Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  Noel clasped the comb and made a shallow bow. “You’ve robbed me, sir, but I thank you for the privilege. Shall we continue?” he asked Jess.

  “By all means.” She held his arm again as they walked away from the secondhand goods.

  “A favor.” Noel handed her the comb. “Carry that for me?”

  “Of course.” She started to tuck it into her hamper.

  “Do you mind holding it in your hand?”

  It was an odd request, but she dipped her head in agreement. They continued walking the market, listening to the costermongers’ and vendors’ shouts and witnessing the bounty of British produce in June, all available to Londoners in one central—though chaotic—place.

  Noel stiffened as a duo of well-dressed gentlemen headed toward him and Jess. Judging by their rumpled finery, they hadn’t yet been to bed.

  “Fuck,” Noel muttered. “I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew.”

  “Because you’re embarrassed about your clothes?”

  “Because,” he said fiercely, “right now, I don’t want to be a duke. I just want us to be the impecunious gentleman and his Wiltshire sweetheart.”

  Jess’s heart squeezed—she wanted the very same thing. “Don’t make eye contact.” She pulled him toward a table laden with beetroots, and they both turned their backs toward the gentlemen.

  Their cultured but insistent laughter sounded as they walked along the row. “Never tell me you can’t hold your wine, Ablemayne,” one of them brayed.

  Noel picked up a head of lettuce and held it close to his face as he and Jess covertly watched the dandies. Only when the men moved on, oblivious to his presence, did they release the tension they held.

  “Thank God they’re as unobservant as that lettuce.” He exhaled.

  “Time’s moving apace,” she said, glumly observing the sun climbing higher in the sky. “We ought to go, since we’re expected at Lord Trask’s for luncheon and I am in need of a bath.”

  He consulted his timepiece, which was decidedly not the variety a man in frayed trousers might carry. “Damn. There’s no help for it. Might I have the comb back?”

  She gave it to him, and he slipped it into his pocket.

  “You can’t mean to use that,” Jess said.

  “Why not?” He looked surprised by her assertion.

  “Surely you’ve got far finer ones. Ones actually made of silver.”

  “True, I do, but,” he continued as they made their way out of the market, “none of them have been held in your hand. This way, every time I use it, I can imagine it’s your fingers running through my hair.”

  Jess’s steps faltered, and she blinked to stem a sudden rush of tears. “Noel.”

  She did not know how she’d go on after this, after him. It seemed that the future they couldn’t share would be a slow, gray one. In that future, she would only remember what it was like to have such a man beside her.

  “The change from the comb,” she said, her throat tight. “I’d like a ha’penny, if he gave you one.”

  Noel pulled out the small coin and tucked it into her hand. “In need of funds?”

  “You have something of me,” she said, slipping the coin into her hamper. “And now I have a little piece of you to carry wherever I go. Neither of us will forget.”

  Soft wonder filled his face. He tugged her toward one of the canopied booths, positioning his body so that his broad back hid her from any passersby.

  Then, cupping her jaw gently with both hands, he tilted her mouth up before bringing his lips to hers. The kiss was soft and silken, gentle with heat beneath it. She savored the taste of him, coffee and clove, and she’d never known anything as delicious or fleeting.

  Chapter 16

  Hours later, bathed and dressed in one of Lady Catherton’s walking gowns, Jess headed toward Lord Trask’s. It was the Bazaar’s final gathering, which consisted of a luncheon before the company disbanded to return to their normal lives.

  She would sink back into the obscurity of her position as a paid companion, overseas, far away from her family. As the hired help, no one would ask her for her opinion about financial matters. The most exciting part of her day would be sitting quietly in some parlor as Lady Catherton paid calls.

  She would never see Noel again. Even if she wasn’t going to the Continent, soon enough, he’d learn the truth about her, and would rightly never want to speak to her or see her. At the least, she had the ha’penny, now tucked into her reticule so she could have him with her whenever she desired.

