Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  “The lady in question, she knows your feelings?”

  Noel threw back the last of his drink and returned to the decanter. Apparently, it was a two-whiskey afternoon. “She knows. And fled as if I’d told her about my love for cannibalism.”

  Holloway walked to him and held out his glass for a refill. “Civilizations all over the world have different thoughts about love. And the very fact that there are so many theories and myths about it shows that it’s fucking complicated.”

  “Who the deuce said anything about love?” Noel snapped. At Holloway’s even, unblinking look, Noel slammed his glass down onto the table. Whiskey sloshed over the rim and onto his hand.

  Scowling, Noel stuck the side of his hand into his mouth. He muttered, “I don’t love her.”

  “But you’re serrated as a handsaw, sucking whiskey off your hand, and in general acting like a moody ass. Yes,” Holloway said carefully, “I can see that you clearly don’t have feelings for the woman.”

  “Perhaps I do. What of it? It’s not reciprocated.”

  “How certain are you of that?”

  Noel crossed his arms over his chest. “She told me it was over. Didn’t say why, though.”

  “What do you want for yourself, at least where this woman is concerned?”

  “An abundance of questions, Holloway,” Noel grumbled. “Now I’m your newest subject of study.”

  “What you are,” Holloway said gently, “is my friend. The selfsame friend who trained me in all the ways of rakehood, rather than let me flounder and fail.”

  Noel swallowed around a hard mass in his throat. “If I hadn’t, you would have caused mass panic whenever you appeared in public. It was for the nation’s safety.”

  Behind the glass of his spectacles, Holloway’s eyes were kind. “I ask again—what do you want for yourself and your lady?”

  “I want to have her in my life,” Noel answered at once. “Today and every day thereafter.”

  “Marriage?”

  “I . . .” Hell. He’d never said anything to her about marriage. Only that he wanted to continue their liaison.

  It didn’t need to be an affair. It could be permanent.

  His heart thudded heavily. But— “She’s leaving the country.”

  “She might not, if you offered something more lasting.”

  Noel stilled. Then he flung himself into motion.

  “I have to go.” He took three steps toward the door, then came to a halt. “You’re welcome to my cellar, Holloway, or my library or anything you damn well please.”

  His friend tilted his head to one side as he contemplated the bookshelves. “Most of your books are merely decorative, so I’ll gratefully decline.”

  “Get stuffed,” Noel said amenably before charging down the hallway.

  He summoned his carriage, and within minutes, he drove toward Hill Street. The entire way there, he clenched and unclenched his hands. Once he reached her doorstep, once he saw her again, he’d get down on one knee . . .

  Oh, but he wanted to kneel for her. He’d gladly be on his knees for her forever.

  A lifetime with Jess, giving her endless pleasure, gratifying her every wish. It sounded just like heaven.

  If she accepted him, he’d count himself one fortunate bastard, and spend every minute of every day of every year ensuring that she knew what a gift she’d given him.

  If she refused him . . . he’d have to find some way of moving on with his life without his heart.

  He didn’t wait for the carriage to come to a stop before bounding out the door. Nervousness tensed his muscles—when was the last time he’d been nervous about anything—but he leapt up the front steps. He rapped sharply on the door.

  No one answered.

  He knocked again, and yet again, no one came to the door. He strained to hear a servant’s tread or any movement at all within, but there was nothing. Not a sound, just utter stillness.

  “There’s no one there.”

  Noel turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. A girl in a maid’s tidy apron, a basket on her arm, stood on the pavement. When Noel stared at her, she made a quick curtsy.

  “Come again?” he pressed.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said. “But nobody lives there.”

  He frowned. “She left for the Continent today?”

  The maid shook her head. “There’s been no one in that house for a month.”

  “But this is—” He checked the address. “Number eighteen.”

  “It is, my lord. The last tenant owned a heap of woolen mills, and he brought his wife and daughter for the Season. They hied off back to Leeds when the daughter ran away with a pianoforte tuner.” At Noel’s continued silence, she shifted uncomfortably. “I’m due home. Good day to you, my lord.”

