“Because Heath has the tracking instincts of a wolf, my dear. He was well-suited to his work in secret intelligence.”
Wolves. Secret intelligence. The mesmerizing sensuality that glittered in Sedgecroft’s eyes. It was enough to send a lesser woman to the couch. Jane felt the web of her own deceit drawing more tightly around her at every turn, strangling her good sense, thwarting her escape.
The ball was a grand affair. The master of ceremonies handed a red rose to every lady in attendance. A band of Italian musicians gave a concert during supper, and three card rooms hosted gambling afterward. Despite the elegant atmosphere, Jane could not relax for a sin-gle moment, pretending not to notice that people were stealing curious looks at her all night.
No one had ever noticed her to this degree before. The truth was, without Sedgecroft at her side, she was not considered an interesting enough person to continue to stir rumors. Not that she didn’t have friends. She did. But the scandal surrounding her would have passed soon enough. She would have happily slipped into oblivion before the season ended.
But no one overlooked the marquess.
Jane found it impossible for even a second not to be aware of him, and having him hover over her hardly eased her anxiety. She felt as if she were accompanied by a big golden lion that might turn feral at any moment. Who knew what he really thought of all this? Those heavy-lidded blue eyes gave nothing away, and the nagging feeling that she would pay dearly for deceiving him persisted.
He danced with her twice. Then, with practiced ease, he waltzed her through the French doors and out into the gardens, where a group of younger guests were playing an impromptu game of blindman’s buff.
“What are we doing?” she asked in amusement, resisting as he pulled her down the terrace steps onto the lantern-lit lawn.
“Do you really want to dance with all those pretentious people watching us?” he teased her. “I know now where that owlish scowl of yours comes from. Your brother looked as if he might swoop down on me any minute.”
Jane smiled. “The Belshire Scowl can’t be as dangerous as the Boscastle Blues.”
He stopped at the bottom of the stone stairs, blinking innocently. “The Boscastle Blues? Is that some sort of military regiment?”
She stared up at his angular, teasing face. He was still holding her hand, well, only her gloved fingers, but the warm pressure was enough to send a frisson of forbidden excitement deep down into her belly. It was so tempting to press herself against that strong, hard body and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.
“The curse of the Boscastle Blues,” she said. “And don’t act as if you don’t know what it is.”
He shrugged his shoulders in bafflement. “But I don’t. Is it something horrible?”
“Only if you’re a victim—one of the unfortunate souls who falls under the bewitchment of those blue eyes.”
“Well, I apologize that my family has claimed you as a victim.”
“You don’t look all that sorry.”
He stared at her in curiosity. “I didn’t mean as my victim, sweetheart. I meant as Nigel’s.”
“Oh.” Could her cheeks blush any hotter? How could she forget she was supposed to be wallowing in heartbreak over Nigel, not fighting an attraction to his sinfully desirable cousin?
“He had green eyes, anyway,” she murmured.
“Then perhaps the curse can be broken,” he said, leaning toward her to brush a stray curl off her shoulder.
She caught a whiff of his shaving soap and shivered involuntarily. “Umm. Perhaps.”
“Hey, you two, are you playing?” a friendly voice shouted, and a young man yanked his blindfold off seconds before he bumped them back into the steps. “Oh, hello, Sedgecroft. Have I caught you?”
“Not yet.” Grayson steered Jane firmly down the flagstone path, into the garden twinkling with beguiling fairy lanterns. “Give us a chance.”
“But I don’t want to play,” Jane protested.
“Well, neither do I, but I have no desire to be accused of luring you outside for a tryst either. Have you ever toured the gardens here by moonlight?”
She subjected him to a suspicious look. “Are they anything like the Pavilion of Pleasure?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“That sounds rather ominous, Sedgecroft. Why this secrecy all of a sudden?”
“I don’t want us to be overheard. Let’s separate and meet in the middle of the maze.”
“But the maze isn’t lit.”
“I know. Don’t be frightened. I shall be with you.”
