Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  “No!” she gasped. “I can’t find out anything there.”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “You’ll be safe there. Anyone might recognize you in town.”

  “Not tomorrow!” she begged. “I’m going out with Lucy. We have the evening off.”

  “Lucy the housemaid?” he asked carelessly. “I suppose you won’t come to much harm with her. Very well, the next day. You can travel down with my baggage. I don’t need you here now. I won’t be entertaining again until I have guests at Storrington.”

  She was glad he’d said that. She’d needed the reminder that to him she belonged firmly in the servants’ hall, and his offer of help was likely no more than he’d offer any of his dependents.

  Come to think of it, it was all his fault she was in this mess. If he hadn’t gambled with her uncle with her person as a stake, she’d be comfortably in the kitchen at Hurst Park, cooking with Jean-Luc, and have never set eyes on him.

  Chapter 13

  Lucy reverently unfolded the dress from its wrappings. The deep rose silk, the color of raspberries lightened by a modest dollop of rich cream, glowed in the cramped and unadorned attic room that the two young women shared in the Earl of Storrington’s London house.

  “Are you sure you want to let me wear this?” Jacobin asked. “I can’t believe you don’t want it yourself.”

  It was the most beautiful gown Jacobin had ever seen. That wasn’t saying much of course. She’d long since grown out of clothes she’d worn when she and her mother had fled France. Since then the housekeeper at Hurst had eked Jacobin’s garments out of the servants’ clothing allowance; her dresses had been uniformly practical and just as drab.

  Lucy gave her a quizzical look. “As though it would fit me!” she exclaimed. “The cloth is too fine for me to risk altering. Besides, it’s not the kind of thing I have any use for. I’m saving it, and one day I’ll sell it for a pretty penny.”

  Jacobin saw her point. She was a good six inches taller than the diminutive housemaid. Attired in a simple muslin, Lucy looked exactly what she was: a pretty servant—from a superior household, but a servant nonetheless—dressed in her best for an evening out.

  “It doesn’t look as though it’s ever been worn,” Jacobin remarked, holding the dress against her figure and kicking out with one leg to admire the way the fabric draped the limb.

  “It never was. Lady Kitty’s aunt wouldn’t let her wear it. Said it wasn’t suitable for a young girl. So she gave it to me.” Lucy had served as Lady Kitty’s personal maid when the earl’s sister was making her debut.

  Jacobin surrendered to temptation. As soon as she put on the gown she saw just why Lady Kitty’s chaperone had objected to it. The neckline wasn’t indecently low, despite showing more of Jacobin’s breasts than she’d ever displayed in her life, nor was the trimming too lavish for a young girl. Aside from some ruching at the bodice and three bands of self-trim around the hem, the dress was quite severely cut. But the way the supple silk clung to her body made it much too sophisticated for an eighteen-year-old.

  Odd, really, that she knew that. She must have paid more attention to her mother’s lectures than she’d thought. Dreaming of the day she would present her daughter to society, Felicity de Chastelux had tried to prepare Jacobin to be an English debutante—when she could lure her ungrateful daughter from the more lively company of her adored and indulgent father.

  “It’s beautiful, Lucy. I’ll take the greatest care of it.”

  The two of them crept down to the spare bedroom to check their toilettes in the long cheval glass. Jacobin thought she looked splendid, from her hair, arranged by Lucy in a cluster of curls on top of her head, to her toes sheathed in brand-new slippers. She’d slipped out to Oxford Street that morning to squander some of her savings on them, together with a pair of silk stockings and—wicked indulgence—silk garters to match the dress.

  She couldn’t help wishing that Storrington could see her now, dressed neither as a servant nor as a youth. Not the garters of course.

  It was the third time Anthony had danced with Lavinia Bellamy and he feared she was getting the wrong idea. At a public ball in such a small party there was no help for it. He’d danced twice with her cousin too, once with Kitty, and once, an experience he hoped wouldn’t be repeated, with Lady Caroline. Even if the girl weren’t young enough to be his daughter and didn’t remind him strongly of his niece, Cat, he’d rather be strung up by his thumbs than have Lady Caroline as a mother-in-law.

