“Will you order me to go wash while you’re at it?” Blake shoved aside his papers and rose, still staggering under the knowledge that his wife had inside access to the highest realms.
She showed no indication that his looming size intimidated her. She merely smiled and fluttered her lashes outrageously. “Why, I assume a big strong man like you must know whether you’re dirty or not. We’ll be served in the dining room.”
She spun around and slipped away, leaving him to stew or comply, as he would. He’d be damned if he knew what to do about her.
He supposed if they were to live together in some form of peace, he should be polite. He didn’t have to take orders from anyone, but she was right, damn her. He was starving—for far more than food. Would he have to seduce the damned woman to get her back in his bed?
Cowper’s soiree was another matter entirely. Why the devil should he waste time toadying to a bunch of toplofty aristocrats who had already expressed their disdain for the penniless younger son of a rural baron?
Which was good enough reason to defy them, he supposed.
23
Jocelyn watched her new husband wander the periphery of Cowper’s elegant salon, examining the objets d’art.
Blake was the most physically commanding man in the room. Whispering behind their fans, all the ladies remarked upon it. He did not return the favor by admiring their bountiful charms. She selfishly felt relief. She wanted him to notice only her. Foolish, she knew, but she wasn’t good at lying to herself. She loved having her formidable husband’s attention.
Even when it meant he scowled at her, which he was doing now. Her insides fluttered at realizing he knew where she was even when he didn’t seem to be watching. Flashing him a smile in return for his glower, she continued her path to her next target, who had finally been abandoned by his sycophants. Blake was an arrogant, intelligent man. He would not tolerate fools, and even she must admit that there were a great many fools present. Aristocracy did not guarantee intelligence. But a prime minister and former chancellor of Oxford could not be a fool.
She approached the elderly Duke of Portland with a fresh glass of his favorite beverage, presenting an elegant curtsy and the glass in the same graceful motion—a trick she’d learned to amuse her father’s guests.
“Your Grace, how good it is to see you again. I don’t suppose you remember so humble a servant as myself?”
The prime minister snorted in what would have been derision had not his eyes danced with amusement. “Forget such impudence and grace? I think not. Your father’s wit is sorely missed.”
“’Tis a pity he did not pass it on,” she agreed, most solemnly. She waited until he chuckled at her self-deprecation before adding, “But I have found someone who is his intellectual equal. Have you met my husband, Blake Montague, the baron’s son?”
She gestured toward the intimidating man bearing down on her as if he meant to heave her over his shoulder.
“Montague, hmm?” The duke perused Blake as he arrived to take his place at her side. “Tipped off the dean’s deviant proclivities some years back, did you not?” was the duke’s opening volley. “Honor and honesty above personal gain I believe was the refrain when you made the accusation that the dean favored his . . . ahem . . . some students over others?”
Jocelyn hid her interest as Blake scowled—at a prime minister! She must apologize to turkeys for comparing her husband’s social graces to theirs. His were worse. But he obviously knew how to make a name for himself if a man as busy as the duke knew of him.
“If a man does not have honor, he cannot be called a man,” Blake declared, “although in all honesty, had I known I’d be thrown from the university for my actions, I might have been more discreet.”
“The righteous outrage of youth,” the duke agreed with a nod. “I assume you have gained more caution with age and more sense if you have married Carrington’s daughter. She is not of the common cut, but an eminently useful young lady.”
Blake bowed as if he agreed, delighting Jocelyn even though she knew it was an act.
“We are newly wed and just learning the extent of each other’s charms, Your Grace,” Blake said diplomatically.
“I have yet to dissuade him from rejoining Wellesley,” Jocelyn purred, seeing one of the duke’s ministers approaching and knowing they would soon be dismissed from his company. “Blake is most insistent on returning to the Continent in the spring, once his wound has healed.”
Blake’s strong grip crushed her elbow at this presumption. He did not understand that a woman could accomplish with a smile what a man could not with words. She had learned that at her father’s knee.
The duke looked interested, but the chancellor of the exchequer diverted his attention, and they had to make their bows and move on.
“What the devil are you about?” Blake roared—quietly—in her ear. “You cannot go about airing our differences to men who have no interest in us.”
“It is a pity your parents are not political or you would know otherwise. Men in power always have an interest in people who might be of use to them.”
“How can you know that?” he exclaimed. “I thought you’d been abandoned in Norfolk these past years.”
She bobbed a curtsy to her toplofty old friend Lady Jersey but avoided her by turning in the direction of their more congenial hostess, Lady Cowper. “I have known these people since infancy. I played spillikins with Emily before she was a countess, when she was still a Lamb living at Melbourne House. I have run in and out of the parlors of wealthy and powerful families since childhood. My family may have a reputation for eccentricity, but my father knew how to make use of my precocious social talents.”
Blake looked appropriately appalled. “Where the devil was your mother? Shouldn’t she have been the one catering to his cronies?”
Jocelyn shrugged. “My mother is much like Richard. She prefers staying in her study with her books. As long as Harold wasn’t about, we had a very carefree childhood, and I returned the favor by standing in her place as needed.”
