by Eva Devon
A knock, quite unlike Padraig’s, penetrated his revery. He shook his head slightly, not quite foxed, but pleasantly afloat. “You brought the gin?”
“I did indeed.”
He furrowed his brow at the sound of the woman’s voice.
Good god, it was delicious.
Soft and low and rich like it could wrap him up, sooth his hurts, and then give him a good dose of pleasuring. Even so, he was in no mood for the machinations of a woman tonight. Staring at the wall, he waved a dismissive hand. “Leave the bottle. Your services are not required.”
There was a long pause. “I do beg your pardon, but to what services are you referring?”
Her remarkable grammar and accent gave him pause. “You don’t sound like a whore.”
He cursed silently. The gin was clearly taking its effect.
She snorted. Snorted. “Why, thank you, I suppose.”
Something inside him lifted ever so slightly out of his self-pitying pool of gin. She couldn’t be his usual sort and yet Padraig had let her up. Suddenly, he had to see her. To see the woman who had snorted at his inarticulate observation. Slowly, he turned.
She stood in the doorway, a gin bottle in her hands. From the top of her cloaked blonde head to the hem of her dark blue gown she looked completely out of place and yet. . . unshaken. So, she was used to shady rooms and the carousing of the male sex. For the first time in quite some time, Jack felt. . . Well, he felt confused. Entirely. What was he to make of this woman, lady, creature of the night? Which was she?
“I do beg your pardon, my dear girl, you don’t look it but one can never tells these days, could you clarify. . . Are you a prostitute?”
Sparks lit her eyes, firing them to cobalt blue. That soft, mouth of hers pressed into a tight, disapproving line. A line, which remarkably only added to her strange charm.
“Not a prostitute then,” he sallied, righting himself. He let out a sigh. If she wasn’t here for a few schillings then why the devil was she here? All he wanted was to get dead drunk.
Oh sod it, what if she was here on some mad capped venture? Ladies did have a tendency to corner him in dark corners seeking a tryst, a cheery bit of bounce and tickle to alleviate their bleak and unrelentingly proper lives. “Have you come for a tumble, at all? You see, I’m not in the mood for anything too exciting at the moment, but I suppose I could rally if you’re desperate,” he drawled, hoping to get rid of her. Hoping that she’d turn on her heel and patter back to wherever she’d come from so he could immerse himself back into self-sorrow.
“You, sir,” she said tartly, “are outrageous.”
He dropped the empty bottle to the floor then tilted his head to the side. She was not behaving as she ought. No fluttering, no batting of lashes, no gushing over how she longed to be taken. Curious.
“I certainly am.” he agreed dryly, holding his hand out and gesturing toward the gin bottle. “Now, do something useful and bring me that gin.”
She arched a blonde brow. “My, we are arrogant aren’t we?”
He laughed. “What? Are we the queen?”
She scowled. “I was referring to you.”
“Oh,” he said, suddenly enjoying winding her up. “Would you care to list a few other adjectives? If you cannot, I can supply them for you.”
“Pompous,” she retorted. She propped her free hand on her hip, the very semblance of a young gorgon. “Is that upon your list?”
“Mmm,” he purred. “Yes. And bombastic. Oh and unrepentant in my devotion to the happiness of women.” The lie tasted like sick on his tongue. Happiness was as elusive as his redemption.
Her eyes swept over him again, this time slowly, most likely attempting to sketch his character, but as her gaze lingered over his anatomy, her cheeks colored a delicious rose.
As her eyes flicked over his white linen-covered chest and then up to his face, her full lips pursed with consternation. “I knew you’d be dashing, everyone says so, and arrogant of course, but I had no idea you’d be so. . .” She paused, clearly searching for the appropriate word and then her consternation turned to a bewildered grin. “So impossibly dramatic. I believe you have read too many romantic poems, sir, and it has left you most affected. Lord Byron’s impassioned heroes really are best left on the page.”
