His Wicked Kiss

by Gaelen Foley

  “To get my wife,” he clipped out. “I’ll be back anon. We’ll sail with the tide.” He urged the animal into motion, and Fleet Apollo was off like a shot. Jack rode low over his neck, praying he wouldn’t regret this.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Jack had apologized—and he was sorry—Eden could tell that he wasn’t just saying the words.

  He had come back for her.

  He had brought her to London.

  He had taken the finest suite in the grand Pulteney Hotel for their lodgings, the same opulent rooms where the Czar of Russia had stayed.

  But although Eden had accepted his apology, her trust in him had been shaken, and her demeanor toward him had cooled.

  Every day since their arrival, he had lavished her with extravagant gifts as though she were a princess. First her clothes. The gowns Martin and she had sewn on the ship were good enough for the countryside, he said, but nowhere near fine enough for Town. Jack had dispatched his valet to discover the city’s best modiste, and then gave the woman an enormous bribe and had charmed her into agreeing to put aside her usual clientele to sew a complete Town wardrobe for his young bride. Work on this massive undertaking was begun post-haste.

  Jack then procured a small army of ladies’ maids to wait on her and some sturdy footmen, too. A few days after that, he sent a servant up to tell her to look out the window down at the street.

  When Eden had stepped out onto the wrought-iron balcony, clad in her first finished dress, a floaty thing of airy emerald silk, her husband tipped his hat to her from the driver’s seat of an extravagant cream-colored barouche, which he had just bought for her at Tattersall’s.

  It had pink satin squabs, and surely a daintier lady’s carriage had never been made: Elegant enameled flowers were painted in a garland all around the sides, while the wheel spokes were done in colors to match, gold and blue and pink. The barouche was drawn by a team of four white horses with pink plumes on their heads.

  Eden had stared at it, not knowing what to say.

  She did not mind the gifts, but the hurt could not be instantly forgotten.

  She did not know anymore where she really stood with the man. She felt like a fool for having opened herself to him so completely, holding nothing back; she had thought he had been doing the same, but to her shock, it had turned out that he had been deceiving her.

  Now she couldn’t help wondering what else he wasn’t telling her.

  She knew that he cared about her, otherwise he wouldn’t have married her, but he was a rich and powerful man of the world, and she had finally figured out that he really didn’t take her all that seriously.

  He didn’t really respect her. Eden feared that that was her fault, for giving in to him too easily on board The Winds of Fortune. Now she learned the price of her weakness for him, her too willing surrender: He did not see her as an equal, the way she had believed he did, but more like a possession, an asset, a thing—like some porcelain doll he could bedeck in finery and place safely on a shelf until he had time to play with her again. It made her sick to realize that this might be the extent of her role in his life, when, for her part, she loved the blasted terror of the seas to distraction.

  Brooding on it, and stewing in the hurt, left her bruised and unsettled inside. But, truly, he had never offered a logical explanation of why he had wanted to leave her in Ireland.

  He had claimed on the awful morning of their fight that it had all been a question of the danger to her, but Eden still saw no evidence that she was remotely in peril. So, she was left not knowing the real reason Jack hadn’t wanted to bring her to England with him. All manners of doubts and fears crept in. Maybe he was ashamed of her jungle oddball ways and feared she would embarrass him in front of his family. Maybe all these fancy trappings were being bestowed on her to try to disguise how…unique she was, she thought unhappily. For that matter, was it really love or simply guilt that had made him come back for her in the end?

  As the days passed, they did their best to get along, pretending everything was normal. He took her around and showed her the sights: the Panorama, Astley’s, the British Museum, the art galleries, and the parks—even to famous Gunther’s for ice cream. But somehow, now that she was actually here, the glow of all her golden London fantasies had dimmed.

  He said she was acting distant, but she was feeling lost and a little depressed. She didn’t mean to pull back from him this way; she couldn’t help it. She was afraid to let herself become open to him as she had in Ireland for fear that once again she would get hurt.