“Do we really need to skulk about like spies?”
“Only if I mean to protect your name. Go.”
He watched with a grin as she turned into the labyrinth of privet hedge, only to take a wrong turn and summon him for help.
“You might have common sense, Jane, but you show absolutely no sense of direction,” he said through the hedge. “No, go to the right. I’ll meet you on the other side.”
“Everyone saw us arrive together,” she whispered in his direction. “What do you suppose they’re thinking?”
He didn’t answer, and she decided she was talking to herself, until a strong pair of hands clamped down upon her shoulders and spun her around. She suppressed a gasp as she stared up into his grinning face.
“Perhaps they’re thinking that we are caught up in a love greater than the world has ever known,” he replied, looking so attractive in the shadows that Jane half wished it could be true. “That you are a femme fatale no man can resist.”
“Really? Have you thought about writing for the scandal sheets? Wait. I have a bit of gravel in my shoe.”
“Here. Sit on that bench. I’ll help you. I don’t think we were seen.”
She sat obediently on the carved stone seat as he knelt to remove her dancing pump, running his long fingers across the sole of her stockinged foot until she sighed.
“Better?”
“Much.” A treacherous warmth was stealing up into her leg. “May I have my foot back now?”
“I don’t know.” He turned it this way and that. “It’s a very nice foot. Perhaps I’ll add it to my collection. There are men like that, you know. No, you probably don’t know. No one has ever gotten into your slippers before, I can tell.”
She smiled ruefully down at him. “Is that your secret pleasure, Sedgecroft? Feet?”
He straightened with a deep chuckle. “Not me. I prefer the whole thing rather than the few odd parts.”
“How very democratic of you.”
He rose to sit down beside her, his voice deepening to a tone that raised shivery impulses on her skin. “In your case, a man would have a difficult time deciding which part is most desirable.”
“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“No.” His amusement fading, he took her hand, stroking his forefinger across her gloved fingertips. “Not many people know that my brother Heath was involved in espionage for the Crown some time ago.”
“I had no idea.” What was he trying to tell her? Jane sat very still, lulled by his touch.
“Heath is a very clever young man.”
And rather a lady-killer himself, she thought, or so her sisters claimed. “What are you saying?”
“I set him on Nigel’s trail,” he said slowly. “I discussed this with your father in private, Jane, and we both agreed it was preferable to hiring a Bow Street man.”
The muscles of her stomach tightened into a knot of nervous tension. “Oh, but you didn’t need—”
“It wasn’t just for you. Nigel’s behavior has put an irreparable dent in the Boscastle name.” He put his thumb to her lips before she could speak. “Yes, I know the rest of us haven’t exactly set a shining example, but we are usually a little more discreet than shaming a woman in public.”
She exhaled as he removed his thumb from her lips. “Has Heath found him then?”
“No. But he has learned that Nigel was seen boarding a coach in Brighton.
To where, we have not learned yet, but it won’t be long before we find him.” His voice grew more determined, angry. “Heath is persistent if nothing else.”
Brighton. Jane schooled her face into an impassive expression to hide her alarm. Nigel had an aunt in Brighton, the wife of a retired barrister, so it was entirely possible he and Esther had made a detour there before proceeding to the quaint Hampshire village they had chosen to set up house.
But Sedgecroft certainly didn’t know that. After all, he was only human, not some omniscient deity for all his lordly airs. He could not possibly trace Nigel to an almost invisible country village.
He rose from the bench, his broad shoulders straining the tailored lines of his black evening coat. His longish blond hair shone in the moonlight as he delivered the next blow. “I think you ought to know that Nigel has an aunt in Brighton, the wife of a retired barrister.”
She stood abruptly, the blood rushing to her head as he continued.
“It is entirely possible he passed a night there before proceeding to—” He stopped, taking her by the shoulders. “Jane, my gracious, are you going to swoon on me?”
“I am not sure,” she said in a weak voice. What would he do next? Produce Nigel from his vest pocket? “Proceeding to . . . where?”
