by Tessa Dare
“How do you mean to do that?”
“I’m going to give you a tour of Mayfair. Tonight.”
“What? No.” He drew to a halt and planted his boots on the snow-dusted pavement. “I am delivering you home at once. It’s already grown unforgivably late.”
“No, it’s perfect. This might be my last chance to see the places I love.” She arched an eyebrow, and a smile touched her lips. “Besides, you can’t take me home if I haven’t told you where I live.”
Damn and blast. She had him there.
He didn’t know their destination, and honor wouldn’t allow him to abandon her. If she wished, she could drag him all over London like a dog on a leash.
What was worse, he couldn’t bring himself to be disappointed about it. The prospect of spending more time with her—alone—warmed his body in ways no woolen tailcoat could do.
Her eyes gleamed with self-satisfaction. “It would seem you are at my mercy, Your Grace.”
In more ways than you could know, Miss Ward.
“If we’re going to do this, you must promise me one thing. I don’t want to hear ‘Your Grace’ again for the remainder of the night.”
“Then how would you have me address you? As Thorndale?”
“God, no. Call me James.”
“Is that your family name?”
“No, it’s my given name.”
Her surprise was evident. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. James is a common enough name.”
“Well, yes, of course. But I didn’t think dukes were ever addressed by their Christian names. Not by mere acquaintances, anyway.”
He made a show of looking up and down the empty street, and then leaned close to murmur his reply. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
She smiled. “Very well then, James.”
Hallelujah. Hearing his name from her lips set him free, somehow. He felt like a boy shedding his school uniform on the last day of Easter term.
“Come along, then.” She took him by the hand and tugged. “Prepare to be amazed.”
He already was, rather.
And if he wasn’t exceedingly careful to keep himself in check . . . ? Before the night was out, he just might amaze her, too.
Chapter Eight
If she was going to show him Mayfair as she lived and breathed it, Louisa decided she might as well begin at the beginning.
“This way, then.” She waved him down the street, around a few turnings, and halted in front of the church. “St. George’s Hanover Square.”
He stared up at the columned edifice, unimpressed. “You know, we do have churches in Yorkshire. Ones that aren’t penned in like chickens and stained with soot.”
“Yes, but this church is ours. My parents were married here, as were my grandparents, and my eldest brother just last year, a few weeks before his regiment was sent to Canada. It’s a family tradition, I suppose you could say.” A tradition Louisa wouldn’t be continuing, sadly. She’d be married in some tiny chapel in Jersey, if she married at all. “I was christened here, too. All of us Ward children were.”
“All of you? How many are there?”
“Six. Three girls, three boys. Francis—Frank—is the oldest. Then me, Margaret, and Katherine all in a row. Poor Frank despaired of ever having a brother until Harold finally came along. William’s the youngest, just seven.” They turned and walked on. “And yourself?”
“I don’t have much family to speak of. My father’s gone, and my brother, as well.”
“Your mother?”
“Departed, in the noneuphemistic sense. She wasn’t happy in the match. Once she’d done her duty and given my father two sons, she ran off to New York. I haven’t seen her since I was a young child.”
“I’m so sorry.”
His arm tightened beneath her hand. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
“You’re not boring me. Were you close to your brother?”
“When we were boys, yes. But then St. John was sent to live with my uncle, so he could prepare to assume the title. I stayed with my father and learned to manage the land.”
“Goodness. That sounds terribly lonely.”
“Not really.”
“Just the two of you on a farm in the middle of Yorkshire?”
“It was the two of us on a respectable holding in the north of Yorkshire, with tenant farmers, a village nearby, and a market town eight miles down the road.”
“Eight miles to the nearest market town?”
“It’s an easy distance. With a cart and team, it’s less than two hours of travel.”
“Two hours, there and back?”
“Two hours each way.”
She was aghast. “How can it possibly take two hours to travel eight miles in a cart?”
He scoffed at her question. “I’m going to guess you’ve never seen a road in Yorkshire.”
Yes, he guessed correctly. With the exception of a few visits to friends in Surrey, Louisa had never seen a road outside Middlesex.
Imagine. Two hours’ travel, just to reach the nearest market. If he was so deluded as to deem that an easy distance, Louisa knew what the next stop on this tour must be.
Bond Street.
The shops were closed at this time of night. Since there was no traffic, they strolled down the center of the street. As if the world, and all its treasures, belonged to them alone.
The shop fronts had been decorated with swags of Christmas greenery and golden stars. When combined with the glistening layer of snow, it made for an impressive sight, even with all the windows dark.
“Look.” She swept her arm in an extravagant arc. “Goods from all over the globe, crammed in this one street. You could purchase a fine Madeira, an exquisite Indian shawl, and a plume from an Australian emu, all in one afternoon.”
“I can’t imagine wanting to buy wine, scarves, and feathers all in one afternoon.” His voice deepened. “Not unless I had a very interesting evening planned.”
What a rogue he could be. Louisa suspected he was trying to shock her into a missish fluster. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“It’s not all exotic wares, of course. There are plenty of boring, practical things to buy, too.”
