Tuesday's Child

by Jeanette Baker

  With a becoming pout, Marjorie pulled away for a brief moment. "Ah, yes," she said slowly, the young American. How is the search for her husband coming along?"

  Devereaux's face assumed its implacable expression. "We've heard nothing yet."

  "I'm sure he'll turn up soon." She yawned.

  "Perhaps not." Surprising himself with his vehemence, Devereaux lowered his voice. "There is a strong possibility that Daniel Bradford is dead. An impressed seaman's life aboard a battleship isn't worth a great deal."

  Marjorie considered him carefully, noting the tight set of his mouth and the look of strain about his eyes. "What happens then?"

  "When?" Devereaux forced himself to ignore the brown head bent closely over the blond one as the pair circled the room in an intimate waltz.

  "What happens if Mrs. Bradford's husband is dead?" she repeated. "Will she be given safe passage to America?"

  James looked startled, as if he had never considered such a thing. "There is no safe passage until the war is over."

  "I see." Some of the light died out of the arresting green eyes. "Will she stay with Georgiana until then?"

  "Yes," replied the duke. He smiled suddenly, using the strength of the Devereaux charm. "You're very inquisitive tonight. Surely we can find a more interesting subject to discuss."

  She caught her breath at the look on his face and did not protest when he maneuvered her behind a large potted plant and lowered his lips to her neck. The heat of his mouth against her bare skin fanned her already ignited passions to a fevered flame. She moaned softly. "I'll go home and wait for you. Do hurry, James," she whispered. "It's been so very long."

  Tess sipped her lemonade and looked on the attractive picture of the duke deep in conversation with the redheaded beauty.

  "Who is that woman?" she asked Lord William.

  "I've noticed no other woman in this entire room since you walked into it."

  "How flattering," Tess murmured. "What did you tell Georgiana when you danced with her?"

  Lord William placed his hand over his heart. "Dare I hope you were jealous?"

  "Not at all," she answered coolly. "Georgiana is one of my closest friends. It is she I was interested in."

  "So beautiful but so cruel."

  "Please, m'lord," the grey eyes flashed dangerously. "Shall we have a serious conversation or shall I go away?"

  Lord William frowned. He wasn't accustomed to women who scorned flattery. This slender beauty with the coloring of an angel saw much more than he intended.

  "Very well," he replied. "The woman is Marjorie Weatherby. She and Langley have an acquaintance of a longtime standing."

  "Do you mean she's his mistress?"

  He looked startled and then amused. Leaning against a Grecian pillar he shoved his hands into his pockets. "You are very forthright, aren't you, Mrs. Bradford?"

  "Very," replied Tess emphatically. "What happened to the opera dancer?"

  "Young ladies aren't supposed to ask questions like that."

  Tess sipped her lemonade. "I'm not an English lady, m'lord, I'm an American."

  "The duke wouldn't thank me for revealing his secrets."

  "How can it be a secret when even Georgiana knows?" Tess asked bluntly. "Besides, I don't think you care whether James is pleased with you or not."

  "Not only forthright, you're perceptive," Fitzpatrick murmured. "You're quite right, of course. There is no love lost between us. He dislikes my reputation."

  His candor surprised her. More than that, it appealed to her.

  "Apparently I'm not respectable enough to associate with the Devereauxs." His smile was tinged with bitterness. "If he sees you here with me, you'll be in for a scold."

  Tess stiffened. "I'm not a Devereaux," she reminded him. "I'm a married woman. The duke is not the head of my family."

  "How uncharitable of you, my dear." The silky voice of James Devereaux interrupted them. "I've searched everywhere for you, hoping to claim a moment of your time and here you are, maligning my hospitality."

  Tess burned with mortification. "It wasn't like that at all," she explained through clenched teeth. "I was merely stating my position. If I choose to befriend Lord William, it is no concern of yours."

  "Of course not." His lips smiled in agreement but the eyes were hard as splintered steel.

