Chapter Three
Anna left the blue house on Cleveland Row, her hood pulled up as much to protect her cheeks from the chilled, night air as to give herself a moment of privacy before coming face to face with him again. To think the man Mrs. Dove-Lyon had ordered her to marry was Jackson Cole.
Jackson.
As handsome and wild as ever. Angled jaw, ebony hair, eyes that captured and held. Though there was a hard edge in his gaze now, as if the boy who’d always been smiling and laughing over some silly joke or prank had forgotten humor along with his adolescence.
And his dress . . . The boy who’d once jeered at the ridiculous flounce and “bird colors” meant for lords of his station hadn’t looked a stitch out of place in his jonquil silk waistcoat and his darted, emerald dress coat that narrowed at the waist. And those skintight breeches.
Anna’s cheeks warmed remembering how the moleskin had molded to his powerful thighs.
He’d always held a superior seat, and the riding had clearly lent to a proud male physique. A man who had grown into the kind of lord the previous duke had demanded.
Old hurt cracked the edges around her heart, the ache agony.
The hand signals from their childhood told her he hadn’t completely disregarded their past, but six years was a long time to change. She would know more than anyone.
With her brother’s ascension to a peer of the realm and her inevitable launch into society by association, many areas of her life were improved, including her wardrobe, her manners .
. . and her right hook. Unfortunately for His Grace, part of her agreement with her brother to suffer through comportment lessons had been the opportunity to sit in on William’s private boxing lessons.
His Grace.
Anna stopped there, on the dark street, her chest squeezing. If Jackson was now the duke, then his father—that horrible man—was gone.
Relief and empathy swirled an emotional storm inside her. The previous duke had been a cold, exacting man, never more so than where his eldest son had been concerned. But death left holes in a person’s heart, no matter how cruel or irresponsible a father may have been.
Every man had their sins.
So did Jackson. Anna would not condemn the son for his father’s.
The boy she’d known all those years ago had fallen prey to his own.
Her gloved fingers curled into a tight fist until the soft leather whined. No matter how Jackson’s acceptance would have her brother’s vowels shredded and burned, the good Duke of Grandfellow would win no favors from her. Not until he begged her forgiveness.
Jackson waited in the shadow of a tall maple, the chiaroscuro of the nearby gas lamp throwing everything in stark relief and all but hiding his presence from anyone walking along the path that led deeper into the park.
The clip of booted heels echoed down the way. Short strides, hurried.
Jackson smiled. Anna would never deign to wear something as proper as ladies’ slippers or to walk at anything less than a gallop.
He’d been apprised of her brother’s bestowed title; Jackson was expected to know the width and breadth of the aristocratic comings and goings even outside of his role as an agent for the Crown.
An annoying expectation for any peer to avoid uncomfortable faux pas in society.
The way Prinny wished to bestow titles on every soldier and saint within the empire, a duke must be constantly informed.
But Jackson could not argue the bestowment of William Greene, an officer who’d taken a bullet to the chest and somehow survived. Wellington himself had described the man’s heroism and grit to the Prince Regent:
The man took the iron meant for me. Wounded, bleeding out, Officer Greene got back to his feet, released his saber, and cut down the shooter before he’d finished loading his next shot. The man is a beast, and I thank the good Lord every day he fights on our side.
Jackson had attended the meeting, his work with the Home Secretary requiring him to stay acquainted with any developments on the front lines across the North Sea to better his knowledge of any enemies who might find themselves on soil closer to home.
The gushing recount of Greene’s heroism hadn’t surprised Jackson. Both Greene siblings were formidable—indomitable in their personal definitions of what was right. Not even the proposal to run away and become the wife of a duke’s heir could entice one to betray their moral fiber.
The footfalls suddenly ceased.
Jackson stirred from his spot, his eyes searching the road with discrimination.
Was she having second thoughts? Had something stopped her? Some-one?
The blade from his sleeve fell into his open palm, his instinct to bloody anyone who thought to lay a hand on her.
Then the footfalls resumed, growing louder.
Clip. Clip. Clip.
Anticipation squeezed his chest.
Then she was there, the intransigent woman herself. The lamp’s glow poured down around her, illuminating her striking figure under a dark-green pelisse.
Her hood was drawn up, but Jackson knew every curve, every freckle of her face. And when that hood turned in his direction as if she sensed his gaze, he knew how her green eyes would flash with intelligence . . . or temper. She had both to spare.
Through the low-lying black iron of the park’s fence, she stopped on the well-trod path not two feet from Jackson’s refuge.
Replacing his blade to his boot, Jackson stepped from his hiding place, whispering her name so as not to frighten her.
The blow to his nose had his head snapping back and his teeth rattling along his jaw.
Jackson warded off another perfectly aimed swing and stepped more fully into the light, his hands raised. “Anna, stop. It is me.”
Her hood had fallen back, revealing those lush lips of hers set in a hard line. “I know.”
Jackson stared at her until something dripped thick and dark from his nose. He pressed a finger to his wet upper lip and tipped his hand toward the light cast by the lamp. His skin was stained red.
She’d drawn his cork.
