn’t be sure, he assumed her mother and Goforth’s union had not been the model of a healthy, affectionate marriage. Then again, most ton marriages weren’t. Simon was lucky, or unlucky, enough to be exposed on a regular basis to three such unions. His sister and Rafe, Delilah and Marcus, and Lily and Gray Masterson.
“You will face the gauntlet in the spring, Miss Tremaine. Will you be ready?” Minerva asked over the rim of her cup.
“I won’t be sought after. I doubt I’ll even be asked to dance. Which is a good thing as I am a dreadful dancer.” Miss Tremaine let out a small little laugh, but no accompanying smile.
“The country dances can be complicated, but surely you can waltz? It’s all the rage.”
Miss Tremaine shook her head, her gaze on her lap. “I’m afraid not. Goforth didn’t think the expense of a dancing master was necessary.”
Minerva popped up. “That must be remedied immediately.”
Rafe rose and was at the door in a blink. “On that note, I need to ride out to the west pasture.”
Marcus was on his heels. “I’ll join you.”
Simon set down his cup with a clatter to make his own escape but Minerva cuffed his wrist. “Not so fast.”
“But—” He pointed at the door, but he’d already been abandoned by Rafe and Marcus. “The bastards,” he muttered.
“If Miss Tremaine is to learn to waltz, she requires a partner, and you are an impeccable dancer.” Minerva pushed a chair aside to leave a cramped space on the rug. “Delilah, could you do the honors at the piano?”
“As long as your expectations are low.” Delilah sat on the bench and arranged her skirts.
“Come, Miss Tremaine.” Minerva crooked her finger playfully, but her voice had taken on shades of a general.
Not surprisingly, Miss Tremaine obeyed but with obvious reluctance. Simon stood back while Minerva taught her the count and basic steps.
Minerva snapped her fingers at Delilah. “Waltzing music, but keep it slow until she can pair the steps with the beat.”
After executing the proper steps side by side, Minerva gestured him over. “Time to try with a partner.”
Simon stepped in front of Miss Tremaine, placed one hand lightly on her back, and held his other hand out in the classic waltz position. She didn’t lift her hand to join with his. Minerva chuffed, stepped behind her, and lifted her hand. Simon captured it, expecting a limp fish, but a strength was hidden under the threadbare lace of her glove. He gave her hand a quick, hopefully reassuring, squeeze. It must have worked, because she didn’t require Minerva’s help to place her other hand lightly onto his shoulder.
Her gaze remained on her feet, so his view was the top of her white mobcap. His fingers itched to snatch the hideous thing off her head, but he didn’t. He was beginning to wonder if her mode of dress was a defense against Goforth’s attention. As long as her stepfather dismissed her, she could remain unwed and in the country out of his reach, both physically and emotionally speaking. While it had worked thus far, it seemed her time was up.
While Delilah hit the occasional sour note, the music was lively, and Simon found himself swaying to the beat. “I’ll count us down, shall I?”
A nod was her only response. She was as stiff as a tree trunk, and he hoped not as rooted in place. He counted them down and then took a step. Miss Tremaine stumbled in the opposite direction, her face bumping into his chest, her mobcap tickling his nose.
Under the fustiness of her clothes was a lighter scent. Pleasant and familiar. She smelled like Miss Blackwell. Not surprising as they might share the same soaps. Nevertheless, the strength of longing was unexpected. Memories of the night before with his nose buried in Miss Blackwell’s hair and his lips gliding along her skin overwhelmed him.
“No, no, no. You must maintain the proper form, Miss Tremaine.” Minerva peeled Miss Tremaine’s face from his waistcoat, and he tightened his arms to keep their form correct. “Try again.”
Simon counted them off once more. This time, Miss Tremaine stepped in the correct direction and managed a few steps before tramping on his foot.
She broke their form and covered her face. “I’m so sorry. I’m hopeless.”
; “Of course you aren’t. You are merely inexperienced. Don’t give up. You’ve almost got it.” Simon took her wrists and pulled them away from her face. “Believe it or not, it would help if you looked up at me and not at your feet.”
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to stare somewhere around his sternum. Her mouth was tight, her lips thin, and her face paler than normal. He gripped her more firmly in order to guide her with a stronger hand. He counted down and off they went. She stumbled over the edge of the rug, and he slid his hand toward her waist to keep her moving when she might have stopped.
Something was off, but he didn’t have time to figure out what. She jerked to the side as if stung by a wasp. He did his best to right her, but his efforts only sent him stumbling after her. He might have saved them both if it hadn’t been for the ottoman Minerva had shoved to the side.
He didn’t have time to curse, much less call out a warning. He shifted in order to save Miss Tremaine from the brunt of the fall. Without being able to brace himself, he hit shoulder first, his head thumping on the wood floor.
Dazed, he closed his eyes and dreamed of Miss Blackwell. She was on top of him, her hands running over his body with a frantic need he mirrored. Her fingers sifted through his hair, and her scent blossomed around him. He wrapped a hand around her nape and drew her face to his.
His dreams were often lurid, but rarely did they seem so real. He could almost feel her lips against his, soft and inviting. He slipped his tongue to touch hers. For a heartbeat, she responded in kind, tangling her tongue with his. Then she vanished into the mist.
A sharp, unpleasant scent had him shaking his head and rearing backward to escape. Minerva squatted over him, capping a vial of smelling salts. Her eyes were wide with worry and something else. “Are you well?”
His head throbbed, and upon examination, a goose egg marked the epicenter of the pain. Miss Tremaine was being comforted by Delilah at the drawing room door. He tried to fit together the fragments of the past few minutes. He remembered falling and then…
A Daring Deception Page 15