Jack stared at her for a moment completely uncomprehending the possibility that she could truly be in this room saying such accurate and simultaneously amusing things. A laugh boomed from him. The deep wave of sound started in his stomach and poured from his lips. “My God, woman, you are a treasure.”
Her bewildered chagrin faded, replaced again by her constant look of scrupulous analysis. “I am surprised you think so, Your Grace.”
“You see, honesty is not a gift I am usually given.” He bowed his head slightly. “I thank you.”
She eyed him as though he might begin to dance a jig and sing in tongues. “You are most welcome.”
“You never answered my question, but given your summary of my person, I take it you have not come for any sort of physical intimacy.”
Her nostrils flared and though a seeming impossibility, her already perfect posture snapped straighter still. “Most certainly not.”
Oh, how he suddenly longed to bend that ramrod-straight back with pleasure. Would she sway under his touch? Christ but her indignation at his supposition absolutely stunned him and he adored it. She was so easy to rile. He tsked. “You haven’t come to reform me have you? My grandmother has tried again and again and failed. Now, if you were to spend an hour laboring upon your knees. . . We might as well enjoy the position.”
Her eyes snapped into two shocked, flashing orbs.
Once again, he found himself surprised. He would have assumed from her easily outraged persona, she would not have understood his innuendo. How interesting.
Allowing an exaggerated soul-suffering sigh, he continued, “Still, pray though you might, I should not show an inch of difference.”
She hesitated then said, “I don’t pray, generally speaking.”
He blinked. She didn’t pray? “No laborious pining to our Lord?”
“I hardly think that effective and—”
“Drink?” he cut in, suddenly wishing to keep her in his rooms ’till sun-up and not for his usual reasons. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been met with such a surprise. How often did he meet a woman who came in dressed fairly like a charity worker, castigated his appearance and attitude, and then declared she did not pray?
Never, that’s when, and he was not about to let the moment pass.
“Yes,” she said a trifle too quickly. Then she smiled, her lips parting into such a transformative gesture that he stopped.
It completely altered her face. In one astonishing moment, the sun had come to England and his very dark, dark room. He felt the power of that smile to his very core, and he had to shake himself before he could point out, “You’ve the bottle.”
A stunned laugh escaped her lips. “So I have.” She glanced about. “Cups?”
He gave her a slow smile. “No cups. If you wish a drink you shall have to do it as I do.”
She stared at the bottle of gin for a long moment, shrugged her slender shoulders then pulled the cork and took a swig.
He waited for the horrified look on her face. And waited.
She smiled. “This really isn’t so terrible.”
Jack gaped. She seemed a lady, but her actions. . . Her actions led him back to that strange emotion, confusion.
She frowned. “Now, what was I saying?”
He cleared his throat, feeling completely at sea. “Forgive me for interrupting. You were telling me you do not pray.”
“Not really, no.” She eyed the bottle again and took another neat drink. “Though there were a variety of diverse faiths about, my parents were far more concerned with their own enterprises. I do occasionally speak to nature though.”
He just refrained from turning his gape to a full gawk. “Nature?” he echoed.<
br />
“Yes,” she declared firmly. “I find rocks to be quite magnificent.”
His disorientation increasing, he stared at the bottle in her hand and felt an incredible need for its contents. “Rocks?
“Not the little ones, mind you,” she effused, waving the bottle ever so slightly. “Towering, cavernous rocks. They are very inspiring and. . .” her words trailed off as if she suddenly found herself to be babbling.
The woman worshipped rocks? He wished to urge her to continue in her credo of nature worship, but felt certain she would not be teased out after her sudden self-awareness.
Jack forced himself to his feet. He wanted to meet her half way. To shrug off his mask of joker and just have a beautiful conversation with her. After all, the woman was entirely unlike any of the other ladies of his acquaintance. How could he pass this opportunity up? She had no guile or artifice and if he asked her a question she would give him an honest, unguarded answer. Which was an entirely new experience to his palate. For once, he found himself wishing to speak with a woman who, instead of worshipping the ground he walked upon, worshipped rocks.
