Ruefully he acknowledged the perversity of his question, just minutes after dismissing any curiosity about the governess’s sad past. He was surprised to discover that he had developed an interest in her, beyond his strong desire to bed her. A mild interest.
“Nothing,” she said hastily.
He reached for her hand and wouldn’t let her pull away. “You didn’t answer my other question.”
“I said I’d let you know.”
“You may give me an answer tomorrow night. Same time, same place.”
Unable to remember when he’d been so intrigued, he placed a small bet with himself. If he had her in bed—or rather on the divan—before he left for Belgium, he’d reward himself with the Fragonard pastel that Bridges, the old robber, was demanding a ridiculous sum for.
He had to have it.
For, he realized, the sweet-faced girl in the drawing looked very much like Jane Grey.
It took all the control Jane possessed to withdraw from the library with her dignity and calm intact. Her body trembled with longing to say yes, yes, yes. To surrender to the duke’s kiss, and another and another. It had been a few months since she left her second lover, Henri Dupont, whom she had not loved but had chosen because she desired him and he was different from Mathieu. Only at night sometimes did she miss him. Now she doubted she would ever think of him again. The longing he’d inspired was nothing to what Denford could arouse in her with a flash of his eyes, a touch of a finger. When she felt his hot breath and wicked lips on her neck, her nails had dented her palms resisting the urge to surrender to him among the silken cushions of the golden divan.
Such a sinful article of furniture did not belong in a library. It would be better if their meetings were held somewhere entirely functional, like a coal cellar. But a cellar would be dark. Being alone in the dark with the Duke of Denford was not a good idea.
She reached her bedchamber, welcomed by a fire and the soft glow of a lamp on the dressing table. Her candle cast flickering shadows in the luxurious room and, by some trick, illuminated the velvet-draped bed. She needed to think and this setting was not conducive to the application of cool reason. Closing the door again, she proceeded to the floor above.
Learning that the duke’s inheritance had been unexpected was a surprise. She’d made the assumption that he had come into the title in the usual way, through the direct line and having held some lesser title. Instead, she learned, he must once have been a mere Mr. Fortescue. Never once had it occurred to her that the Duke of Denford himself was a candidate for her family’s betrayer. Sitting on a hard schoolroom chair, she put her elbows on the table, cupped her cheeks, and closed her eyes to summon a distant memory.
She’d never been presented to the Mr. Fortescue. During the tense months following the execution of the King Louis XVI, as France grew more dangerous, Jeanne knew of the peril, catching snatches of whispered conversation, even while her mother and Miss Grey continued to prepare her for presentation at court—as though there was still a court—and for the celebration of her betrothal, formalizing an arrangement made at birth. The lessons had come to an abrupt end when Queen Marie-Antoinette was tried and followed her husband to the guillotine. Miss Grey left around the same time that her father had started to receive furtive visits from strangers, one in particular. Papa, an affectionate family man who took pride in his children and liked to show them off to visitors, never summoned them when Mr. Fortescue called. All Jeanne could gather was that Papa was engaged in some kind of negotiation with the Englishman.
One day she’d found her sisters crying because one of the manservants, before he departed the marquis’s service, had spat at the girls and called them crude names.
“I am frightened,” Antoinette said. “He said soon all the ci-devant nobility would be dead.”
“Papa won’t let that happen,” Jeanne said, praying she spoke the truth. “Perhaps he intends for us to leave soon. I shall ask him.”
With the excuse that she needed to take out their puppy—poor Mou-Mou; she often wondered what happened to the little bichon—she slipped down the back stairs and encountered a strange man, leaving by a side door into the street, not the main entrance in the great courtyard of the mansion. “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” he muttered, and hurried out. Having been well taught by her English governess, she recognized the accent though she didn’t see his face.
“All will be well,” Papa said a few minutes later when she found him in his study. “You may tell your sisters not to worry. Keep this to yourself, Jeanne, but we have help from an Englishman de bon famille, Mr. Fortescue.”