  Something else she could not ignore: this was her last opportunity to save her family’s business. Hopefully, her final gambit would work.

  The butler greeted her with a bow as she crossed the threshold. He directed her toward the dining room, and as she moved toward it, her heart beat faster and faster.

  In the hallway outside the dining room, she heard his voice, sonorous and husky. She paused to catch her breath as memories of this morning mingled with heated recollections of last night. Tell me where you want me to touch you. You want me to make you come. And he had. Over and over until she could barely remember why she couldn’t have that with him always.

  She was Jessica McGale, a farmer’s daughter, and a paid companion. She fought for every coin. He was a duke, wealthy and powerful beyond reason.

  “Who’s out there, lurking in the corridor?” someone in the dining room demanded.

  “Lurking implies nefarious intent.” Affixing a placid smile, Jess entered the chamber. “I am not nefarious.”

  “But you are welcome,” Lord Trask said as he stood next to the dining table. He had grown a good deal warmer to her over the past few days. Perhaps his negative beliefs about women in the realm of finance had altered. “Please, my lady, help yourself to whatever you like.”

  Despite the many people in the room, her gaze went straight to Noel. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he faced the door, wearing an expression of anticipation, as though he had been waiting for someone.

  The smile he gave her was a flaming arrow right into her chest. She couldn’t stop her answering smile, making his grow even more brilliant.

  She joined the queue serving themselves a luncheon, which had been laid out on the sideboard. Two people ahead of her was Lady Farris, whose tranquil smile thankfully did not hint at what she’d come across last night. That was some relief. Some, but not much.

  Noel took his place right behind her in the queue. He didn’t reach for her, or whisper scandalous suggestions, or indeed do anything that someone might see. No one detected that Jess and the duke had known each other’s touch and taste. But she knew. And he did, too.

  “A good morning, Lady Whitfield?” he asked in a tone that was perfectly polite. As though he hadn’t fucked her with his hand and made her come like a goddess. As if he hadn’t broken her heart this morning in Covent Garden Market.

  “Passable, Your Grace.” She reached for a fork to serve herself slices of roast beef.

  “Allow me.” His hand covered and stilled hers.

  She almost told him not to bother because she absolutely could not eat a mouthful, not when he touched her and made her head spin. Instead, she merely nodded and yielded the fork to him. She watched his hand as he set a few slices of meat onto her plate, wishing she could look at something else because his hands truly were gorgeous and masculine.

  “Thank you for attending to me,” she murmured.

  His eyes darkened, and it was as though they were back in the humid conservatory and he was telling her how much he, her servant, wanted to lick her quim.

  Quickly as she could, she dished up more of her luncheon, then, with a last look at Noel, seated herself at the table beside Mr. Walditch. Lord Pickhill immediately occupied the empty chair beside her.

  As if the guests had wordlessly conferred, no one took the seat at the head of the table. It seemed fitting that Noel should sit there, as though even in Lord Trask’s home he was in command of everything.


  Quiet fell as everyone ate, and she saw that her moment had come.

  “I’ve a letter from the soap manufacturers, Baron Mentmore.” She glanced around the table with a look of apology. “But I shan’t disrupt everyone’s luncheon with its contents. We can discuss it later—though it was rather fascinating.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Lady Whitfield,” Mr. Walditch said before the baron could speak. “This saga has been rather intriguing.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” Lord Prowse grumbled.

  “Then pay attention to your roast and cover your ears,” Lady Farris said tartly, “because I’m also interested in what Lady Whitfield learned.”

  “There are more of us who want to hear than don’t,” Baron Mentmore encouraged. “Do go on. If that’s all right, Lord Trask.”

  Jess barely breathed as she waited, fearing that the marquess would object to her bringing in an outside business.

  Their host made a noncommittal wave of his hand, and she let out a long but silent exhalation.

  She shot a look toward Noel—though he continued to eat his meal, he had his head tilted in the posture she’d come to learn signified he was paying attention.

