by Nancy Yeager
Lady Tessa plucked her fan out of her lap and fluttered it. A soft, flowery perfume drifted on the breeze over James. It distracted him so much, he nearly missed the glint of something shiny on her eyelashes. She blinked, and one tear rolled down her cheek.
Instinctively, he leaned closer and rested his fingers under her chin, then brushed away the tear with his thumb. He expected her to push away his hand or turn away her face, or perhaps even to throw her fan at him and call him a cad for taking such liberties. Instead, she sat still, staring at him as audaciously as he stared back at her.
Her lips parted again. “Mr. Alcott, I—”
He ran his thumb along the edge of her lower lip, so pink, so plump. “’Drink to me only with thine eyes/And I will pledge with mine/Or leave a kiss but in the cup/And I’ll not look for wine.’”
James would have withdrawn his hand then, would have retreated and regained his composure had Lady Tessa not leaned slightly forward, lips still parted, her gaze now fixed on his mouth. Instead, he pressed his palm against her cheek and leaned in to cover the distance between them. She jerked away. He cleared his throat, wishing for a glass of cold water to quench the heat that had risen in him.
“Lady Tessa, I can explain.” I’m a hopeless cad hell-bent on seducing you. “I didn’t mean to... I didn’t expect...” It appeared he couldn’t actually explain.
“I think I might be in need of a tonic, after all.” Her voice was deep and husky, altered by passion. Their near-kiss had affected her, too.
Before James could say another muddled and useless thing, there was a commotion in the hallway. Miss Wagner hurried into the room and sat beside Lady Tessa as though she’d been there all along.
“Luci, tell me you weren’t snooping,” Lady Tessa whispered.
“I wasn’t.” Miss Wagner shrugged. “Not much, anyway.”
A moment later, the duchess swept into the room, pulling the duke – who looked like holy hell – with her. “And here are our guests, Simon, as I told you.”
As they stepped closer, James caught a whiff of whisky.
With a quick bow in the ladies’ direction and a brief nod to James, Swimmer strode in. And faltered. And fell forward, flat on his face.
Tessa had expected more from dinner at the duke’s estate. The food was delicious. The settings were exquisite. The duchess was charming as ever. But she’d hoped to see the duke for at least some small part of the meal. As Tessa pushed about brandy-caramelized carrots on her plate, she wondered how things were going in the distant reaches of the house, well beyond the entertainment areas and guest quarters, in the duke’s own chambers where Mr. Alcott and the duke’s manservant had carried him off after his unfortunate inability to remain standing on his own two feet. It had been in that moment that Tessa was sure the London tongue-waggers had gotten it all wrong. The duke wasn’t a madman; he was a rip-roaring drunkard.
“My dears, your appetites seem to be eluding you.” The duchess glanced at their plates. Pushing her own nearly full platter aside, she rang the silver bell that sat on top of the pristine white tablecloth, and in seconds the room swarmed with servants removing their untouched meals and the nearly full chafing dishes.
“We’ll have tea in the library,” the duchess instructed one of the serving girls, who curtseyed in response. With the servants gone off to complete more tasks in the kitchen, the duchess smiled at her guests. “I’m sure my son will be feeling himself again any time now. Cook will have seen to a good broth and hearty bread for him. And dining with his old school friend will help get him on the mend, I’m sure.”
Tessa managed a wan smile and glanced in Luci’s direction with a raised eyebrow. They seemed doomed to spend the rest of the evening pretending Wrexham had come down with some strange malady that had nothing to do with an empty bottle of spirits.
Minutes later, the three women had retired to the library, where the serving girl had already set up the tea service. Tessa was too restless to sit and quietly chat while the duchess did needlepoint and Luci asked questions about the history of the estate. Tessa should be listening to the answers, in case there was some clue as to how to make a connection with the duke, in the unlikely event she ever got to speak with the man while he was sober. But she was thinking about Mr. Alcott. She should be thinking of him as her rival. Instead, she kept remembering him cupping her jaw, brushing away her tear, and nearly kissing her. He was proving to be quite the distraction.