“What about your older sisters?”
Jocelyn laughed. “Half sisters. I must assume their mother was a stupid cow, for they haven’t a brain among them. They were married and gone by the time I was nine.”
Lady Cowper enveloped Jocelyn in a cloud of French scent as she and Blake approached to offer their gratitude for the evening. “My dear, it is good to see you back in town. And married! It is so hard to believe! I am delighted you brought your groom!” She turned with interest to Blake, who made his bow.
“My lady, it’s a pleasure,” he said gruffly.
Jocelyn would like to elbow him into expansiveness, but she understood that was not his nature. He could flourish polite phrases as required. Blake did not lack understanding; he was simply too proud to ask for help or use flattery to obtain it.
She supposed she ought to appreciate his complete lack of deception, but sometimes a little charm and honey opened doors.
“Mr. Montague has the extreme good sense to recognize that I no longer belong in the nursery,” Jocelyn told her childhood acquaintance. “But now that he has restored Carrington House to me, I fear he grows bored and looks for new challenges. If I am not careful, he will be off with Wellesley in the spring. I am hoping to find him better occupation.”
The countess laughed and eyed Blake’s stoic expression with interest. “Ah, new love, I remember it well! We cannot lose you now that you have returned, Jocelyn. Let us apply our minds to finding your husband suitable occupation.”
“You are all graciousness, my lady,” Blake said stiffly. “But I would not bore you with my interests. My bride is overeager to please. If you will excuse us—” He bowed again and tugged Jocelyn into making her departure.
Giddy with delight at this opportunity to sharpen her skills in her natural habitat and at having escaped the insipid marriage mart set, Jocelyn didn’t know whether to spin in happy circles or be irritated that Blake had cut off her
fun so soon.
“What was the purpose of that nonsense?” Blake demanded as they stepped into the cool night air and called for their hired carriage. “Could you not renew old acquaintances without humiliating me by letting everyone know that I need a position?”
Jocelyn settled onto the worn velvet squabs and pulled her wrap more snugly around her so Blake did not sit on it when he swung into the narrow seat. In this close confinement, the scent of his shaving soap was enticing enough to make her wish she could lick him, but she must not give in to his kisses again. Not for at least a year. Although his promise that they could indulge without making babies roused an insistent hum of interest that prevented her from thinking clearly. Surely he did not mean to come to her bed tonight....
“Your future is now mine,” she reminded him, and herself. “I have a vested interest in keeping you from becoming cannon fodder. If it is Wellesley’s staff you crave, these people have the prince’s ear and can place you there with merely a word.”
Blake’s greatcoat rubbed her arm as he ran his hand through his hair. Jocelyn had the urge to smooth the thick locks back again, but she rolled her gloved fingers into fists and resisted. She liked touching far more than she ought.
“I appreciate your consideration,” he said, although he did not sound grateful. “But I prefer not to ask for favors, and I certainly don’t want a wife fussing over me. I will earn my place with my knowledge and abilities, not through the people I know.”
“I know people, all sorts of people, influential and otherwise. That is my area of expertise.” He’d finally reduced her to irritation. “Do not disdain my knowledge, and I will respect yours, whatever it might be. I’m sure there is more to your prowess than fighting drunken duels.”
He leaned his glossy black hair against the seat and closed his eyes. “Let us agree on mutual respect and leave it at that.”
“You don’t respect me,” she countered testily, “so don’t start pretending you do. You see me as no more than a bank account, one that is currently empty.”
She didn’t know what had got into her to state things so bluntly. She could practically feel his scowl scorching her hair. She suspected his anger was more because of this . . . awareness . . . between them than because of her words. She doubted she could say anything that would disturb Blake’s implacable demeanor, but she had felt the heat of the passion he kept bottled up inside. She had a notion that she could unleash those desires, should she wish to do so.
Not a good idea.
“I do not know what kind of men you have known until now, but do not place me in the category of idiot,” he said. “You are a beautiful, desirable woman with the ability to sway men’s thoughts with a flutter of an eyelash, and what is worse, you know it. That does not make you knowledgeable of the needs of dukes or politicians. And I refuse to use your wiles as a means to achieve what I want. We had a deal, and you reneged on it. I cannot imagine how we can renegotiate it.”
Jocelyn crossed her arms and simmered. No one had ever refused her very obvious charms, or so much as hinted that they might in some way be . . . unethical. That was nonsense. Human nature was what it was. She knew she wasn’t beautiful so much as noticeable. She designed her gowns and wore her hair and flirted outrageously to achieve that effect.
“You’re wrong,” she declared. “Men can wield power and authority that I don’t possess. I see no harm in using what I do have to achieve what I want. That’s what you do, only you seem to think your much-vaunted intellect is preferable to my wiles. And I disagree. You have apparently spent years attempting to gain colors and failed. If you can explain why you wish to become cannon fodder, then I’ll wager I can arrange for one of my father’s friends to send you to war.” She said this last with mockery.
