Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  “To do it daily,” Baron Mentmore added. “Use hot water over the entire body.”

  “Who has time for that?” Lord Prowse exclaimed.

  “Many people, I assure you,” the duke responded drily.

  “Brummell’s power can’t be overestimated,” Jess said. “Look at how many of the gentlemen of our company are dressed.”

  More than half the men sported light-colored pantaloons, a white waistcoat, white neckcloth, and dark coat. Even the duke’s ensemble followed this principle—though he wore his with an artful insouciance that could only come from not caring what other people thought.

  “What of it?” Mr. Walditch asked, coming over to join the group, with Lady Farris at his side.

  “Brummell’s opinions have filtered down to all levels of society,” Jess said. “From neckcloths to bathing. I wouldn’t be surprised if people took more baths because of him.”

  “More bathing means more soap.” Baron Mentmore’s eyes widened. “Gracious.”

  “You may be onto something, my lord,” Jess said to the baron. She nodded, and Baron Mentmore nodded right along with her. Within moments, half the assembled people were also nodding—though the duke wasn’t of their number.

  Lord Prowse looked sullen. “It’s nonsense.”

  “It isn’t,” Baron Mentmore said in an injured tone. Defiantly, he continued, “I’m going to have my man of business look into the people who make that honey soap. Could be an opportunity there.”

  “Do let us know what you discover,” Jess said, calm and collected, but inside she danced. The seeds had been planted, and, even better, she’d steered the conversation in such a way to make the others believe it had been their idea.

  The baron would learn more about McGale & McGale, including the fire. But Jess and her siblings had been transparent about the catastrophe, so there would be no chance of being accused of deceit. If Baron Mentmore’s man of business was worth his wages, he’d see that there would be a ripe investment opportunity for his employer. And if that man didn’t recognize it, tomorrow, Jess would make certain that the baron, and sympathetic others at the Bazaar, knew it.

  Lord Trask appeared at the duke’s side.

  She held her breath, worried that the marquess might castigate her for bringing in a business in search of capital—exactly what he’d grumbled about when she’d first gained entrance to the Bazaar.

  “Time to begin,” he said.

  She exhaled. Safe, for now.

  Jess moved to perch on a delicate chair, careful to keep from staring too long at the duke. Instead of sitting, he stood toward the back, his arms folded across his chest. Moments later, a man entered carrying a covered birdcage. Soft avian sounds came from beneath the cover.

  “My lords and my ladies,” the man said, “I am Bartholomew Pine, and I present to you today the solution to rapid communication in major cities.”

  He tugged the covering off the cage, revealing a tiny sparrow.

  “This solution will be far less expensive than using footmen or hired boys to deliver messages,” Mr. Pine said tremulously. “Trained sparrows will take brief communications from your home to a central hub. You can chirp at someone with your short message. The hub is where the sparrows will feed, so if someone wants to see if they have received a message, they can check the feed, as I call it.”

  Confused mutterings rose up from the guests.

  “Does that mean we’ll have to continuously hover around the feed to see if anyone has a message for us?” Viscount Hunsdon asked.

  “Obviously, you cannot spend all day at the feed,” Mr. Pine stammered.

  “That would be a spectacular waste of time,” Baron Mentmore said irritably.

  While Jess pitied Mr. Pine for receiving such a poor reception, his idea seemed ludicrous. She shared a look with the duke, and his expression revealed that he felt the same.

  She also pitied the poor bird, who hopped around its cage, unable to spread its wings and fly.

  “Why not use pigeons?” someone demanded.

  “Sparrows are quite tractable, with the right training. I will demonstrate.”

  He opened the cage door and reached for the sparrow. The bird immediately flew past his hand and out into the room.

  Chaos reigned as everyone leapt to their feet and exclaimed in horror, amusement, or a little of both. Some took cover from the bird’s frantic fluttering. Grown men hid behind furniture and shrieked in alarm as if they were being set upon by bloodthirsty monsters. Their fearful cries made the sparrow carom through the chamber at a blinding speed.

