by Deb Marlowe
“Him? You’re going out with him?” Bardham ground his teeth. “Why?”
She raked him with a scornful look. “Because he is a gentleman. And you, sir, are not.”
“Good afternoon, Lord Tensford,” she called, moving toward him.
“Good afternoon, Lady Hope.” He bowed. Rising, he fixed Bardham with a warning look, then turned to her without acknowledging him. “Thank you for agreeing to take a drive with me,” he said wryly.
She laughed and pulled on her gloves. “Thank you, my lord. Shall we go?”
She went out on his arm without looking back.
“Oh, my,” she said, as they stepped out. “What a dashing rig.”
He grinned. “My wallet may be thin, but I am rich in my friends. Sterne lent me his curricle.”
He helped her up. “You are indeed wealthy in your friends,” she said as he climbed in and took the reins up with skill. “But only because you are rich in character, sir.” She stiffened her spine as they eased out into traffic. “Before we reach the park, I wish to say something.”
His mouth twisted. “My hands are full. I doubt I could stop you.”
“I want you to know I think you a fine gentleman and I enjoy your friendship. It pains me to see you worry. I think you deserve everything good.” She paused. “I offer my apology for the . . . incident at the end of our last adventure. I have no wish to make you uncomfortable in my company.”
His gaze slid sideways. “That was a very fine speech.”
“I meant it.”
“It was a fine kiss, too. I greatly enjoyed it.”
“As did I.”
“Too much,” he said with a sigh, then a great frown. “I don’t wish for either of us to be hurt.”
“No. Nor do I.”
“It’s between us . . . the potential, for hurt.”
“Yes.” He meant heartbreak. But there was also potential for so much more. She was gambling on the more.
“Then let us remain friends.”
“Friends,” she agreed. For now. “As a friend, can I ask you to accompany me to tea after the park? I have someplace special in mind.” She tossed him an arch look. “It’s the next step in my campaign.”
“I should be glad to. If you still mean to find a young lady who would have me, I will tell you, I am in need of alternatives.”
She’d heard his mother had brought a young lady to Town with her. “I think I can provide you with at least one palatable choice.” She crossed her fingers under a fold of her skirt.
He sighed. “It’s find an acceptable girl or learn all I can about timber and milling, for I have no taste for my mother’s plans.”
“Milling?” she asked.
He explained about his idea, and his reluctance to destroy Greystone’s old forests.
She shook her head, impressed. “You do not flinch from hard choices, Lord Tensford. I admire how you handle your difficulties with grace and ingenuity.”
He shrugged. “It’s only necessity—and while you have not shared all of the facts about your parents and your mother’s illness, still, I think you must not be a stranger to stepping in and doing what must be done.”
She flushed a little. It was both uncomfortable and strangely wonderful to be seen. To know that someone had looked past her light comments and noticed the painful truth behind them.
They spoke of other things, then, but not in depth, for they’d reached Hyde Park, where the entire fashionable world appeared to be out on the strut. Time and again, they were stopped for a greeting, a compliment or an invitation.
“You seem to be well on your way to being accepted back into the ton, my lord.”
“Yes, well, the curiosity seekers are due to Lady X. But the cautiously friendly folk are due to you.” He was not wearing his stark and impassive look now. In fact, his gaze looked soft and . . . hot. “Thank you.”
Her face had grown warm, too. The heat was spreading, from the back of her neck, along her arms . . . and heading south to pool in her belly.
“Shall we leave them behind and go to take our tea?”
Her heart started to hammer. “Yes. Please.”
She directed him to Jermyn Street and a bakery called Le Cygne. He wondered what she was up to as he paid a lingering boy to watch the bays. They went inside and sat by the window, where the French Madame who owned the place took their order herself.
The tea was of good quality and the pastries delectable. He ordered gingerbread and sighed in happiness at the first bite.
“A favorite?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Cook always made ginger biscuits in the winter months. I would come in from the cold and follow my nose down to the kitchens. I could stay, if there were ginger biscuits. She’d fix me a plate and a tumbler of cold milk. It was always so warm and cheerful down there.”
Unlike the rest of the house.
“Our cook’s specialty was a currant cake. It was always a grand day when she made them. The smell would drift up and everyone would smile, from my father on down to the chamber maid.”
They enjoyed in silence for a moment.
“What do you eat in your tenant cottage?” she asked, eventually.
He shrugged. “Toasted bread and cheese. Fruit from the orchards. Fish from the river.” He grinned. “Sometimes I am invited to a tenant’s or laborer’s home for dinner. Just like those tea parties of old, the cook at Greystone always gives me a game pie or a pot of stew to take with me.”
“I’ll bet you get a lot of invitations, then,” she said with a laugh.
“More than in Town, for sure.”
He took another bite, savoring it. “It is a good way to stay connected with my people, keep track of their conditions, and be sure that they are fed well, at least for a day.”
Her expression turned solemn. “We are fortunate, all of us who know the comfort of good smells, a warm welcome and a full belly.”
