by Eva Leigh
Her brows rose, as if she understood how significant it was that he would consider disclosing a truth to her. She moved her head, presenting him with her ear. “You may whisper it.”
Noel studied the scroll of her ear. They were useful and ordinary things, ears, but hers were beguiling. She wore no earbobs, which was unusual for a genteel woman, and so there were no glittering gems or creamy pearls to snare his attention.
He wanted to be the recipient of her confidences, too, so they both held precious pieces of each other.
“Rakehood is diverting,” he murmured, leaning close. Her sweet fragrance enfolded him. “But it doesn’t nourish my soul.”
“Is that what you seek?” she asked lowly.
“I haven’t formulated the question,” he admitted. “So I cannot know the answer.” He laughed softly. “This isn’t easy—confessing my own uncertainty.”
“When the world knows you as a man of singular influence.” She moved back slightly. “You do burn brightly, but there’s more to you than a merely dazzling gleam in the darkness.”
His breath left him, and for a moment, he was utterly without words—a rarity. He managed to collect himself enough to drawl, “Unjust, madam.”
“Am I?”
He leaned in slightly, shortening the distance between them even more. Her pupils widened, her lips parted—yet not with fear. He did see caution in her gaze, but there was curiosity, too, and the stirrings of attraction.
There was a relief in knowing that he unsettled her as she did him.
“To strip me bare, here, in mixed company, when you keep yourself fully armored.” He took another step closer, and her honeyed scent nearly made him sink to his knees. “I look forward to the next five days, and discovering just who you are beneath your defenses.”
She stared at him as though taking his measure, just as he assessed her. His breath came quickly, as did hers, while they both subtly, silently, and motionlessly pushed against each other’s wills, determining their tolerances—who would give, and who would take.
“I do appreciate that you have been so frank,” she said at last. “I will honor that. I imagine very little is denied you. But Your Grace must understand that, with me, ultimately, you will be disappointed.” She finished the last of her wine before setting the glass on a nearby table and striding away.
Noel watched her go, hearing the excited beat of his heart. It was as though he woke from a long dream.
Chapter 6
It had not been easy to walk away from the duke—especially after he had revealed so much of himself to her—but he was a distraction she could not afford. She’d left him because she’d had to, telling herself that it was for his protection as much as her own.
She’d spent another hour talking with the other guests, learning who would be worthwhile to subtly approach regarding investing in her business, and who she ought to steer clear of. At least she had a foundation of a plan, and could move forward with it.
She now sat on a stone bench that stood at the edge of the yard behind Lady Catherton’s town house. She lifted a small glass of sherry to her lips and sipped. It wasn’t quite strong enough, but it was the only spirit she could take from the house without arousing the staff’s suspicion. The servants came with the rental, and so they had little loyalty to whomever occupied it. But gossip was always a prized commodity, thus she had to be careful.
“Afternoon, miss.”
She nodded at Lady Catherton’s coachman as he approached. He was short in stature but barrel-chested, fair skinned, and the remaining hair he had was streaked with silver.
“Lynch, is it?” He had driven her from Wiltshire to London.
“At your service, miss.” He eyed the glass in her hand. “Sherry, is it?”
“Alas, yes.” She sighed.
“If you wait but a moment, I’ve some whiskey we can share.”
“Here I thought I didn’t believe in angels.”
He chuckled before trotting toward the stables. A few moments later, he returned with a bottle and two dented metal mugs. He poured a healthy amount of whiskey into both vessels, then handed her one.
“Your health,” she said, lifting her mug.
“And yours, miss.” They tapped the rims of their cups together.
She took a swallow of the liquor and it agreeably burned its way down her throat to settle warmly in her belly. “God bless you, Mr. Lynch.” She nodded at the seat beside her. “Join me?”
“My thanks.” With a soft groan, he lowered himself down on the bench.
They sat together in companionable silence, drinking whiskey and listening to the muffled sounds of traffic that traveled down the mews. For the first time in hours, Jess permitted herself a slow, deep exhale.
“That’s a sound,” Lynch said with a shake of his head.
“The day has been long.” Which was an extremely abbreviated way of saying that she’d spent her last few hours dancing madly atop slippery ice—made all the more precarious by the presence of one exceedingly handsome, witty, and wicked duke. Who seemed intrigued by her. Attracted. There had been no denying the spark of interest in his eyes, or how she’d fought to keep her head level with poor success. Even now, she was tight and hot and aware of him throughout her body.
The duke was a complication she could not afford. And yet he was irresistible. She hadn’t flirted with anyone for years, not since the early days of Oliver’s courtship.
She’d been forced to shut the door on any lingering feelings she might have once had for him. He’d shown his true self to her, the one that had resented her dedication to keeping McGale & McGale going. She was well rid of him.
There hadn’t been time or room for other men. She’d kept her head down, focusing solely on the task of preserving the family business. Certainly when she’d appeared at the Bazaar this morning, bantering with a duke had not even merited a place on her mental list of things that might occur.
Yet she’d done it. And couldn’t quite bring herself to regret a moment.
“I suppose,” Lynch said, breaking the silence, “I’m not supposed to notice you wearing her ladyship’s rigging.”