He lowered his eyes to her left hand. No ring. Which in his experience, of course, meant nothing. Women were just as fickle as men, and perhaps more so because at least men did not give over to protestations of undying fidelity whilst secretly shagging the footman.
She was of an age to be married, at least a few years over, and she didn’t seem to be completely comfortable with him. As he lifted his eyes back to her face, he realized it didn’t matter if she were married or not, experienced or not, she’d made it clear she wasn’t here for an affair. Which of course begged the question, why the devil was she here?
Jack ground his teeth together as he avoided looking at her simple dress and plainly styled hair, wondering what exactly to say next. She was so unlike the powdered and be-laced tarts who came for a guaranteed evening of sin, he had forgotten what to do with her. How did one simply converse with a woman? And there was the small possibility for all her protestations, she was still hoping he might bed her. Women were odd creatures, produced by a society which only praised unobtainable virgins and devoted wives, frequently forced to protest when they wished to give in.
It made negotiating the waters of seduction most precarious for the unskilled.
For a moment Jack considered seizing the bottle, then chucking her out of the room. If she were a lady, an innocent, though he didn’t believe innocence to be a lasting quality in women or men, she was risking her reputation being here. Hell, she was risking her reputation being in the tavern. He’d have to ensure Padraig put her in a hackney.
But the consideration didn’t last as long as it might with an honorable man. Tonight his darkness was pressing him with renewed vigor and for the first time in a long time he actually allowed himself to consider indulging in a bit of company to ease the pain.
Jack slowly approached her.
Her gaze traced over his face then over his linen-clad shoulders, muscled from hours of boxing drills and fencing rounds. Her perusal was extremely odd, as though she were making notes of his measurements and proportions.
He couldn’t help it, the idea and her regard made him smile. His damn lips curved of their own volition.
In small calculated degrees, he reached toward her.
She yanked her gaze from his chest, down to his hand.
He waited for her to hand him the bottle and for their fingers to meet.
It was the softest touch. Her gloves, plain black leather, brushed his skin. He allowed the moment to linger. The roughness of his hands brushed against the delicacy of hers. Her breasts lifted in a sharp breath and that single movement sent the blood in his body shooting straight to his groin. He was used to it. Desire, though not usually for seemingly prim misses, was part of his strange and empty existence. But when he met her eyes, his chest tightened with a sensation he hadn’t felt in…
Jack fought the urge to jerk back. Not in fear, but because her eyes were full of unveiled curiosity and complete openness. An openness which left her completely bare before him.
To his shock, he heard a part of himself he’d been certain was dead and gone, whisper for him to give in to that youthful naiveté which stared back at him. And perhaps, perhaps if he kissed her soft full lips, he might be able to take a bit of her openness into his exhausted soul.
The thought was so ridiculous and jarred him so badly, he asked abruptly, “Are you married?”
She blinked quickly and lowered her chin. “Y-y-yes. I am.”
“Of course you are,” he bit out.
He wanted to throttle himself. A difficult, if appealing proposition. Just because she seemed to be so entirely different from all the others didn’t mean that at some fundamental level she wasn’t the same as all the other married women he’d had experience with. He took a long swallow of the gin, glaring down at her with new eyes. “Are you unhappy in your marriage?”
“At present, I am unable to make a discerning judgment,” she huffed, any semblance of her earlier smile disappearing, replaced by prickling indignation.
“Then why are you here?” he whispered. He allowed his gaze to become half hooded, masking his disappointment, yet suggesting desire. “Don’t you love your husband? Or your reputation?”
The look had its effect; she lifted her face up towards his, her gaze softening as if confused and taken in at once. She stared at his mouth for a long moment, then jerked her gaze away. “No, and that is exactly what I—”
A loud banging on his door cut her off before she could doubtlessly declare her intentions for visiting an unmarried man’s abode, regardless of her married state.