  She hurried down the street before ducking into the mews.

  Dazed, Noel walked slowly back to his carriage. None of this made sense. Jess had been here—he’d dropped her off only hours earlier. Did he see her go inside? She’d been distracted and on edge, so perhaps she had accidentally given him the wrong address.

  Yet all of his conjecture meant nothing. Jess was gone.

  “You’re quiet as a churchyard, Miss McGale,” Lady Catherton said as they rode to the Ashfords’.

  “My apologies,” Jess murmured. “Is there something you’d like to discuss, my lady?”

  “Not particularly,” her employer said. “But some conversation will help pass the time until we arrive.”

  Though her throat squeezed with anxiety, Jess forced herself to say, “I don’t know much about the earl and countess except what I’ve read in the papers. In her newspaper, specifically. She owns and publishes the Hawk’s Eye. She was born a commoner and is now a countess. Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “Remarkable—and scandalous.”

  It almost made one believe that happiness could be within any woman’s reach. Almost. Jess knew better than to imagine the world could bend and change its shape for her.

  She continued to talk with Lady Catherton, pure nonsense flowing from her—the latest fashions she’d observed during her time in London, gossip she’d read in scandal sheets like the Hawk’s Eye—all the way to the Ashfords’ grand Mayfair home. She operated a puppet, projecting her voice into the inanimate thing as it performed.

  The carriage joined the queue of other elegant vehicles lined up outside the earl and countess’s home. Finally, Lady Catherton’s carriage came to a stop and a footman opened the door.

  As the servant helped her mistress out, Jess had the wild impulse to grip onto the carriage’s cushioned seat and refuse to let go. She’d have to be pulled out like someone taking an angry cat from a basket.

  “Help me up the stairs, Miss McGale.”

  Swallowing her terror, Jess climbed down and took her place beside her employer. Lady Catherton put her hand on Jess’s shoulder and held tightly.

  Right. No bolting, then.

  They merged with the guests ascending into the Ashfords’ home. Once inside, they went up the staircase, moving slowly on account of the crush and Lady Catherton’s ankle. Each step closer to the ballroom took a year off of Jess’s life.

  At last, they reached the doorway to the ballroom. Jess tried to hustle past the butler, but Lady Catherton hauled her back with remarkable strength.

  “He must announce us first,” her employer reminded her.

  There was no help for it. Jess gave Lady Catherton’s name to the butler, and he bellowed to the room, “The Dowager Countess of Catherton.”

  Jess herself did not rate an introduction.

  A few heads turned in Lady Catherton’s direction, but their gazes passed right over Jess, as if she didn’t exist.

  Thank God for being insignificant. There was no sign of Noel. No accusations or revelations of the fact that she wasn’t a baronet’s widow.

  She scanned the guests. The earl’s ballroom was exceptionally grand and glamorous, filled as it was with Society’s darlings
. Several chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Beneath the lights, the floor swirled with ladies’ gowns of every hue, precious stones winking around their necks and from their ears. Gentlemen in dark evening clothes provided an elegantly sober counterpoint to the gowns. Music filled the air, courtesy of an octet installed in one corner, and servants circulated with trays of refreshments.

  It was a triumphant night for the earl and countess.

  For Jess, however, it was a crucible.

  “I wish to take a turn around the room,” Lady Catherton said.

  “With a gentleman, perhaps?” Jess asked hopefully.

  “Not tonight, when I am recently returned from the country. I’m certain my conversation would be too dull for a gentleman.”

  Jess swallowed hard and then offered her employer a supporting arm. Together, they skirted the dance floor. Lady Catherton was greeted by many, and some even remarked on her imminent departure to the Continent.

  Walking stiffly, Jess was certain she would run into Noel. Her entire body tensed in nervous expectation.

  If only she could hurry Lady Catherton’s pace, they might be able to leave sooner.

  “Goodness,” her employer said as they reached the halfway point around the room. “Who knew that a week of inactivity could make one so prone to weakness?”

