Читать книгу A Thoroughly Compromised Lady - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 8

Dulci’s announcement was immediately unpopular with everyone except Jack. ‘But the next waltz is mine,’ a rather dull-witted fellow, the Earl of Carstairs’s son, stepped forwards to protest.

The boy was not fast enough. Jack claimed indisputable possession, covering Dulci’s gloved hand on his sleeve with his own. ‘I’m sure Lady Dulcinea has something saved for you later.’

‘I have a country dance free in the fourth set.’ Dulci quickly offset the boy’s sour face.

‘Good choice,’ Jack remarked in low tones, leading her towards the dance floor. ‘Less conversational opportunities with a country dance. You’re probably doing him a favour. I doubt he has the requisite half-hour of conversation saved up to get through a waltz.’

‘I’m doing myself a favour.’ Dulci placed her hand on Jack’s shoulder as they positioned themselves. ‘The man’s got the brains and build of an ox. He stepped on my feet no less than five times last week at the Balfour ball.’

‘Here I thought you were protecting Ortiz when in reality you were angling for a dance with me.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not desperate to dance with you like the other women in the ballroom.’

‘They want more than dancing from me, I assure you. You noticed my following? It is quite considerable.’

Dulci blushed as he intended.

‘What? There’s nothing wrong with the words “following” or “considerable”.’ Jack feigned ignorance of his innuendo.

‘Except when you say them. I can’t say I have noticed your “following”, but I’ve noticed you’re still as conceited as I remember in the orangery.’

Jack laughed at Dulci’s pique, the familiar longings starting to stir. He was enjoying this: his hand at her back, the warmth of her body through the thin silk of her gown, his mind taking pleasure in the mental exercise of parrying her comments.

‘It’s the truth.’ Jack swung them into the opening patterns of the waltz. He was starting to wonder if his emotional distance could be challenged tonight. He’d like nothing more than to try his luck at stealing a few kisses.

‘That all women are dying of love for you?’

‘No need to be envious. It’s not as if you don’t have the other half of London at your feet.’ Jack shot a look at the jilted heir on the sidelines. ‘I would have thought women found him rather handsome. He’s tall, muscular in a beefy sort of way. Quite the pride of English manhood.’

‘It will all run to fat in ten years,’ Dulci said matter of factly. ‘I prefer a leaner sort of man. Big men don’t tend to dance well.’

‘Your brother’s tall,’ Jack argued for the sake of disagreement. With Dulci, anything was fair game for an argument. ‘The ladies love dancing with him whenever Nora gives them a chance.’

‘Brandon’s an exception.’

‘Speaking of Brandon, I had a note from your brother a month ago. He and Nora are doing well.’ Brandon was the one safe topic of conversation they had between them. ‘I gathered they aren’t coming up to town because of the new baby.’

‘No, they won’t be coming up. It’s to be expected. They are the most doting of parents.’ A small smile played across Dulci’s lips at the mention of her new nephew, giving her features a rare soft look. It occurred to Jack that Dulci’s long-standing reign as an Incomparable might indeed be a lonely one. The girlfriends who had débuted with her eight years ago would have long since married and started their own families. He had not thought of it in that way before—a price to be paid for her determination to remain unattached. Much in the same way he paid for the lifestyle he achieved. It had been quite unintentional on his part. Was that true for her as well?

It was also a stark reminder that he didn’t know Dulci Wycroft all that well, all the ways she’d changed in the years of his absence. She’d come of age and entered society while he’d been off performing the various commissions that had eventually landed him his viscountcy.

Much of his adult life had been spent away from England doing things for the empire he couldn’t share with another. The result was that he knew very little about the woman she’d become. Good God, when he’d left England she’d been sixteen, and he a mere twenty-four. Those intervening years were a blank. He knew only that her beauty, her wit, her innate fire for life and the wild side she strove to keep hidden drew him irrevocably despite his better intentions. Jack didn’t dare contemplate too deeply the reasons for his inexplicable attraction. Those reasons were best left unexplored for fear of uncovering longings and truths that couldn’t be answered or tolerated. He could not afford to fall in love with anyone, especially not Dulci. He’d have a hard time explaining that to Brandon.

Dulci cocked her head, studying him with her sharp gaze. ‘What are you up to tonight, Jack? It must be important if it meant seeking me out. For the record, I was not fooled about your reasons for approaching me. You wanted that introduction.’