“Very true.” The bloke who married her would know such comforts, and countless more. He wondered who the damned lucky sod would be.
He hated him already.
“Why was Bardham at your home?” he asked suddenly.
“He’s thick with Catherine and her brother. I cannot avoid him entirely.”
“If he bothers you, tell me immediately, and I’ll—” He’d beat the sodding arse to within an inch of his life. And he’d enjoy every minute of it.
“I think Lord Bardham understands the situation.”
“I hope you are right.”
Madame came to their table. “Everything is fine, yes?” She was middle aged, very French and still pretty.
“More than fine. Every bite was delicious.” Tensford reached for his purse.
“Non, non! Lady Hope and her friends are always welcome, and they do not pay here.” She waved him off with a smile.
He looked between the two of them, sure there was a story there.
Lady Hope merely raised her brows at the proprietress.
“Yes, yes.” Madame nodded toward the back. “The doors are unlocked. All is ready.”
“Will you come with me, my lord? I will explain.”
“Ah, the campaign continues?”
“It does.”
She led him to the back. Another woman worked in the kitchen. In one corner she had trays of small, rounded loaves laid out and she stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled wonderful. “Oyster stew today,” she told Lady Hope.
She sniffed appreciatively. “I’m sure it will be well received.” She led on, taking a narrow stair at the back to a sparse bedroom upstairs. A wide door on the far wall looked out of place, until Tensford realized it was a pass door that connected this building to the next.
They went through, to a room set up as a parlor, but with a cot in the corner. Lady Hope went to the window and adjusted the drapes, leaving an opening down the middle.
“Come and look,” she beckoned.
An alley lay below and the back door to the bakery kitchen. The half
door had been left open at the top and steam and the smell of the stew drifted out.
“Now, stand back, please. Just a step or two. They will not come if they think they are being watched. Can you still see the back door?”
He nodded, mystified.
“Good. Stay there and watch. We’ll wait. Let me know if you see anyone down there.”
She settled into a nearby chair. “You’ve been scarce these last days, sir. Have you been on the hunt for Lady X?”
“I have.”
She stilled. “Did you find her?”
“Almost. I am very close.”
She pressed her lips together.
“You still disapprove.”
“I’ve been reading back over her sheets. I believe she overreacted to the stories that were going around about you and your family and I wondered why. For the sales? The scandal? Was she trying to say something to the ton without saying it directly?”
“And what did you conclude?”
“Nothing absolute, but I did see a hint of a pattern. She seems to react strongly to any idea of a woman in peril or a girl neglected, or one pushed into marriage by her family.”
It hit him like a bullet, the crux of what she was saying. “You think she reacted strongly to the stories of me neglecting or abusing the women in my family, because she is suffering a similar situation?”
She lifted a shoulder. “How can we know for sure? But I think it is a possibility.”
His mind began to churn out scenarios. Was Lady X writing her scandal sheet for money? For revenge? As a small, secret rebellion?
So many emotions. Empathy. Anger. Frustration. But when he looked at Lady Hope he felt nothing but wonder.
“All these years, she’s been publishing. They all hang on her words. Yet no one noticed? No one thought to look. Until you.”
She was . . . he didn’t even know how to describe it. She was so different, so much more than any other woman he’d even known.
He took a step toward her—but movement in the alley below caught his eye. He turned.
“Someone is below.”
She moved to his side. “Be sure to stay back out of sight.”
A stack of crates sat down there, between their spot and the bakery door. A young girl had crept out from behind it.
“She must have been there all this time,” he said.
“She’s being careful. The crates are purposeful. They create a sheltered spot, one that cannot be seen from the street.”
The girl crept to the bakery door and peeked over the edge of the half door. She was young. Five years? Six? Thin and wearing a dirty smock. She scratched at the door and held something up. It looked like a coin.
The woman in the kitchen came at once. She carried one of the round loaves. It had been hollowed into a bowl and was filled with the stew. She gave it to the girl, who turned and beckoned.
An even smaller child crept out, hurrying to take the bowl. The woman brought another and the pair retreated again, going to their sheltered spot to eat.
“The woman didn’t take the coin.”
“Not a coin. It’s a token.” Lady Hope looked as serious as he’d ever seen her. “It’s a very great secret we trust you with, my lord. A program begun by Hestia Wright, of Half Moon House, several years ago. The children may come at any time the bakery is open. They present their token—it has a swan on it, for Le Cygne—and they are fed. No questions asked.”
Below, another figure had turned into the alley. A boy. A bit older. His feet were bare. He kept to the shadows, presented his token and bolted his bowl right there at the door, his shoulders hunched while he ate. Glancing over at the girls, he exchanged wary nods with the eldest and slunk back the way he’d come.
“The children make the choices and distribute the tokens. They must keep the secret, not rush the bakery or share the information with any who would come to make trouble or harass Madame out of misery or spite.”
“They are given responsibility for the continuation of the program,” he said, understanding.
