Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  Tonight would be a night of making memories. None of this could last, and she would hold everything as tightly as she could.

  Once at home, she and Lynch stood together in the stable yard and nursed whiskeys.

  “Have you ever been to Vauxhall?” Jess asked him. “I’ve read about it. Tried to picture what the gardens might look like at night, lit up by thousands of lanterns.”

  “Can’t say as I’ve gone there.” He scratched his fingers across his shining head. “It’s three shillings sixpence to get in, so I save my coin for a fine meal or some of Catton’s cakes.”

  “Is it a dangerous place?” She lifted her shoulders. “There’s the Dark Walk. A place for assignations. But I’d heard its shadows hide cutpurses and men lurking there to prey upon unaccompanied women.”

  “Might be. But all of London’s dangerous. Wallop anyone who tries anything. Better to give a lad a punch than have his groping paws all over you.” He shrugged. “His bruises and broken bones will heal. Or maybe the wounds will putrefy and he’ll rot from the inside out. Serve him right, won’t it?”

  “A sensible attitude.” She lifted her hand, coiled into a fist. “I’ve knocked a few blokes onto their arses when they warranted it.”

  He tapped her fist with his fingers. “Good lass.”

  “Anything else I might need to know about the gardens?”

  “Only that you ought to enjoy yourself.”

  A quick nap—which involved mostly lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling—followed by a bath revived her for the night ahead. Her abigail attired her in a diaphanous gown of saffron-hued silk and secured pearl pins in her hair. A white satin wrap draped around her shoulders to protect her from an evening chill.

  Jess examined her reflection in the pier glass. She tried to resist the impulse to run her hands over the fabric, though it wasn’t easy. Never again in her life would she have the opportunity to wear such fine clothing, and she wanted to savor it, even as she felt a sting of resentment that, with the people of the Bazaar, she could not fully be herself.

  With Noel, she felt more herself than she had in a long, long while. She wasn’t the eldest sibling responsible for everything. She wasn’t the deferential paid companion. She did not have to curb her tongue or wear a smothering cloak of humility.

  But even that was predicated on a lie.

  “Awful pretty, my lady,” Nell said admiringly.

  Naturally, an abigail would praise her mistress, but Jess hoped Nell was sincere. Jess wanted to look her best tonight. It was only natural, all part of her plan. It had nothing to do with a duke who gave her his coat when she shivered, and possessed impossibly dark eyes.

  Fortunately, the night was fine, making her walk to Lord Trask’s pleasant enough. Each step wound her excitement higher and higher—her first time at Vauxhall, her first evening with Noel.

  Pleasures to savor.

  She entered the downstairs parlor, where everyone had convened. Looking around, she searched for Noel. Then she froze when she saw him.

  His simple, elegant evening clothes only reaffirmed how exquisitely his garments—and he—were made. He looked at her from across the chamber, and she was bolted to the spot.

  Briefly, he looked stunned, as though witnessing something extraordinary, something beautiful.

  Her. He looked at her as though she was beautiful.

  His gaze heated. Then he smiled, a true smile, wide and white and dazzling. She took a step toward him, drawn forward by the insistent need to be closer.

  Someone said something to him, and the moment between her and Noel broke apart. But not completely, because he shot her one more glance that clearly said, This isn’t finished between us.

  After a quick exchange with Lord Trask, Noel clapped his hands together. “We’re all here. Shall we venture forth, my friends?”

  There was a chorus of agreement. Noel strode forward and offered Jess his arm. He started when someone tapped a fan on his shoulder.

  “You have two arms, you know,” Lady Haighe said pointedly.

  “Horrendously remiss in not offering it to you.” Noel extended his free arm to her. She glanced at it as though debating whether or not to grant him her favor, and then, with a sly smile, she rested her fingers on his sleeve. Noel murmured, “You honor me.”

  “Don’t I, though?” The older woman sniffed.

