Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (28 page)

“Yes.” She glared at him. “He said he’d loved my mother
even though
she was headstrong and wild. That she just needed a firm male hand to bring her to heel. Can you imagine?”

“Er.” He was suddenly imagining
his
hand moving firmly up Frances’s long legs—

He stumbled. Good God, he really had decided to marry her, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t be entertaining such salacious thoughts if he hadn’t.

“Mind the tree roots.”

“Thank you. I’ll pay more attention to where I put my feet in the future.” Did she even like him? There had been that kiss in the park . . .

He steered her down a side path. He
would
kiss her. He’d risk a slapping, but his reactions should be good enough to avoid any serious injury. He stopped in the deep shadows and turned so he could see anyone approaching.

“If he’d wanted some meek woman, he should not have been courting my mother.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded bleak. “Though when I knew her, my mother wasn’t wild or headstrong. She was broken and sullen”—she glared at him and her voice got stronger and rather accusatory—“all because she married a rake who got her with child—with
children
—and abandoned her to make his merry way from one whore’s bed to another’s.”

His passion cooled. Damn it, was she calling him a rake again?

Frances sniffed and looked away. “I was just going to tell Ruland exactly what I thought of him, but then you came up and interrupted me.”

Thank God he had. That was exactly why he’d hurried over to her. “The gossips would have enjoyed watching you take the man to task.” The old cats who remembered that Ruland had courted Frances’s mother had already started whispering.

She raised her chin. “I imagine your precipitous dash to my side got the tongues to wagging more than anything I did.”

He’d tried to be discreet, but she was likely correct.

“But in any event, I was going to step outside before I—”

Bloody hell! Did the woman have a death wish? He’d demonstrated in the yellow parlor how she couldn’t hope to win a fight with a man, and here she was planning to go outside with a fellow who might be a deranged murderer. “That is the stupidest, the—” He pressed his lips together.

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I wasn’t going to go far.”

“One step would have been too far.” He kept from shouting, but only just. He clasped his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t throttle her.

She sniffed in obvious annoyance. “Oh, why don’t you just say it? You think I’m headstrong and wild, too, don’t you?”

He knew better, even with anger—and frustrated desire—pounding through him, than to answer truthfully, so he didn’t answer at all.

“You’re just like Ruland. Like all men. You do all your thinking with your co—”

She slapped her hands over her mouth.

His cock jumped, pleading with him to show Miss Hadley exactly what it was thinking.

Damn cock.

He was still too angry to speak, so he just looked down at her.

Her eyes were huge in the darkness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude.” She lifted her chin. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re a rake just like my father.”

His anger turned suddenly to despair. “Do you really believe that?” If she did, then there was no hope for them.

She opened her mouth as if to agree, but then she shook her head. “No.” Her voice caught slightly. “Not really.”

Ah. He heard her pain. She needed him.

He cupped her cheek. “I’m nothing like your father, Frances.” Thinking of her father always made him furious, but he tried to keep the anger out of his voice. “I would never abandon you.”

She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Frederick said our father left Landsford because Viola was cruel to him growing up, just as she was cruel to Frederick.”

What a sniveling, lily-livered excuse. “And your brother thought your aunt’s behavior justified your father’s? It does not. Frances, your father ran away and left his wife and his children with a woman he knew to be cold-hearted.
That’s
cruel.”

Frances’s eyes widened. Clearly that aspect of the matter had not occurred to her.

He gripped her shoulders gently so she couldn’t turn away from him. “Your father’s actions are unconscionable, Frances. As you are so fond of telling me, society gives men powers that women do not have. He could have sent Viola packing the moment he inherited. He should have made other arrangements for her when he brought your mother home. And he should never, ever have let her raise his children.”

“But . . .”

He rested his fingers on her lips. “No. If nothing else, he could have sent you to your mother’s family. Surely he knew that, no matter what they thought of him, Rothmarsh or Whildon or any of your mother’s relatives would have taken you in and loved you.”

“That would certainly have been better for Frederick.”

“And for you, too.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was so soft. “Frederick is not totally blameless here, you know. Yes, he may have had an unfortunate time of it as a boy, but he’s a man now. He should have insisted your father write to you and come to see you. But, in the end, it is your father I most fault, as I shall tell him when I meet him. He has much to answer for.”

