A carriage rolled around the corner and her heart gave a skip when she recognized the paintwork as that of Blake’s vehicle. Five minutes early, too. That was a good sign was it not? The carriage moved past her and she lifted a hand when it continued on then dropped it to her side, her face heating. Maybe he had seen her and changed his mind?
The clattering of horse hooves ceased and she risked a glance toward the carriage to see the door open and Blake step out. He strode over to her and the glow from the streetlamp highlighted his bemused expression.
“I didn’t recognize you.” He motioned up and down her with a gloved hand.
“You have seen me like this before. Besides, do you not need me to dress this way? So that I can go unnoticed to this meeting?”
He gave a low chuckle. “You think I would just send you in without a plan?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. They hadn’t discussed anything about this meeting—where it was taking place, between whom, or what she was meant to be looking out for. It had not occurred to her a man like Blake would want to plan it out but then she hadn’t expected him to glower and act all brooding when she was speaking with his cousin.
“I thought it best we not be seen together,” she finally said, the words not sounding as firm as she’d like.
His mouth tilted. “Naturally.” He waved at the carriage. “Shall we?”
Demeter followed him and nearly took the offered hand until she recalled how odd it would look. He dropped his hand to his side, apparently realizing the same and allowed her to heft herself up and settle on the leather seat.
He tapped the roof of the carriage and drew the curtains across the two windows with an efficient swish. No doubt he entertained many a lover in this very carriage and his driver thought nothing of driving about at night with the curtains shut to hide any scandalous behavior.
Warmth flowed through her when she registered how close they were. Their knees nearly touched. His cologne—a fresh, clean scent—suffused the air. She had to force herself not to inhale more deeply lest she overheat so much that she fainted.
Which was quite likely at this point. The heavy layers of her jacket and waistcoat combined with the thick beaver hat and Blake’s close proximity had her feeling as though she needed smelling salts. She hastily tugged off the hat, allowing some of her hair to spill about her shoulders.
Blake’s brow lifted when he eyed her. “How do you get all that hair under there?”
“With a lot of effort and clever use of a pin or two.” She tugged two pins from her hair and shoved them into her waistcoat.
His gaze followed the movement and he appeared transfixed.
She scowled. “Blake?”
“Yes?” He blinked and smiled rapidly. “Yes.”
“If we are not doing anything, why precisely are we having this surreptitious assignation?”
“How did you escape looking like that anyway?” he asked.
“I’m not a prisoner.”
“No but you are an unwed woman.”
Well, she could not deny that. “Anton and Eliza are dining out tonight and Papa is likely in bed reading. He gets tired quickly these days.”
“I heard his health is not what it was. I’m sorry.”
“He is well enough but he prefers solitude these days. Lots of people confuse him so we indulge his need for escape. Thankfully, Anton is quite capable of managing the estate and Eliza runs the house in his stead.”
“What of your sister? Or your aunt?”
“Eleanor is almost as preoccupied as my father and Aunt Sarah…” She smiled. “Well, Aunt Sarah helped me choose my clothing.”
“Good Lord.”
“She is an unusual woman and I have a suspicion she has done something similar in her past. She knew rather too much about men’s garments.”
“There are other ways of knowing about men’s garments you know…”
She sucked in a breath. How foolish she must sound.
“Forgive me, that was inappropriate.”
“I did not think you minded being inappropriate.”
“This is different,” he muttered.
“Because I am unwed and inexperienced,” she stated numbly. And boring and dull and too quiet. She knew it all already.
He leaned against the seat, eyeing her for a few uncomfortable moments. “I do not know what you are, Demeter. But you are something. Most definitely something.”
***
How he’d ever mistaken her for a boy, Blake did not know. Yes, with her glorious hair spilling over her shoulders it was obvious she was a woman but those lips...and those eyes… and those eyebrows…
Dear God, was he now appreciating eyebrows in a woman?
The point was, he could not look at her without seeing a woman now—an exceedingly pretty woman with dark hair that made his fingers twitch. The long lengths skimmed her breasts and were thick and full with a slight wave. He’d always considered himself a breast man but in the confines of the carriage, he would deem hair to be his weakness now.
Blake cleared his throat and forced himself to relax further, spreading his arms along the back of the seat. He’d been obsessing too much over her since he’d seen her with Foster and he needed to get a grip.
It was most likely due to how naïve she was or how she stuttered when around his cousin. She might not know it but she had an instinct about him too. She rarely seemed to stutter around him.
Foster had questioned him about Demeter and his one-word answers didn’t satisfy him apparently so he’d taken to quizzing Ashford instead. The damned man showed far too much interest in her and he did not like it one jot. If his cousin was up to something, he would not have Demeter involved. She deserved better than someone wedding her for her wealth and status.
Of course, he was involving her with his cousin too, but it was different. He would protect her. Lord knew, the woman needed protecting. Her family showed such little interest that she was able to flounce around as a man in the most dangerous of areas and her aunt even encouraged it. He practically had a duty to watch over her.