  Jess couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Men far outnumbered the women of the Bazaar—there was no shortage of other gentlemen to escort Lady Haighe. Yet how could Jess begrudge Lady Haighe her desire for Noel’s attention?

  Mr. Walditch attended Lady Farris, and with all the company accounted for, they went down to a row of waiting carriages. Jess, Lady Haighe, and Mr. Parley climbed into Noel’s coach. Then they were off.

  Other than her walk to Lord Trask’s, she hadn’t been out after dark in London. Nights at the family farm or in her village were long and quiet, and she had often taken solitary rambles through the darkened countryside.

  In London, she had to return to the town house and spend the evening with a solitary meal and her stack of newspapers. When she’d walked tonight, she had been too preoccupied with thoughts of the coming evening, and being with Noel again. Now it was all she could do to keep from hanging her head out of the carriage window and watching the city at night. There were people, so many people, parading up and down the lamp-lit streets as though it was high noon. Shop windows were also illuminated like glowing jewel boxes, and orange sellers and piemen cried their wares.

  “It’s a risk for me to show my face at Vauxhall,” Noel said, snaring her attention. “Last time I was there, I caused something of a disturbance.”

  “Surely not,” Lady Haighe insisted. “A man of your rank.”

  “The management was a trifle displeased when I borrowed three carts full of colored lanterns. And the singers. And the orchestra. And the cooks, and—”

  “Essentially, you stole Vauxhall,” Jess said, fighting a smile.

  “Borrowed, madam. It was my intention to return it. Eventually.”

  “God preserve us from overindulged men.” Lady Haighe sniffed.

  “We are a blight,” Noel said solemnly. “Yet I trust tonight that between yourself and Lady Whitfield, you will curb my more profligate tendencies.”

  “If I had a frigate every time a man made a woman responsible for his actions”—Jess snorted—“I’d have an armada.”

  “A woman in command?” Mr. Parley seemed slightly appalled.

  “Why not?” Noel lifted a brow. “Queen Elizabeth commanded one and look how well that turned out for the nation.”

  “Really, Your Grace,” Jess said, attempting to sound vexed. “If you insist on saying such things, I will have no choice but to like you.”

  His gaze gleamed in the half-light of the carriage. “Like is a lukewarm emotion. Better to inspire something with a little more heat. Hate me if you must, but I’d rather that than passionless liking.”

  Jess pressed her lips together. There was no danger of anything passionless—not where he was concerned.

  They crossed Vauxhall Bridge, and the caravan came to a stop. Footmen helped the ladies out, and Jess admired the gates to the pleasure garden as the others assembled.

  “Everyone’s admission is already paid,” Noel said, every inch the magnanimous host. “Please, go in. And above all, enjoy yourselves.”

  “My lady,” Mr. Parley said, presenting her with his arm.

  It was better to have the brewer escort her than to show a particular preference, so she took his arm with a grateful nod. She couldn’t stop herself from looking over her shoulder toward Noel. Lady Haighe had commandeered him.

  Good. That was good. Because the way the lights shone in his eyes, he was temptation incarnate, and once inside the pleasure garden, she would be in his world.

  Vauxhall was a place where anything could happen, where the world turned on its head, and farmers’ daughters could flirt with dukes.

&nbs
p; She didn’t know if, on the other side of the pleasure garden’s gate, she could trust herself to behave. And she didn’t know if she wanted to.

  Chapter 11

  Jess could count on one hand the number of times she’d been drunk. Certainly, she’d never partaken of opium.

  Walking the grounds of Vauxhall was like imbibing several bottles of spirits and eating opium.

  Colored lanterns dazzled from strings and were suspended from tree branches. Acrobats and dancers spun in colorful configurations, a fire-breather shot flames from her mouth, and a magician performed sleight of hand with silk scarves. Strolling musicians seemed to compete with each other as to who could play louder.

  Then there were the patrons—men and women of every color, every class, crowding the walkways, jostling and shouting and laughing.