“God only knows. But trust me, I will find out.” He gave her a gentle squeeze, his face sympathetic but resolved. “I know this does not solve your problem, but I hope it at least makes you feel a little better.”
“Words escape me. I cannot begin to describe what I feel.”
“Then sit down again. I’m afraid you look a little faint.”
She sank down onto the bench, swallowing hard. “I shall be fine.”
“Of course you—”
The sound of furtive footsteps on the path outside the maze interrupted their conversation. Whispers and laughter erupted from behind the hedge, another man and woman clearly engaging in stolen pleasures.
Jane stared at Grayson in consternation, rising as if to escape. In her opinion it was almost as embarrassing to be eavesdropping on a tryst as to be caught in one, but the truth was, she embraced the interruption with relief.
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
“Wait,” he murmured, frowning at the hedge in vexation.
Reluctant, she obeyed, only to understand a moment later what had caused the frown on his face.
“So tell me now, Helene, before I expire of suspense, it is over between you and Sedgecroft?”
Jane swallowed a gasp of surprise. Helene Renard. The beautiful young French widow whose English husband had died less than three months ago. The woman Sedgecroft allegedly had been courting as his next mistress. Of course it was a scandal for her to appear in public this soon in her mourning period, not even in gray or black. But pink.
Yes. Jane caught a glimpse of Helene’s dark pink satin gown through the hedge. Pink the color of a woman’s flesh. The color that pleased a certain reprobate’s tastes.
On behalf of womanhood in general, she directed a scowl at the man sitting beside her.
“Is it over between me and Sedgecroft?” Helene mused in a bitter voice. “That is impossible to say as ‘it’ never properly began. And now he is here with that mousy little jilt, Janet.”
“Jane,” murmured her male companion, whom she vaguely identified as the rather florid-faced Lord Buckley, heir to a vast fortune that he would soon squander on gambling and women. Jane disliked him, picturing his pudding cheeks.
“I did not find her at all mousy, Helene,” he said in a hesitant voice. “In fact, I found her rather appealing. In an aloof sort of way, of course,” he added hastily.
Well, perhaps Jane would have to revise her opinion of him. As soon as she recovered from hearing herself referred to as “that mousy little jilt.” Did she really resemble a mouse? Could it have anything to do with her penchant for gray?
She glanced up at Sedgecroft, all thoughts for herself dissipating at his brooding silence. If Helene was indeed the woman he was rumored to desire as his next mistress, this must be painful for him to overhear. Jane had no idea whether he cared enough for Helene to call Buckley out. What a scandal that would make if she were accused of igniting a duel. Of course the possibility of a duel would depend on her escort’s reaction to this revealing conversation.
Detached, uncaring, heartbroken? One could not draw any conclusions from those half-closed blue eyes, nor from the faint smile on his chiseled lips. He might have been listening to a poetry recital for all the emotion he displayed. Most men would be absolutely livid at overhearing themselves betrayed by their love interest.
“Will you consider my offer?” Buckley asked after a breathless pause during which Jane could only conclude he and Helene had been kissing. “I have already had the contract drawn, and you shall want for nothing.”
“Ask me in the morning. I am in a foul mood tonight.”
“And what about Sedgecroft?”
“What about him?” Helene retorted in a snippy voice.
“Well, I mean, he has a certain reputation—not only as a lover, but as a fighter.”
“He loves himself well enough.”
“But I’ve heard—”
“I think he’s boring,” Helene said in a burst of emotion. “Yes, he bores me to tears.”
“Even in bed?” Buckley inquired in an incredulous voice.
Helene gave such a wistful sigh that Jane had to raise her eyebrows at the man beside her. Sedgecroft gave a helpless shrug, having the grace to actually look sheepish.
“What I meant,” Buckley said quietly, “is that perhaps you ought to ask him for permission to take up with me. I don’t relish the thought of facing him in a duel.”