  The Argyll Rooms were packed with a diverse miscellany of high and low society, mostly the latter, and were full to the point of discomfort. It seemed that every denizen of London with a shilling or two to spare had decided to go dancing that night. It was for the most part a well-behaved crowd. Quite dull really, and not worthy of the revolted diatribe on the distressing habits of the great unwashed he’d had to endure from Lavinia’s mother.

  Listening to the girl’s chatter with half an ear, he was making a turn in the country dance when he almost stopped dead and caused a collision. He glimpsed a vision in deep rose performing the same maneuver in the parallel set.

  Recovering his poise, he took advantage of a respite from the demands of the country dance to inspect his impossible pastry cook. Regal as a duchess and as seductive as the highest of flyers, she looked good enough to eat and utterly unlike any servant he’d ever seen.

  Where the hell did she get that gown? He’d always found women in red attractive. On Jane Castle that color, whatever it was called, sent a rush of blood to his head and heat to his loins. The way the skirts clung to her body left little more to the imagination than those damn breeches of hers; the upper part of the gown left considerably less. The glorious array of shoulder and bosom made his hands itch to touch, caress, and disrobe…He wondered if he could find an excuse to leave Kitty’s dreary party and dance with her. That would give Lady Caroline something to complain about.

  Who the devil was she dancing with, anyhow? Some London lover perhaps. He hadn’t forgotten she’d told him she’d once been in love and it had ended badly. The man must have been a dolt.

  He craned his neck to see her partner and gave an explosion of laughter that made Lavinia, standing decorously opposite him in the dance line, scrutinize him sharply.

  Jane Castle was dancing with his footman.

  Joseph had doubtless been deputed to escort Jane and Lucy the housemaid on their evening jaunt. He was big enough to scare off any predatory attention, and owned an unfailing willingness to perform the kind of mindless errands that made him an exemplar of his position. He’d come to Storrington from Lethbridge House, preferring a bachelor household to the demands of the notoriously lascivious duchess whose advances, Anthony guessed, had completely baffled him. For Joseph had the face and body of an Adonis and the brain of a mentally deficient rabbit.

  It was possible that Jane Castle would find Joseph’s attributes appealing, but Anthony doubted it. He hoped she was enjoying herself.

  Jacobin would have preferred a partner with more conversation. On the other hand Joseph accepted her rudimentary dancing skills without comment, reacting to her frequent missteps with his customary witless geniality. She and Lucy—they had giggled hysterically when the butler ordered the footman to escort them to the ball—took turns dancing with him and rolled their eyes at each other between sets. Lucy danced with a few men who presented themselves to the girls, but Jacobin had declined such invitations, not feeling confident enough to entrust herself to an unfamiliar person on the dance floor. When alone she fended off enterprising strangers, surveyed the crowded scene, and kept a mildly anxious eye out for anyone who might recognize her. Unlikely, given her limited acquaintance and the throng of bodies squeezed into the assembly rooms.

  She would have liked to have a partner besides the gormless Joseph. Her awkwardness on the dance floor was yet another consequence of her uncle’s ill treatment. It was pathetic that she’d reached the age of twenty-three before attending a ball.
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  She almost vaulted skyward when a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Jacobin?” said a familiar voice.

  “Edgar!” She sprang around and looked in consternation at her second cousin.

  “Jacobin,” he repeated. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “What are you doing in London, Edgar?” she demanded warily. “You never come here.”

  “I’ve come to meet your uncle. He’s arriving from Brighton tomorrow. But never mind that. Are you well? Where are you living?” His mild face wore a look of grave concern, matching the earnest tone of his interrogation.