  It was fantastic. It was almost too much.

  “This way, good children,” Noel called to the Bazaar guests. “To the supper boxes.”

  As he led the group, Jess kept her gaze fixed on Noel’s broad back rather than the spectacle around her. His presence anchored her, keeping her from flying off into the cosmos.

  More than once, he looked back. At her. Every time he did, her heart beat a little faster.

  They moved past a large pavilion housing an orchestra, past tables set up beneath the trees’ canopy, and on toward a long colonnade that housed the supper boxes. The boxes themselves were closed on three sides, and the open front enabled the diners to see and be seen. Unlike the rest of the pleasure garden, these boxes contained what appeared to be the elite. The men and women within them wore finery so elegant they fairly reeked of wealth. They preened before the people walking by, as though they knew they were as much a part of the spectacle as the acrobats.

  “No need for shyness,” Noel said, ushering her and the others into a trio of empty boxes. “Sit, eat, drink. Partake of everything Vauxhall has to offer.”

  Jess found herself seated at the center of one table, Mr. Walditch on one side of her, Noel on the other. In the jeweled light of the lanterns, his face was preternaturally handsome, but it was his expression of easy confidence that made her palms damp. He inhabited his body and the world with assurance, as though he never questioned himself.

  He caught her looking at him. The smile he gave her was slow and hot.

  A server came around to fill their glasses. Seeking to cool herself, Jess took a long swallow of her drink. It was sweet and spiced and so delicious she quickly downed more.

  “Have a care,” Noel murmured. “The arrack punch here is notorious for making people forget themselves. I’ve seen more than a few arrack-fueled brawls.”

  “I’m far tougher than I appear.”

  “Then you must be Heracles’s daughter because I’ve never met someone so strong.” He took a handful of grapes from a salver and placed them onto her plate. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  “Noticed what?” Apprehension tightened along her neck, but she feigned nonchalance by popping a grape into her mouth.

  She’d been careful to keep all of her comments about McGale & McGale couched in the language of merely an interested investor. She should have known that someone as observant and insightful as Noel had caught on to her.

  “Many at the Bazaar seek your counsel,” he said. “With good cause—you’re damned insightful, and when it comes to financial matters, you’re bloody brilliant.”

  “I fail to see the problem with that.” She’d been called pretty, and clever, but never brilliant. And that this praise came from him . . . But worry undercut her pleasure. Had he perceived her secret agenda?

  “You were the one urging Sir Brantley to attend the Bazaar,” he continued. “It was your idea the whole time. Your being here is not happenstance.”

  She exhaled a laugh as relief coursed through her. “Not happenstance at all.”

  “I knew it.” Noel slapped his hand on the table.

  A server presented a platter of what had to be the thinnest slices of ham Jess had ever beheld. With great ceremony, the server set the platter down and backed away.

  “May I serve you?” Noel asked, his voice low and dark. “I’d enjoy it very much.”

  “Yes, please,” she answered breathlessly.

  As if from a great distance away, she heard Mr. Walditch talking with Lord Sundon. Neither of them seemed to be aware of the conversation happening beside them. Or they did notice, and opted not to involve themselves.

  “You’re a star attraction.” She glanced toward a trio of perambulators, two women and a man. All three of them sent Noel clear looks of longing. And they weren’t the only passersby that showed him interest.

  Yet Noel’s attention remained fixed on her. As he leaned back in his chair, his gaze didn’t waver from her face. “Tell me your favorite book.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m collecting pieces of you, like a beachcomber looking for polished stones and beautiful shells. Later, when they’re home, far inland, they can look at those stones and shells and remember.”

  She pressed a hand to the pulse fluttering in her neck. “I’d no idea dukes were poetical.”

  “When suitably motivated.”

  “The answer depends,” she said. “Sometimes it’s Smith’s Wealth of Nations. It isn’t my favorite, per se, but I can read it over and over again and find something new every time.” Her copy of the book was much battered, several of the pages loose in the binding. She had to secure the whole thing with twine.