“I can get all the boring, practical things I need in Yorkshire.”
“Oh yes,” she teased. “At the easy distance of eight miles away. Only two hours by horse and cart!”
Abandoning the argument for the moment, Louisa wandered to the side of the lane. There, she approached a familiar display window and pressed her forehead to the glass until her breath melted a circle in the frost.
“What are we looking at?” He came to her side. “A confectionary, judging by the way you’re salivating.”
“No.” She heaved a wistful, yearning sigh. “It’s books. All books.”
He knocked a crust of snow from the sign. “So it is.”
“It’s not the largest of bookshops, of course. The Temple of the Muses and Hatchard’s have much wider selections. Nevertheless, this one is my favorite.”
He cupped his hands and peered through the window. “It looks a shambles.”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Must be impossible to find what you’re searching for.”
“That’s why it’s wonderful. If it were easy to find the books I want, I’d never find the books I didn’t know existed, but once I’ve found them can’t live without.”
With one last, lingering sigh, she pushed off the window, and together they strolled on.
“If you were going to be stranded on an island,” she asked, “what three things would you take?”
He answered without hesitation. “Food, water, and a boat.”
“Don’t be purposely obtuse. You know what I mean. Assume the island has plenty of food and water, and a ship will be coming to your rescue within the year. Now, what three items would you choose to take with you?”
He jammed his hands in his waistcoat pockets and
squinted at the sky for inspiration. “A mermaid.”
Louisa rolled her eyes. “That’s one. What are the others?”
“Two more mermaids.”
“That is a ridiculous answer.”
“It isn’t, really. It’s a much better answer than wine, a shawl, and ostrich feathers.”
“Emu,” she corrected. “They were emu plumes.”
“If you say so. Regardless, it’s an absurd question. You should expect an absurd answer.”
“It’s not an absurd question for me. It’s a quite real and pressing dilemma. When we leave for Jersey, I—”
“Jersey? The more-than-halfway-to-France Isle of Jersey?”
“Yes. That’s the very real island in the question, you see, and within a month I’ll be stranded there. When we leave, I’m allowed three trunks, no more. I’ll be forced to use one for frocks and stockings and such. For the second, Mama insists I bring my trousseau. Which will be useless, as there couldn’t be any—”
Louisa bit her tongue. She’d been about to opine that there couldn’t be any interesting or attractive farmers there, but she happened to be walking with an interesting, attractive farmer at present. One with a devilish sense of humor, a liking for opinionated women, and the brute strength to toss a bare-arsed coachman down the street.
And he smelled divine, too.
Oh dear. She pushed those thoughts aside. Very far aside. All the way to the edge of her mind, where they would hopefully drop off a cliff.
“Anyhow,” she went on, “I’m left with exactly one crate in which to fit the remainder of my worldly possessions. It will be books top to bottom, of course. But which ones? I’ve been in fits trying to choose.” A new idea came to her. “Perhaps I’ll take the useful pieces of the trousseau—some handkerchiefs, a quilt—and then hide books beneath it. Who needs embroidered table linens, anyhow?”
“I couldn’t say. But if you want my advice, any modest night rails can go, as well. No newlywed groom wants anything to do with those.”
Louisa hoped the darkness concealed her fierce blush. “I suppose I’ll always have my family. They’ll keep me from dying of boredom, one way or another. We amuse and torment one another endlessly.” She laughed to herself. “My sister Kat, alone. She has the wildest notions. Just yesterday, she dug up some book of Scottish witchcraft and made an appalling shortbread.”
They walked in silence for a few moments.
“The Isle of Jersey,” he blurted out. “Why is your family moving to Jersey, of all places?”
Because of you, she wanted to cry. Because you called in an old debt that was understood to be forgiven. Because my father is insolvent now, and he was forced to take the first situation he was offered. Because our entire family is one of those pesky little business matters you’re desperate to have resolved, so you can leave London and never look back.
She didn’t dare speak a word of it aloud. Not now. Not yet. Thus far, she hadn’t succeeded in convincing him to rethink anything. Not even his shopping habits.
They stopped where Bond Street ended at Piccadilly.
“St. James’s Palace is just down that way.” She pointed. “If it were daytime, you could see it from here.”
“I’ve seen it already. From the inside.”
“Truly? Was it as grand as they say?”
“I suppose. I chiefly wanted to leave as soon as possible. I prefer the grandeur of nature.”
“Nature? Well, then. Let’s make a turning here. You can’t have a proper tour of Mayfair without a stroll through Hyde Park.”
He grabbed her by the arm, holding her back. “No, no, no. We’re not going any farther. I’ve humored you long enough. Now I’m taking you home.”
“You can’t take me home. You don’t know where it is. We’ve established this, James.”
He groaned.
“Now, on to the park.”
He stopped her again. “Not yet. At the least, we’re finding a place to warm you first. Your nose is red, and your teeth are chattering. When I finally do take you home, it won’t be with pneumonia.”
“There’s nowhere to go at this hour. All the establishments are closed.”