Mentally Jane compared the Duke of Denford to the man she’d glimpsed that day.
Mr. Fortescue had been tall.
Denford was tall.
And of a similar build, a powerful man. It could have been he, though she’d expect the younger Denford to have been more slender.
But he’d worn a hat and she couldn’t tell if the man had possessed that distinctive black hair.
Dressed in a normal way, quite plain in fact, he hadn’t struck Jeanne as a man of great distinction. A green coat a little worn at the elbows and a white cravat tied without a hint of finesse, as though he were a man of the people, not the nobility. He hadn’t worn black, but perhaps Denford hadn’t always either. Still, she found it hard to believe that Denford, even as a youth, would have failed to impress her, given the intensity of her reaction to him now.
The most powerful argument against the identification of Mr. Fortescue with Denford was age. Nine years ago the duke would have been only about twenty. The man she’d seen was not a young man, she was certain. And her father had later spoken of him with respect, as though he were a man of substance and maturity.
“Mr. Fortescue will not let us down,” Papa had said the day before their departure. The house was in chaos in preparation for their flight, and even to her naïve eyes her parents had been very frightened. “He promised that we would receive our passports. He is a noble Englishman, descended from a duke, and a man of his word. He will be here soon.”
Very noble. He’d been well paid to bribe the officials, so Papa said. Jeanne was almost certain that Maman’s magnificent jewels had been used. She knew it had been something her parents treasured and had to sacrifice for their safety. The very noble Mr. Fortescue had delivered the passports as promised, then proceeded to betray the Fallerons to the revolutionary authorities. Poor Papa. He paid for his trust with his life, and that of his wife and two of his daughters.
Jane sat in the schoolroom at Fortescue House and pressed fists into her eyes to block her tears. She could never block the pain of that morning when the knock came at the door, the arrogant rat-a-tat of soldiery. Marie-Thérèse and Antoinette had clung to her, and she’d feigned a serene courage, as though she really was the English governess whose papers she carried. Wrenching back a sob, she refused to think of the bitter parting, the final sight of those she loved. Dwelling on the past had cost her oceans of fruitless tears. The future was what mattered.
She didn’t understand why her identity had been changed to that of Jane Grey, so that she had survived. But in the depths of her soul she knew the reason for her fate: to avenge her family and destroy Mr. Fortescue.
She hoped he hadn’t died. It would be too bad if he had gone peacefully, one of the various Mr. Fortescues who had got out of the way so that Julian Fortescue could become Duke of Denford. Because Mr. Fortescue must be killed, and by her hand.
A sound pulled her from her reverie and she blinked in the candlelight. For a moment she thought it was her own sobs, after all, but her eyes were dry. Tiptoeing down the hall, she heard crying from Laura’s room. Of course that wretched nurse wouldn’t wake up for anything short of an earthquake or artillery attack.
“What is it, ma bichette?” she whispered, using her mother’s favorite endearment as she perched on the child’s bed and stroked her face, finding it hot with tears. “Did you have a nightmare?”
; Laura sat up and threw her arms around Jane’s waist. “I’m frightened. I want to go home.”
“There’s no need for fear. I am here.”
“Don’t leave me alone.” She clung harder.
“I won’t.” Muttering soothing words, she wiped the girl’s eyes, settled her back in bed, and adjusted her blankets. Then she lay down beside her. “I will stay until you are asleep.”
“I want my mother.”
So do I, Jane thought in the darkness. At least yours is coming back.
Chapter 5
Oliver Bream walked from his unheated, rent-free lodgings on Conduit Street and, with mixed feelings, knocked on the door of Fortescue House. He was hungry and ready for breakfast. But after eating he would have to sing for his supper in the form of giving drawing lessons to three girls. He hated teaching, especially amateurs, and especially young ladies. In his experience they lacked both talent and application. Yet how could he say no to Julian, who not only fed him regularly, but was also paying for his services?
