by Julie Beard
Jack pulled a coin out of his pocket and tossed it to Harding. The secretary caught it between his perspiring palms just in time. "What's this, sir?"
"Buy yourself a new pair of shoes when we get settled, Harding. I owe you a favor or two. Besides, we need to at least look prosperous if we're to attract prosperous clients."
"You shouldn't be tossing money about, Mr. Fairchild," he said, but tucked the coin in his pocket nevertheless. "You've little to spare."
"My life is going to take a turn for the better, Harding. I have one last, small nest egg I've kept for such dire circumstances that not even you know about. Enough to allow me to keep my carriage, though I won't have more than a housekeeper. And I have a month to spend it. So for the next few weeks, we will live as we always have, at least until Lord Abbington catches up with me."
He winked conspiratorially at his secretary, then stopped abruptly when he rounded another corner and could see the length of the town for the first time. He was pleased to note it was larger than he'd remembered. Carriages passed with surprising frequency, the horses step-
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ping highly. It had rained recently, and the men had to skirt rain puddles that swallowed up patches of red pavement, now and then tipping their hats to ladies and nodding to men who seemed marvelously unaware of them. Ah, sweet anonymity, he thought.
"I just might make a fine country gentleman, Harding. At last I'll be free of the lure of London's scheming ladies. I'll be a philosophical country squire, a man to be respected. Perhaps even a gentleman farmer with a sheep or two and boots to muck about with in the pastures."
At that very moment Harding nearly stepped in horse dung recently dropped by a passing four-in-hand. He skittered sideways, his nose crinkling at the lambasting smell. "Pastures, eh? Muck about in them if you please, sir. I'm not setting foot outside your firm's premises."
Jack scowled at him good-naturedly. "Harding, you're acting like a bloody dandy. Get hold of yourself, man. You once told me we needed a visit in the country."
"Yes, sir." The portly fellow wiped a kerchief over his reddened brow. "But I meant only a visit. And I didn't realize it would be so ... so clean here. The air is so fresh it hurts my lungs. And this village is so ... so puny."
"Only compared to London. Small is good, Harding. This is the sort of town where people get to know one another, who look after each other. Trust me. This will be a new start for us. Why, look at the women here."
He discreetly motioned to two ladies promenading their way down the other side of the street, chatting like magpies beneath their pastel-colored parasols. "Look how plain they are. Not a spot of rouge on their cheeks. I won't be in the least tempted, by Jove. I'll be free at last. Free from the wiles of women. Free from the desire to take
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them in my arms and entangle myself in sordid emotions. Free from—"
Splash! A spray of muddy rainwater spewed from beneath a carriage wheel into Jack's face, drenching him in an instant. The cold water spiked his cheeks, shutting him up immediately as not even Harding could do.
"Bloody hell," Jack muttered, looking down at his soiled coat in utter dismay as the water trickled down the back of his neck.
"Here you are, sir," Harding said matter-of-factly, handing him a kerchief, remarkably without so much as a twitch of a smile. "So much for country life."
Jack wiped his face. He was just about to laugh when he heard the squeak of a carriage coming to a halt. He looked up and to his astonishment saw the offending vehicle stop in the middle of the street, four gorgeous white horses clomping their hooves impatiently on the cobblestones, snorting in protest. Liveried footmen in white powdered wigs hung on the back of the barouche. They jumped down to open the door, but fell back when a woman with an enormous hat peeked out the window and waved them off. She stared at Jack with amethyst eyes, her face looking every bit like a perfect cameo.
Jack was speechless. Stunned. As much by her consideration as by her startling beauty. People in London would never stop a carriage to see whom they'd run over, much less splashed. He took a step forward, then froze.
"Good God, I've seen her before," he whispered to Harding.
"Not surprising, I daresay. Turn and run while you can, sir," his plump companion replied.
"Who the devil is she?"
"I believe she goes by the name of Trouble."
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"Do you recognize her?"
