My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

Jillian lifted her gaze. "You really think he cares for me—Duncan? He pays me so little attention. I barely see him and yet we live in the same house."

  "He's a busy man, Jilly. Just wait until you set sail for the Colonies, then he'll have time for you."

  The thought of taking a ship far across the sea with a man she barely knew was more than Jillian wanted to consider at that moment. But the prospect of being Duncan's wife suddenly excited her. It had been a slow transformation. She wasn't certain when she had gone from disliking Duncan to liking him, she only knew that she had.

  "No." Jillian looked up. "I will marry Duncan, but I have to tell Jacob in person. It's only right."

  Beatrice stared at her sister. "You're determined, aren't you?

  "Yes."

  Beatrice threw her arms around Jillian and gave her a quick hug, pressing Jacob's letter into her hand. "Then be careful, will you?" She studied her sister's face. "And if anyone asks for you while you're gone, I'll say you went into town to chastise the plasterers."

  "Thank you." For a moment Jillian stood in the semi-darkness of the hall, watching Beatrice disappear. Jillian had made a decision that would affect her the rest of her life: She was going to marry Duncan Roderick and become the Countess of Cleaves. She was going to learn to love him, and make him love her back. That was her commitment.

  With a smile on her face, Jillian went down the hall. If that were her decision, then today she would turn over a new leaf. She would tell Jacob goodbye and then she would set her mind on Duncan. If Duncan didn't have time for her, he would have to make time. She would demand it. And she'd start by inviting him to sup with her tonight after she met with Jacob. She would have the servants prepare a meal and serve it in the garden in the moonlight. She would be so charming that the earl would find her irresistible.

  With that thought, Jillian hurried down the hallway. She turned the corner, striking something hard . . . someone. "Oh! I'm sorry!" She looked up to see Algernon. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Atar going in the opposite direction and disappearing around the corner.

  Heavens, she thought with irritation. Not him. She tried to avoid Algernon in the house whenever possible, but it seemed as if he sought her out, always cornering her in the dark, alone.

  "Are you all right, dear?" Algernon clasped her shoulders unnecessarily, as if she needed to be steadied.

  "I'm fine. Thank you." She took a step back, pushing his hands away. He was dressed in another one of his ridiculous costumes, this one pink and red with high-heeled pink shoes and a cavalier's hat with a pink feather. "I—I apologize for my clumsiness. I didn't hear you coming." She couldn't help but wonder how much of her and Beatrice's conversation he'd heard.

  He stood in front of her, blocking the hallway. "I haven't seen you in days, dear; how are you? I hope my brute of a cousin hasn't been treating you too harshly."

  Jillian bristled. It seemed that at every turn Algernon tried to get Jillian to cast disfavor on Duncan. But she wasn't falling for it.

  She smiled a smile without warmth. "Actually, he's been quite delightful. I'm anxious to be wed."

  Algernon threw back his head in laughter. "Delightful? That ghastly, scarred son of a sorry bitch." His laughter subsided. "Come now, dear, you can tell Algernon the truth." He took a step closer to her, backing Jillian against the warped chair rail. "He's cruel to you, isn't he?"

  "No!"

  "He rants and he raves, calling you foul names. He fondles you, trying to force you to do what no decent woman would."

  Jillian almost laughed at the absurdity. "Certainly not!"

  Algernon reached out, grasping her arm before she could dodge him. "You can tell me," he whispered, a line of sweat beading above his upper lip, "because I can help you."

  Jillian gritted her teeth. For a small man, he was quite strong. "Let go of me," she insisted.

  "It's not rightfully his, you know." He leaned closer until she could smell the anchovies on his breath. "The title. It's mine and it will be reverted. It's only a matter of time. The court will hear my case, and I will have the earldom again."

  "Let go of me," Jillian hissed, trying to twist her arm from his grip. "You're hurting me, Algernon."

  He pulled her closer to him until her breasts brushed the ruffled collar of his red doublet. "You could agree to marry me now, you know. I would have you. And then you could still be the countess."

