Dukes in Spring

Chapter One

London Residence of the Duke and Duchess of Southwick

The way Jack (short for Jacqueline, although the last person to call her that had earned a black eye for their trouble) saw it, she had two choices before her.

Sitting in the very front row, the duke and duchess, better known to Jack as Aunt Mara and Uncle Ambrose, beamed from ear to ear as they watched their son plunk away at the keys.

Rolling her eyes when Henry hit a G-flat instead of F natural, Jack did a quick sweep of the captivated audience to make sure she wasn’t being watched before she lifted her skirts and darted out of the music room using a servants’ door that was already partially ajar.

“That’s better,” she sighed, her poor aggrieved ears all but whimpering in relief as she continued down a dimly lit, narrow hallway, before emerging through another hidden doorway into the front parlor.

A bright, sunny room in shades of pale blue, it was already set for the reception that would take place after the recital with matching sideboards laden with silver trays of fruit, cheese, and cucumber sandwiches in addition to bowls of freshly squeezed lemonade.

A set of glass double doors were propped open, emitting a warm spring breeze that would coax guests out onto the rear stone patio where half a dozen round tables had been draped in cream colored linens and decorated with vases of violet flowers pruned from the duchess’s own lilac bushes.

Helping herself to a plate, Jack piled it with as much food as it would hold, poured a glass of lemonade, and went outside, bypassing the tables for a wooden bench hidden on the other side of a towering rose hedge.

Stuffing an entire cucumber sandwich into her mouth, she mused, not for the first time, how differently her life had turned out from where it had started.

Ten years ago, she’d been a common thief.

Well, not common. She’d been an excellent thief.

Albeit a bit brazen, which had led to her attempting to steal a bracelet in broad daylight.

A bracelet that had been attached to the wrist of Lady Katherine Colborne, Marchioness of Kentwood (and younger sister of the Duchess of Southwick).

A brief tussle had ensued, during which Kitty had made the discovery that Jack was not a boy, as she’d preferred people to believe, but a girl.

She’d insisted Jack accompany to her manor in Mayfair, and Jack, never one to turn down a potential score, had agreed.

But instead of stealing the silver, Jack had stolen the marchioness and marquess’s hearts .

. . or something to that effect. For reasons she still didn’t completely understand, and in spite of her admittedly poor behavior (sliding down bannisters, refusing to wear dresses, picking all the locks in the house), they’d decided to keep her.

They’d even made her their legal ward. And now, a short decade later, an orphaned street rat with no a discernable future aside from imprisonment or an early death was eating cucumber sandwiches in a beautiful Grosvenor Square garden.

The most unbelievable part?

She was wearing a gown.

An itchy gown, she noted as she scratched behind her neck where a strip of lace trim was irritating her skin.

With puffy yellow sleeves and a white sash pinching her waist. There had been a matching shawl, but she’d lost that an hour ago.

Shortly after she’d untied her bonnet and tossed it behind a potted fern in the front hall.

Following the sandwich with a swig of lemonade, she was considering removing her shoes when a flash of movement caught the corner of her eye.

Through a thin shield of shiny leaves and thorns, she watched as a man, her age, perhaps a few years older, strolled out on the patio.

He was tall, with dark-brown hair swept off his forehead to reveal even darker eyes.

His attire, expertly tailored to his muscular frame, indicated he was guest. But it wasn’t his burgundy tailcoat or the broad width of his shoulders that interested her.

It was the silver flask that he procured from his pocket and tilted to his mouth.

Because if there was anything that was going to get her through the next three hours of tedious socializing, it was a nip of whatever was in that flask.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully, emerging from the hedgerow with the fluidity of a shadow born from her early years of stealing into houses under the cover of darkness. “Enjoying the recital?”

To his credit, the man barely startled.

“Immensely,” he drawled, taking another drink. His voice was deep and warm, like the velvet blanket she had draped over the foot of her bed. “The best Beethoven I’ve ever heard.”

Jack extended her gloveless hand. “May I?”

His brow rose as he held out the flask, obsidian gaze unreadable when she brought it to her lips, took a small sip, then sipped again before giving it back.

“McDougall . . . 1815?”

“You know your whisky.” The corner of his mouth lifted ever-so-slightly, displaying the hint of a dimple high in his right cheek. “McDougall, 1822.”

“I do, which is why I know this batch was made in 1815 from the hint of peat in the tasting notes.” Her head tilted. “Later, legal batches contain no peat. Tell me, are you a smuggler by trade, or is it a weekend endeavor?”

“A true smuggler would never reveal his occupation, or where his cache of Highland contraband is hidden.”

His husky laugh caused a strange fluttering in her belly.

The peat, she told herself.

It was the peat.

At twenty years of age (or thereabouts), Jack’s experience with men had been intentionally limited to a few kisses here and some petting there.

As the ward and heiress of a wealthy, influential family, she’d suffered no shortage of attention.

And suffer was the right word for it. Being forced to sit in a chair and smile politely while a preening viscount compared her hair the light of a candle was nothing short of torturous.

Not to mention the balls that Kitty had dragged her to, or the evenings spent at the theater being watched from nearby boxes as if she were a piece of meat in a den of lions.

Fortunately, she was far too cynical to believe a single word that her various suitors had spoken in their fruitless attempts to cajole her into a courtship.

To win eternal favor with the powerful Marquess of Kentwood, they would say and do anything.

Jack was merely a convenient means to attain what they truly coveted.

They didn’t want her.

They didn’t even know her.

Not really.

Which was why she had made herself an unbreakable rule. If she ever chose to give her heart to a man, it would not be to a noble one. Present company included . . . although what was the harm in a little flirtation to pass the time?

“Cache?” she repeated, twirling a loose ribbon of auburn hair around her finger. “Now I’m intrigued.”

“As I am,” he murmured, but by the intense way he was staring at her, it was clear his interest was not in whisky. “Our paths did not have the opportunity to cross inside. Could I have the privilege of your name?”

“If you give me yours,” she countered, her traitorous belly performing a slow, slippery turn when he grinned.

“Byron Chambers,” he said, slipping the flask back into his pocket before executing a flawless bow.

Byron Chambers.

An aristocratic name, no doubt.

One that fit him as well as his satin waistcoat.

He’d been born into both of them, and likely holding a silver spoon besides, whereas Jack always felt as if she were wearing a costume.

From her shiny ringlets to the pearls dangling from her ears to the dress slippers she was aching to step out of, everything was for show.

An attempt, guided by Kitty’s meticulous fashion sense, at blending into a Society where outward appearance was all that mattered.

Would Byron look twice at her if she were in rags instead of riches?

Would he ask for her name if she still spoke like a street urchin?

Would he have any interest her at all if he knew where she really came from?

The sudden swell of voices had them both glancing at the house where guests were beginning to spill out through the open doors, indicating the recital was—at long last—over.

Spying Kitty’s blonde head amidst the pastel swirl of silk and chiffon, Jack leaned in toward Byron, her lips a whisper away from his ear.

He smelled divine, an earthy, masculine combination of sandalwood and the whisky that still lingered on his breath.

“Jacqueline. My name is Jacqueline.” A wayward brush of her hand along his side, and then she bolted, fleeing back into the thicket of thorns that were as sharp as the knife she had on her thigh.