Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  She felt Noel’s focus on her, but she kept her attention on Lord Pickhill.

  “I am not marrying.”

  Silence fell as tight as a knife against the throat.

  Finally, Lord Pickhill coughed. “The roads are good this time of year, at least. Don’t you think so, Lady Haighe?”

  “No one cares about the state of the roads, Pickhill,” Lady Haighe answered. “But,” she continued, when he deflated, “I’ll be happy to talk about horse racing. The Meloy family’s supposed to breed and train the best horseflesh in England.”

  Lord Pickhill seized the topic and said with forced brightness, “I saw one of their stallions race not long ago. Magnificent creature.”

  The conversation continued, yet Jess paid it no heed. She was aware only of the tension emanating from Noel, and how her own body felt strung taut to the point of snapping.

  It was a very long ride back to London. The miles ticked by, and anxiety climbed. Thank God she wore gloves to keep her fingernails from digging trenches in her palms. As it was, her hands ached from being clenched for hours.

  Signposts on the city’s outskirts announced their imminent arrival. And then they were in London proper.

  Noel had given his carriage drivers directions to each of his guests’ homes because they were not going straight to Rotherby House. Instead, the carriages containing the guests, their servants, and their baggage stopped at each person’s residence. The route must have been planned at Carriford, because it became evident that Jess would be the last guest delivered to their doorstep.

  They said goodbye to Lord Pickhill, and then Lady Haighe, and then, abruptly, Jess was alone in the carriage with Noel. But the vehicle didn’t move.

  She blinked at him, words drying up as her heart pounded so hard surely he had to hear it.

  “I need to tell my coachman your direction,” Noel said flatly. “However, I don’t know where you live.”

  “Number eighteen, Hill Street.” It was, in fact, four doors down from Lady Catherton’s actual address, but she didn’t want him to know where she resided and potentially speak to anyone who knew she was not, in fact, a baronet’s widow.

  Noel relayed the information to the footman, who in turn passed the address on to the coachman, as well as the driver of the second coach that carried Jess’s maid. And then they were off again. It would be a short ride, less than five minutes.

  Now. Tell him now.

  But every time she opened her mouth, no words came out. It was as if she’d exhausted all her supply of language. All the speeches she’d planned on the ride from Carriford were gone. Noel returned to his tense silence, so nothing was said.

  The carriage came to a stop. She glanced out the window to see that they’d arrived at their fictitious destination. From her vantage, she could see the town house where she actually resided. She heard the sounds of her trunk being taken down from the second carriage, and her abigail speaking with the driver.

  Jess had to do it. Had to tell him the truth, and suffer the consequences.

  A familiar carriage came to a stop farther up the street. A footman jumped down and opened the vehicle’s door. He reached forward to help out the carriage’s occupant.

  It was Lady Catherton.

  Here. Now.

  She’d arrived at her house without any notice.

  “Jess—?”

  Dragging her gaze back to Noel, she blurted, “I can’t see you again. I’m sorry, Noel. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  His expression blanked, as though she’d shot him in the center of his chest and he could not comprehend how the bullet had lodged between his ribs. “I—”

  “Please,” she begged. “I can’t say more. I have to go.”

  She leapt from the carriage and shut the door behind her before he could say anything. “Drive on,” she hissed at the coachman.

  “Don’t,” Noel said. He appeared in the carriage window. “Jess, no. Not like this.”

  “It has to be,” she said desperately. “I’m leaving. That can’t be changed. You’ll forget me, and . . . and I want you to.”

  The confusion in Noel’s gaze iced into angry hurt. His jaw firmed. “I see.”

  She wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of tears. Instead, she said to the coachman, “Drive, for God’s sake.”

  “Your Grace?” the servant asked.

  “You heard her,” Noel intoned. Not a hint of emotion or affect in his voice. “No reason to linger.”

  He sat back, disappearing into the carriage, then the vehicle rolled forward.

  Throat aching, Jess saw that Lady Catherton hobbled slowly up the front step of her town house, her pace slowed by the silver-tipped cane in her hand.