  "Marry you?" Jillian wrinkled her face in disgust. "I wouldn't marry you, not for a duchy, not to be Queen of all bloody England." With a hard jerk, she snapped her arm from his grasp and, giving him a shove, darted behind him. "You stay away from me," she warned angrily, backing down the hallway. "Do you hear me? You stay away or I'll tell Duncan, and then you'll be out on your ear! It's only the goodness of his heart that keeps food in your belly, and you know it!"

  Algernon leered at her. "How dare you speak to me that way, you ungrateful jade!" His face reddened with fury as he shouted down the hallway after her. "I was offering to save you from that animal! I was offering to give you the life you deserve, and you ridicule me!" He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "You've made a grave error, dear Jillian," he whispered now, and became all the more menacing. "Grave. I'm not a man to make an enemy of."

  "Stay away from me!" Jillian shouted down the hall. "And take your idle threats elsewhere!" Then she spun around and hurried down the hallway back toward the front entryway.

  "Stinking jackanape," she muttered. He'd frightened her. The man was unstable. Jillian half-considered telling Duncan what had happened, but he wouldn't have anywhere to go. She knew Duncan would kick him out of the house—if he didn't kill him first.

  Duncan stood in the front hallway to Breckenridge House, a smile of bemusement on his face. There were six workmen busy hanging armaments and portraits of his late ancestors on the freshly plastered and painted walls. The floor beneath him had been sanded, the warped boards replaced, and the chairs in the receiving area had been recovered in a rich azure damask. The room was imposing, as a proper English entryway should be, and it was all due to the work of his busy bee, Jillian.

  Duncan had to give the chit credit. He had, on impulse, granted her permission to do the repairs. As Atar reported, she had taken on the assignment with enthusiasm. He had thought it would occupy her mind and take one matter off his. But he surely had not expected her to oversee such a superior job. He hadn't expected her to spend so much damned money either.

  "Steady there!" one of the workman called as a scaffold shifted overhead. "Watch it, Jimmy!"

  Suddenly the floor of the scaffold tipped. Duncan reacted by lifting his arms above his head to catch whatever was falling. A musket with a bayonet fell into Duncan's hands. "Ouch! Damnation!" he called as the bayonet sliced his palm. "You'd best be more careful or you'll cut off your damned heads with one of these!" He handed the musket back up to the sheepish worker and turned on his heels, pressing his palm to mouth.

  "Heavens!" Jillian appeared between two parted canvas drops. "Are you all right, Duncan?" She came across the floor, her heels tapping on the freshly sanded boards.

  "I'm fine. A scratch, nothing more."

  "Let me see." She took his hand, leading him through the canvas drops to the window on the far side where they were in better light. "It's bleeding, Duncan." She lifted her white cotton apron to touch the superficial wound tenderly.

  Duncan couldn't resist a smile. His betrothed was dressed in old clothing with a housekeeper's mobcap pulled over her head, her curly red hair spilling out. Her face was smudged with dirt, her bodice wrinkled. She was utterly appealing.

  "I've been wounded in battle, madame. I can assure you I will not bleed to death." But he made no attempt to pull his hand from her grasp. He liked standing so close to her, for though he could hear the workmen, he and Jillian were completely isolated by the close proximity of the canvas drops. She was so near that he could smell the sweet scent of her skin. He could almost taste he
r lips.

  Jillian looked up at him, still cradling his larger hand in hers. She smiled shyly. "What is it? Why do you watch me so intently?"

  "I was thinking to myself how beautiful you are." Duncan didn't consider himself a courtier. He never knew what females wanted him to do, to say. He was only speaking the truth.

  She was still staring at him, clearly surprised by his words. And why shouldn't she be? He'd barely spoken two words to her in the last week.

  "Are you trying to court me, sir?"

  "No." He encircled her in his arms. "Trying to kiss you, I think."

  And then he did. Before she could open her mouth to retort, he kissed those soft, rosy lips. And to Duncan's surprise, she did not pull away. She kissed him back, the corner of his purple veil resting on her smooth, pale cheek.

  "Jillian," he whispered against her mouth. "You're as sweet as a morning rain." Still, she didn't resist, so he kissed her again, this time pressing his mouth harder against hers, his tongue slipping out to taste her.

