Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  Seeing the looks of doubt on the listeners’ faces, she recalled the demonstration of the Graveses’ fire-suppression system. “The latest technology could be implemented to ensure that such a disaster wouldn’t happen again.” She tilted her head, as if considering something. “Many of the people presenting to us claim that their businesses are prospering. Indeed, they all assert such splendid profitability for themselves, I marvel that they even need us at all.”

  “I had not considered that,” Mr. Walditch murmured thoughtfully. “But would they approach us if their enterprises struggled?”

  “Or,” Lady Farris said, “they are struggling and choose not to inform us.”

  “Surely they would have to disclose that.” Mr. Walditch removed his spectacles and polished them with a cambric square before setting them back on his nose.

  Tread carefully, Jess reminded herself. “Then we would have to decide whether or not it’s sound to put capital into an operation fighting to survive. We’d need to know what made a particular business have difficulties. If it was mismanagement, then there’s no inducement to tie my financial future to theirs. But I would think differently about an enterprise that had suffered from an external obstacle, such as the McGale operation.”

  She continued, “If a business had suffered some catastrophe—a poor harvest from bad weather, for example, or a storm causing a ship to sink with its cargo—I’d be more agreeable to considering them as an investment possibility. So long as they were transparent about the source of their misfortune.”

  “Makes sense,” Noel said. “We’re none of us beyond the touch of misfortune. It has no rhyme nor reason. No need to punish someone for something beyond their control. If the soap interests you, Mentmore, pursue it.”

  “I am sending one of my servants to Wiltshire today on an errand, and they are to change horses and return immediately,” Jess said. “I could write to the soap makers and ask for more information from them directly, rather than rely on hearsay. It might be worth a closer look—and we’d have answers before the end of the Bazaar tomorrow.”

  “A lot of trouble for you, isn’t it?” Baron Mentmore asked.

  “It’s the work of but a moment,” she answered. “And, who knows, perhaps we’ll discover something worthwhile.”

  She mentally exhaled when the others nodded their heads in agreement. Perhaps this mad venture could work, after all.

  “Walditch,” Lady Haighe said, “what do you think of the proposal for the canal expansion?”

  As conversation continued, Jess decided it was wisest to quit the field whilst things were still in her favor. She murmured something noncommittal and walked to where refreshments were laid out.

  She sensed him beside her, and lost her taste for cakes. His taste was what she wanted, spiced and rich and drugging.

  “Tell me your plans for after the Bazaar,” he said.

  “After tomorrow?”

  “The Season’s still at its height, which means a surfeit of assemblies and social gatherings. They’re not tremendously exciting, unless you happen to enjoy middling punch and too many people attempting to be amusing. But there are other pleasures to be had in London. You’ll stay for those, surely.” He made a soft scoffing noise. “Listen to me. I’ve seen anglers in the River Spey fish with greater subtlety. But I don’t give a damn.” He stepped closer. “I just want you.”

  Her face—her whole being—heated. Desire the likes of which she’d never known wrapped around her like enchanted vines, and she didn’t want to be freed from them.

  But, as the stories said, all enchanted things had to come to an end.

  “I am leaving the country,” she said softly. “Going to the Continent.”

  He blinked. “Will you be there long?”

  “I cannot say.” Pain radiated from her to speak the words. At the very least, they were the truth.

  His brow furrowed. “Then there isn’t much time left. For you and I.”

  “Not much at all,” she murmured.

  She had to face the terrible truth—if she could not secure investors at the Bazaar, then McGale & McGale would cease to exist. The farm itself would be lost, her family fractured.

  With an influx of funding, she could leave her position as a hired companion and focus all of her attention and efforts on the business.

  But if she could not save it, she would be a hired companion again.

  In either case, there could be no Noel. She told herself that was how it had to be. She had to be a clear-eyed realist—this fantasy would end. But damn her if it would be over far too soon.

  That evening, a dinner was held in Lord Trask’s home. Jess had just enough time to go home, bathe and change, and then return.

  With a glass of cordial in her hand, she circled the parlor, where she and the other guests had gathered once the meal concluded. The mood was light, conversation flowed readily. Lord Trask beamed from his place by the fire, basking in the glow of a host who had created an exceptional evening.

  It had been impossible not to stare at Noel throughout the course of the night. He’d sat in the position of honor at the dining table, with her a good distance away, separated by rank and importance.

  Now, with the men and women reunited after dinner, he turned pages for Lady Farris as the countess played the pianoforte.

  Tomorrow, she’d see him for the last time. She would dissolve back into her role of invisible companion, never to cross his path, let alone speak to him. Let alone kiss him.

  He desired her. She desired him, yet her uncertainty kept her locked in place.

  Damn it, this wasn’t like her. Decisions, action, conviction in her purpose—these elements made up her life, especially after her parents’ death. She saw what needed to be done, and by God, she did it.

  Air. She needed air. Once she was alone, she could decide what to do about Noel.

  Viscount Pickhill appeared beside her. “My lady, I would like your opinion on a question. There’s a manufacturer of textiles in India—”

  “I’ll happily discuss the matter tomorrow, my lord. Let us enjoy the evening without talk of business.”