Jack executed a tight turn to avoid a collision with the less observant Earl of Hertfordshire. ‘Do I have to be up to anything? Perhaps I just wanted to dance with the loveliest girl in the room?’

‘Doubtful. The last time you saw me, I broke a pottery bowl over your head.’ Dulci’s eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘You won’t tell me what you’re really doing here, will you?’ she accused.

This was old ground. Old ground, old wound. It went beyond the quarrel in the orangery. He’d had this discussion before with other women. He was not at liberty to discuss his business with her or with anyone else. It was rather ironic that while achieving a title had made him socially acceptable and available, he was not at liberty to act on that availability. A woman was only entitled to part of him. The Crown got the other part without question or consideration.

Such a condition was not acceptable with Dulci. Her unattached status was proof of that. If she tolerated half-measures, she would have settled for a convenient tonnish marriage by now. But half-measures were all he could give. What he did for the king was of the utmost secrecy and not necessarily ‘appreciated’ in finer circles. He knew in the absence of such disclosures on his part that Dulci had her own theories about his actions, none of which showed him in a favourable light.

‘You’re not going to set up any kind of scheme, are you, such as the time you fleeced Wembley out of his thoroughbred over a game of Commerce?’ She gave him a stern look and Jack could not hold back his laughter.

‘What a little hypocrite you are, m’dear. Why should you have all the fun? Besides, Wembley deserved it.’ Jack leaned close to her ear, inhaling the light scent of lavender, fresh and beguiling like the temptress who wore it. ‘I heard you won a racing dare in Richmond last week.’

Dulci looked momentarily alarmed. ‘No one is supposed to know. Who told you?’ She stopped herself in mid-question and shook her head. ‘Never mind, there were only two of us who knew. I know very well who told you.’ She made a pretty pout. ‘I thought Lord Amberston would know better.’

Jack laughed. ‘Don’t worry, your reputation is intact. However, it does occur to me that you play awfully close to the fire—does society know their darling Incomparable dabbles in scandal on a regular basis?’

Dulci would not be diverted. ‘This is not about me, Jack. I want your word. I don’t want you playing cards with Señor Ortiz.’

Jack was all mock solemnity. ‘I promise you, this is not about cards.’ Such a suggestion was almost laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious. She could no more conceive of stopping a war before it started than he could conceive of having nothing more serious to worry about than a card game. The damnable thing was, he could not tell her otherwise.

‘Do you promise?’ Dulci was sceptical of his easy acquiescence.

‘You have my word, Dulci. In exchange, I want yours that there will be no more moonlight horse racing in Richmond. That’s dangerous. You should know better than to risk your neck and your horse’s.’

‘Now who’s the hypocrite?’ Dulci flashed a teasing smile that showed off the dimple in her cheek. ‘You’re hardly the arbiter of moral fashion. I remember a few years ago when you masqueraded as a fop to help Brandon catch the Cat of Manchester. That escapade ran fairly close to outright law breaking. My horse race was merely ill advised.’

Jack managed a smile at the memory. ‘That’s the best service I’ve ever rendered your brother. I got him a wife in the bargain and he’s been happy ever since.’

Dulci held his gaze, returning his smile. Something warm flickered to life in those blue eyes of hers. Jack moved her close to him as they turned. She did not resist his subtle possession. Jack gave her a private, knowing look. He knew she was remembering the thrill of their exploits to save Nora, the midnight wedding ceremony where Brandon, the earl, had married the notorious Cat. Perhaps she was remembering the dangerous sparks of desire that had risen suddenly and unbidden in the orangery at Christmas.

‘Don’t, Jack,’ Dulci cautioned him softly.

‘Don’t what, Dulci?’ Jack prodded with a whisper, knowing full well her thoughts had gone in the same direction as his, his body enjoying the feel of her far more than it should on a ballroom floor. ‘Don’t remember you in the orangery? Your hair coming down, your lips wet and red, your face tilted up in the candlelight waiting for my kiss? Your body pressed to mine as close as two bodies can be with their clothes on? How can I forget when I’ve seen you like that in my mind every night since?’ The moment had been unpredictably heady. For a man with his vast experience with women, his reaction had played havoc with his senses whenever he recalled it, which was far too often for his own good.