He’d be able to afford paints and canvas for the latest series of paintings that occupied his mind. Biblical themes, he had decided. They could be noble and thrilling and surely they would sell. The picture-buying public might eschew his serious historical works, but they all went to church. He was quite proud of having come up with a plan that combined artistic integrity with commercial appeal. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends, who kept assuring him the money was in portraits of children and dogs. Already flush with cash in his imagination, he thought about proposing marriage to Peg, the new serving girl at the Red Lion Tavern, with whom he was madly in love.
The servants at Hanover Square, even the ones recently hired, knew his habits. Dropping his satchel and sketch pad in the hall, he went straight to the small dining room on the ground floor. So intent was he on bread and meat and hot tea that he failed to notice he had company. A gentle cough across the table alerted him to the presence of the most ravishing woman he’d ever seen. All thoughts of Peg forgotten, he felt a bolt of lightning electrify his breast and knew that he would love this delicious creature for the rest of his days.
“Good morning.” She had the voice of an angel. “I think you must be Mr. Bream, yes?” She raised her eyebrows at the huge pile of food on his plate. He was used to that. No one could believe how much was needed to sustain his slender frame, but no one understood how much strength the pursuit of art required, how greedy a mistress was his muse.
“Call me Oliver,” he replied, a forkful of cold beef halted on the way to his mouth. “I shall call you Beautiful.” He couldn’t wait to paint her. She would be his inspiration for his Esther perhaps, or his Judith. No, his Delilah. Her beauty was worthy of only the greatest temptress.
She smiled, revealing regular white teeth. “Do you say that to all the ladies?”
“No!” he denied fervently. “Only you. Until now there has been no other woman in the world.”
“There must be something in the air of this house that makes gentlemen extraordinarily forward. Outside these walls I find it usually takes at least two meetings before a man declares his devotion.”
Easy to talk to as well as lovely. Oliver forgot about breakfast and started thinking how he would pose Delilah cutting off Samson’s hair.
“I think it would be a good idea to step back a little, yes? Let us talk about drawing lessons. I am Miss Grey, governess to the Misses Osbourne.”
“So you’ll be present during our classes. Splendid. You shall be our model.”
She looked at him with suspicion. “Are you by any chance suggesting I remove my clothing?”
“Oh no,” Oliver said, shocked at the very notion. “I would never propose such a thing. I rarely paint nudes.” A vague notion that she might not immediately wish to be portrayed as a villainess made him cunning. “I am sure we can find a comfortable pose that will require nothing more than something draped over you. Your gown is a little plain.”
“We shall see.” She glanced at the mantelpiece clock. “You are early. The young ladies will be finishing their own breakfast upstairs. I came down hoping to speak to the duke, but Mr. Blackett tells me he is riding. Have you known His Grace long?”
“Julian? Quite a few years.”
Jane found Oliver Bream thoroughly amusing. She couldn’t take his declaration of passion seriously, and wondered how good an artist he was. The duke didn’t strike her as a man who would accept inferior performance in anyone he hired. Then she thought of the way he’d engaged her as governess with the slimmest of qualifications. On second thought Bream might be a complete incompetent.
“Does the duke buy your pictures?” she asked.
“Oh no! Julian would never do that.”
“What happened to the pictures in here?” She pointed at six dark rectangles in the paint where art had been removed. “There are similar marks all over the house.”
“One of the dukes was a patron of Hogarth. If that’s what hung there it is a tragedy. Julian’s taste in painting is execrable.”
“Maligning me again, Oliver?”
The sight of him in the doorway, color heightened by exercise and his black hair so disheveled she itched to sweep it off his forehead, made the slight, fair-haired artist fade from her consciousness. Denford grinned at Bream with an unveiled affection that presented a new facet of the dark duke, and a most appealing one. Not that she needed a new reason to find him attractive.