Her lips twisted into the slightest of smiles. “I can’t imagine you would want to meet my father.”

“I don’t, but as I intend to wed his daughter, I fear I must.”

She blinked. “You’re going to marry . . .”

He saw the moment she comprehended his words. Her mouth dropped open, which was all the invitation he needed.

 

 

Jack’s lips brushed lightly over hers. Their touch felt as good as she remembered—no, better. She pressed against him.

And then his mouth came back. This time it clung, and the fire that had raged in her the first time he’d kissed her returned tenfold.

His tongue touched her lips. Did he want her to open her mouth? She did.

He slid deep inside, stroking . . .

She arched against him. She wanted him even closer. She slipped her fingers under his coat and waistcoat, tugging on his shirt—

Jack lifted his head, catching her hands and bringing them around to rest on his chest. He was slightly breathless. “We need to go back into the ballroom, Frances. We’ve likely been out here too long as it is.”

Go back to the ballroom? Stand quietly among all those prim, superficially polite people for another hour or two? She wanted to scream.

“Think about something else,” Jack said.

She’d been staring at his chest. Now her eyes snapped up to meet his. “You know what I’m thinking?” Oh God! A hot flush exploded over her face—and probably every other part of her body.

He chuckled, though the sound was a bit strained. “Yes, because I’m thinking the same thing”—his lips turned up in a tense smile—“except in much more detail.”

So he knew what this madness was? “Tell me.”

His eyes widened before his lids dropped down to shield his expression. “Tell you what?”

She was certainly breaking a thousand spoken and unspoken rules of polite discourse, but she didn’t care. “Tell me what is happening to me, why I feel so . . . unsettled.”

She saw honor battling desire in his eyes—and honor won, blast it. His mouth hardened. “I should not have brought you into the garden, and I definitely should not have taken you down this dark path.”

“But you did bring me, and now I want you to finish what you started.” She pressed against him again, against the large bulge that had grown in his breeches. “Finish what you started, my lord. I shall never be able to sleep in my current state.”

He held her away from him and snorted. “You’ll fall asleep sooner than I will.” He stared down at her. “But what are you really asking, Frances? Are you ready to give up your fierce independence and your dream of living alone in a cottage to marry me?”

The heat of passion suddenly cooled. What was she thinking?

“Frederick won’t let me live by myself,” she heard herself say. “He’s going to condemn me to share my cottage with Viola.”

She’d discovered in the park when Jack had taught her to dance how potent a man’s kisses were. They scrambled the female brain. This must be the way her father had cozened her mother into eloping with him.

She understood her mother’s error so much better now.

“Oh?” Jack frowned. “So I would be the lesser of two evils?” He stepped back, and his voice sounded almost cold. “It may be selfish of me, Frances, but I find I do not wish to be merely an alternative to your very disagreeable aunt. I want you to marry me only because you love me.”

Heavens! Now he was behaving like a typical male, his masculine feelings offended because she didn’t swoon at his feet. He—

Her heart twisted, interrupting her head.

That wasn’t what she truly felt. This wasn’t some anonymous man, and it certainly wasn’t her father. It was Jack who had been patient and kind and loyal. He was her friend . . .

But did she love him? Was she willing to give up her freedom to become his wife?

What if she married him, and he left her? What if he didn’t? What if he stayed but grew to hate her? She knew nothing about men or marriage.

She shivered.

“Come, you’re cold. We’ve been out in the garden too long. We’ll be missed.” He took her arm and started back toward the ballroom.

She shouldn’t leave it like this. She should explain, but what could she say? She didn’t understand herself.

She’d always known her own mind, but now her mind was a confusing jumble of emotions.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jack squeezed her fingers gently. “You’re just feeling overwhelmed. You’ll figure things out in time. There’s no hurry.”

Except it seemed she could not be near him without experiencing this strong attraction. It still simmered under her skin. And she found she did not at all like the new friendly but remote tone of his voice.

“Do you truly want to marry me, or were you just overtaken by your male instincts?”

He chuckled. “Frances, I’ve been managing my ‘male instincts’ for years, and I’ve never yet discussed marriage with a woman.”

“But why would you want to marry me? You don’t need a wife.”