“Red,” she said. “The color becomes you.”
The insult was so natural, so her, Jackson barked a laugh. The unexpected action caused them both to startle. The ache along the bridge of his nose was muted—the bone hadn’t broken.
Small mercies.
More humor bubbled up from deep in his gut. He wiped his hand clean on his handkerchief and shook his head as he replaced the linen to his pocket.
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
Her fierce expression didn’t soften. “You deserved it.”
He did.
Her red hair was a riot of curls around her face. Wild. Strong. Lovely. He’d always thought so, even as a boy.
The years melted away, and Jackson was transported back to before the dukedom.
Before he’d decided on a life of danger and secrecy.
He’d been a marquess, true enough, but with Anna, he’d been less .
. . and infinitely more. A boy, but also a friend, a partner, and much later in their relationship, a young man whose childish infatuation had grown into true manly feelings.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “Who taught you to land a facer?”
“Does it matter?”
Jackson shrugged. “I might wish to employ the man myself. Your positioning was perfect.”
“I would be more than happy to demonstrate my form a second time, Your Grace.”
That got his attention. As did the sweet fluttering of her lashes that had Jackson shifting out of fist range.
He grinned.
Some things truly never changed.
“Might we avoid further violence until after we talk?” he suggested. When she still didn’t lower her fighter’s stance, he added, “A man without his teeth is hard to understand—and it’d be hard for you to avoid the inevitable spittle.”
There!
A twitch of her lips. One that set his heart racing.
“You? Less than perfect? The ton would surely see it as the end of days,” she said mockingly.
“A compelling argument to spit out a mouthful of teeth.” He took a step closer and tilted his head to give her better access to his jaw. “Aim for the top row. Better shock value if the front two are missing.”
Her brow raised, so she was not completely unmoved by his attempt at humor. “What of the rest?”
He sighed. “I would prefer to keep the bicuspids at least. I do so enjoy good beef steak. Makes me feel like a real predator when I can shred the meat from the bone.”
Vulgar, descriptive words to make her smile.
She rolled her eyes instead. “Those are canine teeth, not bicuspids.”
Really? He frowned. Canine. “Like a dog?”
Her mouth pursed. Dare he hope it was to keep humor at bay?
He pushed. “Latin was never my subject. I know, I know; I am a shame to the duchy.”
“Yes.” She snorted. “However, will the ton forgive a man as rich as Midas?”
“The boy who flew too close to the sun?”
“That was Icarus.” She sighed. “I take it you never grasped Greek Mythology, either? Always Tantalus with the knowledge just out of reach.”
He winced and tried again. “The man who had to roll the stone up a hill forever?”
“That was Sisyphus.”
“An unfortunate name.”
“Better than Prometheus.” At his pause, she continued, “The Titan who had his liver eaten every day by a vulture.”
Jackson pulled at his collar. “You are certainly better versed in a man’s torture than this particular gentleman.”
“And better read.” She smirked.
So did he.
And there it was again: the feeling of freedom, of comradery. As if the past years apart had never happened. Anna had never cared for titles. Never been impressed with wealth or status. Certainly, never given a fig for the arrogance of a well-to-do duke’s son.
Her fists lowered, and she raised her hood back up, successfully hiding her next expression. “Are we to discuss things here?”
Jackson was tempted to spark her temper, if only so her hood would fall once again. A black eye or two would be worth the view of her bright eyes and slanting mouth.
But he’d need his vision if he were to see through the storm of the next few days.
“My townhome—” He near bit his tongue off to stop such an idiotic idea.
She was no locksmith’s daughter any longer.
To invite her back to his residence—a lord’s sister—in the middle of the night .
. . Betrothed or not, an unwed woman didn’t enter a man’s home without chaperone at any time of the day.
She crossed her arms over her chest, her gloved forefinger tapping against her forearm.
The impatient gesture had him crushing his next grin before it surfaced. Annabeth Greene wasn’t a woman who cared about appearances or propriety.
And no matter the rush of their nuptials, by the end of the week, she would be the Duchess of Grandfellow, a title not easily ill-reputed.
“My home is a few blocks away.” Thank God his mother preferred the country estate to town. Not to mention Figaro. Jackson needed his brother’s meddling like he needed a pin to the eye. He stuck out his arm for escort. No reason they could not be civil now that the initial fires had been shot.
Never one to relinquish her arms, Anna breezed past him. “Which way?”
“East. Toward Picadilly.”
She marched out of the park and turned down the street.
“That’s west,” he called.
She turned on her heel without a word and set a brisk pace in the other direction, her arm coming up over her head to show her hand with three of her five fingers raised. Another code, this one a taunt: Run up the tree. A signal with a secret meaning: It’s a race.
His contented sigh was a white puff in the cold air.
Secret hand signals, code words between forbidden friends; was it any wonder he’d found spy work suited his preferences?
Even as a child, Anna had been quick and fearless, with a horrible sense of direction.
And he, a young boy: privileged, cautious, not allowed to ever stray from his path.
His heart clenched. The truth was, regardless of society’s expectations, she’d always suited him.
Until he’d gone and ruined everything.