He found a new cravat and stood before the mirror. He was careful not to stand where he could see Fiona.
“Jack, where are you going?”
“To a select house party.”
She was silent a moment. “What if I wish to go with you?”
“This is not the sort of amusement one takes a wife.”
Her eyes flashed.
Jack ignored her, smoothing his waistcoat. “I agreed to this marriage only because I was forced. I did not agree to change my life in any way, shape, or form. This”—he turned to face her—“is who I am.”
“I know that,” she said stiffly, her chin lifted. “I merely thought you might wait at least one day before you resumed your raucous pursuits.”
He shrugged, turning his shoulder to her. “Why should I wait? There are cards to play, bourbon to drink, women to—”
Lightning flashed outside. “There will be no other women.”
He lifted his brows, his jaw tight. “I will not be threatened.”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean to—”
“We shall discuss this another time. Fortunately for you, after our”—he almost said “romp” but caught himself—“exertions, I will not be in the mood for another woman. At least not tonight.”
In the distance thunder rumbled, and she gave a decided flounce as she wrapped the sheets more tightly about her.
Good. She was angry. That would keep them both from stupidly thinking this union was something more than it was. Still, he could not help but feel as if he’d just kicked a kitten. Repressing the oddest desire to apologize, he turned back to the miror.
“We don’t know yet if this gamble will succeed. We might not be able to produce this heir. Or perhaps our families will simply ignore our noble sacrifices and hurl into one another anyway.”
“They will not. I know they won’t.”
“We’ll see,” he said, placing a ruby pin in his cravat. His clothes didn’t appear too wrinkled, which was a wonder, considering he hadn’t used the services of his valet.
Time to go. There was no more reason to stay, and yet…he found himself facing Fiona. Her gaze met his, her expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration.
She wanted him to stay. He knew it without her saying a word. He supposed he didn’t blame her; she was alone, in a house she didn’t know, and still sad about the death of her brother.
Jack steeled himself. None of that mattered. If he stayed, she would begin to expect such things, and he was not about to let her think he was something he was not.
“When will you return?” she asked.
He paused by the fireplace to stir the embers back into flames. “Tomorrow.” He replaced the poker in the stand by the fire. “Sleep well.” He walked toward the door.
“Jack?”
He paused, his hand on the knob. “Yes?”
“You really do have no heart.”
His jaw tightened, but he offered no defense.
“You always seem to hate that name, Black Jack,” she said bitterly. “Yet here you are, striving to prove it true.”
“I am what I am. I am exactly what I was before you married me, and I’ll still be that after.”
Her eyes flashed. “I have expectations, too. I do not wish to be left in this house alone all the time. I would like to see London while I am here.”
“Of course, sweetheart. I am sure the coachman knows the way to Anstley’s Amphitheatre.”
Ignoring the angry set of her mouth, he bowed. “Meanwhile, I bid you good night.” He slipped from the room and shut the door, quickly making his way to the foyer.
“My lord.” Devonsgate stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Jack eyed the coat that was carefully hung over the butler’s arm. “You knew I would be going out.”
“You always do, my lord.”
“Yes. I always do, don’t I?”
“Yes, my lord. Once you have, ah—” The butler’s gaze strayed up the stairs, then back, a faint touch of color in his high cheekbones. “Once you have awakened from your nap, you inevitably go to one of your clubs, leaving your companion sleeping.”
“I didn’t realize I was so predictable.”
“We are all creatures of habit, my lord.” The butler helped Jack into his coat.
“And my habit is to visit gaming hells and buy gifts for unsuitable women,” Jack said. “What a wonderful set of habits, to be sure.”
The rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and a sharp wind whistled, so stiff that it rattled the heavy door.
Jack sent a harsh glance up the staircase before buttoning his coat to his neck. “I will need a hat, Devonsgate. I believe a storm is brewing.”
“That’s impossible, my lord. I was outside earlier, and it was clear—”
A flash of lightning lit the foyer before disappearing into a loud crack of thunder.
“Heavens! That sounds ominous.”
Itwas ominous. Devonsgate just didn’t know how much.
Jack took a deep breath, the familiar scent of lilac tickling his nose. Damn Fiona. He placed his hat firmly on his head. He would go out and have a good time, no matter what. What was a little rain, anyway?
“What ill luck, that it should rain right now,” Devonsgate said, eyeing the front windows with misgiving.
“That is the way things seem to be going for me lately. Ill.Very Ill.”
“I have heard many times that you live a charmed life, my lord. There are many who envy you.”
And why not? He had wealth, properties, and unlimited opportunities to do whatever he wished. He was indeed fortunate. So why did he feel as if he stood on the brink of a great cliff, a strong wind pushing him forward, toward the edge?