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “And what about when you’re not in the mood for economic theory?”

  She’d made use of Lady Catherton’s library, and had inhaled the works of Shakespeare. “As You Like It. I know it’s a play and not exactly a book, but I’ve never had the chance to see it performed, so I only know it from reading.”

  “It’s Rosalind’s story,” he said with a nod. “Everyone else is just a plaything for her to toy with. She deserves better than Orlando.”

  She propped her chin in her hand. “Does anyone truly deserve her?”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully, “but they can try.” His look scorched her. “There’s certainly pleasure in the attempt.”

  She tipped up her chin, a wordless dare. “And your favorite book?”

  “Here, now,” Mr. Walditch interjected. “If you’re both going to discuss books in the middle of Vauxhall, I’m going to have the bully boys throw you out.”

  Jess laughed, delightfully scandalized by Mr. Walditch’s threat to a duke.

  Noel chuckled and held up his palms. “Fair enough. Tonight’s for pleasure, and I’m determined Lady Whitfield will have more than her share of it.”

  Oh, help.

  Mr. Walditch shook his head before dividing his attention between his plate of cold meat and conversation with Lord Sundon.

  Jess turned her attention to the people walking past the supper boxes. She easily spotted the companions. Here and there in the crowd, there were women in plainer dress, trailing behind women in elegant silk, their gazes trained on the ladies they were paid to serve. The in-between women, neither fully servant nor part of the family. They were required only because others found them useful, but their own wishes, their own desires, those were covered in holland cloth and forgotten in dusty rooms.

  Wanting Noel—and she did want him—was wrong. It was selfish to put her needs before her family’s. And yet, and yet . . .

  Wasn’t there one thing for herself? Not forever, not even for a day, but perhaps just a single hour that belonged to her alone? Couldn’t she have that?

  “I can tell when you’re thinking because the smallest crease appears between your brows,” he murmured. “Just here.” He moved to touch his fingertip to that same spot, but caught himself and dropped his hand.

  “Gentlemen do not point out women’s wrinkles.” Her words were censorious, but her tone was playful.

  “I don’t consider them wrinkles. They’re lines on your map, leading me to all your
mysterious territory.”

  Her heart thudded, but she said, “Recall what maps used to say—here be dragons. You don’t know what my dragons might be, or if you can slay them.”

  “I don’t want to slay your dragons. I want to feed them apples and make friends with them.”

  “Dragons aren’t horses,” she felt obliged to point out. “They don’t eat apples.”

  “Then I’ll feed them sheep or virginal lads, or whatever it is dragons eat. Though, I imagine that virginal lads don’t taste very good. Ropy and chewy and green.”

  Giddy, deliciously freed from should and should not, she regarded him. “You said it would please you to serve me.”

  “So it would.” His voice was deep as dreams.

  “I would like you to”—she held his gaze with hers—“escort me to view the fireworks display.”

  It should have been wrong or strange to issue commands to him. The difference in their true stations was impossibly wide, never to be breached. But having him serve her felt right, in a profound sense that even now she was coming to understand. Because he yielded his power to her, trusting her with it, and even as that yielding filled her with humility, she was emboldened, too.

  He believed in her. He recognized her power.

  His smile was wide and heart-stopping. “My lady,” he said, dark eyes shining in the light of torches and lanterns, “nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  When he rose, she also stood and took his offered arm. “Tonight is about pleasure, after all.”

  They joined the crowds milling through the gardens. Noel used his size and natural authority to guide her safely through the throng. He was in all ways attentive, his gaze almost never immobile as he navigated the crowded paths. When his hand came to rest on the small of her back, she wanted to close her eyes and lean into the sensation. Thank God her garments were lightweight—they permitted her the indulgence of his touch upon her body. Perhaps it was for the best that there were a few layers of silk and linen between them, because if he did touch her bare skin, she would go up in flames.