“But I seem to want one. I seem to want you.” He smiled down at her. “I like you. You’re beautiful and passionate, intelligent and brave”—he winked—“and it turns out you kiss very well.”

Her mouth fell open.

He tapped her chin, and she snapped her lips together. “Now go into the ballroom. I’m going to stay outside a few more minutes to cool my, er, overheated blood.”

She glanced down at his fall. Yes, he did look rather overheated.

“Go, Frances, before you cause me to embarrass myself.”

She went. She almost bumped into Mr. Pettigrew by the door.

“You were out in the gardens with Lord Jack, weren’t you?” he said, glowering at her.

“I was outside.” Where she’d been and with whom was certainly none of Mr. Pettigrew’s concern. She brushed past him. Who else had noticed her whereabouts? Had Lady Rothmarsh and perhaps Jack’s mother? She glanced around.

Oh dear.

Grandmamma was with the duchess. They smiled and waved.

“You may stay here, Sam,” Frances said, tying her bonnet strings in the entryway while Shakespeare sat waiting. “I’m only taking Shakespeare across the square to the park.”

Sam twisted his cap in his hands. “Lord Jack said when he left this morning to stick to ye like glue.”

Her heart leapt at the sound of Jack’s name.
Stupid!
“But I’m sure he didn’t mean when I’m so near at hand. Remember nothing happened when I went out with Lady Edward the other day.”

She wanted rather desperately to be alone. She’d pleaded the headache—not that the duchess was fooled by that excuse—and hidden in her room until she’d seen everyone leave. At least Jack had departed quite early. He probably hadn’t wanted to encounter her. Was he regretting last night?

She was tired and on edge. She’d hardly slept a wink, and the few times she’d managed to drop off, she’d seen Jack’s face—and felt his body, his hands, his lips, his tongue—

Damn it, the hot, frantic feeling was churning in her gut again. “Shakespeare will protect me from any villains, won’t you, Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare barked his assent, sweeping the floor with his tail to emphasize his willingness to keep all blackguards at bay.

“But his lordship said I was to stay with ye.”

She
had
to be alone. She bent down to fasten Shakespeare’s leash. “I hear Cook is making gingerbread.” Frances had just been in the kitchen, fetching Shakespeare from under the worktable where he’d taken to stationing himself. It was an excellent location for gobbling up any bits of food that fell to the floor.

A look of yearning bloomed on Sam’s face. “She is?”

“Yes, and I believe she was just getting ready to take a pan out of the oven.” She wasn’t playing fair. Sam loved gingerbread above all else. “If you hurry, you can get some while it’s still warm.”

“Oh.” He looked in the kitchen’s direction. The poor boy was clearly torn.

“I’ll likely not be in the park more than half an hour. Lord Jack will never know.”

Sam bit his lip. “But Lord Jack said—”

“Yes, but I’m sure he
meant
for you to come with me when I was away from home. Going out to the park in the square can’t be considered away from home.”

Sam began to look hopeful. “Ye think so?”

“I know so.” She delivered the final blow. “And should Jack mention it, I’ll tell him how valiantly you tried to accompany me and how vehemently I insisted you stay here.”

That did the trick.

“Ye promise to tell him?” The boy was already edging toward the back of the house.

“Yes indeed.” She smiled. “And he’ll understand completely because he knows how determined I can be.”

Sam nodded. “Aye. Everyone says yer pighead—” His eyes widened as he heard what he was saying, and he coughed, eyeing her warily. “Er, everyone does say yer determined.”

“Exactly.” She was not about to get into an argument about that; freedom was at hand. “Off with you now.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. He vanished down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen before she’d finished speaking.

“Finally!” She looked down at Shakespeare. “Let’s go before someone else comes along to detain us.”

Shakespeare barked and leapt to his feet, putting his nose to the door, so she had to push him aside to open it. Then he tugged her out into the March sunshine and across the road to the park.

She took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and immediately felt better. This was what she needed. The four walls of her room had been closing in on her, and the house felt too much like Jack. She needed to be out in the open, away from everything that reminded her of him.

Once she shut the park gate, she took off Shakespeare’s leash. As soon as he was free, he raced after a squirrel, of course. She smiled. Did he realize how futile his efforts were? He was never going to catch one.