  Jess turned to Nell standing beside the trunk. “Your services are no longer needed. I will pay you the balance of your salary as soon as you help me carry my baggage inside. We must move quickly.” She grabbed one handle of the trunk. “We’ll use the back entrance.”

  The maid frowned, but took the other handle. Together, they carried the trunk down the street. As they passed Lady Catherton’s house, the lady herself navigating the front stoop, Jess made sure to duck her head and hope that the brim of her bonnet hid her face.

  “Miss McGale!” Lady Catherton called into the open door. “Miss McGale, where are you?”

  “Hurry,” Jess urged Nell. They turned into the mews.

  Sweat slicked down Jess’s back as she and her abigail awkwardly muscled the luggage down the low steps leading to the servants’ entrance.

  A footman opened the door. He looked puzzled as he glanced between the trunk and Jess.

  “Take this up,” she said to him. “Immediately.”

  “Yes, miss.” He hefted the trunk into his arms and moved into the house.

  “And this is for you.” Jess set a stack of coins in Nell’s hand. “Plus a bit extra for your assistance.”

  The abigail tucked the coins into her reticule. “Will you provide a character?”

  Jess grimaced. “I can’t even provide a character for myself. My apologies.” She hurried inside.

  She raced through the kitchen and then up the stairs. As she ran, she heard Lady Catherton calling again, her voice echoing in the foyer. “Miss McGale! Oh, is that my trunk?”

  Oh, no.

  Jess sped down the corridor. She came to an abrupt halt in the foyer, slapping a smile onto her aching, tight face, and blinking away the sweat that trickled into her eyes.

  Lady Catherton looked at her as she stood beside the trunk that Jess had used for her trip to the country.

  “My lady.” She dipped into a curtsy, barely managing to keep from tipping over. “What a pleasure to see you so soon.”

  Lady Catherton’s normally porcelain forehead pleated in perplexity. “You’re usually so prompt, Miss McGale. Goodness, you look like you’ve been racing up and down the garden.”

  “Because . . .” Jess coughed. “Because I have. I read somewhere that a little physical exertion has been proven to maintain one’s health. Must keep myself in good form to better serve you.” She patted her chest. “There. Healthy as a plowhorse.” She cleared her throat. “This is an unexpected arrival.”

  “I sent word two days ago. I wrote I was feeling better and my physician deemed me fit to travel and then depart for the Continent. Didn’t you get my letter?”

  Jess’s gaze shot to the side table and the platter atop it. A missive bearing her name, written in Lady Catherton’s hand, rested on the platter. Jess snatched it from the table and crumpled it in her hand, trying to hide the evidence that she hadn’t been home to receive it.

  “Oh, yes, the letter! Of course! I meant I didn’t expect you at this hour. You must’ve made good time, with accommodating roads.”

  Lady Catherton peered at her. “What are you doing in my clothing?”

  “Most of my garments were damaged in transit,” Jess improvised, “so I’d been relying on the same gown for the past fortnight. To make matters worse, you
r trunks were accidentally put into storage before I could unpack them. Your letter explaining your injury came before I’d fetched the trunks.” She went on, “I’d intended to get the trunks out, but there had been so many matters that required my attention, I hadn’t had the opportunity. It’s been so hectic, you know.”

  “If my trunks were in storage, why are you in my dress?”

  “I inadvertently packed one of your gowns in with my own clothing, and it was one of the few garments in my bag that wasn’t damaged. So while I have been repairing my own clothing, I’d no choice but to wear your gown. I apologize that it’s a little rumpled, but I’ve been wearing it for several days in a row—with clean linen beneath, of course.”

  She didn’t explain that she’d just been in a ducal carriage for several hours, instead gesturing toward the trunk that sat on the foyer floor. “Here’s one of your trunks now, finally retrieved from storage. Have it brought to Lady Catherton’s room,” she said to the waiting footman. “Her maid will air out her garments.”

  “Yes, miss.” The servant bowed and carried the trunk upstairs.