Her mouth hitched into a small, rueful smile. “Plausible deniability if things fall to bits.”
Lynch waved his hand. “If the cat’s away, there’s no harm running loose in the larder.”
“Your forbearance is appreciated.” She sipped at her whiskey. It was coarse and rough drinking, but it reminded her of home, and helped firm her resolve. “Truth is, I’m attempting something that’s more than a little mad.”
“You’re young enough,” he said easily. “Exactly the time of life when we can be mad.”
“I’m young,” she said grimly, “but some days I feel so old. They’re counting on me.”
“Who is?”
“My brother and sister.” She rubbed her thumb along the rim of her cup, a small movement, and the only one she felt capable of just then. Weariness lay heavy along her limbs. “I’m the eldest, and it’s up to me to take care of them. I thought I had a means to do so. But that plan was scuttled and I’m fighting to get another off the ground. There’s a methodology to it, yet I have to make everything up as I go.”
She dropped her head and used her free hand to rub her forehead.
Lynch whistled. “Carrying a full load, that’s for certain. What’s the next step?”
“Plant some seeds,” she said. “Drop hints. Be subtle as hell. The trick is to make the other person believe it’s their idea, and then praise them to the heavens for coming up with such a brilliant notion.”
“Wily,” Lynch said, but there was admiration in his voice. “Obstacles?”
“Many. And a distraction, too. A very handsome, seductive distraction.” She had to keep away from the duke, but the trouble was that she didn’t want to. Not when he had revealed a hidden part of himself to her, showing her that he was far more complex than anyone believed.
With Fred and Cynthia counting on he
r, and their mother’s words hanging over Jess’s head, she could not allow herself to be led astray by dark, alluring eyes.
Get the job done. Play her part. That was what she had to do. But in order to act the role of lady, there were things that needed addressing.
“I’m certain you know London better than I,” she said. “Where might I go to hire myself an abigail? Temporarily, of course.” She had the money that Lady Catherton had sent to her, and from that she could draw a maid’s fee. Today, she’d found one of her employer’s more simple gowns, but if she was to attend the Bazaar for four more days as a baronet’s widow, she would have to dip into Lady Catherton’s wardrobe, and wearing those garments required assistance.
“There’s a hiring agency near Finsbury Square that’ll set you up nice and proper. Give me ten minutes to hitch up the cattle and take you there.”
“It’s not an easy thing for me to ask for help,” Jess said sincerely. “So I thank you for yours.” She placed a hand on his ropy forearm.
He covered her hand with his own. “There now, miss. Us folk who earn our coin the hard way, we’ve got to see after each other. If we don’t, nobody will. Not them upstairs, that’s for certain.”
“Not them upstairs.” As thrilling as it had been to flirt with the duke, the hard truth of it was that she needed to keep her attention firmly fixed to her objective. Tomorrow, she would continue her campaign to find investors for McGale & McGale.
She would gently prod the guests to find who would be most interested in funding the business’s rebuilding and expansion. She had not been able to speak to all of them today, and she had to make certain she didn’t make any critical errors moving forward.
It might be easy to approach the duke about securing financing from him—but the pull between them made it impossible. She would not use their attraction in that way.
A shame. The duke was gorgeous and, under other circumstances, she would have relished the chance to flirt with him.
Her family, both living and dead, counted on her. The duke was an indulgence and temptation, and she could not yield to either—but, damn, how she wished otherwise.
Noel had never walked up the stairs to Lord Trask’s drawing room with as much energy as he did this morning.
That energy dimmed slightly as he stepped into the chamber and scanned the guests—only to find that Lady Whitfield was not there. It merely meant that she hadn’t yet arrived, but her absence hit him with an unreasonable disappointment.
“Looks like you could use some motivation,” Mr. Walditch said as he approached. “We’ve been helping ourselves to coffee and tea and something to eat.” He waved toward a table at the side of the room that contained refreshments suitable for the morning.
Noel tipped his head and went to pour himself some coffee. “At this hour, I cannot fathom why I have bestirred myself.”
“From what I’ve heard, there’s a new enlivening presence.” Walditch winked. “You threw Lord Ilsington off the sofa to sit beside her.”
“I practically threw him, but did not, in point of fact, actually throw him off the sofa. You would know if I did.”
Still, the display of territoriality was unusual—he never made claims on women’s attentions. It was just good manners to permit a woman to make up her own mind as to with whom she wanted to spend time. He wasn’t some oaf, imposing his slavering attendance on someone.
Yet he’d been impelled to be near Lady Whitfield, to fall into the depths of her perceptive golden eyes and even more perceptive thoughts.
Hell, there was no reason why he couldn’t follow the attraction crackling to life between them.
A moment later, she walked into the drawing room, her stride purposeful, her chin high. “Good morning, my lords, my ladies. Your Grace,” she added, turning to Noel.
When her gaze met his, an exquisite flare of nascent arousal crackled up his spine. He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue wet her bottom lip.
He wasn’t mistaken. As intrigued as he was by her, she was equally enthralled by him.
Yes—this year’s Bazaar was far more interesting.