"No, but all women are trouble where you're involved."
"Are you very well, sir?" she called out, her voice gentle and yet traveling the distance with confidence.
"I like her already," Jack murmured.
"It doesn't take much, sir," Harding replied sotto voce.
"Are you hurt?" she called again.
"If I said yes, would you linger to tend my wounds?" he called in reply.
"Oh, God!" Harding muttered, dropping his forehead in his hand. "Here we go again."
"I daresay not," she shot back, her eyes sparkling. "But your companion seems ill. Perhaps he needs a ride."
Jack strolled forward, an unseen strand reeling him in like a hooked fish. "My companion is in perfect health, if you don't count his gout."
"Oh, please, sir," his mortified secretary beseeched.
The closer Jack drew, the better he was able to see the confection poised for the tasting. Her fresh, pale beauty beamed from beneath her cornucopia of black curls. Her lips were poutingly full, yet intriguingly wide. And most captivating of all, she seemed unaware of her own astonishing appearance. Her gaze cut the distance without interference from batting lashes or a fluttering fan or any other familiar female weapons. She simply regarded him steadily, lips slightly parted, thoughts churning in the priceless gems that were her eyes. She was clearly a woman with her own mission, though a hint of resignation in her countenance hinted it was not a happy one. She was the most evocative combination of worldliness and innocence he'd ever seen.
"I do appreciate your concern," he said when he drew close enough to speak in normal tones, then glanced down
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at his soiled garments with exaggerated dismay. "Though I am a bit wet."
"I am so very sorry," she said, sounding not in the least remorseful. Laughter bubbled from her before she managed to control it, pressing the fingers of her gloved hand to her lips. She frowned at the spots of mud on his cravat. "Did my carriage do that, sir? How dreadful. Please accept my apologies."
"If you insist, I will."
He grinned and strolled closer, realizing he really hadn't seen anything of Middledale until now. She was utterly fetching in a low-cut gown that constrained ample breasts. Her skin was as fresh as Devonshire cream, brushed lightly with the color of raspberries. When he caught her gaze and held it by sheer force of will, she reluctantly offered her hand, and he reached out for it with tingling anticipation. He was known in London for his clever ability to charm an introduction from a lady without ever warranting a direct cut. He bowed low, barely holding her fingertips, barely brushing his lips to her hand, and yet the contact sizzled.
"All is forgiven, I assure you, ma'am." He could not discern a ring beneath her kid glove. He righted himself, not letting her fingertips go until she started to frown in reproach. "Or is it miss?"
She cocked one delicately arched brow, but still did not look away. Slowly, her ravishing eyes focused on his nose, and he realized she wasn't going to let him force an introduction from her after all. She seemed to be fighting a smile as she gazed at his nose. Jack looked down at the tip and saw, to his chagrin, a dollop of mud. He sucked in his cheeks and gave her a simmering glare.
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"Upon my word, Miss Whoever You Are, you should have told me."
Her laugh was as gay and bright as a cascade of silver bells. "Miss Whoever You Are! You mean you don't remember me?"
He frowned and wiped the mud from his nose, trying to recall the facile replies he always held in store for such occasions.
"Your beauty, my dear, would be impossible to for—"
"You don't!" she crowed triumphantly. "Then I have the advantage. Oh, this is famous!"
He smiled openly at her refreshing lack of false modesty and raised the quizzing glass dangling from his waistcoat, stealing only a quick glance at her full breasts before aiming it at her face. "Clearly, you have the advantage in every way that counts."
Her eyes narrowed on him consideringly. "What brings you here so far from London?"
He shrugged, stalling. Where the devil had they met? And precisely how much did she know about him? "1 am making Middledale my home."
Her smile fell momentarily, and she frowned. Then, recovering her composure, she tilted her head coyly. "More is the pity for the ladies of London. Well, you must have much to contend with. I will steal no more of your precious time. I am glad, sir, that you suffered no injuries save for your pride."