  “Of course, Lady Whitfield. Only—”

  “Do excuse me.”

  She set her glass down and, before the gentleman could respond, she slipped from the chamber.

  Lord Trask had boasted that his home had its own conservatory located toward the back of the house. A room filled with green growing things, and silence, seemed exactly what she needed. It would be a small taste of home, and its quiet.

  She walked down the corridor, putting the parlor behind her, then came to a glass-fronted door. Pushing it open, she plunged into a shadowed room. There was enough light to see ferns hanging from the high ceiling, and plants, both exotic and more quotidian, abounded. The air here was thick and humid.

  A stone bench sat tucked between two potted palms, and she sank down onto it, exhaling the breath she felt she had been holding for most of her life.

  Chapter 14

  As Lady Farris played Haydn’s Piano Sonata No. 31 in A Flat Major, Noel saw Jess talk briefly with Pickhill before abruptly leaving the room.

  With her gone from the chamber, it was as though someone had doused a light.

  Her leaving was, in and of itself, not a source of panic. She could have easily gone to refresh herself in the retiring room. However, many minutes went by and she did not return. Alarm needled him. What if she’d fallen ill and needed help?

  Lady Haighe entered the parlor, smoothing her hair. Surely she must have been in the retiring room, yet she didn’t look panicked as if she’d come across Jess’s insensate form slumped on the floor.

  That still did not answer the burning question as to where Jess might be.

  Once the piano piece was over, Noel bowed to Lady Farris. “My lady, an honor.”

  He then eased from the parlor. As soon as he was outside the room, he walked quickly down the corridor in search of her. He checked the upstairs drawing room
first, but when that yielded no results, he paced from chamber to chamber. There was no sign of her. If she’d gone home, surely she would have informed Lord Trask of her departure. It stood to reason she was someplace in this house. But where?

  It came to him then exactly where she might be. She’d said her upbringing was rural—perhaps she’d had enough of urban life these last few days, and sought out someplace that might bring her back to her early years.

  There was the garden, but it was somewhat cool tonight, and she hadn’t worn a shawl over her filmy gown. The conservatory made the most sense.

  He went quickly to his destination, stepping into a room so warm and humid it was like drinking air.

  “Jess?” He spoke lowly. “Jess.”

  “Here.”

  He strode toward her voice. She sat on a stone bench, wearing a look so troubled his heart clutched.

  Noel immediately knelt in front of her. Seeing her like this—drained of the vitality that made her irresistible—was a stab to the gut.

  “Talk to me,” he demanded, taking her hands in his. A part of his mind realized that she wore no gloves, so their bare flesh touched. “Tell me if you feel faint or queasy or weak, or—”

  “I’m well.” She lifted her head and gave him the smallest of smiles. It seemed taut in the corners, and there was an echoing tightness in his chest. He hated the thought of anything causing her pain or worry.

  “I can fetch you wine or sal volatile.” He had to do something.

  “None of those are necessary.” Her smile turned rueful. “Much as I enjoy amusing company and thought-provoking discussion, I think I was born with an internal hourglass. When the sand runs out, I’ve had enough. I might cheerfully commit murder for a quiet corner, a cup of tea, and a copy of As You Like It.”

  He allowed himself an exhale. While he didn’t like seeing her unhappy, at the very least, her troubles did not seem long lasting. “You’ve a low threshold for murdering people. I’d kill for a good Scotch whiskey.”

  “A duke outranks a baronetess,” she said breezily, “so if either of us is to get caught for murder, I’d rather it be you. Less chance of hanging or transportation.”

  He grunted with a sudden realization, feeling like ten kinds of boor. Here he’d been concerned about her well-being, but he’d likely contributed to her distress, not eased it.

  “Like a prime imbecile, I’m keeping you from your much-desired solitude.” He started to rise, but she held tightly to his hands.

  “Stay,” she said with urgency. Then, more calmly, “Please.”

  The massive pleasure he felt from her urging him to stay was entirely unreasonable, definitely not ducal, but he didn’t care. “As you wish.”

  “Do you know what I was doing here?” she asked after a pause. “I came here—to this place, away from the others, away from the Bazaar—because of how I feel about you. Because I want you.”

  The pleasure he had felt moments earlier was dwarfed with this new elation. She brought him to the heights of joy with an ease that ought to have panicked him—and yet he felt no fear.

  A long, shuddering breath left him. “Four words,” he murmured. “That’s all it took from you and I’m as primed as a pistol. But, love, if you want me, why come out here?”

  “I shouldn’t want you,” she said ruefully.

  He stroked the tips of his fingers down her cheek, then along her throat, where her pulse sped. “I’ve never been much interested in shoulds and oughts.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “Because you’re a duke,” she said. “You can do anything you want and there’s no one to gainsay you.”

  “Untrue.” He tilted her chin up so that their gazes met. “I met a striking young widow with a mind more cunning than any mechanical device. She told me to go slow, and I obeyed.”

  She glanced down at where his knees met the stone floor. “You don’t have to kneel at my feet.”