“They have done very well. Incidents have been few. The Duchess of Aldmere, working with Hestia Wright, expanded the idea, founding another similar spot in Wapping. Gradually, she recruited other like-minded ladies in the ton, so that the program is beginning to spread across the city. The young lady I wished to tell you about today learned of it from her mother. They’ve opened the newest spot, out of a chop house near Lincolns Inn Fields.”
He was mulling it all over. “The tokens are brilliant. And the idea that they must protect the program. It unites them and makes them a part of it. It’s all so . . .” He shook his head. “Vast. So much bigger than my poor efforts. The sheer enormity of it—it boggles the mind.” He shook his head. “Started by a former courtesan and continued by the attention and generosity of Society ladies—and no one has the least notion of it.”
He bowed his head. The turmoil inside of him grew larger and darker and so much more difficult to resist. “I don’t wish for you to continue your campaign,” he said roughly.
“No?” She sounded startled.
“No. You’ve won. You’ve convinced me. There are good and decent women in all levels of Society. People willing to work hard and care for family and others, too.”
His pulse thundered. His temple throbbed. He lifted his head and stared at her. “I am convinced—and I know what I am supposed to do now. I should be asking you to introduce me to one or two or more of these paragons. Because I assume they have the appropriate requirements—single status and a good deal of money. Am I right?”
She exhaled a long breath and said nothing.
“How am I supposed to ask such a thing?” he demanded.
“They are simple words.” Her eyes glittered, sharp and bright. “Just ask.”
“I cannot. And you know why.”
Her cheeks were glowing.
Only the soft, quick sound of their breathing lived in the quiet of the room. Her pulse fluttered at her throat.
He pulled in a ragged breath. His skin had gone too tight. He felt feverish and furious and bursting with anger and thwarted desire. “I don’t want some mythically kind girl with a bulging dowry, Hope. I want you.”
In her face he saw the same sort of hope and pain and need that were tearing him apart inside.
He stepped close. He touched her waist and then allowed his hand to continue on, settling into the beckoning curve of the small of her back.
Her face turned up. She looked fierce and proud and yearning—and he knew she would not be the one to initiate this kiss.
He shouldn’t.
But he did.
And it was glorious and lovely and right. She melted beneath him and they flowed together, two rivers of desire joining into one in a confluence of rough, raw emotion.
It took almost no time to coax her mouth to open to his. Her hands clutched his shoulders, moved behind his neck.
Duty and responsibility be damned. He was just a man, reveling in heat, tasting the velvet sweetness of his woman, fitting his rising cock into her welcoming curves.
He buried his face into the arch of her throat, touched his tongue to the beat of her racing pulse.
He wanted to bare her creamy skin.
He wanted to tug her over to that cot, toss up her skirts and make them both mad with desire.
He wanted to take her home to Greystone and never let her go.
But he could not.
So he lifted his head.
Without words, she protested.
But he slid his hands to her shoulders and kissed her temple. “We should go.”
They held each other up a moment. When he was finally sure he could walk without staggering or snatching her back, he huffed out a breath and stepped away.
Silently, they watched each other over across a stretch of floor that might as well have been an ocean.
At last, she nodded. Neither spoke as they retraced their steps. She waved goodbye to the Madame and her assis
tant. He helped her into the curricle.
They drove, swaddled inside a thick silence.
“I’m engaged to take dinner with my family and a guest this evening,” she said as they pulled up before her brother’s house. “Later we will be attending the Montbarrow’s party. Several young ladies who might be flattered by your attentions will be there. Miss Nichols will be glad to introduce you to them. But if you find you have . . . something you’d rather say to me . . .” She faltered, took a deep breath, then continued. “I will make sure to be in Lady Montbarrow’s parlor on the second floor, at the top of the stairs, at half past ten.”
He nodded.
A footman emerged to help her down. She stood on the pavement, watching him gravely. “Will you come? I hope you will come.”
“Then I will,” he said roughly.
She turned and preceded the servant into the house.
Tensford drove away, knowing that she’d taken the best part of him with her.
Chapter 8
We are a civilized lot, ladies and gentlemen, and when we make a mistake, we must be prepared to admit the truth of it, and to make amends . . .
—Whispers from Lady X
Sterne had already dressed for the evening, so his valet was free to attend to Tensford. He might have enjoyed the process, having forgotten what a luxury it was to allow someone else to press his clothes, shave him and tie him into an elegant, complicated cravat, but he was far too distracted.
It was an impossible decision.
How could he choose his own happiness over the duty he owed to his estate, his people? It was not the way a gentleman behaved.
Feeling like a fraud, he walked stiff-legged down the stairs. It felt wrong, somehow, that his shining outside did not reflect the bleak, bleeding despair he felt on the inside.
Laughter drifted from the parlor. It was to be a dinner party, the valet had told him. Tensford wished fervently that he hadn’t agreed to attend. He was torn, and too, he was troubled by a nagging feeling, a thought that he’d forgotten something, or missed something important. He wanted only to hide and brood, and somehow decide if he could make that appointment with Lady Hope at Montbarrow’s tonight.