  Noting her subdued response with grim resolve, her husband redoubled his efforts. Next he resorted to buying her jewels.

  Eden marveled at the diamonds, but when she met his guarded stare as he waited for her verdict, the glitter could not help but make her feel suspicious.

  Did he really think he could buy back her trust?

  What the hell else am I supposed to do? Jack thought. If diamonds didn’t work, there was little left to try. He knew he was wrong, and had strived to make amends, so why was she holding a grudge?

  Damn it, he could not afford this distraction right now. His wife’s displeasure with him preoccupied his thoughts when he most needed to focus. He was on edge with his craving for things to go back to normal between them, but that was beginning to seem downright unlikely.

  Once, when he had been foolish enough to let a word of complaint about her distant manner slip past his lips, she had snapped at him.

  “Shall I be cheerful just to please you, my lord?”

  No, Jack didn’t want that. He wanted Eden back, his saucy redhead, his smiling companion. He wanted his little orchid oddball back, not this perfectly coiffed, silk-clad stranger who was trying so hard to be a ton élègante.

  But for all that, he knew he only had himself to blame. Eden felt the way she felt, and that was his fault. He was the one who had damaged their love, and by God, he was disgusted with himself for it, but he was doing his best to make up for it. He couldn’t seem to win.

  He felt alone.

  She was pleasant, distant, calm. Jack feared he’d lose his mind.

  What scared him most were those long, excruciating silences when neither of them could think of a single word to say to the other. They just sat there, hollow. Surely they could get back the magic they had tasted together in Ireland, but Jack didn’t know how.

  He thought lovemaking could have helped to heal the breach, but she wouldn’t let him touch her. He could tell she wasn’t denying him just to punish him—this was no game. She genuinely did not want his hands on her. It seemed the bruise he had dealt to her trust had inhibited her ability to respond to him.

  When he had tried in a more determined way to coax her into passion, she had lain there, unresponsive. He had gotten up and walked away.

  He was aware of other women giving him come-hither looks everywhere he went, but he was completely uninterested.

  It was ironic, really. He had been so worried about the ton rejecting him in front of Eden, but maybe he should’ve been worried about Eden rejecting him in front of the ton.

  It was now April and the Season was getting underway.

  Maybe she was pregnant, he thought, for he had never known her to be moody. Maybe a child could help them save their love before it was too late. Oh, but that was a fine thing to do to a newborn babe, he realized cynically. Place the full burden on its tiny shoulders of saving its parents’ marriage.

  Jack struggled on from day to day as best he could. The spring had come, but it felt like weeks since he had seen the sun.

  A peculiar side effect of his falling-out with his lady was the strange influence it had on the way he handled business. He had made his presence known to the rival company whose conquest he had plotted from across the sea.

  But when he got there and saw the frail old Jewish man who had founded the firm and had spent his life building it up, Jack didn’t have the heart to bring down the hammer. Instead, he caught
himself musing on any possible unforeseen consequences of decisions made through his old way of thinking.

  Black-Jack Knight, terror of the seas, began giving humanity quarter.

  He barely knew that ruthless fellow anymore, in fact, and was no longer sure it was who he wanted to be.

  Begrudgingly, and much to his own thorough bemusement, instead of crushing his competitor, he had taken a seat across from the old man and let himself be drawn into negotiation for a more peaceable solution.

  Later that night, he brought Eden some flowers and then went off to meet with the London contingent that he intended to recruit for the mission. These were not soldiers but a large gang of river rats. Smugglers. He knew them from his gun-running days.

  He took Trahern with him, glad for sane male company.

  The meeting went well—which was to say they did not get their throats cut—and that was a promising start.

  “I’m not sure Bolivar meant for us to send him the flotsam and jetsam of the world to man his army, Jack,” Trahern remarked under his breath as they stepped out of the East End tavern where Jack had just made the same overall speech that Jack had given the veterans in Ireland and the ex-smugglers in Cornwall.