He peered down the street in the other direction. “What about down that way? Seems to be a fair bit of coming and going.”
“Well, of course, but that’s St. James’s Street. It’s home to all the gentlemen’s clubs. White’s and Boodle’s and so on.”
“Ah, yes. They made me a member of one of them. Can’t even recall which, honestly.”
“You’re a duke. I’m certain you’d be welcome in any of them.”
“Then let’s pay a visit to one, by God. Warm you up.”
“Visit one? I’ve never even walked down St. James’s Street before. My mother would never allow it. Too scandalous.”
His gaze issued a devilish challenge. “In that case, you have a choice. You can be a good girl and give me your address, so I can take you home to your mother directly. Otherwise, this tour of yours includes St. James’s Street, and we’re walking down it together. Now.”
Chapter Nine
Strolling down St. James’s Street on the arm of the Duke of Thorndale . . . Now this was truly something. Sounds of pleasure filtered out from the row of clubs, heightening the excitement of encroaching on the forbidden.
“I think this is the one,” James said, stopping on the pavement opposite the club in question. “I seem to recall receiving a notice of some kind. In honor of my uncle’s longstanding membership, they’d be pleased to extend me an invitation to join, and so forth. I never did reply, but I suppose they’ll admit me just the same.” He moved toward the door.
Louisa stayed in place.
“What are you waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go in for a bit.”
“I’m not allowed to go in. No women are permitted. Well, perhaps some women are permitted, but they wouldn’t be respectable women.”
“They’ll admit you if you’re with me. I am Thorndale, and that must be good for something.”
She stood firm. “I am not the most conventional of women, but even for me, that is a scandal too far. There’s too much risk of being recognized. Some kinds of gossip can follow a woman even so far as Jersey.”
With a muttered oath, he pushed a hand through his hair. “Then wait here. I’ll be two minutes. If anyone or anything frightens you, shout.”
“Shout what?”
He made an aimless gesture. “‘Help,’ I suppose. Or ‘fire’ or ‘murder.’ In a pinch, ‘James’ would suffice.”
She nodded. “‘Come to me, you magnificent stag,’ it is.”
He looked at her and laughed softly. As though he weren’t laughing at her joke, but at some joke he’d told himself long ago. “I knew I liked you.”
And then he just left her with that staggering rhinoceros of a statement, giving her no choice but to rearrange her heart and mind to accommodate it.
I knew I liked you.
Did he, really? How much would he like her once he learned how they were connected by debt and circumstance? Was she being disloyal to her family if she liked him in return?
She was in so much trouble, and it had nothing to do with standing alone on St. James’s Street after midnight.
He conferred with the doorman at the entrance of the club before disappearing inside. True to his word, he emerged moments later with a bottle of brandy under his arm. “Let’s go.”
Once they’d turned a corner and walked a safe distance from the clubs, they tucked into a darkened doorway that offered some shelter from the wind. From his pocket, James produced a cordial glass and poured her a thimble of brandy. “Here. This should warm you.”
Not wanting to look missish, Louisa accepted the glass and downed its contents in one draught. That was a mistake. She very nearly coughed it right back up. She sealed her lips and swallowed with great concentration, forcing the liquid fire down her throat. Her eyes watered. So much for appearing worldly.
He d
rew a pull of brandy straight from the bottle, and she found it ridiculously manly and attractive. By the time he poured her a second glass—she sipped it this time—she was growing warm indeed. A blush heated her from the outside in, and the brandy heated her from the inside out. She was hot all over.
Oh Lord. Louisa, stop.
The doorway they shared seemed to be shrinking, pushing them closer and closer together. She felt his gaze on her, and it made her nervous, so she stared into her cordial glass. When she could bear it no more, she lifted her head. Their eyes met and held. Her breathing quickened.
It’s the brandy, she told herself. It’s only the brandy that makes him so desperately attractive. It’s only the brandy that has you yearning for a kiss.
No, not a kiss.
His kiss.
He took the glass from her and tucked it between two fingers, balancing it easily in the same hand with which he held the brandy bottle.
You can’t, you can’t. He’s the enemy.
The enemy was touching her hair, then her cheek. “You are remarkable.”
Remarkable. Not pretty or fetching or any of the few superficial compliments she’d fielded from men over the years, all of which were quickly followed with the word but. Pretty, but outspoken. Fetching, but too forward.
James had called her remarkable, full stop. “But” nothing.
His gaze settled on her lips. He moved toward her with dizzying swiftness, tilting her face to his. She sucked in her breath.
The door to the house swung open, revealing a man in a nightcap and nightclothes. “What’s this? Who are you?”
They jolted apart. In wide-eyed panic, they looked to the gentleman, then to each other, and then back to the gentleman again.
Louisa swallowed hard. “Ohhhh . . . G—”
“God rest ye merry, gentlemen,” James sang out in a robust baritone. “Let nothing you dismay.”
She blinked at him. His elbow dug into her ribs.
In a reluctant soprano, she sang the next line of the carol. “For Jesus Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day.”