Tessa pulled a book from a shelf in this room of floor-to-ceiling tomes and realized she could barely focus on its title. She, who had spent years so starved for books and the forbidden knowledge they could teach that she’d taken to secretly hoarding them in a small, forgotten room in her father’s house, was now immersed in a cornucopia of knowledge and couldn’t enjoy a bite of it. Because of him and his interference.
From the moment he’d quoted a stanza of that seventeenth-century poem to her, she’d wanted him to kiss her. He’d known it, planned it, and abandoned the effort intentionally. He’d used a tawdry flirtation to divert her from her plan to win the duke over to her cause.
“It’s diabolical,” she muttered, shoving the book into its place on the shelf. She threw back her shoulders, pleased with her own virtue in not stooping to such vile tactics to win this contest. Her shoulders drooped as she wondered if she should have thought of it first, then sagged as she realized she’d been played for a fool. “Diabolical,” she whispered to herself.
“Do they ever answer?”
Tessa was sure she jumped a foot. Mr. Alcott’s voice was so close to her ear, he spoke in a whisper.
“What?” Tessa felt heat creep up her neck and jaw and flame across her cheeks. What if he knew she’d been lamenting his feigned interest in her?
“I’m sorry to startle you.” He grinned. So handsome. So charming. So full of pretty lies. “You appeared to be talking to the books. I was wondering if they ever answer you.”
“Yes, in fact, they do.” She didn’t know why she told him that, or why she was moved to continue, after the way he’d treated her. Perhaps it was because he, of all people, might actually understand.
She paced to her left and pointed to a book about weather patterns over the British Isles. “When I was ten years old and thought the rain would never stop long enough for us to play outside again, the copy of this book in my father’s library told me we would, indeed, see the sun again.”
She’d memorized the topical organization of the books that afternoon, so now she crossed to another shelf and perused it. “Ah, here.” She pointed to a book on anatomy. “This one convinced me my brother’s toothache would not, in fact, kill him.”
She turned on her heel and crossed the room to what she’d already selected as her favorite section of the duke’s library. Mr. Alcott followed her. Luci gave them a curious glance as they passed by, but said nothing. Tessa tapped her lip as she scanned the book spines, bending to see the lower shelves. “Here. I knew there’d be a copy.” She held up a collection of William Blake’s poems, Songs of Innocence and Experience. “This one assured me that when there was darkness, no matter how deep, eventually there would again be light.”
He reached out to touch the book’s cover, not to take it from her, but to hold it with her. “One of my favorites, as well.”
In the space of a heartbeat, as she looked into his eyes, she was sure she’d been right. He did understand.
“Color in your cheeks becomes you, my lady. Just as I observed earlier today, when we were here alone.”
She wanted to snap her fan open and flutter it with condescension that he’d dare speak of what had transpired between them as though there’d been any truth in it. Unfortunately, she’d left her fan in her boudoir when she’d dressed for dinner. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need her fan to convey her annoyance or to keep her from falling for his false charms again.
She turned and walked slowly away from him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her run. “
At any rate, I’ve forgotten which book I was hoping to find. It must be all this fresh country air.”
“Is that what it is? I’d thought perhaps you were suffering from the same malady as I am.”
She turned toward him again. “What malady is that, Mr. Alcott?”
“Please, call me James.”
The proffered intimacy made her knees shake. He was playing his game for all it was worth. He must think her an absolute ninny. Right now, he’d expect her to be thinking about the rendezvous he would suggest, the midnight kisses he might give her, the touch of his hands on her flushed skin aglow under the moonlight. His gaze rested on her lips as he spoke, and some small, traitorous part of her wanted to believe all those lies and wondered which one he’d tell next.
“It’s been a long day of travel, coupled with the disappointment of being unable to meet with the duke,” he said.