  His voice was deep and gravelly, even to his own ears. “Perhaps I want to be on my knees before you.”

  Her mouth opened slightly, and the very tip of her tongue ran along her lower lip. A bead of perspiration traveled down the length of her neck to settle in the hollow of her collarbone.

  They both considered what he’d just said, what he’d revealed. He was torn between arousal and rare apprehension, his cock already half-hard, his body aching for her.

  “Tell me what you want,” he rasped. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  She sucked in a breath. Her gaze moved over his face as if searching for something, an answer or the question itself. In the quiet of the conservatory, her ragged inhalations mingled with his own.

  He’d never wanted anyone more. “Jess.”

  “Kiss me.”

  No sooner had she uttered her command than he readily obeyed, leaning close to cup his hands around her jaw. She angled her mouth up to meet his.

  There was the briefest pause as they held themselves in suspension. It was a mutual savoring of the moment—the last second of rational thought—before their lips came together.

  This time, they did not linger on preliminaries or gradual submersion. It was reckless and blazing as they opened their mouths to each other. He groaned when her tongue immediately met his. She could not wait to lap at him, just as he needed to devour her now, in great, greedy draws. Each kiss shot straight to his cock—he was now so hard it verged on painful, but it was the kind of pain he welcomed, making him feel alive and fully present.

  He knew her taste now, and only when her flavor filled him again did he realize how much he craved it.

  He positioned himself between her legs that had fallen open, and she arched against him, rubbing the length of her torso on his. Every lush curve of her seared into his flesh. Yet he had better means of learning the feel of her. He skimmed his hands down her neck, along her arms, molding his palms to the curve of her waist and then cupping her breasts. Her nipples were drawn into firm points and she moaned when he stroked them—through her bodice, then her bare flesh as he dipped his hands beneath the neckline of her gown. Softly, he pinched her nipples.

  “Harder.” She lapped at him hungrily. Then, “God, yes,” when he did as she demanded.

  “More,” he growled. “Give me more commands.” Ever since she’d verbally sparred with him the first day of the Bazaar, she had been the one in control. Having had a taste of bending to her mastery, he wanted to serve her forever, binding himself to her will so that he lived only to give her pleasure.

  He was too inflamed to be shocked by this sudden need. It felt so perfect.

  “Touch me,” she gasped into his mouth.

  “Where? Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

  “My . . .” She swallowed hard. “I want your hand on my pussy.”

  He jolted with arousal. “You want me to make you come.”

  “Do it,” she gasped. She dug her fingernails into his back, sharpening his need even more.

  “Yes, Jess.” Molten lust poured through him at his eager submission. He gathered up her skirts, the silk covering his forearms as he delved beneath them to find the stocking-clad flesh just above her knees. He went past her garters, and cursed roughly when he reached her bare thighs. “So fucking soft.”

  “Noel.”

  He loved the sound of his name on her lips as she gave the single syllable the weight of her desire.

  With measured purpose, making himself go slowly so he could absorb each moment, he stroked up her thighs. His fingers reached the opening in her drawers.

  His hand shook as he touched the silken, wet folds of her quim. She shuddered with a sound of ecstasy as he delved into her. He caressed her outer lips, then went deeper, gliding along her inner lips. He circled her opening before stroking up to her clitoris, and she rewarded him with her moan. Eagerly, reverently, he learned her intimate geography—what made her sigh, what made her cry out, what stole her breath.

  He sank a finger into her passage, surrounding himself completely in her h
eat. She moaned his name again, but then seemed to lose how to form words when he joined his finger with another. As he thrust in and out, his thumb massaged her clitoris. Deep within her he found the swollen spot, and curved up to rub over it with each plunge.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s—” She was fire against him, pushing her hips into his palm.

  “That’s me,” he rumbled. “That’s me, fucking you with my hand.” He pulled out, and she gave a sob of demand that he return. But he held up his hand, making certain she could see it. “See how slick my hand is? That’s you.”

  Her eyes were heavy lidded, dazed, but she did look. The color in her cheeks deepened when she saw the evidence of her desire.

  He stuck his fingers in his mouth. The taste of her was spiced and musky, and he lapped her up thirstily.

  “When you want me to,” he grated, “when you tell me, I’m going to lick your pussy. I’m going to devour you until you can’t stop coming.”

  She dragged in a breath. “Now.”

  “Another time.” He wasn’t about to reenter Trask’s parlor with the taste of her all over him. That was something he would save for himself, and for her. “Now, I’m giving you this.” At his final word, he thrust his fingers back into her.

  She keened, her head falling back. Goddamn him, but she was the most incredible thing he had ever beheld.

  He fucked her steadily with his hand. She let go of his back and gripped the bench for leverage to work herself on him. His vision swam with arousal as she unashamedly chased ecstasy. He needed her to come. He needed this to go on for eternity, only him, pleasuring her.

  She bit down hard on her lip as her body went taut. Yet she couldn’t quite suppress the sounds of her orgasm. He watched her face—she was in her own world now, one of release and sensation.

  He wasn’t finished. Just as her quaking subsided, he redoubled his efforts, stroking in and out with reverent intensity.