She walked deeper into the park to the spot where Jack had waltzed with her, where he’d kissed her for the first time, and sat on the bench. It was quiet—except for the sound of Shakespeare tearing through the bushes and barking—and peaceful, all things considered. She closed her eyes, letting the memories flow through her: Jack comforting her when she’d tripped over Frederick’s boots in the inn, and again in Hyde Park after that dreadful meeting with Puddington; Jack carrying baby William so confidently through the dirt and muck of Hart Street; Jack surrounded by a bevy of happy, chattering little girls at his Bromley house. Those were not the images of a callous rake.

But men were overbearing and selfish and condescending and unreliable.

Not Jack.

She wanted to live by herself.

But she’d miss Jack.

She cared too much for him. If she married him, she’d lose herself. She’d turn into someone she wouldn’t recognize.

Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe she’d become someone better.

Ellie was happy with Ned. Jack’s mother and her grandmother—they were happily married to men who gave every appearance of loving and valuing them.

Perhaps she’d only lose herself if she let herself be lost.

But why did Jack want to marry
her
? Frederick had been right that day in the yellow parlor. She was mean and hateful and cruel, or at least she had been. What could Jack possibly see in her?

Her thoughts were still going round and round like a dog chasing its tail.

Shakespeare bounded out of the underbrush just then and ran past her.

“Tired of chasing squirrels?” She got up to follow him. “If you’ve attended to your business, we can go back inside. I’m not finding the park as calming as I’d hoped.”

Neither was Shakespeare. He’d stopped and was growling low in his throat, facing the gate. A large man was letting himself in. He had his head down, fumbling with the latch, so she couldn’t immediately identify him.

“What is it, Shakespeare?” She paused as she fastened his leash. Perhaps she should leave him free so he could defend her better.

Silly! She was letting her imagination run away with her. What sort of villain would appear in this peaceful park in London’s best neighborhood? The man was well dressed—he clearly wasn’t some vagrant or a denizen of the stews. Likely he was one of the neighbors.

“Stop it, Shakespeare.” She kept her voice low so the fellow wouldn’t overhear as she finished with the leash. He’d probably be mortified to discover he’d caused anyone the least concern. “Where are your manners?”

Shakespeare’s hair was now standing on end, and his growl had gotten louder. It was more of a snarl.

It was definitely time to depart. Her privacy had already left anyway.

The man looked up and smiled. “Miss Hadley,” he said, bowing.

She relaxed. “Mr. Pettigrew, I didn’t know you lived in this square.” Why wouldn’t Shakespeare stop snarling? It was most impolite and completely unlike him.

“I don’t.” He closed the gate behind him. The click of the latch sounded unnaturally loud.

Silly! Now she was allowing Shakespeare’s peculiar behavior to unnerve her.

“Then you’re visiting?” Shakespeare forgot himself so far as to bare his teeth. She would admit Mr. Pettigrew looked a little . . . odd. Something about his expression—his eyes, perhaps—was rather strange. “Do you feel quite the thing, sir?”

He ignored that question to answer her first. “Yes, I’m visiting.”

The man was still about ten yards away, but he was blocking her path to the gate. “And whom do you wish to see?”

He smiled, if that was what one should call the rather grotesque expression.

“You.”

 

 

Jack turned onto Southampton Street. He’d not been able to sleep last night for an obvious—a painfully obvious—reason. On more than one occasion, he’d been on the verge of creeping down the corridor to Frances’s room to continue the “conversation” they’d started in Easthaven’s garden. He could easily have seduced her and likely made them both feel better.

But it would have been the wrong thing to do. Frances had endured one betrayal after another—her father, her aunt, her brother. She did not need him persuading her to do something she might regret later. She would have to come to him on her own.

But, blast it, it was bloody hard—in all respects—to be noble. His head might assure him he was wise, but his heart—and a much more insistent organ—called him every sort of fool. He’d tossed and turned all night and had had to get out of the house first thing this morning. He didn’t wish to encounter Frances again until he’d better control of this raging lust.

It was far more than lust.

Damn it, he had other things to occupy his mind besides Frances’s soft curves and fiery temper and sweet, vaguely lemony scent.

Mmm. Her mouth had tasted—

Bloody hell, he was here in Covent Garden to consider murder, not marriage. Two more women had turned up with their throats slashed, but since they were both prostitutes, the newspapers had barely mentioned the deaths. He had the Slasher’s gold watch in his pocket. He’d shown it around when Nan had first sent it to him and no one had recognized it, but there was always someone new to Town. He’d try again.