“If you want his opinion, then you ask him, Buckley.” Helene’s voice faded away as she returned to the central path. “That is, if you can pry him away from the paws of his pathetic little mouse. I cannot imagine what he sees in her.”
“That Belshire elegance is quite impressive,” her companion said unhelpfully.
“Oh, shut up, Buckley,” Helene tossed back at him. “You British are so unbearably obsessed with your bloodlines. I say she is Lady Mouse. The Princess of Mice. She’ll probably squeak when Sedgecroft beds her.”
Jane drew a breath of indignation, half rising again from the bench before Grayson drew her back down beside him. Scandal or not, for two shillings she would shake that woman senseless—
“Don’t squeak, my adorable little mouse,” he said in an amused whisper. “Wait.”
Jane folded her arms across her bodice and stared up at the starlit sky, startled when, after a minute of silence passed, he burst into quiet laughter.
She looked down her nose at him. “Have you gone quite mad?”
He pointed his forefinger at her. “Your face—it was priceless—and when she said—”
“You don’t need to repeat anything,” she said indignantly. “I heard every insulting word.” He was making fun of her, not even trying to hide his amusement. What sort of man was he? Heat flared into her face. What sort of woman had she become?
“Well.” He gave a deep wicked chuckle, blowing out his cheeks in a ridiculous effort to appear under control.
“Well, what?” she demanded.
“You have to admit it was an interesting conversation,” he murmured, his blue eyes dancing.
“That’s easy for you to say.” She pulled her feet away from his. “No one accused you of looking like a rodent.”
“Well, those certainly weren’t my words.” He shook his head to underscore his denial. “Or my thoughts.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“You’re laughing, too,” he pointed out.
“Now I am,” she admitted, “but I wasn’t at first, you cruel man. I was too offended.” Offended by the almost-mistress of the rogue who was protecting Jane from the aftereffects of her own devious act. She despaired of ever digging herself out of the mess she’d made.
&nb
sp; He smiled. “Don’t be angry with me. I would never accuse you of being a mouse.”
“Oh, no. Only a pigeon. Or an owl.”
He stared deeply into her eyes in what she assumed was an attempt to look sincere.
“Jane, it is only laughable because it is so absurd. You are a desirable female, as I’ve told you before.”
“I’m not feeling very desirable, thank you. I feel . . . like nibbling on a wedge of cheese. Do you think the Austrian chef has any of that Cheshire left?”
He took her chin in his hand and turned her face back to his. He wasn’t laughing now. He looked a little too serious, in fact. “I said you were desirable. Do you think I say that only to make you feel better?”
“No, because if you wanted to make me feel better, you’d be fetching me that cheese. And a big sticky bun to—”
The dark gleam of unmasked desire in his eyes sent the thought from her brain. No man had ever looked at her with such naked yearning before. Certainly she had never allowed herself to be placed in a situation that left her vulnerable to seduction. With a master of the art.
Was it possible that he saw something in her that no one else could see? When he looked at her like that, she was tempted to believe him. Even if he wasn’t sincere, it gave her a lovely feeling. The two of them could have sat alone in this darkened maze, and that would have been enough stimulation to fill her entire evening.
The sensible Jane told herself she ought to ask him to take her back inside, but she was riveted to the spot. It seemed that the wedding scandal had not satisfied her need for trouble. It had unleashed it.
“Perhaps we are both to be unlucky at love this season,” he said reflectively, his head dipping closer to hers.
She caught her breath, waiting in an agony of suspense. This unleashed Jane had absolutely no sense of shame. “It would appear so,” she murmured.
His lids lowered over his piercing blue eyes. Jane sighed in pleasure, only to sabotage a potentially perfect moment by asking, “You didn’t even mind that she said you bored her to tears?”
His lips lifted in a smile. “Do I bore you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Well.”
She could practically feel the heat that radiated from his body. It penetrated her skin, spread into her blood and bones, sapping her strength.
The Seduction of an English Scoundrel Page 14