“Julian!” Bream said. “I’ve been making the acquaintance of Miss Grey. She is a goddess, an Aphrodite or Artemis.” He showed no embarrassment at speaking in such extravagant terms, and the duke merely cast his eyes heavenward. Jane would have done the same but she didn’t want to hurt Bream’s feelings. He was quite harmless, she was sure, and she wasn’t a woman to object to being addressed like this. She knew men, Denford included, found her beddable; she also knew that she wasn’t a great beauty.
“What is your name, Miss Grey? I cannot think of you like that. It’s such a barren name. I’m sure your Christian name reflects your matchless beauty.”
“I am afraid it is Jane.”
“Never mind. You need no adornment. From this day forth, Jane is the finest of names and shall belong only to you.”
“There may be a few thousand ladies who will object.” She stole a look at Denford to share her appreciation of the nonsense.
Their glance of amusement turned hot and dark. She wrenched her eyes away and sipped her cooling tea.
“Are you in love again, Oliver?” the duke said.
“I have never been in love before, never! Jane has made me forget every other woman.”
“Doubtless true, until the next one comes along. I don’t wish to make light of your charms, Miss Grey, but I think I should mention that Oliver finds a new object of his adoration on average once a week. If his passion for you lasts a month you can claim to have inspired an exceptional degree of devotion. Héloïse and Abélard, Romeo and Juliet, Beatrice and Dante, Oliver and Jane. You will join the list of the world’s most celebrated lovers.”
Jane couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. Fortunately Bream seemed undisturbed, merely continuing to gaze at her as though moonstruck. “I am honored to have inspired you, Mr. Bream,” she said, shooting a duke a warning look. “I shouldn’t laugh but His Grace is quite droll in his way. Please believe that I do not mean to mock you.”
“Don’t worry, Jane. I’m quite used to Julian and never take the least notice of him.”
“True enough,” the duke said.
“Your Grace,” Jane said. “I have a request if you can spare me a few minutes.”
“I do hope it’s one I’ll enjoy fulfilling. If so, I’ll agree to anything.”
“I doubt this matter will affect your pleasure either way.”
“You disappoint me again. Oliver, just this once do what I ask and leave. Go up to the Blue Saloon to prepare for your pupils. I need to speak to Miss Grey.”
“My request is not a
private one.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear, alas. Go, Oliver.”
“You will be coming, Jane, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. Bream. I won’t be long. The young ladies will be down soon with their drawing materials.”
She watched him go with some trepidation, leaving her alone with Denford. He took a place at the table and, as though he had all the time in the world, poured himself some coffee. She ought to be safe from her unruly desires at nine o’clock in the morning with the humdrum accouterments of breakfast spread on the table; nevertheless she averted her eyes from his lips on the rim of the china cup.
“Oliver doesn’t always show such good taste,” he remarked. “The array of women he has loved in the five or six years I’ve known him is positively dizzying. They have only one trait in common: that of being unattainable. Women always seem able to resist him.”
“What makes you think I could? Mr. Bream is a very agreeable young man. For all you know he could be the kind of man I prefer.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“What kind of man do you think I prefer?”
She peeked at him from lowered eyelids and found him staring at her with a wolfish smile. “The matter is still under investigation but I am making progress. You are flirting with me.”
“I am not!” But she was, of course. Dalliance should be the last thing on her mind, especially with a member of the Fortescue family. She stiffened her spine and tried to think like a governess. “Last night,” she began, “I was up late.”
“Do go on. Your bedtime habits interest me greatly.”
“I found Laura crying in bed.”
“Oh.”
“She was well, thank you for your concern, merely missing her mother. But had she been ill no one would have known. Miss Bride was, as usual, in a drunken stupor.”
“Is this your request, that I dismiss Bridey? I won’t do it. For your information, Miss Grey, Bridey suffers badly from rheumatism. If she were a fine lady maybe she’d dose herself with laudanum. It happens she prefers a nip of whiskey to make the aches and pains of age easier to bear at night.”
The Duke of Dark Desires Page 6