He wasn’t flirting with her at all. Maybe he was intelligent enough to realize his little ruse had gone nowhere, that she was as determined as ever to best him.
“Don’t let me keep you from your slumber,” she said.
He pointed to the poetry selection she still in her hand. “Might I take that with me? Unless you’re planning to read it tonight.”
“Oh, no.” She handed it to him.
He took it reverently. “Quite amazing,” he said, staring at its cover.
While it had a lovely leather binding in pristine condition, Tessa hardly would have described the book that way.
“Good night, Lady Tessa.”
“Good night, Mr. Alcott.”
He bid the other ladies goodnight, then turned to leave. Then stopped. He retraced his steps to her. Despite her mind’s firm reprimand, her heart pounded as she wondered whether he’d reconsidered an opportunity to flirt with her, after all.
“There’s one thing I’m not sure I should tell you, Lady Tessa, but I’m afraid I won’t sleep a wink if I don’t.”
She crossed her arms, waiting for the honeyed words she’d reject.
“I don’t know if you’re a late sleeper, but I’d advise you to rise early tomorrow.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The duke’s valet assures me that Wrexham has breakfast at eight o’clock sharp every morning, and remains sober until ten. If you hope to have a discussion with him, one he’ll remember, that would seem to be the best time to do it.”
“Oh,” was all she managed to say as he turned on his heel and left the room. She’d been so prepared for a flattering lie; the truth had left her speechless. But even more surprising, the man who’d delivered it had left her normally astute mind utterly perplexed.
Chapter 4
A few days later, James checked in the mirror to ensure his cravat was in order.
“Really, I don’t see the point of this.” Percy pulled a face in the mirror behind James. “The girl represents the competition. Aren’t there rules against stepping into the enemy’s corner?”
“It’s not a boxing match. We can hardly interfere with the other’s chances. The selection committee will make its decision based upon our final proposals.”
“Yes, well, as the duke’s old prefect, I think you should hold sway over him to award the prize to you now.” Percy swallowed the remainder of his cognac, or more precisely James’s cognac. He’d found himself a glass and helped himself to it before James had even had the chance to offer the hospitality. Then Percy had stalked through James’s rented rooms as though he owned the place, declared it nearly up to his standards, but still questioned why James didn’t buy a house in London.
“During our one conversation, Swimmer made it clear he’ll show no favorites, not even for an old friend, and confirmed he’d tell Lady Tessa the same. He feels he owes the utmost respect to the Trust his grandfather founded.” James poured his first drink and Percy’s second. “I’m concerned about him making it to the award ceremony, though. It appears ten in the morning is the latest his staff can guarantee he won’t be sauced.”
“Sounds like he’s worse off than last time I saw him.” Percy took another swallow of his drink. “I’ll make sure he’s there and, if not sober, at least not disreputably drunk. Was your trip to the dreadful English countryside a waste of your time, then?”
James stared into his drink, less enamored at the thought of it after observing Swimmer. He didn’t regret a moment of his trip. He’d nearly kissed Tessa. They’d discussed books. She’d pulled out Blake’s poetry collection—which had formed the basis of his dissertation at Oxford—because she’d found its study in contrasts a comfort, as he always had. What were the chances of that? “No, not a waste of my time. But it did make me realize I need to learn more about this sponsor of Lady Tessa. It doesn’t sit well with me, not knowing the true competition.”
“I’m sure Swimmer, or at least his sober solicitors, have the situation well in hand.”
“Maybe. Still, the integrity of the award might be tarnished if this Mr. Pettibone turns out to be some sort of lecherous bastard preying on an innocent young woman.”
“Christ have mercy. So that’s what this is about. You’ve a tendre for the chit. And you plan to march over there and present yourself to her under the guise of – of what? – being sporting, perhaps?” Percy dropped into the chaise near the window, taking James’s favorite spot in the sitting room, the one that offered the best view of the Thames, now choppy with the winds of an approaching storm. “This is quite comfortable.”