  Duncan felt her hands settle on his shoulders. He could have sworn he heard her moan softly. Their tongues touched hesitantly, and then suddenly he was deep in her mouth, exploring.

  When Duncan withdrew, his breath coming ragged, he stared into Jillian's cinnamon-brown eyes. She was not in the least bit put off by his veil. She looked as if she had enjoyed the kiss as much as he had.

  "I don't know what to say." She spoke softly, her gaze averting to a speck on the window.

  Duncan traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip. "There's nothing you must say. You're going to be my wife, Jilly, very soon. This is what husband and wife do."

  "Do they enjoy each other's kisses this much?" She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes sparkling. Then she touched her fingers to the place he had just kissed. "I had thought that out of mode."

  Duncan let his hands slide over her shoulders, down her arms. He was pleased with himself, with Jillian. This wouldn't be so bad after all—having a wife. It might even be pleasurable.

  "Out of mode, perhaps," he answered, "but certainly quite enjoyable for us both, don't you think?"

  She was resting her hands on his chest now. He could feel her warmth through his muslin shirt. Damnation, but he was attracted to her, more than he had realized. "We could get married now," he whispered. "The banns have been read. It could be done tonight." Duncan didn't know what made him say it; it just came out of his mouth in a husky whisper.

  "Marry you tonight?" Her voice trembled. "You're not serious?"

  He took her hand, not knowing what had come over him. Suddenly all he could think of was carrying Jillian off to his bed chamber, stripping off her dusty clothes, making love to her on the bed's counterpane in the last rays of sunlight. "I am serious. Say it and it will be done."

  She smiled, lowering her gaze again. She was so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek. "No. Not tonight, Duncan. Let's wait. It will only be another fortnight." She looked up at him and he knew that in her heart that she did not see the veil, but rather the man beneath it. "And that will give us both something to look forward to."

  Duncan hesitated, wrestling between his good sense and his desire for her. He would not take her without being wed, he had vowed that before he had brought her to the house. That was one of the reasons he had been avoiding her. He hadn't wanted to be tempted by his attraction to her. But now that he had kissed her, and knew that she was willing, he feared his own lack of control.

  "All right," he said softly, releasing her. The way she smiled at him made his chest tight. "I can wait if you insist."

  She was still smiling as she passed between the canvas drops back into the hallway. Duncan was still smiling when he made his way through the hallway and back to his office. For the first time in ages, he hummed to himself as he walked, remembering a bittersweet lovesong he'd sung to his dying son such a long, long time ago.

  Seven

  Jillian alighted from the coach in front of The Three Rings on one of the side streets in Haymarket close to the Park. Though it was dusk, the street was alive with activity. The air smelled of raw sewage, smoked meat, and unwashed bodies, city scents she had not yet become accustomed to.

  A dairy maid walked by, pushing a cart, making a last call for her fresh goat's milk before she left the city for the day. A man stood on the corner, a monkey on his shoulder, playing a pipe while the chimp danced and an audience pitched coppers into a cup. Swaggering men passed in groups, some students, others gentlemen, all bound for a light supper and heavy drink, no doubt.

  Accepting her footman's hand, Jillian stepped down and crossed over the sewer that ran the length of the congested street. "That will be all, Marston," she ordered, putting her vizard in place so that her identity would be masked. She wanted no one to recognize her, for if one of Duncan's friends saw her, she'd have a difficult explanation to make.

  The footman glanced at the carved sign swinging overhead, bearing three rings of painted gold. "You don't want me to go with you, mistress? The master's man, he said to stick with ye."

  "Where I go is my business and no one else's. Atar is a servant like you. He has no right to be giving instructions, except by direct order of the earl." She looked directly into the middle-aged man's eyes. "So if you seek comfortable retirement in my household, I'd suggest you look in another direction and begin to pay less attention to Atar and more to me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "Aye."

  She slipped her hands into her kidskin gloves in a businesslike manner. "Good. Now, have the driver pull the coach around there, near the side of the ordinary, and wait for me. I won't be but five minutes."

  "Yes, ma'am." He ducked his head and disappeared around the far side of the crested coach.