“So when is this meeting and what does it involve?” she asked, lacing her fingers upon her lap, dragging his attention to her long legs.
He had to admit, women should wear pantaloons more often. If they were in daylight, he would take the time to admire her figure in such close-cut cloth.
“Where did you find trousers that fit?”
“Anton used to be a lot skinnier.” She waved a hand. “Blake, this meeting...”
“Has he not noticed his clothing go missing?”
“Of course not. Why would one notice trousers that do not even fit anymore?” She clicked her tongue. “But, Blake, what of this—”
“And the waistcoat is his? What about the timepiece?”
Her brow furrowed. “I do not see why any of this matters.”
He wasn’t certain either but he wanted answers. To it all. What had persuaded her to do such a thing? When did she get so good at cards? What did she do with her time prior to disguising herself?
She sighed when he didn’t respond. “The waistcoat is also Anton’s and the timepiece belonged to my grandfather. I always carry it. Even when dressed as a woman.”
His hand automatically went to his inner jacket pocket where the tiny carved piece of wood remained, as always. His heart gave a sharp jolt when she noticed the movement and he dropped his hand, offering a quick smile.
“In a week’s time,” he finally replied. “At The Red Lion.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not know it.”
“No, and nor should you. Its reputation is less than savory.”
“You know, your cousin hardly seemed the unsavory sort. Are you certain he is doing something untoward?”
“I know it.”
“Because your gut says so.”
“Precisely.”
“Your gut.”
“Everyone has one, and mine is always right.”
“You
know, your gut could be wrong.”
He leaned forward, bringing his elbows onto his knees. “Did we not already have this discussion?”
“I am simply saying, one’s gut cannot always be right. Foster seems so...” She twirled a finger in the air. “So soft. It’s hard to believe he is capable of anything criminal.”
“My aunt never wanted all her inheritance to go to one man. She had charities that should have received money yet when the will was read, they were not even mentioned.”
“Neither were you.”
It was impossible to be unaware of the rumors of his annoyance at not inheriting given he was closest to his aunt, but he didn’t give a fig. If he came undone at rumors, he’d have unraveled long ago. The idea Demeter might think him so greedy rankled, though.
“I have enough money,” he snapped and she blinked.
He bit down on his tongue and inhaled deeply. She didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his irritation at the situation. After all, she was to help him, even if it was because he’d practically blackmailed her into it.
“Forgive me. I merely mean to say, I was not counting on any income from my aunt, and this whole situation does not sit well with me. Aunt Iris was a generous woman both with her time and wealth, and to leave it all to Foster does not ring true.”
“You loved her very much,” Demeter said softly.
He shrugged. Aunt Iris had been the one bright patch in his life as a youth and he still felt the empty thud in his heart when he thought of never speaking with the witty, wonderful woman again. But none of that mattered now.
“I want you at that meeting, Demeter,” he said. “Dressed like this because God knows, you cannot go looking all pretty and with all that...” He waved a hand. “With all that…”
“All that what?”
“Hair,” he finished firmly.
A dark brow arched. “I-I did not know my hair was such a problem.”
“It is. Trust me.”
Confusion marred her expression but thankfully she didn’t ask what sort of a problem it was because at the moment, he kept picturing it draped over his bare chest or down his thighs.
“And when you discover he is doing nothing wrong?” she pressed.
“He is doing something wrong. I can feel it—”
“In your gut, yes.” She shook her head with a smile. “I know.”
Chapter Eleven
The carriage jolted before Demeter could form another sentence. Not that she quite knew what else to say.
Demeter spilled forward and Blake’s hands flew immediately to her arms. He held her in place for a few moments while the driver cursed at someone. Blake grimaced then glanced at where his hands met her jacket.
Heat flowed from where he touched her, despite the thick wool and layers of clothing. Parting her lips to draw in a deep breath, she met his gaze. Creases appeared between his brows, and his gaze darted down to her mouth then back to her eyes. She could have sworn his eyes darkened, his pupils widening, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. The air of the carriage felt thick and her head swam as a dizzying jolt darted down to her stomach.
Wonderful.
He dropped his hands, gave a rueful smile, and apologized for his driver’s colorful language.
She still felt the touch of his fingers. She looked to the floor of the carriage where their boots nearly touched, his beautifully polished ones catching in the lamplight.
She closed her eyes briefly. It was a mere touch—a gentlemanly act on his behalf. Simply because he was a rake did not mean he could not behave gentlemanly. He would have done it for anyone and she very much doubted he found himself excited by touching her skinny arms. Whatever she did, she must not get carried away or reveal her feelings for him. It would be utter humiliation and about the most foolish thing she had done since falling in love with him in the first place.
“Do you mind if we stop somewhere to discuss this matter properly?” He gestured up and down her. “You are dressed for the occasion after all.” His lips slanted.
She nodded eagerly. Maybe if they left the confines of the carriage, her skin would cease heating to boiling point.
