Jack's Hellion

by Eliza Lloyd

  There was no fault in leaving and looking back at the squared townhome with silent windows; she knew she would never come back. Never.

  “Where we going now?” Charlie asked.

  “I need to see Mrs. Fitz.” And then the Scot. But Charlie didn’t need to know that because she knew it was the first question Jack would ask.

  If he asked. Would he, she wondered? After his honeymoon maybe he would have forgotten all about her. It would be easy for him since he didn’t love her.

  It would be monumental for Imogene.

  * * * * *

  “So what do ye want, if ye ain’t gonna whore fer me?” the Scot asked, his brogue was thick and full of promise. This was a mistake.

  “I’m not a whore anymore. I got means.”

  “Yer man threw ye to the street, did he?”

  “No. I have other plans is all.”

  “And?”

  “I just want to buy protection for a month or so, until I got things ready.”

  The Scot looked her up and down. “I liked ye better in yer dress.”

  “How much?”

  The Scot named a sum Imogene thought she could manage and then added, “But I would protect ye for free and for the rest of yer life, if ye would but say yes.”

  Imogene went cold. She couldn’t laugh, because the Scot might be the difference between a miserable life and lonely death.

  “You ever love someone?”

  “There have been a few women.” He tilted his head. “I’ve room in my heart for one more.”

  She couldn’t say no outright, not when she needed his help. And now she knew she couldn’t stay long at all. The Scot was kind when he wanted to be. But he was rarely kind to the same person twice.

  Every place was a trap. She wasn’t going to stay around waiting for Jack to come home, not with Shiffington prowling around. Twenty Acres was no longer safe unless she stayed close to the Scot. She was tainted as a whore now. She couldn’t jeopardize Mrs. FitzPatrick’s reputation by going back to Lord Bancroft’s home.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long.” His steely gaze was easy to read. If she stayed around she’d be saying yes to a lot more than protection.

  She wiggled her toes in her left boot. Money she had. She was just short on options. She picked up her duffle.

  “Where are ye going, girl?” the Scot asked.

  “To see my brothers. Tell them I’m getting a new protector and to let them know where they can find me.”

  Instead she caught a hackney and then a coach and then a boat, putting London far behind.

  * * * * *

  There was a certain bench situated along the Champ de Mars in Paris which Imogene visited on most days. Today she sat there because it had all been for nothing and she felt very near bursting.

  She had shed her boys’ clothes on the sailing ship just before they’d disembarked at Calais and she had worn the same dress until she’d found a small apartment to rent, complete with a charming garret.

  With her money, she purchased a new dress and hired a girl, not because she needed one but because she needed respectability.

  Three months had gone by and she had a new life.

  What she had not counted on was waking one morning to realize she had missed her menses—and hadn’t had one since she’d left London.

  She sat on the uncomfortable iron bench, daring only to take small breaths while she gripped the curved edge of the seat. The other hand she pressed to her chest, trying to stop the budding pain.

  It was one thing to be pregnant. It was another to wonder who the father might be.

  She’d refused to shed tears over losing Jack. She’d refused to think about Shiffington.

  Now her store of tears couldn’t be stopped and they streamed over her cheeks, wetting the front of her dress.

  No one seemed to mind or notice her as the citizens of Paris strolled by. Just as she was swiping at the last of her tears, an elderly man stopped in front of her and spoke English.

  “Are you unwell, miss?” His words were so kind and his gaze so sincere, Imogene could hardly tell him to bugger off. Mrs. Holland would smile or at least try to. And she would be the epitome of a lady.

  “Some sad news, is all. Thank you.”

  “Might I be of some assistance? Do you wish me to escort you home?”

  “It is kind of you, but I should be going.”

  When she tried to stand, he offered her his hand, which she accepted. He wore gloves and didn’t seem offended that she did not.

  “My name is Pierre LeClerc,” he said with a quick bow. “Why do we not have some tea and you can tell me about it.”

  “I am Imogene.”

  He wrapped her arm in his and strolled slowly, his wooden cane with a silver cap tapping on the cobbled stones. She glanced sidelong. He was silver-haired, thin and slightly stooped from age.

  “Tell me, Imogene. What is a young English rose doing in Paris? Alone?” His accent sounded like music, the way his words danced.

  She’d already worked up a story—something believable, something sympathetic.

  “I’m a widow.”

  “Are you,” he said, more than he asked. “That seems a shame.”

  He asked nothing else and Imogene didn’t volunteer. They walked steadily along and she felt comforted to have someone beside her, touching her.

  “I’m not really a widow,” she blurted out.

  “Hmm, I did not think you the type of woman to be caged. So you must tell me, what has distressed you?”

  “Love. And a babe.”

  “Now this I believe.”

  She took a deep breath. And said his name. “His name was Jack. And he is married now.”

  “She must have been a jewel for him to give up his mistress.”

  How could she answer such a question? By blurting out the truth about the woman who had taken her place in Jack’s bed?

  Once they reached the small restaurant, he held a chair for her and then took his own seat. With one glance from Pierre, a waiter appeared. Shortly, tea and petit madeleines were set in front of them.

  He poured the tea for them, his aged hand spotted and ridged with veins. “So does your gentleman know about the child?”