  “Probably not,” he conceded in a murmur, “but you’ll generally find that the dregs of the earth are damned tough, and make excellent fighters.”

  “Tell me again how you know those people?”

  “Former business associates,” he replied, a cigarillo dangling from his lips. He decided to splurge and lit it.

  Like the Irish and Cornish, he knew these lads were desperate. The Bow Street Runners, skilled detectives, collected bounties for every thief they caught, and with the war over, the Home Office had begun beefing up the ranks of the Metropolitan Police and Thames River Police to deal with them, as well.

  “I know better than anyone your situation,” he had told them, realizing that if these hard lads suspected a trick, he and Trahern might not leave the pub alive. “I have stood in your shoes. But look around you, my lads. The field is bare; the walls are closing in. With the war-time trade bans lifted, proper merchants have taken over once again and have ruined your livelihood. You’ve got the Home Office closing the net on you, cracking down. It doesn’t have to be this way,” he had said, looking around at them with a cool, probing stare. “All your lives you’ve been treated as outcasts. Believe me, boys, I know how it goes. I’m offering you and your mates an honorable way out of all this, a chance to be something more—to be a part of something larger than yourselves, and make a new start in a profession that won’t have you ending your days dangling at the end of a rope.”

  “You were brilliant in there,” Trahern admitted.

  Jack snorted. “Nice to know I can do something right.”

  “Nobody ever talks to such men about honor. I think you might have really gotten through to them.”

  “We’ll see.”

  When he got back to the Pulteney Hotel, Eden was wrapped in a gauzy, white, translucent negligee that made Jack’s mouth water the minute he stepped in the door and saw her.

  “You look ravishing,” he murmured.

  She avoided his stare with a vague “Hm.” She pointed toward the console table by the door. Jack spotted a letter on the silver tray there.

  He heaved a thwarted sigh and picked up the letter. “Who’s it from?”

  “Their Graces of Hawkscliffe,” he said wryly.

  “Oh! They must have got our note.”

  “They did.” Eden and he had sent word to his family only yesterday informing them of their arrival in Town. They had waited, he guessed, in an effort to fix things between them before complicating matters with the family.

  Oh, well.

  “What do they say?” she asked nervously as he opened it.

  “We are cordially invited to Knight House tomorrow night. Dinner with the family.”

  “Gracious,” she whispered, wide-eyed. “I never thought I’d ever meet a duke.”

  “He’s just a human being,” Jack replied. “He couldn’t tie his shoes ’til he was nearly seven.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. And once when he was twelve he fell off his horse and cried like a baby.”

  “You’re lying,” she accused him, fighting not to smile.

  Jack grinned and planted his hand on the wall beside her, trying not to stare too much at her nipples, visible through the wispy zephyr silk. “If it’s any consolation, Robert’s wife, Belinda, was no higher born than you. Her father also was some sort of gentleman scholar.”

  “Really?”

  “So says my sister. But you already know that,” he added with an ever so gently teasing smile. “You read the letters.”

  She succumbed reluctantly to a very small but genuine half smile. He counted that as progress.

  Encouraged, and aching for her, Jack lowered his head slowly and kissed her petal-soft cheek. He lingered there, seized with a shudder of pure longing.

  She had been still as his lips grazed her cheek so hungrily, but when she sensed the hot wave of his need, she took a delicate backward step, her green eyes flashing with her unspoken “no.”

  Jack just looked into her eyes and then lowered his gaze, flinching. “How much longer are you going to shut me out?” he rasped, but she had already vanished into her separate room.

  He flexed his fist by his side, but managed not to punch the wall.

  Damn it!

  She was more wary of him now than when he had first found her as a stowaway.

  The next evening, they set out for Knight House at the appointed time, riding in the shiny black town coach that Jack had bought for himself at Tattersall’s the same day he had bought the white barouche for her.

