“I haven’t. Have you?”
The boy shook his head, his eyes those of a beaten puppy, then he looked at his mother.
“Henry, I’m sorry, darling, but as I’ve explained, we can’t go.”
“Why can’t you?” Jack asked.
“I’m a widow in mourning. I can’t go out and about.”
“You seem to when it suits you. You went out this afternoon.”
“Very discreetly, to visit my sister-in-law, who is also a widow. I wasn’t gallivanting about.”
“Let his nanny take him.”
She arched a brow. “We can’t have it both ways. Either there are dangers or there are not. Besides, Henry is in mourning as well. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“You like to follow the rules.”
“Whether or not I like to is beside the point. I have certain expectations regarding behavior and I meet them.”
“So if my expectations were that you’d behave badly, then you’d do all in your power to meet them?”
“Don’t be silly. One doesn’t strive to behave badly.” She sighed. “I see no reason to prolong your presence at our dinner. What did you wish to discuss?”
“My bedchamber.”
If she’d been eating, he had a feeling she would have choked. She came to her feet in a rush of black crepe that he was surprised didn’t tip over the table, or at the very least, her chair. “May I see you in the hallway?”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
In what he was coming to recognize as her self-righteous stride, she made her way around the table and headed for the door. He shifted around and watched her. He wondered what all she wore beneath those skirts. The ladies he’d been intimate with wore very little—when a man paid for services he didn’t want to be bothered with having to work to get to what he’d paid for. He had a feeling bedding the duchess would be a great deal of bother—but a journey that might be well worth the trouble.
She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Dodger.”
“Oh, right.” He came to his feet, sauntered to the door, and opened it for her.
She stepped through and spun around to face him before he’d closed the door fully behind him.
“Discussing your bedchamber is hardly appropriate in front of a five-year-old, impressionable boy,” she said.
“Does he not realize I sleep in a bedchamber?”
He actually heard the gnashing of her teeth. Her temper was so easily pricked. What sport Feagan’s lads would have had with her.
“I assumed your sleeping arrangements were not what you wished to discuss, but rather mine, from last night,” she said.
Leaning back against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest and wondered what she found so offensive about bedchambers, what debauchery might have occurred in hers. “Actually, I wanted to discuss your husband’s wardrobe. I need his clothes removed. Give them to the servants. I believe that’s the usual practice, isn’t it? Oh, and just so you know, I have the sort of memory that can remember the smallest of details. Be certain it’s only the clothes that are removed.”
“There are some personal items, some things a father might pass on to his son.”
“If they’re listed in your son’s ledger, you have leave to take them.”
“You can’t possibly think Lovingdon listed every single item he possessed? Or that he truly meant for you to have everything within this residence. There are letters I wrote him, mementos I gave him. They mean nothing to you.”
“True, but they mean something to you. Therefore they have value.” He saw her temper flare, and before she could object, he said, “Consider their worth. We’ll negotiate. Meanwhile, I’m going to my club, but I intend to take up official residence here tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You’re not planning to inhabit the bedchamber next to mine.”
“It is the master bedchamber, is it not? And I am the master.”
“I shall move myself to another room.”
“Why go to the bother? I’ve told you I’ll not seek out your bed. Although I have no objections to your coming to mine. Is that what you fear? That with me so near you’ll be unable to resist my charms?”
“I have no fear of you and find you not at all charming. Besides, I would never lie with a man to whom I was not married, and I’d certainly never marry you.”
He shoved himself away from the wall. To her credit she stood her ground. “You think your tart tongue will hold me at bay, when all it does is cause me to wonder how it would feel against my skin.”
Her lips parted slightly as a deep flush crept up her cheeks. The hell of it was, he’d meant the words to disarm her, but somehow they’d managed to undo him as well. He imagined her tongue gliding over his chest—
Before he lost control of the situation, of himself, he turned abruptly to walk away, then stopped and looked back, fighting to keep the sudden inexplicable tremors from his voice. “By the by, I prefer not to dine alone, so do be kind enough to join me for meals. Bring your son if you like.”
With a jerk, she snapped from her haze. “It’s proper for children to eat in the nursery.”
“Have you not yet learned I don’t give a fig about what is proper?”
“Have you not yet learned I do?”
He supposed she deserved a small victory. “Have it your way. We’ll compromise. I’ll have one meal with my ward: breakfast or dinner, you choose.”
“Are you not listening? He shouldn’t have any meals with you.”
“Then how am I to educate him?”
“You hire tutors.”
“They can’t teach him what I know.”
“I’m not certain he needs to learn what you know.”
“One meal, Duchess. My word is final.” He spun on his heel before she could voice another protest. She voiced it anyway, in the form of a screech and quite possibly a foot stomp, maybe even two. He didn’t know why he was so insistent that they join him for a meal. Perhaps because when he’d walked in, they’d been smiling, and the smiles had disappeared with his entry.