Nothing had proved its equal, although Jack had certainly tried in the ensuing months. Dulci was a woman who demanded all of a man and that was far too dangerous of a commitment for him to make, for her as well as himself. But he was flirting shamelessly now, seducing her with words, his body and mind firing at the thrill of the challenge she presented.

He saw the pulse in her neck race at his words, belying the protest on her lips. ‘Don’t remember, Jack. We both know it was a mistake and it will be a mistake again.’

‘I don’t make mistakes when it comes to seduction, Dulci.’

‘No, but afterwards you make plenty. Your seductus exitus needs work.’

‘That’s not a real Latin phrase.’

‘Exitus is and it doesn’t change the fact that yours needs work.’

‘Only practice makes perfect.’ Jack gave a heavy sigh of over-exaggerated disappointment. ‘Alas, I have so few chances to practise.’

‘That’s not what I hear.’

Jack had no desire to talk about those particular rumours—rumours that involved a certain actress, strawberries and a large grain of the truth. If he could get Dulci away from the crowds, away from the eyes that watched their every move, maybe they could just talk, maybe something more. He did want to talk. He wanted to find out what she knew about the Venezuelans. Then again, who was he fooling? He wanted to do more than talk. He wanted to see if the sensations were still there. Perhaps Christmas had been an anomaly. It was a risky proposition at best, especially if he was wrong, but tonight his better judgement was no match for Dulci in pomegranate silk and memories of hot kisses.

‘A walk in the garden then, Dulci,’ Jack breathed against her ear, inhaling the lavender rinse of her hair. He could feel her body giving in, no matter what arguments her mind made. He could feel it answering to his, fickle compatriots to the codes of decency and honour that demanded they take a different route.

‘All right, but just a walk,’ Dulci consented.

Jack murmured low at her ear, ‘I’m sure there’ll be something handy to throw at me if you need it.’ His hand tightened at her waist, ushering her towards the French doors that led outside. Ballrooms might be for business, but gardens…well, gardens were for pleasure.

The garden with Jack was a bad idea. Anything with Jack was a bad idea as she very well knew from gossip and brief personal experience. He had a reputation for a reason, actually several reasons. Dulci wasn’t regretting her consent to walk in the garden, but she was going to. She knew it and yet she allowed him to lead her down both the proverbial and literal garden path, because she’d been able to think of nothing else since Christmas and Jack was irresistible, flaws and all.

There were definitely plenty of flaws, which worked only to heighten her own curiosity regarding the man behind the rumours—where did he go when he disappeared from London for months on end? What service had he rendered King William that had catapulted a poor squire’s son into the ranks of the peerage with a hereditary title? How true was the tittle-tattle circulating behind ladies’ fans that Jack was a lover beyond compare? There was probably a reason curiosity killed the cat, Dulci thought. She’d do better to forget such sordid things and to hope that Jack didn’t read minds.

It was proving more difficult than expected to banish such thoughts at the moment. Jack drew her aside, slightly off the garden path, having arrived at his intended destination, a small alcove with a burbling fountain and a stone bench, the moon overhead and the paper lanterns that festively lined the garden paths giving off enough light to wander without fear of tripping.

It was a setting that showed Jack to great advantage. The moonlight cast a silvery hue to his winter-wheat hair, giving it the appearance of a smooth, sleek mane, every hair in place. The subtle detail work of his tailor emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist and the length of his legs, a reminder that while turned out in the guise of an immaculate, well-groomed gentleman, there was a raw, rough power beneath the clothes, signs of a man who’d led a life full of varied experiences.

Dulci often wondered if anyone else saw that quality in Jack. The longer she knew him, the more she didn’t know him. He was a master of illusion. One only saw what Jack wanted to show and she’d been as easily duped on occasion as the rest.

She no more knew what truly drove Jack than any other member of the ton. She’d like to know more. Since the night in the orangery she’d been thinking rather a lot about Jack, her attentions drawn to whatever rumour was circulating about him any given week. She’d heard since Christmas he’d been busy kissing Lady Scofield in her big gardens at Lambeth.

A delicious tremor shot through Dulci. Had he truly brought her out here, into this garden, to do the same? Would she, should she, let him? Those Christmas kisses had dominated too much of her mind. She couldn’t deny the truth; she wanted Jack to kiss her and perhaps do more than kiss her. Her body could not forget the heat Jack’s hands had invoked, the need for something more that his body had awakened in hers. She wanted to feel that way again, wanted him to wake her again.