  Eden was extremely nervous, caught up in her anxiety about finding favor with his family, while Jack sat locked in stoic silence, staring out the carriage window while the elegant environs of St. James’s passed them by. After her rejection of the night before, the gulf between them seemed to have widened still more, but Eden couldn’t think about that now. She was too busy privately fretting about her appearance.

  She was a bit afraid to move in the glorious dinner gown that the modiste and her frantic crew of seamstresses had only finished sewing two hours ago. The fit was perfect: a half-dress evening costume of lustrous glacé silk in a pale peach shade. As for Eden’s hair, her new French lady’s maid, Lisette, had designed a suitable coiffure, braiding her tresses and coiling them up into a topknot, which was held in place with a great many hairpins and adorned with a string of tiny pearls that Jack had brought her a few days ago.

  He had seemed pleased with the results when she had emerged from her chamber, and certainly his appearance was beyond reproach.

  Stealing a furtive glance at him from beneath her lashes, her heart fluttered foolishly at the sight of her husband, all opulent, lordly elegance this night. He was awe-inspiring in formal black superfine trousers, the matching tailcoat accenting the sweeping breadth of his shoulders and his trim, flat waist. How well she knew—and missed—that powerful body beneath his snowy waistcoat of impeccable white silk grosgrain, that sweet throat enwrapped in a starched muslin cravat, superbly fashioned.

  Well done, Martin, she thought ruefully. But despite his cultured evening attire, he was still Jack, with his air of ruthless danger beneath the polished veneer.

  Yet he seemed a million miles away as he stared out the window, looking like he wasn’t really there—as if a part of him had already sailed off across the sea.

  Eden suppressed her frustration and lowered her gaze to her gloved hands, toying with her reticule. She knew he wanted sex, but what did he expect? You could not deceive a woman and then expect a welcome in her bed. Instead of expensive presents, he could try giving her answers, and then perhaps her trust could be restored.

  While she stared morosely out the opposite window, they rode on in silence until the coachman turned the team of four black horses off Pall Mall.
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br />   “Here it is,” Jack mumbled, nodding at the magnificent town palace that took up half the block.

  “Blazes,” Eden whispered, peering out the window and suddenly feeling rather small.

  With royalty for neighbors and a commanding view of Green Park, the town residence of the Dukes of Hawkscliffe was a gleaming monument of Palladian grandeur. Knight House had a half-moon portico supported by great columns, and a row of bronze goddesses posing here and there atop their pediments along the roof.

  Her heart thumped against her ribs as their coach passed through the tall, wrought-iron gates and glided to a halt in the private courtyard. She cast Jack a questioning glance, barely noticing how it had become second nature for her to look to him for reassurance. Instead, however, she was startled by the grim look on his face.

  Long-buried anger and brooding intensity hardened the rugged lines of his jaw and brow as he stared at the mansion, and thinned his unsmiling lips into a narrow seam. His turquoise eyes were cold, and the sight of him like this jarred Eden’s memory back to that day in the lower gun deck when he had told her all about his painful past.

  Suddenly, she felt a flash of contrition, jarred out of her grudge.

  He needs me now, she thought, and she knew then it was time to set her hurt feelings aside.

  Eden understood better than anyone how difficult this night was going to be for him. Whatever troubles lay between the two of them, surely they could set all that aside for tonight and at least put up a united front.

  He was already stepping out of the carriage; the groom had opened the door and banged down the metal step for them. Jack turned around again to steady her as she alighted. Eden drew her light silk wrap around her shoulders and accepted his offered hand.

  She gave him a nod and they proceeded to the front door—side by side, not touching. They crossed under the grand portico, and as they waited for one brief moment for the door to be opened to them, Eden reached down and took Jack’s hand.

  The touch surprised him, judging by his quick, probing glance. She held his gaze, signaling her loyalty in silence.