Blake swished the curtains back efficiently, leaned his head out of the window and ordered a stop at the nearest inn. After safely tucking her hair away, they found themselves outside a ramshackle inn tucked between newer houses of cream stone. The uneven walls housed equally wonky windows, all framed by dark wood and stone painted white. Lanterns burned either side of the door and shadows darted past the warmly lit windows.
She glanced at the small sign, wavering uncomfortably on a thin strip of curled iron. The Rose and Crown. Did Blake know this inn or were they merely visiting out of convenience? She swung a look sideways at his confident gait and mimicked it, drawing her head high and shoving her shoulders back. She’d seen her sisters walk similarly yet never found herself capable of adopting such a stance. In men’s clothing, however, it was much, much easier. After all, a scrawny boy was hardly likely to draw attention.
Inside, the inn offered a warm retreat against the cool spring night with a modest fire lit in a fireplace large enough to stand in. Blake strode over to a table farthest away from the rest of the patrons, tucked into a dark corner as though placed specifically for secret meetings. She swallowed. If anyone caught them, there would be scandal. If anyone figured out she was a boy, it would be unforgettable.
It was exciting.
Too exciting. Clearing her throat, she sat quickly then gave Blake an imploring look as he remained standing for a moment, observing the etiquette of society.
“Sorry. I forgot you were...” He motioned to her. “As you are now.”
“At least you did not pull out my chair for me.”
He chuckled then lifted a hand, motioning with two fingers. She glanced past him to see a serving maid scurry away to the taproom. To be able to command someone with a mere two fingers—how envious she was of that. She certainly had privileges as a woman of rank but she could not recall anyone jumping into action with a simple gesture.
Two ales appeared in front of them. She eyed the pewter tankard while Blake gave the fair-haired serving girl a coin and she scurried away, her cheeks pink, her head bowed. No doubt she felt like every woman did in Blake’s presence—overwhelmed by the sheer handsomeness of him.
“I think you just broke a heart.” He gestured in the direction of the girl.
“Me?” she spluttered.
He shrugged. “You make rather the striking young man.”
Striking. She bit back a sigh and forced herself not to sink deeper into her chair. How unfair. Could she not be a striking woman instead? She was no ugly beast, but she could not move like Chastity, who drew eyes wherever she went with a natural sort of sensuality or Cassie, whose vivacious laugh and golden hair never failed to draw attention. Even Eleanor, who was less like a wallflower and more like a recluse, caught many an eye though she would deny it emphatically.
His grin widened. “You’ll have to get used to breaking hearts if you continue dressing in this manner.”
“I do not want to break hearts. I only wanted to—”
He leaned forward. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why exactly do all this? Surely you could raise money via charity events?”
She stiffened. Talking about herself felt unnatural. No one really cared what she was up to or why. Those who spoke to her were usually interested in her family connections or discussing something menial. What could she even say? Well, I was bored out of my wits and so desperately tired of being quiet and dull?
“You would not understand,” she said instead.
“Try me.”
“Have you ever felt tired of life? Of doing the same things all the time?” She shook her head with a smile. “No, of course you have not. You are Jacob Blake after all.”
His smile wavered. “Perhaps,” he said softly.
“No. You love life. Everyone knows it.”
The rakish grin r
eturned quickly, leaving herself doubting she’d seen that flash of uncertainty.
“Of course I do.” He clasped his ale and took a long gulp. She watched his Adam’s apple bob beneath his cravat and found herself breathless. Good Lord, getting hot and bothered over a man drinking ale. She really was a mess.
“So you decided the best way to cure yourself of this boredom is to dress up as a man.” He put the mug down and leaned froward again. “And the cards. How did you get so good at cards?”
“I thought we were here to discuss this meeting and whatever it is you wanted me to do?”
“You cannot blame me for being curious, Demeter.”
She could. No one was curious about her. She’d preferred it that way for a long time. It meant she did not have to stammer her way through a conversation. But with Blake, it seemed easy, as though she could spill all her secrets with barely a stumble. She needed to be careful—supremely careful. If she wasn’t, she might well do something truly stupid and admit her love for him.
***
Blake struggled to focus his attention on the reason for their meeting. He couldn’t help himself. Demeter was a paradox—a rare wild flower in a field of carefully cultivated roses.
Hell, maybe Ashford was right. He did need something different. Yes, he still kept thinking about her long legs in those trousers and wondering quite how she disguised her breasts but the oddest thing of all was he enjoyed their conversation. She barely stuttered when she talked of something she was passionate about, and her eyes lit up with such delight that he wanted to reach for the stars and hand them directly to her, just so he could see her face light up like that again.
“So your grandfather taught you cards?”
She nodded. “I was in ill health for a long time and my hearing took years to return. My mother wouldn’t let me leave the house for fear of me taking ill again...and other things.”
He grimaced. A duke’s daughter was expected to be refined and well-spoken, even at a tender age. He imagined her mother feared people thinking her slow-witted. It was becoming increasingly clear, however, she was anything but that.
“My grandfather played with me every day.”
Wagers of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 3) Page 7