“I do not wish to enlist as cannon fodder,” he protested. “I would much rather keep all my body parts. I simply wish to have access to French codes so I might decipher them. I’m better than most at it, and despite the thickheaded oblivion of the War Office, the war could be won or lost on England’s ability to know what the French mean to do next.”
“And you can only do that as a member of Wellesley’s staff?” she asked, not entirely understanding how such things worked but thrilled that he was willing to discuss them with her. “If all you wish to do is decipher code, why not do so from your study?”
She met his glare with equanimity until he relented and attempted an explanation.
“A department of the Home Office deciphers codes found in diplomatic pouches and the like. They’re good at what they do. They don’t need me. But the French are far ahead of us in battlefield communication and espionage. They’ve been using semaphore towers on land for years, while Whitehall dithers over the necessity of following suit. When I was in Portugal, Wellesley’s men captured a sophisticated French code that no one on his staff, including me, could decrypt. I have since decided it is an example of an advanced form of cryptology for which I need a machine.”
“A code wheel,” she said encouragingly, as if she knew what one was.
“I have explained the theory to Wellesley, and he agrees, but the War Office is stuck in feudal times. They refuse to even think about modern gimmickry like Jefferson’s code wheel for intelligence communication. They’re so hidebound that they still inform the enemy of troop movements by advertising the date new battleships set sail. If I’m to find the key needed to set the wheel spindle, I must have more missives like the ones intercepted when I was in Portugal. Wellesley is more forward-thinking than the stuffed old birds in the War Office, who have yet to realize this is no longer a gentleman’s war. The French beheaded all their gentlemen. We’re up against rabble who fight with tooth and nail now. Those codes are the key to winning.”
“Thank you for explaining it to me,” she said stiffly, aware that he spoke more out of frustration than in any belief that she could help him. “Most gentlemen would not, and I appreciate your patience.”
He slanted a suspicious glare in her direction. “I do not know how to treat you any differently than I would a man.”
Jocelyn giggled at the notion of being treated like a man. “That’s a lie, unless you’re in the habit of kissing men.”
He seemed to relax at her foolishness. “Hardly. Although now I think on it, since I’ll not be heading for the Continent any time soon, there are other ways I might occupy my time. Having a wife ought to have some benefit,” he said in a meaningful manner that shivered her toes.
“It has given you a roof over your head, a stable for your horse, and three hot meals a day,” she retorted, knowing where his thoughts had strayed. It heated her all over to know he was still interested in her in that way.
“We’ll not have three meals a day for long if we have no money,” he reminded her.
He didn’t slide an arm around her or crush her closer, for which she told herself she was grateful. It was very difficult sitting so near to a man who stirred her desires as no other did—and resist him. Still, she did not object when he lifted her gloved hand and began drawing absentminded circles on the back of it with his fingertips. She needed that tactile connection to keep her thoughts focused on something other than kisses.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “The pantry is stocked and the grocer will extend credit until we receive January’s income. I am not entirely certain how I will purchase Richard’s birds or the trees for the conservatory, but I will think of something.”
Blake gripped her hand a little more fiercely. “I have a small income, and now that I’ve given up my rooms, some funds to spare. I will see you are taken care of. That is what a husband does.”
“Not in my world,” she said with laughter, although it warmed her even more that he’d said such a thing. “I have gone without for so long that I have developed excellent bartering skills.”
Blake groaned. “No bartering, either,” he muttered, leaning over her so she could see his face against the darkness.
Before she could
argue, he kissed her.
24
After a tedious evening of society, Blake decided he deserved some recompense. His wife had been the most enchanting woman in the room, devil take her deceitful soul. He needed to vent his frustrations, but he could not yell at a woman who was still—despite all his protests—attempting to make a pet lapdog of him.
So he sought the one solace he longed for—her beautiful mouth. Jocelyn’s sweet, eager kisses sang songs in Blake’s misbegotten soul. His wife had become like a drug in his veins, one he could not resist. He despised weakness and would work to overcome this one—later, when he was less frustrated.
She briefly shoved at his chest—no doubt still peeved at him. But in moments her lace gloves slid around his neck and her light fragrance of lavender enfolded him. He took advantage of her proximity to nibble her earlobe and press kisses down her slender throat until she wriggled closer, nearly sitting on his lap. He loved that, despite all her reservations, she snuggled willingly into his arms.
Even knowing better, Blake still had the urge to carry her to bed. His normally competent wits rang clarion warnings, but her kisses had wiped out the reasons why. He wasn’t meant to be a monk. She was his wife. He almost persuaded himself that they’d learn to rub along better once they satisfied their lust.
As the horses jerked to a halt in front of the house, Blake glanced up from ravishing his wife to see the blaze of lamps lit in every window.
Jocelyn peered around him, saw the lights, and nearly climbed over him to reach the door. “Something is wrong!” she declared. “Hurry.”
Remembering French intruders with broken heads, Blake kicked open the carriage door, jumped down, and hauled Jocelyn out before a postboy could let down the stairs. He had to grapple for his coin purse to pay the driver while she flew through the gateway and up the walk.
The Devilish Montague Page 20