  "Shall we?" He extended his arm.

  Tess had no choice but to allow him to lead her away. The musicians took up their instruments. This time it was a waltz. Tess looked expectantly at the dance floor but the duke was taking her the other way, through the door of a small anteroom filled with flowers and upholstered chairs.

  Without speaking they sat and watched the dancers glide to the music. Tess wanted to be with them. Her feet moved to the familiar steps and a growing awareness that he had no intention of asking her to dance filled her with impotent rage. How dare he take her away from the gaiety as if she were a recalcitrant child who did not even deserve the courtesy of his conversation, especially after the company he kept? Mutinously, she looked up.

  His darkly handsome face regarded her steadily. "What have I done to make you so angry?" he asked.

  Tess considered telling him the truth and decided against it. "It isn't anything you've done," she said at last, "but rather what you could do if you wished."

  "It isn't like you to speak in riddles," he answered.

  "You know nothing about me."

  "On the contrary. I know a great deal about you and that is why I would never forbid your friendship with William Fitzpatrick."

  "Do you think I would obey if you did?"

  He smiled suddenly and her breath caught in her throat. He took the most unfair advantage with that smile.

  "If my reasons were good enough." Skillfully he changed the subject. "What were the two of you discussing so seriously?"

  Tess smiled wickedly. "You."

  Devereaux looked startled. "Me! What could Fitzpatrick tell you that I couldn't?"

  "I wondered who the lady was that you were embracing behind the plant."

  She couldn't be sure but his dark face seemed suddenly a shade darker. "What lady?" he asked abruptly.

  "Was there more than one?" She looked up innocently. "The lady I refer to is Marjorie Weatherby."

  "What else did His Lordship tell you?"

  She looked up at the sensual, proud mouth. Suddenly she was dangerously, recklessly angry. Ignoring the warning signals ringing in her brain, she plunged on. "Nothing I didn't already know. She's your mistress, isn't she?"

  Without warning, he stood and pulled her from the chair and out the nearest set of French doors leading to the garden.

  "Are you lost to all sense of decorum?" he demanded furiously when at last they stopped. His blue eyes were narrow and dangerous. "How dare you ask such a thing?"

  Tess smiled sweetly. "Does it bother you more that I know of it, m'lord, or that I would say it? Because if it is the former, I should tell you that your relationship with Lady Weatherby is no secret to anyone." She was shocked at the strength of the raging anger flowing through her. The night was cold but she felt nothing, her only awareness was the lean powerful figure standing with clenched hands before her.

  Devereaux stared at the pale hair and trembling lips. His own anger dissolved, replaced by something infinitely more dangerous. "Why does the idea of my having a mistress distress you so?" he asked softly.

  Tess felt the tears very close to the surface. She blinked rapidly. "It doesn't distress me. Hypocrisy, however, does."

  He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. "I don't understand."

  She sniffed, blew her nose and handed it back to him. "You disapprove of William Fitzpatrick for the very same qualities you possess."

  "I do not flaunt my private life before the world, Tess."

  "No?" Her eyes were very bright. "Then what was that scene I witnessed behind the plants?"

  He sighed. "Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you."

>   She burst into tears. For Tess it was a relief to fling the words at him. "You didn't even dance with me. I thought we were friends. I thought you liked me." She was sobbing in earnest now.

  Shocked, he stared at her, the accusing words registering in his brain. She actually believed he didn't want to dance with her, that he preferred Marjorie Weatherby. Ignoring everything but the instinctive need to reassure, he stepped forward and gathered her into his arms.

  "Hush, my darling," he murmured, his breath stirring the wisps of hair at her temples. "I would give ten years of my life to stand up with you." He swallowed and continued. "A good part of my left leg was removed at Badajos. I've only recently learned to walk again. Much as I regret it I'm afraid that for now, dancing is impossible, perhaps even forever."