He had nothing else to go on.

He skirted the square, ignoring the people trying to sell him all manner of things, and turned up James Street.

Henry came running when he pulled into the Nag’s Head. “Morning, milord,” he said as he took hold of the horses.

“Good morning, Henry.” Jack swung down. Henry saw everyone come and go and knew Jack was trying to discover the Slasher’s identity. “Any news?”

“Maybe.” The word came out in a whisper.

“Oh?” Excitement shot through him, but he kept it out of his voice. It was probably nothing—and he didn’t want to upset Henry. The boy was obviously nervous. “What have you learned?”

“Nothing, really.”

Jack waited, trying to appear patient. Sometimes silence worked better than words in getting a person to talk.

Henry glanced at him and then back to his horses. “Dick Dutton’s back. He was asking after Shakespeare.”

“I see.” Was that all? No, Sam wouldn’t be acting this way if that was all he had to say. “Perhaps I could meet Mr. Dutton to assure him of Shakespeare’s well-being?”

“’E’s afraid.” Henry looked around the innyard, but it was too early in the day for anyone else to be about.

“Of what?”

Henry shrugged. “’E wouldn’t say, but I think ’e saw something to do with the Slasher.”

“Ah.” It was probably nothing. He’d had his hopes raised before only to have them dashed. “I’d like to speak to the man. Can you take me to him?”

Henry shook his head. “Can’t leave yer horses.”

“You could stable them.” Though that might raise everyone’s suspicions. He was never in the area that long.

Henry thought about it for a moment and then must have come to the same conclusion. “Nay. Just go down toward the theater and knock on the red door. Tell the lady who answers ye want to speak to Romeo.”

“Romeo? I thought I wanted Dick Dutton.”

Henry nodded. “Aye, but ’e’s afraid to use ’is own name. Thinks someone’s out to kill ’im, ’e does.”

Interesting. “And what do you think?” Henry was only the boy who held the horses, but in Jack’s experience, the most insignificant people generally saw the most.

Henry shrugged. “Could be. Don’t take much to make a man want to kill another sometimes.”

Unfortunately that was too true, especially in this neighborhood. “Very well.” He slipped Henry a shilling for his help. “Take care of my cattle while I go off to pay a visit to Romeo.”

The red door was easy to find. He rapped on it sharply.

Nothing.

He rapped again. Again nothing.

He was raising his hand to knock once more and harder when the door finally swung open to reveal a tiny, wizened old lady with a cane and a powerful voice.

“What do you want?” She looked him up and down, and then grinned, revealing several large gaps where teeth should have been. “Fifty years ago, young bucks like you were knocking at my door at all hours, and I could take care of three or four in an evening. Sadly, those days are over.” She wheezed in apparent laughter and batted her eyelashes. “But I can try. I’ve learned a number of tricks over the years, you know.”

He bowed. He’d long ago learned to control his expression, so if she’d hoped to see horror or shock, she was disappointed. “Alas, my betrothed has forbidden me to engage in such activities.” Frances wasn’t formally his betrothed yet, but that was just a matter of time, he hoped.

The woman snorted. “And you allow a woman to dictate your behavior?”

He nodded. “I confess I tremble at the thought of her wrath.” Frances did have a prodigious temper. “I fear I am here on business, not pleasure. I need to speak to a man who calls himself Romeo.”

In a flash, her face turned wary. “There’s no one here by that name.” She started to close the door.

He stuck his foot in the way. “I have his dog, Shakespeare.”

Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she got control of herself again. Her eyebrows rose. “A dog named Shakespeare? That’s ridiculous.”

“He’s brown, about average size, with a notch out of one ear. Very talented, too—can do all sorts of tricks.”

She frowned at him. “If there were a man named Romeo here—which there isn’t—whom should I say was looking for him?”

“Lord Jack Valentine.”

Some of the distrust left the woman’s face. “Oh, Lord Jack. I’ve heard of you, of course.” She leered at him again. “Never had the pleasure of seeing you up close—and quite a pleasure it is. Come in, and I’ll see if there happens to be a Romeo about.”

Jack stepped inside, and the woman bolted the door behind him.