“Jack!” The Duke of Darkwell thundered from the hallway.
“What is it now?” Jack called, his heart suddenly pounding with concern and another emotion. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment at being given a reprieve from this odd woman’s presence. But if Darkwell was here something was seriously amiss. Otherwise the fellow would be in bed with his duchess.
“Your brother!” Suddenly, the door banged open and Darkwell strode through, his eyes hard with worry beneath uncombed black hair.
“Is he dead?” Jack quipped, unable to be serious. Seriousness was not the way to meet one’s woes. He’d learned that long ago.
Darkwell stopped, spotting the young woman. He frowned. “What the devil are you doing here? I know you wished to see Hunt but—”
She shook her head vehemently.
Darkwell snapped his mouth shut but his gaze was unrelenting in his disapproval.
“You two know each other?” Jack demanded, another unfamiliar emotion making his voice harsher than he intended.
Darkwell have a terse nod. “She’s a friend of my wife and is our guest.”
“Your guest. . .” He shook his head, the gin making everything a good deal foggier than he liked. “My brother. . . What about him?”
“I went to the rapier club and let’s just say Charles is on a rampage. It’s imperative you go to him immediately.”
Jack let out an exhausted sigh. It was tempting to tell Darkwell to go to hell, but the old boy wouldn’t have disturbed him if it wasn’t important. And since their father’s death just last year, his twin, Charles was on the fast road to hell and Jack would not let his twin walk that path alone.
Jack glanced down at the young woman who had stumbled back a few steps from his presence. “It would seem I must disappoint you.”
She sighed. “I am most accustomed to it, I assure you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She shook her head and smiled grimly. “Nothing, Your Grace. I do hope your brother is well.”
“Thank you. He means a great deal to me,” he explained as he crossed back to the sideboard and plunked down his barely touched glass. “I will ensure Padraig fetches a hackney for you. Take it and go straight to Darkwell’s. The streets aren’t safe at night for such a treasure as you.”
Without allowing himself to contemplate her another moment, he strode from the room, praying she would not come back to bother his body or his troubled soul again.
Chapter 3
A town house, Green Park
Two o’clock in the afternoon
“My dear boy, you must convince your brother to leave off.”
Jack extended his fine bone china cup to his venus fly trap of a mother. Oh how he wished he need not have the pre-requisite second cup but when his mother came to call, he couldn’t exactly boot her out after the proper fifteen minute interlude. Much to the consternation of many a son, a mother, or at least his mother, was above the strict rules of the English calling code. “Which brother are you referring to, Madam?”
Hyacinth Eversleigh, the ever youthful Duchess of Hunt, teacup in hand, arched a black brow in a remarkable likeness to his twin’s disdainful gesture.
The same twin that had danced upon the rooftop of their club last eve, champagne bottles in hand. Jack had spent considerable time talking his brother off the ledge.
“Jack, are you listening to your Mama?”
Jack coughed back a snort. God forbid he let his attention drift in her presence.
“You were saying?” He really didn’t need to ask who was causing his mother her present state of vexation. Of all her family, the only one she actually actively disapproved of was the one who gave fresh definition to the words proper and duty. Grandmama. Her Grace the dowager Duchess of I’m Better Than Everybody, Mentally, Morally, and Physically.
And in truth, the old girl was. She’d sustained wind and weather, two husbands, two kings, and several prime ministers, not to mention a host of wives that she’d kept firmly in line with her ability to shut the doors of society forever upon one who didn’t meet her favor.
Despite his awareness of these exasperating facts, Jack didn’t immediately supply his grandmother’s name. Fluffing his mother’s colorful feathers gave him far too much delight, and she deserved it after hoisting him out of bed at one in the afternoon to face his toilette, a time she knew very well, unmanly as it might sound, he spent luxuriating upon his goose down bed rolling about in his Italian silk sheets. One needed such rest after rescuing one’s brother from taking a swan dive whilst drunker than a sailor.