Her eyes teased him, and he wanted to teach her a lesson with a long, slow kiss. By his estimation she needed one badly.
"Good day, sir."
"Good day." He still did not know whether she was a
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miss or a ma'am. As bold as she was, doubtless a ma'am. For only married women would flirt so audaciously without fearing the repercussions.
With that, she withdrew, leaving him uncharacteristically speechless. The coachman cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward. Jack watched with a frown on his forehead and a grin on his lips.
As the carriage rounded a bend in the road and disappeared, he turned to his secretary. "By Jove, Harding, I've been bested."
"Indeed, sir. In every way that counts."
******************
Liza resisted the urge to look back to see his reaction. Instead, she pressed against the plush velvet seat and breathed hard until the pain searing beneath her breast subsided. It had taken every ounce of her inner strength to be so blithe when her heart was tearing in two. And yet, her body had taken on a life of its own and she'd felt the tempest a man like him could produce merely by his presence.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image of Jack Fairchild from her mind. She could not feel. Heavens, no! Not now. Not when it was too late. Feelings were the last thing she needed now. God's teeth, why would a man like him come to tempt her just when she had resolved herself to an unfeeling marriage? Of course, he hadn't come for her at all. He didn't even remember her.
This was God's way of punishing her for being too much like Desiree. For wanting what a true lady should never have. Lord, it was all too ironic. She laughed incredulously. Her fair-haired younger sister sat beside her in wide-eyed wonder.
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"Liza!" Celia hissed. "Are you well? You were flirting with him!"
Liza bit her lower lip and slanted her a jaded look. "What of it?"
"It was marvelous! Though you're not supposed to, you know. Mother would never approve. You're nearly engaged."
"Oh, fiddle. What does it matter? I'm going to marry the viscount. He doesn't care as long as he gets my money."
Celia pressed her hand. "I wish you wouldn't. You don't love him. Even I can tell that much."
Liza turned away.
"Who was that man? Did you really know him? You were splendid, sister dear. You had him all tied up in ribbons."
Liza smiled as tears inexplicably filled her eyes. "He is the only man in London I ever wanted. And I scarcely even knew him."
"Really? You met him in your Season?"
"Seasons," Liza amended dryly. She reached out and tucked a wayward curl back into her sister's pale green bonnet. Celia's eyes were a sweet, soft, cornflower blue. Her blond hair was a gleaming tumble of loose and charming curls. She was delicate and fresh, much sweeter than Liza could ever be, Liza thought with great affection. Then again, perhaps she, too, had been that innocent eight years ago. Liza had spent three Seasons in London, and two exiled in the country, before she'd succumbed to her merchant-father's benevolent plots to marry her off to a nobleman.
"What's his name?" Celia persisted.
"Jack Fairchild. He was a rake of the first stare. Though
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he's older now, age seems to have merely lent him more sophisticated grace. It's not fair. We had but one dance together, but it changed my life." Her raven-colored brows furrowed neatly. "Whatever could he be about, moving to the country?"
"A rake?" Celia said, her blue eyes widening further. "Perhaps he's been reformed. Did he steal your heart?"
Liza shrugged. "We danced only once." But once was enough to know she'd find heaven in his arms if given half a chance. It was then that she'd had a profound realization. She didn't want to marry. Her mother would never allow her to marry a rake. And if she couldn't have the sort of man she really wanted then she wouldn't have any at all. With a singular determination that astonished even herself, she'd steadfastly refused to succumb to Society's expectations that she marry for something less than bliss—companionship, land, or a title. The fact that one dance with Jack Fairchild had been powerful enough to inspire this conclusion did not bode well for her now. He'd unexpectedly thrust himself back into her life at the most inconvenient time. A time when she had, finally, agreed to marry. But not for any of the aforementioned reasons.
"He was out of the question for me and so I did not pursue him," she said nonchalantly.
"What a pity," Celia moaned.