  Jacobin had nothing against Edgar, but could she trust him? He’d always been pleasant enough to her and done nothing to warrant her dislike. But neither, as far as she knew, had he ever intervened with Candover on her behalf. As Candover’s nearest male relation and the steward of the Hurst estate, he lived in the house. But while Jacobin had been confined to the nursery and then, once she reached adulthood, been left to fend for herself in the household, Edgar had the status of an honored member of the family. He had his own horses and personal servant, dressed well—as she could attest, having helped herself to some of his clothing—and was her uncle’s trusted companion and confidant whenever the master was at his country house.

  “I’m well,” she said, her tone reserved. “There’s no need to worry about me.”

  “I thought you’d returned to France with Jean-Luc. What are you doing in London? You shouldn’t have left Hurst. It’s not safe for a young woman to be out in the world alone.”

  That was too much. “So I was better off under the ‘protection’ of my uncle?” she inquired sarcastically. “Thank you very much, but I’ve done better on my own.”

  A couple heading for the dance floor jostled her and she moved out of the way. Following, Edgar seized her arm and steered her to the edge of the room. With one hand on the wall behind her, he loomed over her, as much as a bare two-inch advantage in height allowed, his pale eyes close to her face and glinting with sincerity.

  “Was it so bad?” he asked. “I don’t know why he doesn’t like you, but you were at least warm and fed.”

  “Yes indeed,” she said angrily, “and a useful stake at cards when he ran short of cash.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You didn’t know?” she asked. “Why I ran away? Candover’s so-called protection was to lose me in a card game. I was to be a whore to one of his gambling cronies.” She felt outraged all over again. If Storrington were to appear now she’d give him a chilly reception.

  Edgar looked shocked. “You should have come to me for help. I would never have let him use you so.”

  “I had no reason to think you’d help. To be blunt, Edgar, you never showed any concern for my position at Hurst. For all I knew, you’d help my uncle tie me up and bundle me into the carriage.”

  “I’m hurt you’d think such a thing of me,” he protested, raising a hand to her shoulder. “I’d have protected you in the best way I could. By marrying you.”

  Jacobin was astonished. She’d never had any reason to believe Edgar held any tender feelings for her, anything stronger than mild liking. Suspiciously scanning his face, she couldn’t detect symptoms of extraordinary passion.

  “I still can,” he continued. “Marry me, Jacobin, and I’ll look after you forever. You must know how I’ve felt about you, ever since I first came to Hurst.”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “Don’t you know how beautiful you are? But you never looked at me. Only at Jean-Luc. You preferred a common French cook!”

  Jacobin bristled. “Whatever Jean-Luc is, he most certainly isn’t common.”

  “I’m sorry, Jacobin. It’s just that I was always jealous of him. I love you!”

  Edgar’s declaration, intensely delivered in his reedy voice, evoked gratitude seasoned with a strong dash of irritation. Deprived of familial affection since her mother’s death, Jacobin was touched by her cousin’s feelings—if they were genuine. He’d certainly never given her a hint of them before. Or offered her help when she most needed it.

  But to be fair, even if he exaggerated when he spoke of love, he offered her something of value: to defy Candover, his patron, to protect a penniless and powerless cousin. She shuddered to think what her uncle would do if Edgar told him of their engagement.

  Perhaps die of an apoplexy, she thought with some hope and no charity.

  And the thought of Candover dying made her see why Edgar’s offer, on the face of it the solution to all her problems, came too late. If she came out of hiding now she’d be instantly arrested and there was nothing he could do about it.

  She examined his face, trying to gauge his dependability. His watery blue eyes, rimmed with straw-colored lashes, protruded slightly. She’d never noticed before. And his mouth, pale like the rest of him, was damp and sagged at the corners. His forehead shone with a light film of sweat. A hint of attraction, perhaps lust, glinted in his normally opaque gaze. She thought about kissing him and repressed a shudder. Especially when the vision of another face, another kiss, flashed through her consciousness.

  “Will you marry me, Jacobin?” Edgar asked again.

  The anxiety in his tone made her feel guilty. But she found she didn’t trust him enough to confide her difficulties. He might believe she was responsible for poisoning her uncle and turn her over to the authorities.

