More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (18 page)

She laughed. “And your cane too?”

“Now, that, Jane,” he said, lifting it and pointing it at her, “is a low blow. I shall dance without my cane. A waltz, in fact. You will waltz with me.”

He had moved to stand between her and the route to the staircase. She could tell from a glance at his face that he was in one of those moods that would not brook denial. Not that she would not put up a good fight on that account. He could not force her to dance, after all.

“You never waltz,” she told him.

“Now who told you that?” he asked her.

“You did,” she reminded him. “In my hearing. When someone mentioned Almack's one day.”

“I will make an exception tonight,” he said. “Do you waltz, Jane? Do you know the steps?”

It was her way out. All she needed to do was say no. And indeed she had never performed the steps at any public assembly, only with Charles and a few of their friends at private gatherings. But she was suddenly assailed by a deep longing to waltz here at Dudley House among her peers before she disappeared somewhere she would never be found. To waltz with the Duke of Tresham. Suddenly the temptation was overwhelming.

“She hesitates,” the duke murmured. He leaned closer. “You must not deny it now, Jane. Your silence has betrayed you.” He offered his arm. “Come.”

She hesitated only a moment longer before laying her arm along his and turning into the drawing room.

To dance.

To waltz with the Duke of Tresham.

*   *   *

O
NE THING WAS VERY
clear to Jocelyn as he sat conversing with a few of his more elderly guests while the younger ones danced an energetic country dance. Jane Ingleby was going to have to go soon. Away from Dudley House. Away from him.

She had indeed become the focus of attention. She was not dancing, but she was surrounded by a veritable court of admirers, among them Kimble and Ferdinand, both of whom should have been dancing. She looked somewhat incongruous in her sprigged muslin dress and simple coiffure when every other lady present was decked out in silks and satins and jewels with elaborate plumes and turbans. But she made every one of them look fussy and overdressed.

She was simplicity itself. Like a single rose. No, a rose was too elaborate. Like a lily. Or a daisy.

There would indeed be questions if he kept her here any longer. Surely it must be apparent to all his guests, as it should have been to him for the past three weeks, that she was a lady from the top of her head down to her toenails. The impoverished orphan of an impoverished gentleman, at a guess. But a lady nonetheless. An extraordinarily lovely one.

He was going to have to find her employment elsewhere—a thoroughly depressing thought, which he would put out of his head for tonight. The country dance had ended. He got to his feet, leaving his cane propped against the chair. Putting his full weight on his right leg did not cause undue pain, he was relieved to find. He made his way toward Mrs. Marsh at the pianoforte.

“Take your partners, gentlemen,” he announced after consulting her, “for a waltz.” He moved in the direction of Jane and had the misfortune to meet the eyes of both Kimble and Brougham as he did so. Both were looking at him rather as if he had sprouted another head. He knew why. It was common knowledge that the Duke of Tresham never waltzed. He extended his right hand. “Miss Ingleby?”

“You will suffer for this,” she warned him as they took their places on the polished floor, from which the carpet had been rolled back. “You will probably be forced to spend the next two weeks with your leg up on a cushion.”

“Then you may have the satisfaction of saying you told me so,” he said, setting his right hand behind her waist and taking her right hand in his left.

He never waltzed, for the simple reason that it was far too intimate a dance for a man who had become adept at avoiding matrimonial traps. But he had always thought that if the occasion and the woman were ever right, he would find the waltz truly enchanting.

The time was right and so was the woman.

Her spine arched pleasingly beneath his hand. The curve of her other arm and her hand resting on his shoulder brought her tantalizingly close to him though their bodies did not once touch as they twirled about the room, their eyes on each other, the other dancers and the spectators forgotten, as if they did not exist. He could feel her body heat and smell the faint aroma of roses that seemed to cling about her.

She danced divinely, as if her feet did not quite touch the floor, as if she were a part of himself, as if they were both a part of the music or it a part of them. He found
himself smiling at her. Although her face remained in repose, it seemed to him that an answering warmth beamed through her blue eyes.

It was only as the music drew to an end that he realized two things—that he had inadvertently let go of his customary haughty aloofness, and that his leg was aching like a thousand devils.

“I am going to bed,” she said breathlessly.

“Ah, Jane,” he said softly, “I cannot come with you. I have a houseful of guests.”

She withdrew herself from his arms as everyone changed partners or returned to the sidelines.

“But I will escort you to your room,” he told her. “No, you may not look significantly down at my leg. I am not a cripple, Jane, and will not behave like one. Take my arm.”

He did not care who saw them leave together. He would not be gone long. And she would not be here at Dudley House much longer to fuel any gossip. That was clearer than ever to him.

The hall and staircase seemed very quiet in contrast to the buzz of conversation they had left behind in the drawing room and could still hear. Jocelyn did not attempt conversation as they ascended slowly—he had not brought his cane with him. He did not speak at all until they were walking along the dimly lit corridor to Jane's room.

“You were as much of a success as I knew you would be,” he said then. “More so, indeed.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He paused outside her room, standing between her and the door.

“Your parents,” he said, “must have been very proud of you.”

“Y—” She caught herself in time. She looked keenly at him, as if to see whether his words had been a mere slip of memory. “The people who knew me were,” she said carefully. “But a talent is not something to be unduly proud of, your grace. My voice is something for which I can take no credit. It was given me, just as was your ability to play the pianoforte as you do.”

“Jane,” he said softly before dipping his head and setting his lips to hers.