  “As you heard,” she said, “recently there was an accident that burned down several of their structures and cost them the use of much of their manufacturing equipment. This was all confirmed to me by Miss Cynthia McGale.”

  Lady Farris winced. “Terrible misfortune.”

  Several others around the table made murmurs of agreement.

  “They are indeed in need of funds to rebuild and refurbish,” Jess continued. “With enough investment capital, they could improve their operations—meet a greater demand if they were to sell their product here in London.”

  “Is it worth it to pour capital into a business that may or may not be able to resurrect itself?” Viscount Hunsdon asked.

  “It might be an opportunity to take what was a small operation and transform it,” Jess said. “Modernize it, whilst they continue to create a quality product.”

  “Fair point,” Mr. Walditch said with a thoughtful nod. “It’s not my usual avenue of investment, but your point about Brummell was well made. More baths mean more soap.”

  Hopefully, the lull in the conversation meant that everyone was contemplating the benefit of investing in McGale & McGale.

  “A trip is in order,” Noel said suddenly.

  “Your Grace?” Mr. Walditch asked.

  “Why not?” Noel looked around the table. “If the operation is in Wiltshire, it’s a day’s ride from one of my Hampshire estates. What’s the village, Lady Whitfield?”

  She blinked, slightly dazed at the sudden turn in her plan. “Honiton.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “It’s less than a day from Carriford. Anyone interested in learning more about this McGale & McGale can journey with me to Carriford. Allow me to treat you to some of my justifiably celebrated hospitality,” he added with a crooked smile. “Spend the night there, then onward the next day to visit the soap makers. We gather our intelligence about them, then return to Carriford, and then”—he slapped his hand on his thigh like a man making a decisive plan—“back to London.”

  Panic was Jess’s first reaction. This was not what she’d planned. They hadn’t made arrangements at the farm for visitors, and certainly not ones who held the future of the business in their hands.

  But . . . she could send a fast letter to Fred and Cynthia, telling them what needed to be done.

  Yes. This could work. She’d manage it, and the trip could secure the funding they needed.

  After a moment, she nodded.

  “That’s perfect,” Baron Mentmore said. “I believe I’ll join you, Your Grace. Good to get out of the smoke of London.”

  “Clear the lungs,” Noel said sagely.

  “I’ll come, too,” Mr. Walditch added.

  “Myself, as well,” Lady Farris said, and Lady Haighe nodded, also signifying her interest.

  “It’s settled, then.” Noel tapped his fingers on the tabletop as if signaling that everything had been decided. “You’ll accompany us, of course, Lady Whitfield.”

  She’d expected as much, so she was remarkably calm when she replied, “Thank you, but it’s unnecessary for me to do so. I’m already convinced.”

  “You’re going to the Continent soon,” he said. “Stands to reason that before you embark on that journey, you’d want more information about the soap makers. You’ll be better able to determine the amount you wish to invest, if that’s your intention.” His tone was even, and yet there was a hint of need in his gaze. As if he desperately desired to be in her company a little longer.

  “Yes, do come with us,” Lady Farris urged.

  “Can’t say no,” Mr. Walditch said.

  “I . . .” Panic clutched at her. She breathed deeply to loosen its hold, and took refuge in the calm, logical thought.

  If she refused to visit the farm, she’d arouse suspicion. And if she told Noel about her deception, she might ruin her family’s chance at gaining not one but multiple investors.

  There was nothing logical about wanting to spend a little more time in Noel’s company. She could have a few days with him, then she’d disappear from his life forever.

  But first, she would write home immediately and tell her siblings of the visit.

  “You make a convincing case,” she said at last.

  “Then you’ll come?” Pleasure lit his eyes.

  “A man cannot boast of his hospitality without putting it to the test.”

  His smile managed to be both self-deprecating and full of conceit. Somehow, only Noel could accomplish such a feat.