She opted for a show of sophistication. She didn’t want Jack thinking she was overly eager if he actually had seduction on his mind. Nor did she want to be overeager if he didn’t; such a miscalculation would be embarrassing and only serve to stoke his already overinflated sense of self-importance.

‘What now, Jack?’ Dulci gave him a practised, coy smile. She moved into the alcove, surveying its furnishings with an assessing look. ‘The fountain is probably not an option, but perhaps the bench is a possibility.’

‘Did you consider I might not have asked you out here to seduce you? I seem to recall in the ballroom that you were rankly against such a venue.’ Jack leaned against a stone column at the alcove’s entrance, looking urbane and relaxed, very much at home with the situation. But Dulci could feel his eyes, hot and direct, following her movements. She could not fool him for long. He was experienced enough to know the game was afoot.

‘Since when has that ever stopped you, Jack? The greater the challenge, the harder you try.’ She trailed a hand in the fountain.

‘I have been known to rise to the occasion.’ Jack grinned wickedly and stepped towards her. ‘I have the firmest of resolves, or so I’ve been told.’

She recognised that cicisbeo smile of his all too well. It was his stock in trade in London ballrooms, the smile that said she was the centre of his attention, that every wish, every desire was about to be fulfilled and more. She’d seen many women believe it. It was easy to believe that smile. She believed in it now against better sense.

Dulci stepped backwards, striving to create more space between them. She had not come to the Fotheringay ball looking for this. Indeed, she had not expected to find Jack here at all. The Season was too young. She’d thought she’d have a few weeks to herself before Jack came to wreak havoc on her senses. She’d thought she’d heard he was out of town. ‘You’ve gathered all the other women to your banner tonight, Jack. You have no need of me as well.’

‘But you’re the only one I want.’ Jack was grinning broadly now. Drat him, he knew he had her on the run.

‘No, it’s simply your arrogance, Jack. You can’t stand not having every woman in the room swooning at your feet.’

Jack laughed, the sharp planes of his aristocratic face melting into boyish playfulness. ‘By Jove, Dulci, no one quite cuts me down to size like you do, and goodness knows on occasion I need it.’ He looked ten years younger, whatever secret cares he bore dissolving, minimising the darkness and mystery that limned him like a nimbus around the sun since his return to England. It occurred to her to wonder what he’d been like before? Surely he hadn’t always been this way? How did a man become like Jack?

‘Dulci.’ The sound of her name on his lips was an invitation to sin. It was enough and it succeeded where all Jack’s calculated foreplay had fallen short. She was in his arms in an instant, letting her body savour the strength of him, the feel of him, the almond scent of his soap, letting her mind forget all the reasons this was going to be a bad idea. His mouth took hers in a long, slow kiss, teasing her with its languorous exploration, one hand at the back of her neck, fingers entwined in her hair. The heat in her started to rise.

‘I’m sorry about the orangery, Dulci,’ Jack murmured, with sincere penitence. How could she not forgive him? Then something caught her eye over Jack’s shoulder and she froze, her mind remembering all the reasons.

Jack nuzzled her neck encouragingly. ‘Dulci, this is where you say you’re sorry too about throwing that pot and you run your hands through my hair looking for any remnants of that damnable lump you gave me.’

‘I don’t think so, Jack.’ Dulci pushed against his chest and stepped back, the moment lost to reality and disappointment. She’d been so ready to believe. She gave a flick of her head, nodding for Jack to turn around. It was the orangery all over again.

A throat cleared in the nominal darkness. A nervous, blushing page dressed in the royal livery of Hanover stammered his message. ‘Excuse me, my lord. I have an urgent message from Clarence House. I was told to find you and tell you to come at once.’

Dulci watched Jack straighten his shoulders almost imperceptibly, the boyish pleasure that had so recently wreathed his face instantly subdued. The transformation happened so swiftly, it was possible to think she’d imagined the other. Jack pressed a few coins into the messenger’s hand, no doubt meant to buy his silence regarding where and how the boy had found the viscount and sent him on before turning back to her.