The boy had eyed him warily, and Jack didn’t like that level of distrust in a child. Something had caused it, and he didn’t think it was anything he’d done. Maybe because this morning he’d promised the lad a dog and had yet to deliver it. He didn’t have a clue where to find one. On the streets he supposed. He’d have to give it some thought. But not tonight. Tonight he had more pressing matters to deal with.
Olivia was unable to sleep. She couldn’t quite rid herself of the image of her tongue playing over Jack Dodger’s skin. How exactly would it feel—would it taste?
Although she was alone in her bed, alone in her room, she still felt self-conscious when she brought her hand up and licked the back of it. She did not think he would be so silky or taste so pure.
Would he lick her in return? She imagined that he would. That he would start at the tip of her toes and slowly slip along her flesh, perhaps stopping to detour around to the back of her knees, before journeying along the insides of her thighs—
She flung back the covers, desperate to relieve the heat.
But her thoughts wouldn’t be cooled. She envisioned him at her hip, taking a leisurely sojourn toward her breasts. She clamped her hands over them as though that was all she needed to stop this maddening fantasy, but in her mind he merely gave her his devil-may-care smile and pushed her hands aside. His tongue circled and tormented until he finally nipped at her shoulder. But he wouldn’t stop there. He tasted her throat, and having his fill of one side of her, he began the journey downward to experience the other.
Gasping, she sat up. Oh, God. She squeezed her legs together in an effort to quench the lovely ache throbbing between her thighs. She wanted to reach her hand down…Lord help her. She didn’t know what she wanted. She was trembling with desire such as she’d never known.
It was Jack Dodger’s fault. Speaking to her of intimate things. Making her crave
an illicit touch. Just once for sweet release.
She scrambled out of bed, stumbled and almost fell, her knees were so weak. Righting herself, taking deep, gasping breaths, she glared at the door that led into the dressing room. Through it was the path to the master bedchamber, the room that held the bed where Jack Dodger would now sleep. He would remove his clothes…he would be so near.
She should transfer to another bedchamber, but it would be an admittance of cowardice and he’d lord it over her. If she was to have any hope at all of curtailing his influence over her son, she had to never retreat. She would stand her ground and curse him while doing it.
She needed to get some sleep so she’d be rested and better prepared for whatever tomorrow brought. Perhaps some warm milk would help. She considered ringing for her maid, but she was in the mood for wandering through the house when Dodger wasn’t around. During those moments, she could pretend it was hers, pretend that Lovingdon had cared for her enough to notice how much she’d treasured the residence. But he’d noticed so very little. It left her with a deep sadness that they’d given almost nothing of themselves to each other. She blinked back the tears that threatened. How could she miss a man who, since she’d conceived, had been more a stranger than a husband?
But at least thinking of him allowed her thoughts to wander away from Jack Dodger. She drew on her night wrap and left her room.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the feminine laughter drifting up from the foyer, followed by a deep rumble that she recognized as Dodger’s. After tossing and turning with unfulfilled desires for the past hour because of his innuendo, she wasn’t in the mood to tolerate his flirting with the maids or taking advantage of his position over them. If she was to go unsatisfied this night, he could as well.
Quickening her pace, she arrived in the foyer just as Dodger was dismissing Brittles, who promptly took his leave. A woman stood with Dodger, her hair a vibrant red that diminished all the colors in her proximity. Olivia didn’t know her, but she had no doubt regarding the type of woman he’d bring to the residence at such a late hour. She wouldn’t tolerate this sort of behavior. She simply wouldn’t. Especially in the bedchamber next to hers.
Dodger and the strumpet turned toward her. “Ah, Olivia, you’re up rather late, aren’t you?” he drawled.
She marched up to him. “I will not allow you to bring strange women into the house. You must take her elsewhere to sate your lust.”
He narrowed his dark eyes, and she watched as a muscle jumped in his jaw. “It’s my house, and she is here because I desire it. We’re going to take care of our business in the library.” He leaned toward her. “You’re even welcome to watch if you’d like. I’m sure you’ll find our exploits quite imaginative and entertaining.”
Before Olivia could offer a solid retort, the woman slapped his arm. “Jack, what mischief are you about?”
“Stay out of this, Frannie,” he growled, never taking his gaze from Olivia.
Olivia fought not to look away. An obvious familiarity existed between him and the woman, and she didn’t want to consider that she might be more than a prostitute he’d picked up off the streets for an evening’s entertainment, that she might be his mistress, someone who frequently warmed his bed. He possessed a magnetic virility her husband hadn’t, and she suspected it took frequent beddings to keep his lust in check. With those thoughts, she could feel heat swarming to her cheeks, knew she was blushing, because satisfaction touched his eyes.
What was she thinking to confront him? Olivia was playing with the devil. A dangerous thing to do when she didn’t know the rules of the game.
“You will apologize to my guest,” he said.
“Jack—”
“Not now, Frannie.”
“Jack.”
The single word came out as a command and to Olivia’s surprise, her nemesis obeyed it. He backed up, and while the taut muscles in his jaw didn’t slacken, the heat in his eyes cooled somewhat. “She owes you an apology.”