  “I’ll write to the McGales this afternoon,” she said, “and inform them of our intent to visit.”

  “Very good,” he said. “If anyone else decides that they’d like to drink up my cellar and devour my larder, meet at Rotherby House tomorrow at dawn. We’ll caravan and do our level best not to lay waste to the countryside as we go.”

  The conversation moved on to other topics. Though she tried to pay attention, it was nearly impossible as her thoughts flew ahead out of the room and careened into the world. There was the letter she would have to pen the moment she returned to Lady Catherton’s town house, and she’d need to secure Nell’s services as maid for several more days, and all the other logistical elements she needed to take into consideration before embarking on this mad voyage home.

  The meal concluded, and everyone rose from the table.

  “How delightful to fly London’s cage,” Lady Farris said as she came with them.

  “The duke did promise excellent hospitality.”

  “Is that what you call it?” The countess winked. “Ah, here comes His Grace. I do believe my presence is not required. I’ll just speak with Mr. Walditch, shall I?” She drifted away.

  Noel made his way toward her. It was ridiculous to feel nervous around him when he’d literally been inside her last night, but there was something about him that made her sweat. As he stood before her, her body throbbed with want.

  “My Lady Hawk,” he said, his gaze hooded. “How you’ve enlivened us sad, dull creatures of the Bazaar.”

  “I guarantee no one considers you a sad, dull creature.”

  “But you are a hawk.”

  She pursed her lips. “Sharp beak and screeching?”

  “A born hunter soaring overhead.” Then, in a much lower voice, he said, “I was presumptuous. Again. Insisting that you come with us to see the soap makers.” A rare look of uncertainty crossed his face. “It’s only— I was not ready to say goodbye to you.”

  Goddamn him, making her melt like a beeswax candle. “Is that why you suggested visiting them? To spend more time with me?”

  “It’s a benefit,” he said, “but not the motivation. You need not go if you truly don’t want to. I’d never force your hand. I may be a duke,” he added, “but I’m not a bully.”

  This was her oppo
rtunity. Her chance to slip away without any further interaction between her and Noel. She ought to decline, and return to her gray half existence as a paid companion.

  “I’ll take the journey with you.” The words spilled from her. She needed this, and him, just a little longer. She could play by the rules and still have a bit more time with him. And if she went, she could ensure that everything went smoothly at the farm. Much as she loved Cynthia and Fred, she’d feel far more certain if she herself watched over and quietly managed the visit.

  He gave her another of his dazzling smiles.

  “Splendid.” His gaze was warm and dark like a summer night. “That is most splendid. I’ll see you at my home tomorrow. Dawn.”

  “My abigail will be cross with me to be awakened at such an early hour, but, yes, dawn.”

  “It’s a delightful journey to Carriford.” He nearly vibrated with eagerness and excitement, his ducal veneer gone. “The estate’s one of my favorites. There’s a meadow on the eastern part of the parkland I played in as a child, and it has the most glorious oak tree that’s perfect for climbing. Wait until I show it to you.”

  His anticipation beguiled Jess—and it ruined her. If only she could give him everything he deserved. Yet she couldn’t. All she deserved was his contempt.

  Chapter 17

  “Carriford’s charming,” Noel said to the passengers in his carriage. “The grounds are amongst the loveliest of all my estates. The old heap of stones was built in the late sixteenth century—but trust me when I say you’ll be comfortable there. Successive Dukes of Rotherby were keen modernizers, so the walls aren’t porous as sponges, and the rooms are warm. Small, but warm.”

  Since boyhood on, he’d looked forward to Carriford. But never in all of his thirty-four years did he feel the excitement he did now, heading there with Jess.

  He probably sounded like the veriest ninny, rattling off facts about Carriford. But the hell of it was he didn’t give a damn.

  He’d show her everything. He wanted her to love it as he did. It shouldn’t matter—she’d be gone to the Continent soon—but it did.