  With a sigh of resignation, Jillian made her way into the ordinary, a gathering place where men dined, drank, and talked of politics and war. It was not unusual for a woman to frequent such an establishment, but it was odd that she was unaccompanied. No doubt, anyone who saw her would assume she was a lady on an assignation with a gentleman.

  Jillian stared through the slits in her vizard, held on by a button between her teeth. Where the devil was Jacob? She scanned the room. Several gentleman had looked up, noticing her arrival. She lifted her chin with an air, making clear she was no wealthy widow looking for companionship.

  "Excuse me, madame, might I aid you?"

  Jillian looked down to see a portly man in workingman's clothes with an apron tied around his waist. The proprietor, she guessed.

  "I—I'm seeking a gentleman."

  "Might you be Jill?" he questioned, taking note of her dress.

  Jill. That was what Jacob called her, though she had never cared for it. "Perhaps." She looked at him through the black vizard. "Why do you ask?"

  The proprietor lowered his voice, his gaze darting across the room. "The gentleman you seek," he said secretively, "awaits on the street behind. I am to escort you, if you would allow me the honor."

  Jillian glanced around the smoky public room. She didn't know that she liked the idea of going anywhere with a man she didn't know. London City was not a safe place for unchaperoned country women. But what was she to do? She'd come this far; she'd see her decision through. Once this was over, once she said goodbye to Jacob, then she could concentrate on her relationship with Duncan.

  "All right," she murmured, holding her mask with her hand so she could speak. "But hurry. I'm expected elsewhere shortly."

  So the proprietor led her between the trestle tables, through the public, out a swinging door, past the kitchen that smelled of burning potatoes, and through another doorway that led outside.

  "This way," he called and then pointed. "There."

  Jillian immediately recognized Jacob standing beside a dogcart. She lowered her vizard. "Thank you, sir," she said to the proprietor, fishing a coin from the silk bag on her waist. "I appreciate your discretion." Then she lifted her damask skirts and picked her way through the refu
se that littered the ground. She stepped over a rotting cabbage.

  "Jill! Oh, Jill!" The moment Jacob spotted her, he came running. "Oh, my love, my love!"

  Jillian allowed him to hug her; but when he tried to press a kiss to her mouth, she turned so that he touched only her cheek. After the kisses she and Duncan had shared, the surprising ardor, she knew that Jacob's would never satisfy her again. Perhaps she was fickle, but in comparison to Duncan, Jacob was barely noticeable.

  "I'm so glad you managed to get away," he declared passionately. "I feared I'd have to come to Breckenridge House and take you by force. I've not met the Colonial Devil myself, but word has spread even to the country of his bizarre ways."

  Jillian took a step back, uncomfortable with Jacob's touch. She was Duncan's now. His kiss had branded her. "Don't you know me better than that? I'm free to come and go as I please. The earl is a decent man. It's nothing but foul rumors you hear."

  He took her gloved hand, looking into her eyes. "I can't believe it's you. I can't believe that finally we can be together. I left, you know." He dropped his hands to his hips proudly. He was wearing an ill-fitting black suit of cheap damask. "Father said I couldn't come to London, but I came anyway. I came for you, Jill."

  Jillian looked at Jacob, wondering what could possibly have attracted her to him in the first place. He was a thin man her own age, with hollow cheeks and sandy hair. He was not unattractive, but reminded her much of a scarecrow in a yeoman's field. Now when she saw a man, any man, it was the massively broad-shouldered Earl of Cleaves that she compared him to.

  "That's why I came, Jacob. I have to talk to you." She made herself look at him, despite how blessedly guilty she felt. "I came to talk to you about us. About you and me."

  "What about us? We're to be married. Tonight. We'll have a clergy perform the ceremony, and then we can take care of the legal matter afterward. Oh, Jill." His pale-blue eyes shone. "I can't tell you how I've missed, how I've dreamed . . . dreamed," he added shyly, "of being your husband in every manner."

  Jillian gave a sigh. He was talking of bedding her, of course. She deserved this; she knew she deserved it. This was her punishment for having been so childish, so capricious. It was her penance for thinking she wanted to marry this milksop. "Jacob, listen to me," she said sternly. "Listen to what I'm saying."