  “Thank you, Edgar,” she said gently. “I’m grateful for your affection but I cannot accept your offer.” When he would have protested she laid a discouraging hand on his narrow chest. “I don’t feel the same way about you, you see, but I’m too fond of you to expose you to my uncle’s wrath. What would you do if he repudiated you? I know you have little fortune of your own.”

  “We could manage without him,” he argued. “One day I’ll inherit his title and estates, and in the meantime I could bring him round. He’s fond of me, you know.”

  “I do know, and he must remain that way, for your sake.” Suddenly she felt very alone and blinked back a tear.

  “I can’t think why you’d want to marry someone who stole your best clothes,” she said with a tremulous attempt at humor. “I apologize for that.”

  “That isn’t important,” he said. “I’m glad you could make use of them.”

  Perhaps he did care for her. It made her all the sorrier that she no longer possessed his fine tailored coat, which she’d lost when she fled over the wall of the Bellamys’ garden. When she’d crept out early the next morning, it had disappeared.

  “At least let me know where you’re living.” He leaned in, crowding her against the wall. Some strong but unreadable emotion fortified his gaze. His body was tense.

  She squirmed with momentary alarm and peered over his shoulder, looking for Joseph. But the music told her that he was still on the dance floor with Lucy. “Please, Edgar, you’re too close. People will notice.”

  He drew back and relaxed. Inoffensive and unthreatening once more. She must have imagined anything more.

  “I’d like to know that you are safe,” he said, “and be able to see you sometimes.”

  “I think it better if you don’t know where I am. Then you won’t be hiding anything from my uncle.”

  “Please, Jacobin. I worry about you constantly. I must know you are well. Perhaps I can make you change your mind.”

  “I’ll write to you sometimes, to let you know I’m well. And if I need help. It’s good to see you again, Edgar.”

  She meant it. It was good to know she had another haven other than the dangerous protection of the Earl of Storrington.

  Observing her in close conversation with a well-dressed man, clearly a gentleman, put Anthony into a state of fury.

  There was no reason, of course, that Jane Castle shouldn’t have such an acquaintance in London. But the way the man stood so near to her, leaning over intimately as they talked, suggested more than a casual relationship.

 
; Surely that wasn’t the kind of fellow she was attracted to? He was barely an inch taller than she was, and even from a distance his pitifully puny physique was obvious.

  Had she shown any indication of distress, Anthony would have marched over without hesitation and sent the stranger about his business, preferably with a bloody nose. But she seemed quite happy, even giving the bounder a kiss on the cheek when they parted.

  He leaned against the wall and fumed, able to devote his full attention to his displeasure by the temporary withdrawal of the Bellamy ladies to the retiring room. Not for long. Kitty joined him, disturbing his solitude and exacerbating his irritation.

  Earlier in the evening James had remarked on their sister’s lack of spirit. Anthony’s only reply was that Kitty had better be enjoying this ghastly event since she’d dragged them to it and he certainly wasn’t enjoying himself.

  But James was right, he realized. Kitty did seem dejected. If he were a good brother he’d get her to confide the source of her distress and try to relieve it. He never sensed such reluctance dealing with James. He’d always felt profound affection and a comparable sense of responsibility for the welfare of his younger brother, even to the point of preventing him from purchasing his commission until Bonaparte was safely tucked away on the island of Elba. Of course the villain had escaped, and Anthony had lived through torments until James emerged from the Waterloo bloodbath unscathed.

  But he’d never felt such concern for his sister. Kitty had always been so damn happy. He didn’t know why he found the fact annoying.

  Ignoring her, he strained to see if he could spot Jane Castle, who had rejoined her companions after parting from that damn stranger. He caught a glimpse of dark rose silk through the crowd when Kitty gasped. Looking around, he saw a familiar figure threading his way toward them. A tall man with an agreeable rather than handsome face, he had a muscular build and the neat but unstylish mode of dress that proclaimed the country gentleman with a passion for sports.