Jack’s gaze wandered past the butler, back up the stairs to the shadow of his bedroom door. For a long time, he stood there, staring. Then, with a muttered imprecation, he turned on his heel and left for the waiting carriage.
Chapter Seven
The White Witch was used to seeing fair men, but none so fair as the MacLean. Och, they are bonny lads and lassies, those MacLeans.
OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
Preston House was situated on the edge of May-fair. Built of white brick and decorated with stylish brass sconces and ornate trim work, it was as understated and quietly elegant as the dinner parties and soirees Lord and Lady Preston hosted. The location was a favorite of the bon ton and it was not unusual for Preston events to end with a leisurely breakfast for some of the more hardy guests.
Tonight, the bright lights of the house were barely visible from Jack’s carriage, dimmed by the rain that beat mercilessly upon the roof.
The coachman pulled up to the front door, and Jack jumped out, not waiting for the footman to appear. The rain slashed at him as he raced up the steps, head down against the onslaught. He reached the portico, protected from the rain by a large overhang.
Damn Fiona for this deluge. He knew it was her; the faint scent of lilacs fanned his ire. How dare she attempt to dissuade him from seeking his amusements? It simply made him more determined to enjoy his freedom, and the sooner she realized that, the better for everyone.
Still grumbling to himself, Jack took off his coat and shook it.
A footman opened the door immediately. “Ah, Lord Kincaid! Welcome to—” The man caught sight of the rain and blinked, plainly shocked.
Jack glanced back. It wasn’t just raining; it was a torrent streaming down in sheets.
“When did it begin raining?” the footman asked in a blank voice. He caught himself and flushed. “I’m sorry, sir! It wasn’t raining a moment ago, and—” He broke off, his mouth agape.
Jack followed the man’s gaze. His carriage was moving down the drive, and as the horses trotted away, the rain near the house slackened. The storm came from a single thick, black cloud that hung directly over the carriage.
The footman blinked. “I’ve never seen such a th
ing!”
Jack looked up at the now-clear sky. The moon gleamed peacefully, stars twinkled all around. Jack gritted his teeth and shoved his coat into the footman’s arms. “Summer storms are damned unpredictable.” He walked past the man and into the gaming hell.
The next time he saw Fiona, he’d—
He frowned. What could he do? She couldn’t control the rain—not completely, anyway. He would have to discover exactly how this family curse of hers worked. And if shecould control it in any way, he’d have something to say about it.
Another footman greeted Jack in the foyer, politely asking if he’d like his usual bourbon and if he’d had his dinner. That was more to Jack’s liking, and he replied pleasantly to the man, even as he realized with a faint sense of unease that while he’d been to this house often enough that the staff knew him on sight, he didn’t know any of their names. Fiona would have chided him for that.
He scowled. Fiona’s expectations were completely unrealistic. Worse, they were getting in the way of his amusements. Ignorance was a good part of comfort. His life had been much happier when he hadn’t been thinking about Fiona and what she did or didn’t feel.
The sounds of card play and laughter emanated from the main salon, despite the lateness of the hour. Jack headed inside, where he was greeted by the reassuring clink of glasses and the sweet smell of cigar smoke.
He paused, taking a deep breath, catching the eye of a delicate-looking blond beauty on the other side of the room. She immediately made her way to his side.
Twelve years ago, Lucinda Featherington had been the surprise debutante of the season, her fragile blond loveliness winning over her rather plebeian bloodlines and creating an instant fashion in the ton after years of reign by a bevy of dark-haired beauties.
At the tender age of eighteen, Lucinda had caught the eye and eventually the heart of Paul Featherington, one of the wealthiest men in England. After four years of being restricted by the boundaries of marriage, she was delighted when Lord Featherington’s political ambitions were realized, and he was appointed ambassador to a remote province in India. Lucinda had cried off going with him, saying the heat would be disastrous for her health. She’d very prettily promised to behave herself and had even brought an old, rather deaf, and somewhat blind cousin into her house as chaperone. Reassured that his wife would be living within the lines of propriety, Lord Featherington left for foreign climes, returning every so often to visit.
Lucinda had always been attracted to men of great wealth, which was why Jack had been rather flattered by her attentions. Wealth he might have, but he also possessed other qualities that made him stand out in her crowd of admirers. Qualities he’d used to good advantage with Fiona that very evening. Jack smiled a bit. His skills had left his bride panting and flushed with pleasure.
The thought instantly stirred him. Never before had he felt such a blaze of pure passion. With all of his experience, he had never experienced such mindless—
Jack forced himself back to the present. He was there to regain his balance, not to obsess over the very satisfactory flames between himself and Fiona.
