Mad About the Duke (11 page)

And, Elinor realized, a kindredship they might never have discovered otherwise.

Tia rocked on her heels. “I don't know why you didn't like Lucy and Minerva before. Lucy is jolly fun, and Minerva has promised to teach me to knit.”

Better Minerva teaching her sister knitting than Lucy teaching the girl one of her myriad of larcenous skills. All Elinor needed was to have her sister become proficient in picking locks and espionage.

Tia wasn't done. She took another glance up and down the block and declared, “He's not coming. Can we go inside?”

“He will be here,” Elinor reassured her.
He will.

But already, Elinor was starting to wonder if Mr. St. Maur was going to show up. After all, she'd all but confessed she didn't have the money to pay his bill.

And then there was last night…certainly he hadn't been at the Setchfield ball. It was invitation only.

However would St. Maur have gotten in without one?

No, she couldn't have seen him there. It was impossible.

Yet…

What are you doing here, St. Maur?

I've come to make my report.

Make his report in the middle of a ball? How utterly ridiculous. She must have dreamt it.

Her fingers went to her lips. Dreamt the rest of the night as well.

“I think there is something odd about Mr. St. Maur,” Tia remarked.

Elinor glanced up. “Odd? Why would you say that?”

“I don't know. I just have this inkling.”

“An inkling? Like the time you thought the greengrocer had murdered his wife?”

Tia huffed again. “This is different.”

“I would hope so. I hardly need you poking about Mr. St. Maur's business to determine if he has a wife buried in his basement.”

“I didn't think the greengrocer had buried his wife in their basement but in
their garden
.” Her brows raised significantly, as if this distinction made her lurid speculations all that much more likely.

Elinor crossed her arms over her chest. “And you think Mr. St. Maur has a wife buried in his garden?”

“I don't know. First I have to determine if he has been married.”

“Married?” she said quickly and sharply. “I certainly hope not!” Unfortunately, Elinor realized her unwitting outburst would only bate Tia's machinations, so she hastily added, “And don't you dare ask him. Mr. St. Maur's marital state is none of our affair.”

Tia hardly looked convinced, and suddenly Elinor felt the worst stab of something. Not really curiosity, but something much darker. More seething. More akin to a deep-seated jealousy.

Did he? Have a wife?

Oh, goodness, Elinor felt the heat of a blush rising on her cheeks. Now she must find out, for she could
hardly continue having such thoughts and dreams about him if he was a married man!

But then again, she hadn't even considered that he might have a wife.

Or, for that matter, one he'd tucked away in the backyard.

“You're wondering if he has a wife, aren't you?” Tia said, once again rocking back on the heels of her boots.

“I am not,” Elinor shot back.

“Well, we can find out now, for here he comes—finally,” she said, nodding toward the end of the block. “Shall you ask him, or should I?”

“
We
shall not,” Elinor told her.

“I still say there is something odd about him,” Tia whispered defiantly even as he pulled to a stop before them.

“Good morning, Lady Standon, Miss Wraxton,” he said, bowing his head, but not before Elinor spied a mischievous sparkle to his eyes that sent a sinful shiver down her spine. “Glad to see you up and about, Lady Standon,” he said as he held out his hand to her.

As her fingers curled around his and his strong grasp pulled her into the seat beside him, his warmth enveloping her, memories from the night before sparked to life.

My good lady, that is how it is done best…

His lips, hard and smooth, capturing hers…

Desire shot through her with a heat that brushed aside the chill of this February morning.

Then he'd deepened his kiss…and she'd known that this glorious man was no gentleman.

Elinor's cheeks flamed as she dropped into the seat next to him and her hip brushed against his.

Oh, good heavens! What had happened last night? And when she looked at St. Maur, searching for answers, the cheeky devil had the nerve to wink at her and pick up the reins.

 

“Where to, my lady?” James asked as Tia settled into the tiger's seat behind them. While he understood why Elinor had brought along her sister, that didn't mean he wasn't a bit piqued.

He had thought they would be alone, as improper as that was.

Wasn't last night bad enough?
he could almost hear Jack say.

“Petticoat Lane,” she said, folding her hands in her lap demurely, as if she had just given him an address on Bond Street.

“Petticoat Lane?”

“Yes, of course. Where else would one go shopping on a Sunday morning?”

“Where else, indeed,” he said, hoping he could find the way.

But luckily for him, she knew the directions, and they followed the great and infamous streets across London—Oxford, High Holburn, Newgate, Cheapside, through elegant and shabby alike, until Leadenhall flowed into Aldgate. All along the way, Tia chattered happily, plying him with questions like a magistrate, with James doing his best to avoid answering.

Elinor, on the other hand, sat silently and stiffly beside him, looking neither left nor right, her cheeks a fine color of pink.

Does she remember or not?
he wondered.

By the time James handed the carriage over to the most likely of the horde of lads waiting there to mind
the shoppers' carriages and horses, he suspected Lady Standon was glad to have the thick throng to divert their conversation.

“You gave that lad too much,” she remarked, but it hardly sounded like a rebuke.

“He looked like he could use the extra coins,” he commented, holding out his arm to her.

She paused for a second as if she thought better of it, then tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

Once again he was struck by one thought: she fits. As she had last night in the garden and on the street in front of the draper's shop. She fit to him like a Weston coat.

How could this be?

So lost was he in the wonder of it that he barely took in their surroundings until they were already into the Lane and wedged in on either side by eager shoppers and merchants alike.

Jewish merchants with their long beards and side locks, cockneys calling out the bargains their stalls boasted, goods piled on tables in haphazard mixtures. Gowns, coats, laces all mingled with rugs, household goods, books and a little bit of everything else.