  “Take cover, Lady Whitfield,” Lord Trask cried.

  “I grew up in the country,” she answered calmly. “Birds don’t frighten me.”

  When the sparrow landed upon a tall cabinet, Jess grabbed a nearby chair and brought it over. She climbed up onto the chair, her movements deliberately slow.

  “Pretty bird,” she crooned. She gently held out her hand. “Here’s a good bird.”

  The sparrow tilted its head and regarded her with its shiny black eye. Her hand inched closer and closer. A little bit more, and she could grab hold of it.

  “God help us!” someone screamed.

  Alarmed, the bird flew straight toward Jess’s face. She pulled back sharply. The chair beneath her tottered, and she fell—

  Into the duke’s arms. He caught her and held her firmly. A gasp escaped her lips as she flung her arms around his neck, but whether it came from her close call or the feel of his solid body against hers, she didn’t know.

  All she did know was that she clung to him, while he had a firm grip on the dip of her waist, and their mouths were quite, quite close.

  His gaze skimmed down to her lips. She was suddenly dizzy, and startled excitement made her inhalations come even faster. As he lowered her gently so she could stand, she slid down the length of his torso, her thighs brushing against his.

  She barely felt her feet when they touched the ground.

  If he lowered his head just a tiny bit more, if she rose up on her toes a fraction . . . they would kiss.

  She needed to learn his taste, as much as she needed to draw another breath. In minute increments, they drew closer, and closer still . . .

  “It’s getting away!” somebody yelled.

  The spell between her and the duke broke, and they stepped apart. Twin stains of color stood out on his cheeks, his chest rising and falling.

  And then the sparrow took flight from a ledge, out the open window, and into freedom.

  She exhaled shakily. At least one of us is getting what we want.

  Once everyone had collected themselves, it was time for the next presentation, which was to be held in a dockside warehouse.

  Noel brought up the rear of the company as the Bazaar guests filed into the building. The scent of the river lay heavy and dank outside, and within the structure itself, there was a charred scent, as though something had recently been on fire.

  Lady Whitfield took several steps back, as though pushed by something unseen. In the dim light within the warehouse, she appeared pale.

  He was beside her in an instant. “Are you well, madam?”

  “It’s nothing.” She gave him what was likely an attempt at a reassuring smile, but it frayed at the edges. “My sense of smell is sensitive, which can prove inconvenient at times.”

  “Fortunate that I decided not to douse myself in sardines and vinegar this morning.”

  His jest, weak as it was, had the desired effect. She chuckled softly, and color returned to her cheeks. A darker pink had dusted her face when he’d caught her earlier. He’d seen the way she’d looked at his mouth, too, and she’d been silken and lush against him. Since then, he’d been edgy and aroused, and he was grateful for the opportunity to leave Trask’s drawing room behind for an outing to see another presentation.

  “What a remarkable place.” Her gaze roamed through the building, and while most of it was empty, a giant metal tank occupied part of the space. From
it came a series of lead pipes that snaked through the warehouse, with what appeared to be hand pumps set at intervals, and hoses attached to the pumps.

  A Black man in a beautiful ink-blue jacket and mahogany silk waistcoat stood beside the giant tank, while a Black woman in a neat gown with a heavy canvas apron adjusted a few pipe fittings.

  “Have we all assembled?” the man asked crisply. “Very good. I am Dionysus Graves. This is my wife, Judith.”

  She nodded at her cue, and said, “We present to you our fire-suppression system to be implemented in mills and factories.”

  For the next twenty minutes, the Graveses explained that by the time a fire brigade could arrive at a mill, the conflagration would have likely decimated most of the structure and could have cost many lives. Their system could be installed directly in a mill to be used by the workers themselves, and while it might not completely douse a fire, it could curtail the damage and danger considerably. The engineering of the Graveses’ contraption was something to behold, and though Noel had fared relatively well with his education in physics, he marveled at the adroitness of the couple’s minds.