"I doubt he would have been interested in any event. He only seemed captivated by married women."
"Oh, how scandalous!"
Liza turned her head, grinning at her sister's gasping exclamation. "Do you think so? I found it terribly romantic."
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"Oh, Liza, think how much excitement he'll bring to Middledale!"
"That's what I am afraid of."
His reappearance in her life would be a test of her resolve. A test she would fail at the peril of her entire family. She could neither fail them, nor inform them. For not even her parents knew why she had at last agreed to marry. Nor could they ever know.
CHAPTER TWO
ack sighed as the carriage turned the corner and took half his being with it. There was something very unusual about that young woman. What was it? Who was she? And why did he care at a moment like this?
"Damn it to hell," he muttered as they continued on toward their destination.
"Yes, sir," Harding said, "rotten luck about the mud puddle."
"Not that, Harding. Did you see her?"
"Hard to miss with that hat."
Jack looked down at his secretary with exasperation. "And I didn't even notice her bloody hat. Didn't you recognize her beauty?"
"Oh, yes. That. I did, rather."
"It didn't set your blood to a boil?"
"A roiling boil, sir."
"That's good then, I'm not the only one."
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"No, but you're the only one she wants. I saw it even from afar."
"But how do I know her? Think, think," he chanted, tapping the palm of his hand on his forehead. "Aha! I remember. Her name is Liza. Liza what? Liza ... Liza ... ah, yes. Liza the Untouchable." Jack shook his head and laughed. "That's what the young swains called her because she wouldn't set her cap at anyone, no matter how noble or landed or rich."
"Why not?"
Jack shrugged. "I have no idea. All I remember is one enchanting little dance with her. How bloody awful for me to have forgotten."
"Age is setting in, sir."
Jack scowled down his Roman nose at his impertinent secretary. "Watch what you say. I could fire you, you know."
"Would you, please? Then I could return to London."
'There is something about her I can't quite identify. She's terribly reckless for a beautiful young woman in such an expensive carriage. She is challenging the world to interfere with her plans, whatever they are. She may not know it, but she is."
"Oh, Lord, sir, how can you deduce such a fantastic notion from one conversation?"
"Easi
ly, Harding, I know how to read women. She needs me."
"She can't possibly need you, sir, she's too young. And if she's untouchable that means she's unmarried and a woman doesn't even know what she needs until she's married and then it's too late. So you needn't concern yourself in the least."
They continued their stroll, arguing as they often did
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about the virtue of helping the fairer sex. Helping, of course, being a delicate word for something far more gratifying. Suddenly they arrived at their destination. Number 2 Hanley Street. His carriage was standing in the street.
Jack looked up at the quaint law establishment, taking the key from under a moss-covered brick in the front as old Mr. Pedigrew had instructed and opened the weathered red door. He was immediately greeted with a stuffy plume of dust motes. They danced about in the sunlight like a jostling crowd at a fashionable ball.
Jack coughed and blinked, stepping his way into the old-fashioned room. Dark green velvet French draw draperies suffocated the two windows facing the street. Rows of musty law tomes, snug in mahogany cases, reeked of mold. The walls were handsomely decorated with floral moldings and pastoral paintings. The furniture was scattered about in a cozy fashion. On one Sheraton sofa lay a sleeping young man who looked suspiciously like the supposedly industrious articled clerk Jack had been promised. He wore crumpled clothes that smelled even from a distance as if they'd been lived in unabated for weeks.
"Ahem." Jack cleared his throat as Harding looked around in dismay. "Are we keeping you from your slumber, my good man?"
The lanky, unkempt man woke lazily and yawned without embarrassment. "What's that you say?"
"I said," Jack repeated emphatically, "are we keeping you from your sleep? I'm John Calhoun Fairchild. This is my new establishment. And I assume you are my articled clerk."
"Right," the young man said with a long stretch. "My name is Giles Honeycut. You can call me Giles."