He did not touch her anywhere else. She did not touch him. But their lips clung softly, warmly, yearningly for many moments before one of them drew back—he was not sure who.

Her eyes were dreamy with latent passion, her cheeks flushed with desire. Her lips were parted and moist with invitation. And his own heartbeat was drumming in his ears and threatening to deafen him to reality. Ah, Jane, if only …

He searched her eyes with his own before turning and opening her door. “It is as well that I have guests below, Jane. This will just not do, will it? Not for much longer. Good night.”

J
ANE FLED
INTO HER
room without a backward glance. She heard the door close behind her before spreading her hands over her hot cheeks.

She could still feel his hand at her waist as they waltzed. She could still feel his heat, still smell his cologne, still feel the sense of perfect rhythm with which they had moved to the music. She could still feel
the waltz as an intimate, sensual thing, not the sheer fun it had been when danced with Charles.

Yes, it was as well there were guests downstairs.

She could still feel his kiss, not fierce, not lascivious. Much worse. A soft, longing kiss. No, it would not do. Not for much longer. Not for
any
longer, in fact. A great yawning emptiness opened up somewhere deep inside her.

HE BRIGHTON RACE WAS TO BEGIN AT HYDE
Park Corner at half-past eight the following morning. Fortunately it was shaping up to be a clear, windless day, Jocelyn discovered when he stepped outside, leaning on his cane.

He climbed up unaided to the high seat of his curricle, and waved away his groom, who would have jumped up behind. He was only going to the park and back, after all. He was going to give Ferdinand some last words of encouragement—not advice. Dudleys did not take well to advice, especially from one another.

He was very early, but he wanted to spend a few minutes with his brother before the crowds arrived to cheer the racers on their way to Brighton. There were a number of gentlemen who would ride their horses behind the curricles, of course, so that they could witness the end of the race and celebrate with the winner in Brighton. Ordinarily Jocelyn would have been one of them—no, ordinarily he would have been one of the
racers
—but not this time. His leg was considerably better than perhaps it should feel when he had waltzed on it last evening, but it would be foolish to subject it to a long, bruising ride.

Ferdinand was flushed and restless and eager as he checked his new team and chatted with Lord Heyward, who had arrived even before Jocelyn.

“I am to be sure to tell you from Angeline,” Heyward was saying with an ironic lift of one eyebrow, “that you are to win at all costs, Ferdinand, that you are to take no risks that will break your neck, that the honor of the Dudley name is in your hands, that you are not to worry about anything but your own safety—and a great deal more in the same contradictory vein, with which I will not assail your ears.”

Ferdinand grinned at him and turned to bid Jocelyn a good morning.

“They are as eager as I to be on the way,” he said, nodding in the direction of his horses.

Jocelyn raised his quizzing glass to his eye and looked over the curricle, which his brother had bought impulsively a few months before entirely on the grounds that it looked both smart and sporty. He had complained about it ever since, and indeed there was something clumsy about it that one detected only in the handling of it. Jocelyn had driven it once himself and had never felt any burning desire to repeat the experience.

The odds were against Ferdinand in this race, though Jocelyn did not despair of his wager. Youth and eagerness were on his brother's side as well as a certain family determination never to come in second at any manly sport. And those chestnuts were certainly a pair that Jocelyn coveted himself. The curricle was the weakness.

Lord Berriwether, Ferdinand's opponent, was driving up amid a veritable cavalcade of horsemen come to cheer him on. All of them would have wagered on him, of course. A few of them called good-naturedly to Ferdinand.

“A prime pair, Dudley,” Mr. Wagdean cried cheerfully. “A pity they have three lame legs apiece.”

“Even more of a pity when they win,” Ferdinand retorted, grinning, “and show up Berriwether's pair, which has no such excuse.”

Berriwether was showing his unconcern with the opposition by flicking at an invisible speck of dust on his gleaming top boots with his whip. The man looked more suitably dressed for a stroll on Bond Street than a race to Brighton. But he would be all business, of course, once the race was under way.

“Ferdinand,” Jocelyn said impulsively, “we had better switch curricles.”

His brother looked at him with undisguised hope. “You mean it, Tresham?”

“I have a better regard for my wager than to send you off to Brighton in that bandbox,” Jocelyn replied, nodding at the red and yellow curricle.

Ferdinand was not about to argue the point further. In a matter of minutes—and with only five minutes to spare before the scheduled start of the race—his groom had unhitched his curricle from the chestnuts and switched it with the duke's.

“Just remember,” Jocelyn said, unable after all to resist the urge to give advice, “it is somewhat lighter than yours, Ferdinand, and more instantly responsive to your maneuvering.
Slow down
on the bends.”

Ferdinand climbed up to the high seat and took the ribbons from his groom's hand. He was serious now, concentrating on the task ahead.

“And bring it back in one piece,” Jocelyn added before stepping back with the rest of the spectators, “or I'll skin you alive.”

One minute later the Marquess of Yarborough, Berriwether's brother-in-law, raised the starting pistol skyward,
there was an expectant hush, the pistol cracked, and the race began amid a roar of cheers and a cloud of dust and a thundering of hooves.

It looked, Jocelyn thought, gazing rather wistfully after the curricles and the throng of riders, rather like a cavalry charge. He turned toward Ferdinand's curricle and exchanged a few pleasantries with some other spectators.

He wished then that he had brought his groom after all. He would have to go home in order to have his horses stabled and the curricle put away in the carriage house before proceeding to White's. But he need not go inside the house. He had no reason to do so and every reason
not
to.