  Lady Catherton tilted her head. “Things appear to be in chaos, Miss McGale. That is unlike you. Are you all right?”

  “Apologies, my lady. Your time here in London will be smooth and without incident.” God, I hope that’s true.

  “Where is my correspondence?” Lady Catherton asked.

  “I have it collected in your dressing room.”

  Her mistress gave a nod. “Do join me in my bedchamber in ten minutes. In the interim, be so kind as to take off my clothing and wear one of your own garments.”

  With that, Lady Catherton slowly ascended the stairs with the help of another footman.

  Jess waited until her mistress had reached the next story before she turned and raced down the hallway to the servants’ stairs. She took the steps two at a time. The moment she reached her room, she flung her bonnet to the floor and struggled out of her spencer and gown—no easy feat without a maid to assist her. As she dragged on one of her own plain dresses, Noel’s face kept appearing in her mind, his confusion and then pain. Agony threatened to drag her down, but she had no time for it now. There was only survival.

  She splashed water on her face and rubbed it nearly raw with a towel. After attempting to smooth her now-disheveled hair into a somewhat demure bun, she glanced at herself in the tiny mirror above her washstand.

  A wild-eyed woman stared back at her. One who didn’t know what the next minute would bring.

  The little clock on her mantel showed that Jess had but a moment before she was due in Lady Catherton’s room.

  Jess bent down and, with a wince, tore the hem of her dress to give credence to her story about her clothing being damaged. She was careful, however, to ensure that the tear could be easily repaired. There wasn’t money to buy anything new, since the extra money Lady Catherton had sent her had gone into paying Nell.

  She headed from her cramped little bedchamber to her employer’s expansive suite of rooms. Her feet kept speeding up and she forced them into a sedate pace. After collecting herself outside the door to her mistress’s bedroom, she knocked.

  “Enter,” Lady Catherton said.

  Jess did so.

  Lady Catherton had installed herself in a chair by the fire as her maid scurried around the room. She glanced toward her dressing table. “My correspondence, if you please. Go through it and tell me what you find.”

  “Yes, my lady.” After a week of openly stating her mind, speaking so humbly stuck in Jess’s throat. She swallowed around her aching pride and picked up the large stack of letters.

  For several minutes, she read aloud the names of the correspondents. To each name, Lady Catherton would reply either “Skip” or “Read.”

  Finally, Jess read, “‘The Earl and Countess of Ashford.’” Why did that name sound familiar?

  “Read.”

  Jess broke the wafer and unfolded the single sheet of paper. “‘Your presence is requested on the evening of the twelfth of June for a ball—’” She frowned. “That’s tonight.”

  Lady Catherton said to her maid, “Make certain that you air out my yellow silk, and press it. I’ll also want—”

  “Apologies, my lady, do you mean to attend?”

  Lady Catherton frowned as if confused by Jess’s bewilderment. “I do. And I know you’ll wear your finest dress, though if it has been damaged, it might require some repair.” She turned to her maid. “I’ll want the pearl-and-diamond earbobs, and—”

  “I’m coming with you?”

  Her mistress held up her walking stick, looking at her injury with frustration. “This blasted ankle ensures that I cannot move quickly or indeed much at all. I’ll need you beside me to fetch refreshments and bring guests to me.”

  “I see.” Jess had accompanied Lady Catherton to smaller assemblies in the country, but nothing on the scale of an actual ball given by an actual earl and countess.

  She stiffened as realization struck her. Please, no.

  The Earl and Countess of Ashford were the hosts of the same ball Noel would attend.

  Jess pressed a hand to her throat, and made several strangled sounds.

  “Something ailing you?” Lady Catherton asked.

  “As it happens,” Jess said in a raspy voice, “I have a touch of the grippe. It would be best if I stayed home tonight.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot spare you. The earl and countess rarely entertain, and I fully intend to be there. Afterward, you can go straight to bed with some broth.”

  Panic clutched at Jess, truly squeezing her throat tight. “I can arrange for someone else to accompany you.”