  “Let us finish our turn and then say our goodbyes.” Jess was pleased she didn’t sound too eager. “You’ve made an appearance, but you must now see to your health.”

  After a moment, Lady Catherton said, “I think that I’ll finish my turn and then head for home. I must see to my health, you know.”

  Jess allowed herself an exhale as they headed toward the entrance to the ballroom.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Rotherby!”

  She froze. There he stood, in his black evening clothes, a vision of beautiful masculinity.

  Plans spun quickly in her mind. She could slow Lady Catherton, and wait until Noel stepped into the crowd. Then Jess could rush her employer out the door.

  “A moment, Miss McGale,” Lady Catherton said. “Before we go, I need some time to catch my breath.”

  “Of course.”

  Jess guided Lady Catherton toward a chair against the wall, before helping her employer down into the seat. “There,” Jess said with forced brightness. “Isn’t that better?”

  She quickly scanned the room, but there was no sign of Noel.

  Lady Catherton grunted. She unfolded the fan at her wrist and waved it in front of her face. “It’s rather hot. Do fetch me a lemon ice.”

  Arguing was useless. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jess hurried off toward the refreshment tables, where servants doled out punch, cakes, and ices. She quickly took a lemon ice from a footman and turned back, intent on reaching Lady Catherton as fast as possible.

  She drew up short before colliding with a gentleman. She looked up the long expanse of his silk-covered torso, then higher, to the snowy neck cloth, and then to the jawline—which was unmistakable.

  “Noel,” she blurted. “I mean, Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsy.

  “Jess.” He regarded her, clearly perplexed. “You’re here.”

  She cleared her throat, then held up the little silver cup in her hand. “I’d heard the countess favored lemon ices, and it’s been an age since I’ve had one, so here I am.” She made herself eat a spoonful of ice to give truth to her lie, before setting the cup onto a passing servant’s tray.

  Noel frowned slightly, then his frown deepened when his gaze moved down, taking in her simple gray silk dress that had clearly been let out a few times. Hardly the gown a baronet’s widow would wear.

  She tried to think of an excuse for her unfashionable and drab clothing, but he said instead, “We must talk.”

  Chapter 25

  “I—” She glanced quickly over her shoulder toward Lady Catherton. Fortunately, her employer was distracted by chatting with a lady with plumes in her hair.

  The butler boomed, “The Dowager Countess of Farris, Baron Mentmore, and Viscount Pickhill.”

  Her stomach sank. Three guests from the Bazaar, here, now. And Noel.

  She felt as though she’d been thrown into the middle of a lake and could only slap at the water to stay afloat.

  “Jess.”

  She dragged her gaze back to Noel. “Noel, I mean, Your Grace—”

  “Miss McGale.” Lady Catherton’s voice sounded right behind her. Jess pivoted to see her employer standing a few feet away. “I think it’s time we . . . I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” To Jess’s horror, her employer smiled at Noel and executed a flawless curtsy. “Ah, I see you’ve met my companion.”

  Noel looked back and forth between Jess and Lady Catherton. “Lady Whitfield is your companion.”

  “I—” Jess managed before her employer spoke.

  “Lady Whitfield? I’m not certain who you’re talking about.”

  “The person standing right beside you.” Noel gestured to Jess.

  “I do hate to contradict Your Grace,” Lady Catherton said deferentially, “but this person is Miss Jessica McGale, my hired companion.”

  “Miss McGale?” Noel said, his gaze fixed to Jess.

  There were only a few times in Jess’s life when she’d truly prayed. When her parents both fell ill, and she’d sent pleas to Heaven for them to get well. She’d prayed, too, that the fire would not destroy the family farm.

  Her prayers had gone unanswered. Now she prayed that something, somehow, would stop this cataclysm.

  Yet again, her fervent appeal to the heavens went unanswered.

  Because she saw it then—she saw the moment that Noel understood.