“Welcome back, my lady,” Lord Trask said.
Noel grabbed one of the small plates on the table, and quickly arranged some pastries atop it. He stepped forward and held it out to Lady Whitfield.
“You’ll want to fuel yourself for the morning ahead,” he said.
She gave him a polite smile. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I’ve had my breakfast already.”
He bit back a wry laugh. She likely had no idea that until that moment Noel had never waited on anyone. And yet his attention had been spurned. How novel.
“As you please,” he said affably as he handed the plate to a footman. “But when you’re nodding off and we’re hours from luncheon, you’ll regret that decision.”
“It wouldn’t be the first regret I’ve lived with. Nor the last.”
“We’re to begin in a moment, if you’d care to have a seat.” He waved toward the same sofa they’d occupied the day before. “And if you should feel faint from hunger, I will be right beside you, offering a manly shoulder to lean upon.”
“I’d thought that gallantry had gone the way of King Arthur,” she said, lowering herself down onto the sofa, “disappeared into the mists of time.”
“Aren’t you pleased to discover that you’re wrong?” He sat beside her, catching her fragrance of sunlit sweetness and breathing it in deeply.
“If you’re looking for a maiden in a tower to rescue, I must disappoint you. There is a shortage of castle turrets in Mayfair. And,” she added, her lips curving into a beguiling smile, “I am no maiden.”
“What a relief. Neither am I.”
Her laugh was liquid as it trickled warmly through his body.
Lord Trask coughed pointedly, and Noel reluctantly nodded his agreement that it was time to get to work.
He pulled out his notebook and pencil, then observed her tugging off her gloves before pulling a writing tablet and a piece of graphite from her reticule. There were no baubles on her fingers, not even a mourning ring. What would it feel like to have her trail one of her naked fingers across his shoulders?
“We’ve a full agenda today,” Lord Trask announced, “so let us begin at once. Our first presenter is Mr. Mitchell Hart, from West Bolton Mills.”
Noel braced himself for what he suspected was about to happen. His instinct proved correct when Hart commenced speaking at length about his cotton-milling establishment near Manchester. He talked of the speed with which his mill could produce muslin, aided in its pace by the scores of workers operating the equipment. Illustrations on placards depicted the layout and machinery.
Noel was careful to keep his expression neutral as he wrote No respite for workers in his notebook.
“From whence do you source your raw cotton?” Lady Farris asked from her place across the room. “Egypt? India?”
“I secure excellent cotton at minimal cost from suppliers who grow their cotton in the American South—predominantly in Georgia and Alabama.” Hart beamed. “American cotton is much less expensive than Asian, and of finer quality.”
An unsurprising revelation, but it cemented Noel’s decision to never invest in Hart’s mill.
Finally, the presentation ended, and Hart bowed before exiting the drawing room.
Lady Whitfield turned to Mr. Walditch, seated nearby. “Are you all right, sir? The cotton’s origins—” She shook her head, and did not conceal the disgust in her expression.
Walditch offered her a weary look. “It is a fact of life, my lady, that men such as Hart profit from slaves. He will not receive a penny from me.”
Nor, if Noel had any say in the matter, would Hart be given money from anyone in Noel’s wide sphere of influence.
“Tell me you aren’t going to invest in that mill,” Lady Whitfield whispered to him.
“Good God, no.”
Though the movement was slight, he saw her shoulders loosen with wha
t seemed like relief. “Good. That’s good.”
He looked at the line of her profile as she bent over her notebook. Though he would not permit himself to read what she wrote, he did see that her handwriting was much more bold, and far less tidy, than most ladies’ penmanship.
Like her, it defied expectation.
Chapter 7
Jess assessed her reflection in the mirror of the ladies’ retiring room. She tucked a wayward curl back into its arrangement—which had been provided by the abigail she’d hired yesterday. Indeed, the whole of Jess’s stylish appearance today was courtesy of her temporary maid, and a good thing, too. She needed to appear as elegant and worldly as possible when learning more about the remaining Bazaar guests.
Already, she knew that the two other women could be possible investors, and Mr. Walditch had shown that he would support a business helmed by a woman. Viscount Hunsdon was out. The other men, however, were less-known quantities.
She’d find the opportune time, but she needed to be strategic. In all things.
The time on the gilt clock showed that she had just two minutes left before the next presentation was to begin. After smoothing her hand down her skirts, she headed toward the drawing room.
Even though he did not speak loudly, she heard the duke’s voice out in the corridor. Its deep tones stroked along the bare skin above the neckline of her gown, and she fought a shiver. She paused outside the drawing room, collecting herself before facing him once more.
Yielding to the temptation he offered was unwise. She had to remember that.
Jess stepped into the drawing room and her gaze immediately searched for him.
His back was to her, so she had a brief moment where she could openly admire the span of his shoulders, and the athletic ease with which he held himself.
As if sensing her attention on him, he turned, catching her in the act of ogling him.
He smiled devilishly. And no matter how much she told herself that an involvement with him was dangerous, it didn’t stop her pulse from hammering. The knowing look he gave her was pure sensuality—she would have to work very hard indeed to keep away from him.