  Slowly, she lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at him, searching his face, wondering if it was possible for someone to tell such a tale and not mean it. A deep, humiliating flush traveled from her chest to her throat. What a fool she'd been. The limping gait, the tense muscles in his face, the pain he refused to acknowledge. Time and again she had chided him about his own military record and how he could never understand the conditions under which Daniel was now living. Good Lord! What must he think of her?

  "I'm so sorry, James," she began.

  He loosened his arms. "I've grown accustomed," he said stiffly. "Pity doesn't help."

  She clung to him and shook her head. "It isn't that. I mean I'm sorry to have been so stupid. Please forgive me."

  His eyes studied her face. "Of course," he said slowly.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it. Something stood between the two of them, something that hadn't yet been resolved. His words came back to her. Hush, my darling, I would give ten years of my life to stand up with you. Hush, my darling, my darling.

  Suddenly she knew. James was in love with her and if she rejected him now, this proud and brilliant man would believe that he was less than he was because of something as small and insignificant as a missing leg. She had been Nathanial Harrington's daughter long before she was Daniel Bradford's wife and the pull of character was strong within her. Keeping her eyes on James's face, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to her mouth. His lips were firm and cool, the kiss soft and exploring.

  Surprised, he lifted his head and looked at her, his glance moving to her bodice and the lovely full breasts so temptingly displayed. His throat went dry. With a muffled curse, he pulled her against him, his arms closing tightly around her. Smoothing her hair back with a shaking hand, he waited for the slightest sign of resistance. When none came, he smiled triumphantly. Lowering his mouth to hers, he kissed her again. This time, it was not soft and exploring.

  For the space of a heartbeat, she remained unresponsive. Then her arms tightened. Her lips parted under the force of his tongue and she moaned as the unfamiliar thrust of his tongue invaded her mouth, teasing the soft insides until she gasped with pleasure. Her fingers wove themselves through the shining black hair and she gave herself up to the delicious torment of warm hands caressing her shoulders and demanding lips moving over her face and throat.

  Easing the tiny sleeve from her shoulder, his hand dipped inside her bodice, cupping her breast. She gasped. The sharp, involuntary sound inflamed him. Finding her mouth once again he kissed her deeply. Never, in his wildest fantasies, had he dreamed she would respond so completely.

  Familiar sensations, long repressed, leaped to life as he breathed in the intoxicating scent of perfumed hair and skin. The meticulously honed edge of his self-control slipped away. Forgetting everything but the incredible softness of lips and skin and breasts, he pulled her tightly against the rock-hard lower half of his body. The pent-up desire of the last several weeks was too much for him. With urgent strength he eased the soft material from her shoulders. Feeling her surrender, he bared her to the waist, his mouth capturing the taut peak of a rounded breast.

  Tess stiffened in his arms. It took several seconds for his befogged mind to realize she was pushing him away. With a tremendous effort of will he released her. Backing away toward the door, she pulled up her gown, a look of horror in her eyes.

  "Tess," he said, stepping toward her. His eyes were black, not blue.

  "No," she said, her breath coming in deep, ragged gasps.

  "You must know I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you."

  "I know." Her eyes were grey pools in her pale face. "But I am no Marjorie Weatherby."

  Devereaux had himself under control now. He would use any power on earth to win this woman.

  "Lady Weatherby was my mistress before I left for Spain. I am thirty years old, Tess. There have been a number of women in my life." He looked at her steadily. "Surely you know this is different."

  Her shuddering sob tore at his heart. "How?"

  "If it were possible, I would marry you," he replied harshly. "As there is little chance of that, I'll take what I can."

  She stood very still in the darkness, her silvery hair surrounded by a halo of light from the candles in the ballroom.

  "I must decline your hospitality once again, m'lord," she said. "Until my husband is found, I will stay at the American minister's residence."

  His expression was severe, implacable, like rigid lines of carved mahogany. "Can you throw away this bit of life that is allowed us?" he asked. "Lament the circumstances, if you must, but don't deny what exists between us."

  "Do marriage vows mean so little to you, that you can disregard them without a hint of remorse?" Her voice shook.