  Mrs. Graves said, “Distinguished lords and ladies, we will now demonstrate the effectiveness of our system.” She nodded at her husband, who approached a sizable pile of splintered wood.

  Mr. Graves struck a flint, creating sparks. The sparks flew onto the wood, and within a moment, the pile of wood caught fire. It was a significant blaze, throwing tremendous heat.

  A soft gasp sounded beside him. Lady Whitfield shook—not from cold. Her eyes went wide, the lurid light from the fire turning them glassy. Her fear was a palpable thing.

  It was the fire that terrified her.

  At once, he placed his body between her and the blaze. He wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders and guided her quickly toward the exit. “A few more steps,” he murmured, “and then we’ll be well away from it. I’m here. You’re safe.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  Hearing her stammer in terror shot straight to his heart. She never showed fear.

  As he led her to the door, he looked back over his shoulder. Mr. Graves worked one of the pumps whilst his wife held the hose, directing a robust stream of water onto the fire.

  Trask sent a questioning look in Noel’s direction. He responded with a hand gesture to indicate that everything was under control, and for Trask to stay with the others.

  Once outside, Noel escorted Lady Whitfield toward the waterfront. “The river isn’t the most delightful fragrance, but it should take the smell of smoke away.”

  “Again, I’m grateful.” Her voice, he was relieved to hear, was even, but she continued to shiver.

  Noel pulled off his greatcoat and settled it over her shoulders. It engulfed her, and she objected, “I’m dragging it on the ground. It will get dirty.”

  “My valet, Beale, is entirely too conceited. Cleaning mud off my coat will set him down a peg.” They came to the edge of the river, and he carefully seated her on a crate. “Better?”

  She drew in a breath, then made a face. “I understand what you mean about the river’s scent. Yet it is better.” For a moment, she was quiet, then asked, “Do you think anyone noticed?”

  “Trask saw us leave, but he was the only one. You needn’t worry. He’s not the sort to gossip.”

  She kept her gaze trained on the water, watching the comings and goings of ships and boats and all manner of other water-faring vessels. “It’s not gossip that concerns me. I don’t—”

  “Don’t what?” he urged gently.

  “I don’t like to be seen as vulnerable,” she blurted, then clamped her lips together as if embarrassed by her outburst.

  He felt his brows lift. “But you’re human. Of course that means that sometimes you must be vulnerable.”

  “Doesn’t mean I like it,” she muttered.

  “I don’t like it, either.” He clicked his tongue. “What if people realize that the Duke of Rotherby is only a godlike being, and not actually a god?”

  “They never will believe that,” she said drily.

  He sobered. “A wise lady reminded me that being a dictatorial boor isn’t appreciated by others. And that sometimes there’s a benefit to be had in delving beneath the surface.”

  “And do you think that?”

  He shrugged as he watched a man on a skiff navigate between huge tall-masted ships. “She’s shown me that life is an ongoing education. There’s always something new to learn, some new experience to have. For example, here we are, beside one of the busiest rivers in the world, full of ships going all over the globe, the heartbeat of the nation, and all I can think about is the curve of the back of your neck.”

  She brought her hand up to gently touch her nape. The gesture was so tender, so vulnerable, it nearly brought him to his knees.

  “Apologies,” he said gruffly. “You asked me to go slow—”

  “Slow,” she said, turning to look up at him, her eyes bright, “not stop.”

  He curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. “As you wish, Lady Whitfield.”

  “My name is Jessica, but my friends and family call me Jess.” She bit her lip, then offered, “You may, as well. If you like.”

  “I would,” he answered readily. It was a gift, her name, and he held it tightly. “The names my friends call me aren’t suitable for mixed company, but I’d be honored if you would call me Noel.”

  “Noel,” she repeated. The single syllable had never held such music before as it did coming from her lips.