“She does not. What else is she to think when you bring a woman into the house this late at night?”
“She’s not to think you’re a whore.”
“Well your behavior upon our arrival didn’t help matters.” She stepped in front of him and curtsied slightly. “Your Grace, I’m Frannie Darling. His bookkeeper. He’s asked me to take a look at the books.”
“Frannie, your purpose here is not her concern.”
“Perhaps not, but you’re giving the impression I’m here for a very different and improper reason. I deserve better than that.”
He cursed harshly beneath his breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
His contriteness was sincere, and Olivia wondered if the woman meant more to him than he would ever acknowledge.
“However, I’m not the one who first insinuated you are anything other than what you are.”
“No, but you did nothing to correct the misunderstanding,” Miss Darling said, sounding quite hurt.
“I must apologize as well,” Olivia began. “I assumed the worst. I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “Most do where Jack is concerned. It’s a reputation he’s worked quite hard to shape.”
“Frannie—” he ground out.
“Oh, do be civil, or I’ll not look at your books.” She gave her attention back to Olivia. “As unlikely as it seems, considering his success, he’s terrible with numbers.”
“I’m not as bad as all that,” he grumbled.
When Miss Darling gave him a pointed glare, he muttered, “But I’m not as good as you. Can we get to work now?”
“Of course,” Miss Darling said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. And Jack is quite right. You’re more than welcome to join us.”
Olivia was suddenly very much aware she was in her nightclothes, hardly the proper attire for entertaining. “I shall have some refreshments prepared for you.”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Miss Darling said.
Olivia watched as they walked down the hallway, Dodger seeming to be very careful to leave a discreet distance between him and Miss Darling. She realized Frannie Darling meant something special to him. She wondered what it would be like to have the attentions of a man as young, virile, and darkly dangerous as Jack Dodger.
Frannie Darling sat at the large mahogany desk in the grand library and studied the books and ledgers Jack had set before her with almost as much concentration as she studied him. He was lounging on a couch near the window, looking through a black ledger as though he were seeking an answer to a puzzle that baffled him.
She’d known Jack for a good many years. He’d always been as an older brother might be, looking out for her, making certain no one ever harmed her or hurt her feelings. It was one of the reasons she’d been so surprised this evening when he’d purposely led the duchess to believe something improper was afoot. It made her wonder why he cared what the duchess’s opinion of him was and why he wanted it to be unflattering. While she’d never known him to be afraid of anything, she was well aware he studiously avoided any entanglements that might involve the heart.
He never spoke of his past, his origins, or his mother, but Feagan had once told her that Jack’s mother had sold him. “Imagine how ye’d feel if someone ye loved put a value on ye,” Feagan had said. Frannie couldn’t imagine it.
She also believed that something horrible had happened to Jack when he was in prison with Luke. Before he spent time in prison, Jack had laughed often, and when he did, Feagan’s children laughed with him. But when he returned to Feagan after his incarceration, his laughter had changed. It no longer contained even a sprinkling of joy.
She’d asked him about it once, but he’d refused to talk about what he called the dark times. Luke, too, was silent on the matter; but when the two of them looked at each other, Frannie knew that whatever had transpired affected them both, brought them together and separated them from everyone else.
Jack had erected walls, and in some ways, sh
e thought he was still in prison—one of his own making, but a prison just the same.
She also wondered what his true feelings were regarding the duchess. He’d been sitting on the couch nonchalantly as though he hadn’t a care in the world, but when a knock sounded on the door, he’d looked up, and she’d seen a trace of anticipation cross his face, revealed for only a heartbeat and quickly shuttered. He’d had less success disguising the disappointment that registered on his face when only a serving girl came in with biscuits and tea. Frannie had a feeling he’d been hoping the duchess had decided to join them. Not that he’d ever admit it. He gave nothing away that would make him seem vulnerable.
With a yawn, she stretched her arms and arched her back to ease the kinks out of it. She’d been scouring the books for more than two hours now.
As though accurately judging that she was calling it a night, Jack got up, walked to the desk, and sat on the corner. “What do you think?”
“Not too shabby. But you’re right. The money isn’t being invested as wisely as it might be.”
“I suppose I could invest it in Dodger’s.”
“I don’t think your widow would approve.”
“She’s not my widow.”
She wasn’t entirely convinced of that assessment. “You’re not very nice to her.”
“I’m as nice as she deserves.”
“But wouldn’t it be better to be nicer than she deserves? Then she might come to like you.”
“I’ve never cared what anyone’s opinion of me is. You’re well aware of that.”
Ah, the man did have a stubborn streak in him. “Her life has taken a drastic turn. I can’t imagine the strength it would take to go on after losing one’s husband.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk as though he was losing patience with her. “I’ve tried to be cordial.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “I pray that encounter in the entry hallway was not your being cordial.”
“She finds fault with me at every turn and I take exception to her opinion.”
“Jack—”
“Frannie.” He held up his hand. “I will deal with the widow on my terms as I see fit.”
Between the Devil and Desire Page 11