  "It was you who kissed me first."

  She stared at him in disbelief. "Do you think I blame you? The fault is mine. You, at least, are unmarried. It is I who played the harlot."

  "You wanted me. You still want me. I won't forget that."

  The promise in his words gave her cold comfort. She shivered and used his own against him.

  "We have no choice, James." She slipped back through the doors into the lighted room.

  For over twenty minutes he stood on the cold balcony. When, at last, he returned to the ballroom, Tess was gone and Marjorie waited.

  Chapter 10

  Devereaux hailed a hackney cab to Berkeley Square. The forthcoming interview would be difficult. Marjorie had every right to be angry. But there was no help for it. The thought of bedding Lady Weatherby after holding Tess's fine-boned beauty in his arms left a taste like ashes in his mouth.

  The flame from the porch lamp flickered on the massive oak-paneled door. Devereaux lifted the knocker and let it fall. Immediately the door opened and the butler ushered him inside.

  "How are you, Richards?" inquired the duke. He removed his hat and cloak and handed it to the servant.

  "Very well, thank you, m'lord." The dour expression on his face softened slightly. "May I say that it is very good to see you again, sir?"

  Devereaux opened his mouth to speak, and hesitated. Changing his mind he asked, "Is Her Ladyship expecting me?"

  "Yes, m'lord. She asks that you go straight up."

  With the ease of familiarity, the duke climbed the stairs to the second landing. He knocked softly on the third door to the left and, without waiting for an answer, opened it and stepped inside.

  Marjorie sat at her dressing table in a thin silk nightdress, her flame-red hair flowing over her shoulders like polished satin.

  "James," she purred. "I had about given you up." She looked at him as he stood by the door. Her first thought was that something momentous had occurred. He seemed tense and alert, completely divested of the amused control that usually characterized their encounters.

  She grasped the handle of the brush until her knuckles whitened. Something in the steady gaze gave him away. She stood and pulled a nightdress over her gown. Walking over to a chair by the fire, she motioned for him to sit beside her.

  "You look lovely, Marjorie," he began.

  "Thank you," she replied. Marjorie would not be the one to begin the conversati
on she knew could culminate in only one way.

  He crossed to her side looking faintly embarrassed. "Even lovelier than usual."

  Her green eyes flashed. "Why then, are you still wearing your coat?"

  His eyes darkened and she was suddenly afraid. Biting her lip, she said, "I'm sorry, James. That was terribly rude of me."

  Reaching down, Devereaux took her hands in his and pulled her to a standing position. He looked down into her face for a long moment before speaking.

  "We have known each other for a long time," he said gently. "For that reason I cannot pretend something which is no longer there."

  Her eyes swam with tears. "You are telling me that our connection is now over?"

  "Yes." The blue eyes didn't waver from her face.

  She blinked several times and smiled bravely. "Can you tell me why?"

  "No," he answered. "Let us say that circumstances have changed."

  She searched his face, the green eyes narrowing in dawning comprehension.

  "James, what have you embroiled yourself in?"

  He stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"

  "There is no hope for you in all the world," she warned him. "She will only bring you grief."

  "I'll handle my own affairs, Marjorie." His face was shuttered against her. "Never make the mistake of believing otherwise."

  * * *

  It was after two o'clock in the morning when he reached Grosvenor Square. After learning that everyone had returned from the ball, he climbed the stairs, seeking his bed with a deep sense of relief. Passing by Tess's room, he saw a light. At the sound of his footsteps, it disappeared.

  Coming to a decision, he walked to the door and knocked softly. There was no answer.

  "Tess." Deep and firmly authoritative, his voice penetrated through the thick wood. "Open the door."

  Still no answer.

  "It's a matter of some urgency." He raised his voice. "It can't wait until morning."

  The door cracked slightly. "Go away," she whispered.

  "Not until I say what I must."

  "You've said enough," she insisted. "Nothing you can say will change anything."