‘Dulci, I’m sorry. I have to leave. May I escort you back inside?’ He was all duty now. Did this happen with all his women or was it just her bad luck? She hadn’t heard, but then again she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to brag Jack had thrown them over for a government summons.

‘What could the king want this time of night? Isn’t he off to his own clubs and entertainments?’ Dulci had recognised the address immediately: the residence of William IV.

‘England never sleeps, Dulci.’ Jack gave her a kind smile that she found condescending.

‘Don’t patronise me, Jack,’ Dulci snapped.

‘I’ll call on you tomorrow,’ Jack offered. But she would have none of his olive-branch brand of pity.

‘I will not be home to you. I am not going to become one of your easy women who let you kiss them whenever you pass through town.’ Dulci pushed past him, angrier at herself than at him. Jack would always be Jack, whoever that really was. As much time as she’d spent listening to rumours she’d thought she’d have understood that by now. She would find her own way back inside and, after a decent interval, she’d leave. The night had lost its lustre. But he halted her with a warm chuckle that said he didn’t believe her bluff for a moment.

‘You can’t ignore me, Dulci. Very well, don’t receive me. But I will see you tomorrow night. At the Danby rout, if you remember,’ Jack called softly. ‘I’ll be the one in azure. Perhaps we can rename the ball the Blue Danby ball. It can be our private joke.’

She didn’t want anything ‘private’ with Jack. Dulci fisted her hands in her gown where no one could see, her temper rising. It was just like Jack to make a joke when she was mad. Damn it all. She’d already forgot about the wager. She allowed herself the unladylike luxury of stomping her foot in frustration on the garden path. She’d known from the start coming out here with Jack was a bad idea; anything with Jack was a bad idea as she’d proven yet again. At least she’d have plenty to berate herself with on the lonely carriage ride home.

The carriage was crowded for all that there was only one person in it, thanks to the enormity of her thoughts, Dulci groused an hour later. She felt slightly better thinking it was Jack’s fault, but that wasn’t entirely true. He’d merely opened Pandora’s box with his kisses and let loose all nature of strange feelings and emotions into her world. Hopefully common sense hadn’t got out with the rest. Maybe it still hung there like a butterfly with one wing caught in the closed box lid, the other wing struggling for release. It certainly wasn’t still in the box—tonight had illustrated that. At best, she had only half of it left.

Jack had awakened the curiosities of both mind and body. She was twenty-six and seriously doubted she would ever make a marriage that suited her temperament. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to know the mysteries of the marriage bed, the secrets of satisfying the passions of the body.

She was not so naïve as to be unaware that a certain calibre of gentleman had offered to solve that mystery for her. To date, she’d always been quick to scotch any efforts in the direction. Some risks were simply not worth taking. The kind of gentleman who offered such gratification was not the kind of gentleman who would keep her secrets. Good heavens, Amberston hadn’t even kept their horse race secret. One could only guess what someone like him would do with an even bigger secret.

Jack was different. The shocking thought nearly jolted her off the carriage seat. An idea came to Dulci. Why not Jack? Any woman with eight seasons behind her, virgin or not, knew when a man desired her and Jack had wanted her. Perhaps he only wanted her for a night, for the novelty of it.

Whatever his motives, he did want her and that was all that mattered. If his wanting lasted only a night, so much the better. She was looking to satisfy her curiosity, nothing long term. Jack had already proven he could wake her passions and he’d already proven he could be discreet. He kept secrets for the Empire. He could surely keep one short liaison from public consumption and he would never tell Brandon.

Dulci tapped her chin with a gloved finger. Hmm. Brandon might be a sticking point. She would have to overcome any resistance his friendship with Brandon might pose. Then she laughed out loud in the empty carriage at the ridiculous notions passing through her head. She was actually sitting here planning how to seduce the notorious Viscount Wainsbridge! She needed her head examined. What woman of virtue deliberately gave away her greatest asset? Moreover, in her numerous seasons she’d seen with her own eyes what happened to the young girls who’d fallen prey to various pre-marital temptations. The world wasn’t big enough for a fallen woman.

A wicked voice whispered its rebuttal: only if you get caught. You haven’t been caught yet. Jack’s perfect—discreet, skilled and in no mood to get caught himself. He might even empathise with you…

She could laugh all night at the odd ideas floating through her mind, but Dulci could not quell the growing sense that in spite of all the decent reasons not to go through with it, she just might.