  They were silent together, though the noise from traffic along the river made the moment anything but quiet. He held himself very still, as though by remaining motionless, he could preserve this span of time, stretch it out into an infinite realm that contained him and her alone.

  She exhaled. “I . . . had an experience with fire. I wasn’t hurt, but . . . it was frightening. I can still feel it, sometimes. Its heat. And I don’t care for sitting too close to the fireplace.”

  “Understandable that the Graveses’ demonstration might elicit feelings of fear. You know,” he added, “I myself have a secret fear. I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t like rodents.”

  “Rats and mice and such?”

  “The same,” he said stiffly. “When I was young, I found a mouse living in my mattress. My nurse took it outside and set it free, but I hated the thought that I was lying unconscious on its home. It might have even crawled on me when I was sleeping.” He suppressed a tremor of revulsion.

  She rose to her feet. “In that case, let us head back to the others. And whatever you do, don’t look down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a terrier-sized rat eating its luncheon about five feet away.”

  It was remarkable how vanity could change one’s behavior. He knew with absolute certainty that if she hadn’t been there, he would have gagged and in general made an ass of himself in front of the entire London docks.

  Instead, he flexed his hands in an attempt to calm himself. The rodent didn’t worry him half as much as what he intended to do next. “Would you accompany me to Vauxhall tonight?”

  “Ah, you asked.” A smile bloomed across her face, but the happiness it gave Noel dimmed when she added, “I am not certain that’s a wise idea.”

  “What if we weren’t alone?”

  “Depends on the company.”

  He inclined his head. “The other Bazaar guests.” His breath held as he awaited her answer. She couldn’t know how difficult it was for him to offer himself up in this way, and he didn’t want her to know. All he desired was for her to exercise her free will in choosing him. That was what mattered. Her choice.

  A long moment went by, and she was silent. Then, just as he was on the verge of begging her for an answer, she said, “I should like that.”

  He said, “I suspect that, if I tried, at the moment I could literally walk across the surface of the Thames from sheer happiness.”
/>   “Your Grace—”

  “Noel,” he reminded her.

  “It’s my suspicion that you are mainly pleased by my agreeing to go with you because you’re unused to women refusing you anything.”

  “Like a child denied a toy.” He scowled as anger flared. “I am not a child. This is no tantrum.”

  She inclined her head. “You’re right. You deserve better than I have given. My apologies. It’s only . . .” She glanced down. “You’re so very much, and I’m more than a little afraid of what I feel when I’m with you.”

  His anger burned away, replaced by something he had little experience with: humility. Here again, she transformed him. “We shall venture forth together, and take each moment as it presents itself.”

  “A wise course of action.”

  He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  “One thing first.” She pulled off his coat and handed it back to him. “Thank you for the loan, Noel. And for trusting me with your fear.”

  “Ever the gallant.” He donned the garment, and his head fogged. Her honeyed fragrance surrounded him—trapped within the garment’s fibers—and as he led her back toward the warehouse, he vowed that Beale would never, never clean his coat.

  Chapter 10

  As the gentleman giving the final presentation left the room, Noel immediately surged to his feet.

  “A small treat tonight,” he said to the guests. “I’ve arranged private tables in supper boxes at Vauxhall. Nothing more revivifying than arrack and pyrotechnics.” He added, “That is, I ask you all to join me, if you will.”

  Everyone murmured their appreciation and excitement over the prospect, and Jess couldn’t keep from smiling. It was for her that he did this, and her head was full of stars. Even as she knew his secrets and vulnerabilities, he dazzled.

  It was arranged that the Bazaar participants would meet at nine o’clock at Lord Trask’s home, and then caravan to minimize traffic congestion. When Noel acted, he acted decisively, with no detail omitted. She couldn’t help but be impressed by such thoroughness.

  Nerves and excitement accompanied her home. She feared she would reveal herself to be a gauche country girl, gawking at the sophisticated pleasure garden. But how she longed to see it, and be there with Noel.