And the people! From every walk of life it seemed. Tradesmen and their wives, tavern servers and actresses, even farmers and yokels in from the surrounding countryside. With that said, it wasn't hard to also see the shady characters milling about the byways—with so many purses about, the thieves and pickpockets were well in attendance.

He pulled Lady Standon closer than was proper, and she glanced up at him. It was like the moment in the garden when they'd gone from bantering to kissing—for as their gazes met something inside him
sparked, but this time she abruptly pulled away and went to look over a selection of gloves on a table.

“You've never been here, have you, Mr. St. Maur?” Lady Standon said as she held a pair up for Tia to see. The girl's nose wrinkled in dismay and they continued along, Lady Standon marching determinedly ahead of him.

“No, I can't say that I have.”

“Delightful, isn't it?” Tia added.

James wasn't too convinced. “Whatever are we doing here?” he said quietly in Lady Standon's ear.

“Looking for gowns for Tia, a new dress for me and of course, a new coat for you.”

“Here?” he looked about.
In all this chaos?

“Well, yes, of course. Unless you've suddenly come into a duke's fortune,” she teased. “Now come along. You act as if you've never bought a piece of clothing secondhand, when that jacket tells an entirely different story.”

“Yes, I suppose you've found me out,” he said readily. “But I don't think I need—”

“Will your wife mind?” Tia said, poking her head around her sister's shoulder.

“Tia!” Lady Standon sputtered even as he stammered his reply.

“Will my—”

“Your. Wife.” The incorrigible imp all but spelled it out. “Will she mind if you come home from this errand with a new coat?”

“No,” he managed to say, thinking a wife was the least of his worries. Richards would be in a foul disposition for at least a fortnight if James came home with a coat his valet hadn't personally supervised. Why, the man would probably quit.

Tia ignored her sister's scathing glance and blushes.
“No, she won't mind that you've allowed my sister to find you a new jacket, or no, you don't have such an encumbrance at home?”

“A wife is hardly—”

“You're married?” Lady Standon blurted out, and even as the words came out, she covered her mouth and looked as if she wished herself as far from this spot as humanly possible.

He knew exactly how she felt.

“No, I have no wife,” he said to Tia. “I am a widower.”

If he wasn't mistaken, this appeared to be a matter of some relief to Lady Standon, but not to her sister.

She was already muttering something about “ask him if he has a garden” before she wandered over to a booth piled high with boots and slippers and all manner of shoes.

And with her departure an uncomfortable silence arose between them.

“Your sister—,” he began even as Lady Standon said, “I am so sorry.”

They both stopped and then laughed.

“She's a wretched little busybody,” Lady Standon said.

“She is something,” he said—just what he wasn't about to say out loud. Not when most people would probably say the same about Arabella.

Arabella
. It was because of her that he'd come to Town in the first place.

Though if it hadn't been for his errant daughter's antics, he would never have met Lady Standon. He glanced over at her and smiled. “You needn't worry that I'm offended. Your sister has her charms.”

“I told her not to ask—,” she began and then
stopped, having realized she was giving away her curiosity about him.

Something inside James heated. “You were wondering if I was married?”

“It is just that it would hardly do to put you in a difficult situation with your wife—that is, if you had one…. I would never want to cause…oh, bother. Yes, I was wondering if you were married.”

“I can see why,” he teased, moving away and leaving her gaping after him.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, hurrying after him, then feigning interest in a parasol that was more holes than lace. “It isn't as if—”

“You don't remember, do you?” he asked her quietly.

“Remember what?” she said, putting down the parasol and reaching for an equally wretched reticule.

“Remember last night,” he said, watching her reaction—oh, and what a reaction it was, for she winced, then paled completely.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “I remember last night perfectly. I went to the Setchfield ball. I met the Duke of Longford. Charming man. He asked me to dance—twice, I'll have you know.”

“Extraordinary,” he offered. “Sounds like a perfectly enchanting evening.” He paused for a moment, then prodded her a bit more. “Then what happened?”

Her gaze flitted hastily to his. “Whatever do you mean?”

“What happened next?” he repeated, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping his head to one side.

“I went to the ball,” she said. “I met the Duke of—”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” he told her, waving off her recitation of the simple facts. “But what happened
after
you danced with Longford?”

“Twice,” she told him. “I danced with him twice.”

“So I heard the first time, but I'm curious as to what happened next.”

Elinor set down the reticule and moved off to the next booth, doing her best to appear nonplussed by his queries. “Why, la, sir, it was a dreadful crush. So many people, such a whirl…so many dances.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Twice with Longford. But you know the Setchfield ball; it is never over until there is some scandalous doing. And I can't help wondering—”

The lady stilled, then slowly turned to face him. “You, sir, are no gentleman. You were there, weren't you?”

He nodded, trying to keep the smile from his lips.

She came stalking forward and whispered so her sister wouldn't hear, “What happened?”

James laughed. “My lady, I never kiss and tell.” He winked at her, then sauntered off.

When he glanced back over his shoulder, her face was as red as the crimson velvet she'd admired the day before, and he knew one thing for certain.

If she hadn't remembered much of their passionate garden interlude before, she did now.

 

If James thought he'd bested her, he was sorely mistaken.

For after a few moments, Lady Standon straightened her shoulders and followed him, a determined click to her boot heels.

One day he would realize that sound as a sure sign
he'd overstepped himself, but today he was too full of his own mischief to realize that Elinor Sterling was not a lady to be bested easily.

“How are your reports going?” she asked, changing the subject completely.

“Reports?”

“On my list of dukes,” she said, smiling sweetly, as if their previous conversation hadn't happened.