  The heartbreak in his dark eyes nearly made her crumple. She actually staggered as it seemed the floor would give way beneath her. But the floor remained in place, Jess continued to stand, and she watched in abject misery as the wounded man vanished. In his place was a cold, indifferent duke who gazed at her as if she was merely a speck of dust that had landed on his pristine black jacket.

  Just as the music ended, Lady Catherton said, “Miss McGale is most assuredly not someone named Lady Whitfield.”

  “Come again?” Lord Pickhill appeared, with Lady Farris and Baron Mentmore beside him. “We’ve spent the week with her, haven’t we?”

  “She was Lady Whitfield then,” Baron Mentmore said. “But now she’s Miss McGale?”

  “McGale & McGale soap.” Lady Farris stared at Jess, and the wounded look in her eyes was a fresh stab of guilt. “You conspired to infiltrate the Bazaar and then plant the idea of investing in the soap operation.”

  “It was a ploy.” Baron Mentmore’s face darkened with outrage. “The whole time, a mercenary ploy.”

  Lady Catherton looked astonished. “Miss McGale—is this true? You’ve pretended to be a lady?”

  “She wore that very gown,” Lord Pickhill said, waving toward Lady Catherton’s dress. “Your gown.”

  In an instant, Jess saw her family’s fortunes break apart. Lady Farris and the others would withdraw their investment capital, the repairs going unmade, the operation crumbling, and her siblings scattering to the wind. She’d ruined the business, ruined them.

  All the nearby guests stared at the spectacle of Jess being confronted with the devastating outcome of her lies.

  She tried to speak, but words did not materialize. Her eyes had gone hot and dry, and she could only stand there, rooted to the spot by a burning spike that went straight through her.

  Lost. It was all lost. Because of her.

  “My plan worked,” Noel said.

  Silence. Then Lady Farris said, “Your Grace?”

  His voice a wry drawl, Noel said, “A lark, really. It’s all been so tedious lately, everyone and everything the same as always. I used to pull pranks all the time in my school days, so I thought it would be amusing now, finding someone of ordinary birth to pose as one of us. Adding her to the Bazaar would make it even more droll. Miss McGale agreed to my pro
posed scheme—it was even better that she had a business in need of investors. A soap-making business, you know, and quite excellent.”

  Gaze moving over the crowd, fully in command of everyone’s attention, he continued. “At my direction, she presented herself as ‘Lady Whitfield,’ then, through the subtlest of means, presented McGale & McGale to the others. She followed all of my instructions. And,” he added with a smirk, “everyone fell for it.”

  Jess stared at him. Was he truly saying all this? Protecting her?

  “You cannot be serious, Your Grace,” Lord Pickhill said.

  “Believe what I say or don’t, Pickhill. It hardly matters to me.” Noel lifted one eyebrow, the picture of hauteur.

  Lord Pickhill tugged at his lapels and chuckled. “It was well done of you. Very comical.”

  “Amusing,” Baron Mentmore said, and added his own laughter.

  Lady Farris said nothing, but Jess struggled to meet her incisive gaze. Did the countess accept Noel’s explanation?

  Everyone else did. There was laughter and nods all around and murmurs that His Grace had pulled off a remarkable prank.

  Noel’s chuckle was dry as autumn leaves. “With that, I bid you all good night.”

  The crowd parted as he strode out of the ballroom. Jess stared at his retreating back. She felt so many things, shock and gratitude and sorrow all combining into one tempest within her.

  “Miss McGale, please explain,” Lady Catherton said tightly. “Are you in His Grace’s employ or mine?”

  Jess did not heed her employer—likely, former employer—as she raced after Noel, clinging to a thread of hope. She could explain, and he might understand.

  She caught up with him on the landing. Still wearing his smirk, he said, “Well done, Miss McGale. Everyone was fooled. I bid you good night—and goodbye.”

  His eyes were wintry, and as she looked into them, she saw that there was no hope. He was lost to her.

  She had expected this, but that didn’t make the pain any less. She struggled to remain standing, her hand clutching the stair railing for support. “Goodbye, Your Grace.”