“My sister-in-law chose it.”
“Ah, yes, the woman’s touch. No wonder you’re having illicit thoughts about courting the girl. Your brother and his wife are trying to lure you into the gilded cage of domesticity.”
James shook his head. Good to know his old friend hadn’t lost his flair for the dramatic. “I’m not trying to court the woman. My curiosity is strictly professional.”
Percy swung his legs off the chaise and leaned his forearms on his knees. “Forget about this fool’s errand. I have plans for us tonight, and where we’re going, there’ll be no end of women to take your mind off the girl.”
“My mind isn’t on the girl. On Lady Tessa, I mean.” James pulled at his shirt collar, which suddenly felt too tight. “There’s something about her. She’s so blasted vexing. You remember how she was at the ball, flirting with you to win you over in the hopes that you could use your friendship with Swimmer to influence him.”
Percy arched one eyebrow. “When a woman flirts with me, it’s to influence me, not one of my friends.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Percy leaned over and took James’s cognac out of his hand. “You’ve clearly lost all perspective. Better let me finish this for you. You need to get your wits about you if you’re going to show up on the lady’s doorstep unannounced. She has four brothers, you know. Two of them are in the army, if memory serves, and the youngest one seems a bit of a bookworm. Well-matched to you, no doubt. But the oldest is a brute.”
“Percy, is that concern you’re showing, and for something other than my fine spirits? I’m moved, really.”
Percy grinned. “Have at it, then, mate. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He tossed down both drinks, then leaned back in the chaise. “This is a comfortable piece of furniture. And an amazing view.”
From his own vantage point, James stared out the window, trying to calm his racing thoughts. If Lady Tessa were here, she’d be more taken with the next room, his study where he kept shelves and shelves of books, than she would be with his view of the Thames. Not that she would ever come here. That would be unseemly. But he indulged himself for a moment and pictured her here, wearing the pale blue dress she’d worn Thursday afternoon in Swimmer’s library. She would run her fingers over the spines of his books, smile to reveal her single dimple, and tilt her head up to him, waiting for him to finish the kiss he’d nearly started.
When he’d joined the ladies in the library that night, his thoughts had kept returning to their afternoon encounter. He’d been muddled.
She’d seemed angry, or perhaps annoyed, and then she’d told him about the books she’d read and he’d lost the thread of the conversation he’d meant to have with her about Pettibone.
James jumped at the sound of the cognac snifter landing on the table beside him.
Percy was on his feet. “I’m not going to persuade you with logic, I see. Well, get on with it, then. Go state your intentions to the woman.”
“I’m not—“
“Just try not to wax poetic, for Christ’s sake.”
James scowled.
“You didn’t. You quoted poetry to her? I thought we’d cured you of that ages ago.”
“She quoted poetry to me.” At least, she had the first time, when he hadn’t shocked her into silence with his advances. “Something by an American abolitionist.”
Percy clucked his tongue. “Poor boy. You never stood a chance.”
“I told you, it’s strictly business.” James pushed himself out of his chair and looked out at sheets of rain slicing into the cold, turbulent waters in the distance. He might find the river’s cold embrace more welcoming than Lady Tessa’s demeanor, if she suspected him of meddling in her affairs to affect the outcome of the Trust’s award. Which he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t. Surely, she wouldn’t jump to such a conclusion.
He made his way to the door, then stopped and turned to face Percy, who was walking behind him. “What would make an intelligent, vibrant young woman fall into the trap of a venal, corrupt, old cad?”
“Which Mr. Pettibone might be, but probably is not.” Percy sighed. “I would assume the same things that make men fall for the wrong women every day. Flattery. Honeyed words. A décolletage that shows off – well, probably not that.”
James shook his head as he preceded Percy into the hallway, stepping onto the thick navy-blue rug that had been a gift from his brother and his wife in their endless pursuit of making his lodgings homey. “I don’t know what possessed me to expect a serious answer from you.”