  “Miss McGale.” Lady Catherton fixed her with a level stare. “I consider myself a relatively tolerant person, but I must point out that I pay you to be my companion, and so I have to insist that you accompany me tonight. Now I will rest, and when I wake, I will take supper. After that, I will dress for the Ashfords’ ball. We will depart here at nine o’clock.”

  There was no choice in the matter. Jess had to accompany her employer to the earl and countess’s home—where Noel would also be.

  Under other circumstances, she would have looked forward to finally attending a London ball. Even better would be seeing Noel dressed in his evening finery. Surely he would be a magnificent sight.

  At the thought of trying to keep him from Lady Catherton, and the possibility that he might learn the truth about her identity, all she felt was dark, smothering dread.

  Chapter 24

  Noel launched himself from his desk chair. He’d tried to review the mountain of documents and letters that had amassed in such a short amount of time. There were plans for a mill he intended to refurbish on his Lincolnshire estate, and several letters relating to the bill he intended to discuss with Ashford that night.

  While his gaze moved over the words, he took none of them in. Everything might as well be written in Aramaic.

  He scooped a sheaf of papers into his arms and stalked to the fireplace. The hell with it. He’d burn the lot.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace,” his butler said from the doorway. “Mr. Holloway is here. Are you at home to visitors?”

  Had it been anyone other than a member of the Union of the Rakes, Noel would have sent them away without a second thought. But he was one of the Union, and that gave him automatic entry into Noel’s home. Besides, Noel needed distraction, and cerebral Holloway’s wisdom was welcome.

  “Send him in.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Noel stomped back to his desk and dumped the papers onto its surface. He then went to a table and poured out two whiskeys. Holloway had always been an aficionado of fine spirits, and while his financial fortune—and personal happiness—had improved since marrying an earl’s daughter, he still didn’t indulge often in expensive liquor.

  Holloway strode into the study.

  “What good fortune that I happened to enter just as you poured yourself two drinks
,” Holloway said, taking the offered glass. “Two-handed drinking is never a good strategy, Rotherby.”

  “I’m reevaluating that statement as we speak.” Noel sipped at his whiskey. It burned, but not enough.

  Holloway studied him. Noel stared right back as he did his best not to squirm beneath his friend’s examination, but it was ruddy hard when the perceptive Holloway had Noel within his sights.

  “It’s a woman,” Holloway said at last.

  “It’s not,” Noel answered.

  Holloway snorted. “The very fact that you immediately deny it proves without a doubt that it’s a woman. But then,” he mused after taking a sip, “it never has been a woman before, so I’ve nothing to base my hypothesis on except instinct. Still, I’m almost entirely certain that the downward cast of your mouth and your rigid shoulders indicate that you’re brooding because of a woman.”

  “My shoulders aren’t rigid.” Noel loosened them. But . . . “Goddamn it, you’re right.” He turned away from his friend and walked to the row of bookshelves lining one wall. He read the titles but absorbed none of it.

  “Up until very recently,” Holloway said, coming to stand beside him, “I was the last person to give anyone advice about women, especially you.”

  Noel shrugged. The fact that he’d often had someone to share his bed reflected nothing about who he was as a person.

  “She was a damned surprise,” he muttered.

  “A good surprise? Or an unwelcome one?”

  “Started out good. Very good. Now it’s a goddamned misery.”

  “Ah.” Holloway rocked back on his heels, his gaze roaming upward. “Most cultures have group celebrations for matrimonial unions, and some societies even ritualize less formal pairings. But not many have traditions when those unions fragment. Which is a shame—broken hearts must be suffered alone.”

  Noel gripped his glass tightly. “Soon after I’d become the duke, I had renovations done on this place.”

  “I remember. Scaffolding everywhere, and the sawdust made Rowe sneeze.”

  A faint smile touched Noel’s lips. “One of the workmen left a saw in a corner. The blade was jagged, capable of cutting through nearly anything.” His jaw was tight. “I feel exactly like that saw blade.”