  “No.”

  She refrained from being her fidgety self and posed as a lady as much as possible. She would have to thank Mrs. Holland someday. The bitch.

  The tea was hot, the spongy cakes delicious. It was a peaceful respite, especially since she had no friends in Paris and Pierre was genuinely sympathetic.

  And she wanted to cry some more. He had no reason to be nice, but she had never needed a friend more. He sipped his tea and his gaze met hers now and again. He mentioned the weather and how a walk in the evening suited his digestion and how a good wine could make the difference between a good day and an average day.

  “Are you in Paris alone then?” he asked.

  “No, I have a girl. She helps me.”

  He set aside his empty cup. “Why don’t you bring her along tomorrow and we will walk the length of the Champs de Mar. And perhaps take a meal together.”

  “Why would you do that with me?”

  “I would enjoy hearing the rest of your story.”

  “There ain’t nothing to tell,” she said. “I mean, there is nothing more to tell.”

  They met the next night, and the next, and within three months Pierre asked her to be his wife and she couldn’t think of a reason to say no since he knew everything except the one small detail about the child’s parentage.

  Because she didn’t know. She could only hope.

  And because she was noticeably pregnant and having a husband would not only make Imogene’s life better but also that of her child.

  They were married on a warm afternoon, her new dress and pelisse covering her condition, though his sons knew about it and were furious their aged father would marry such an opportunist.

  That night he lay in bed with
her and kissed her and caressed her breasts, stopping short of further intimacy by saying, “All in good time.” And then whispering something in French that sounded sweet and kind.

  Afterward she thought of Jack and wondered if he had returned to London.

  The next morning before Pierre went off to his wine warehouse, he arranged for a teacher, insisting Imogene would be a lady true. She would learn to speak French and she would learn to write. She didn’t laugh at the idea because she couldn’t think of anything she wanted more than to shed the past.

  Imogene embraced him, realizing that she could love him. Not as intensely as she loved Jack, but she could return the love Pierre had claimed for her. When she pulled away, she thought she saw tears in his eyes. “I will make you happy,” she said.

  Within a month, she wrote her first letter to Mary FitzPatrick. She wrote a special note to Charlie admonishing him to say his prayers and do everything that Mrs. FitzPatrick said. And there was a final postscript that if Jack Davenport ever asked about her, they were forbidden from discussing her life in Paris.

  With Pierre, she did not feel the same wild recklessness she had while she lived in London. Perhaps it had to do with her protruding stomach.

  Perhaps it had to do with a simple man who wanted companionship in his old age.

  After supper that night, she invited him to her bed. When he walked in, he smelled of cologne, was clean shaven and walked without his cane.

  Imogene touched his shoulder, so he rolled to his back. It was a simple matter to remove her light gown. She crawled between his legs and traced her palms up his thighs before she bent over him and took his limp member into her mouth.

  “Mon dieu,” he said, gasping for breath. “Mon dieu.”

  He hardened quickly—she thought thanks to her skills. And his stamina was commensurate with his age. He finished with more loud exclamations and an exultant smile.

  She lay beside him and he kissed her forehead. “My beautiful dove,” he said in French. She practiced saying it in French. “Colombe,” she whispered in the dark, liking the word much more than whore.

  Pierre slept, but Imogene stared out the window, viewing the tree with leaves silvery in the moonlight, and thought of her one true love. And vowed never to think of Jack again.

  “Jack,” she whispered one last time and turned her head into her pillow, enduring the silence and wondering if one night since his marriage, he had uttered her name for the last time.

  Jack’s Hellion

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 Eliza Lloyd

  All rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or places, events or locations is coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover art by Dar Albert

  Edited by McKenzie Walton

  Electronic book publication 2015, 2016

  Other works by Eliza Lloyd

  Historical

  Wicked Affairs Series

  Wicked Desires

  Wicked Temptation

  Wicked Lord

  Wicked Secrets

  Wicked Indiscretions

  Wicked Siren

  Birds of Paradise Series

  Another Lover

  The Darkness in the Marquess of Dane

  A Mistress To Remember (TBA)

  Mad Duchesses (series complete)

  One Last Night

  From Now On

  Age of Innocence

  The Day After

  Mad Duchesses Boxed Set

  The Curse of the Weatherby Ball

  An Occasion to Sin

  An Inadvisable Wager (TBA)

  The Infamous Forresters

  All A Mistress Wants (also part of the Wanton Christmas Wishes anthology)

  My Dear Mr. Forrester (also part of the Seven Nights of Sin anthology)

  A Wife Is Forever (TBA)

  Imogene Farrell series

  Imogene

  Jack’s Hellion

  The Frenchman’s Widow

  Lady Prescott’s Confidential Matter

  Body of Knowledge series

  The Timeless Earl

  The All-Seeing Eye

  The Trouble With Scots

  A Sleight of Hand (TBA)

  Contemporary Romantic Suspense

  Cold Play series

  Best Served Cold

  On Thin Ice

  Play It Cool

  Contemporary

  Far From Home series

  Lessons in Mountain Climbing

  Lessons in Fly Fishing

  Lessons in Horse Whispering (TBA)

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