“Ah, Jack! There you are.” Lucinda almost purred as she came forward, a flutter of pale blue silk and white lace, the cloying scent of rose lifting from her white skin.
She smiled up at him and slipped her arms through one of his, pressing her breasts against him. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“My dear Lucinda, I was in your bed but four days ago. Surely you remember. The night your husband returned home and you bade me leave through the window?”
Her smile dimmed a moment, her eyes searching his face to see how displeased he might be. Seeing nothing in his expression to help her, she managed a false laugh and said, “Poor Featherington! He was here only one day before he was called to Dover for a meeting with Lord Burleson.” She gave him an arch smile. “Had I known he would be gone so quickly, I would have asked you to stay at the inn in the village, so you could return immediately.”
Jack looked down at Lucinda’s generous breasts and waited for a flicker of attraction, an answering heat of some sort. But nothing happened.
Had this been Fiona standing beside him, her breasts barely covered by thin silk and pressed against his arm, he’d have picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and taken her back to the carriage so he could slake the growing passion. He shook his head, trying to stop his errant thoughts.
“Jack?” Lucinda’s voice sounded uncertain. “What is it? You…you are looking at me in the oddest way.”
He frowned. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
Her expression tightened, an unpleasant glitter rising in her eyes. “What are you thinking about? Or should I ask whom?”
The proprietary note in her voice gave him pause. He eyed her a moment, then removed her hand from his arm. “My thoughts are my own. I will share them with whomever I wish.”
For a moment, her eyes flashed, and he thought she would retaliate. But something in his expression caused her to swallow a retort. She gave a brittle laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you owed me anything.”
He bowed, saying nothing.
She flushed a little at the silent rebuke, fixing her large blue eyes on his face, a faint pleading note in her soft voice. “Jack, I was merely funning. It’s the heat and the lateness of the hour.” She managed a charming smile, peeping up at him through her lashes. “I am famished, you know, and breakfast is not for two more hours.”
He smiled a little. “You are spoiled.”
“Perhaps.” She pressed against him once more, her full breasts rubbing the sleeve of his coat. “Most menwant me to notice when they are not present.”
“I am not most men.” Fiona would be the first one to point that out, though not in a complimentary way.
Lucinda ran a hand along Jack’s arm, then glanced up at him through her lashes. “Perhaps we should leave. Featherington won’t be home for a few more days. We could take your carriage and—”
“No. We cannot take my carriage.”
Lucinda blinked at his vehemence.
Jack’s jaw tightened. “It’s not working correctly. It—it has developed a leak.”
“But…it’s not raining.”
“It was storming when I came in.”
“How odd. I arrived only an hour ago, and it was beautiful.”
Yes, but that was before he’d made Fiona angry. Suddenly, Jack felt an overwhelming need to remove himself from Lucinda’s cloying presence. He’d been wrong to come here. There would be no other women for him, not until he’d resolved his issues with Fiona. Besides, Lucinda’s charms had palled.
“Jack, is something wrong?”
“No. I am just not in the mood for conversation right now.” Once again, he extricated himself from her grasp. “I believe I’ll find an open table and play some cards.”
Her cheeks flushed unbecomingly, her mouth thinning. “Have a care what you are about, Jack. I shall feel ignored, and I do not like that.” Her voice quivered with outrage.
Jack had never seen this side of her, and, frankly, he didn’t like it. “My dear, our relationship is far from exclusive. In fact, I believe you are also visiting Sir Melkinridge?” Jack looked pointedly at the diamond necklace that hung at Lucinda’s white throat.
The color in her cheeks did not fade. She managed a shrug. “Only now and then. You know that.”
“You may have him with my blessing. Just do not pretend that you and I have more of an arrangement than we do. We have been mutually satisfying friends but no more.”
Lucinda almost gasped at the coolness of Jack’s tone. She’d come there tonight without the expectation of seeing him; he was unpredictable and it was impossible to say when and where he might show up. It was one of the many things she found fascinating about him. One of the reasons she was beginning to think she might be in love.
She had everything a woman could want: her own wealth, the admiratio
n of a multitude of men, a fond but absent husband, several lovely homes. And yet something had been missing. Until she met Jack Kincaid, she hadn’t known what that was.
She stole a glance at the strong slash of his jaw, the deep auburn of his hair, the familiar slant of his lips. She shivered. None of her numerous lovers had touched her, shaken her, the way Jack Kincaid had. There was something about him, an air of inaccessibility, almost of indifference.
All her life, Lucinda had demanded and received the constant attention of those around her. Jack was different, which made life frightening and exciting. Oddly enough, the more he pulled away, the more she felt this demanding tug of attraction.
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