Chapter Four
When Byron set out for the park that morning, alerted to Jacqueline’s habit of walking along a trail he hadn’t even known existed, a few different scenarios of what might happen had played through his mind.
He wouldn’t find her.
He would find her and she would try to run.
He would find her and she would beg for forgiveness which he would graciously grant.
All reasonable, logical situations to expect and prepare for.
A scenario he hadn’t entertained?
The one that was currently unfolding.
After a fleeting second of stunned astonishment when her lips first touched his, he quickly overcame his disbelief and kissed her back.
Not because he wasn’t still furious with her, but because when a man was handed a gift, only a fool would toss it away without opening it up first. And while Byron was many things, a fool wasn’t one of them.
His fingers slid into her glorious mane of thick auburn curls as he angled his head and took the kiss deeper, his tongue dancing across the seam of her lips in a bold command that she yielded to on a soft murmur of acquiescence that was all the more intoxicating given how sharp her edges had been a moment before.
Over the course of his five and twenty years, Byron had kissed his fair share of women.
Nearly all of them had been well versed in the art of seduction, as he had little interest in wooing innocents.
Two of them had become his mistresses, and he’d been wise enough to end both relationships on pleasant terms. Neither woman had captured his heart, or even come close.
They had been what they were intended to be: distractions of the flesh in a world that was irritatingly demanding of its dukes.
As such, they had tasted of winter. Spicy plum cakes and traditional carols where everyone knew the words.
Where comfort was found in the familiar, and the end of the story was written at the same time as the beginning.
But Jacqueline . . . Jacqueline was different.
The slick, velvety cavern of her mouth tasted like the first day of spring after six months of a long, cold freeze.
She was the fresh, warm breeze gliding across cool skin with an underlying hint of honey and the tangy bite of lemon.
But more than that, she was the promise of something new.
Something unexplored. Something that was both tangible and impossible to define.
His hands went lower, following the sleek line of her neck to her shoulders before gliding along her ribcage to her waist. He pulled her closer, and it was like dropping a branding iron in an open flame.
Instant, red-hot heat that burned away whatever remaining vestiges of control he was pretending to hold onto.
On a low, wolfish snarl, he backed her up against a tree, his arm shielding her back from the bite of the bark even as he took her plump bottom lip between his teeth.
She arched against him, her nails digging into his nape as she brought her knee to his hip and the friction between their bodies ignited a passion that neither was able or willing to rein back in.
He kissed a fiery path along the slant of her collarbone, and was on his way much lower than that when a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye.
A blue swallow, its head tilted quizzically in their direction as it paused in its flight to observe.
The bird wasn’t a reason to stop what they were doing in and of itself, but it was a reminder of where they were.
Not in the privacy in a bedroom or even a parlor with the door locked, but a public park.
Where anyone might happen upon them at any second, even on a reclusive path such as this one.
And while Jacqueline did not act as if she were the ward of a powerful nobleman who would likely call for pistols at dawn if he knew where Byron’s hands were at that precise moment, per Mr. Briar’s investigation that’s exactly who she was.
Or at least, that was one of her identities.
She was also an expert on Scottish whisky.
A titian-haired temptress.
A thief.
And the best damned kisser he’d ever had the distinct pleasure of meeting.
With great reluctance, he raised his arms and took a step back. He’d already gone further than he should have. If he didn’t stop now, there was no telling where that final line would be drawn . . . or who might discover them before they got around to picking up a quill.
“Jacqueline.” His voice was a dull rasp. His blood was on fire. And his trousers . . . his trousers no longer fit as they should. “I apologize.”
“For what?” Reaching into what remained of her coiffure, she plucked out whatever pins his fingers hadn’t already knocked loose and shook out her mane, sending it spilling over her shoulders in a gorgeous waterfall of red silk. “I kissed you.”
So she had, and he couldn’t say he was angry about it.
“Let me escort you home,” he offered, extending his forearm as if he hadn’t just been ravishing her against a tree. “You can return my flask, and we’ll call ourselves even.”
She laughed. A full, rich, throaty sound that did nothing to ease the tightness in his trousers. “You’re not escorting me anywhere, let alone to my house. This was an . . . interesting diversion. But that’s all it was.”
“What about my flask?” he demanded when she started to walk away.
“What flask?” she called puckishly over her shoulder, leaving Byron grinding his teeth while trying—and failing—not to stare at her exquisite derriere until she turned a corner and disappeared from his line of sight.
She’d won this round, he conceded grudgingly.
She wouldn’t win another.
*
The next day brought an intermittent spattering of spring showers which, according to poems, were supposed to bring May flowers. In the meantime, all they were delivering to Jack was boredom.
“If you’re searching for something to do, your stitching could use some improvement,” Kitty suggested, her eyebrows arching as she entered the parlor to find her ward sprawled listlessly across the length of an elegant green sofa.
“I would, but I lost my embroidery hoop.”
“I believe a maid found it.” Kitty’s lips pursed. “Inside the fireplace.”
Jack propped herself up on her elbow. “How did it end up in there?”
“We both know the answer to that. If you don’t want to embroider, what about practicing your scales?”
“When we already have such an accomplished pianist in the family?” she gasped. “I wouldn’t dare try to compete with Henry.”
“You could join me at my dress fitting. We can go for tea afterward. There’s a new shop that’s recently opened on the corner of Brook Street.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’d rather follow my embroidery hoop into the flames.”
“What do you propose to do then? Lay about all day? You’re not a slug.”
“I could visit Aunt Abigail and see if she needs any help with her patients.” With a grunt of effort, Jack sat all the way up. “Last week she had me hold a man down while she set his broken arm. You should have heard the sound he—”
“I’m sure I don’t need it repeated,” Kitty interrupted with a grimace. “And you could go visit Dr. Chadwick, if she hadn’t left for Northampton this morning. Which reminds me, she’d like you to look after her cats while she and her husband are away.”
“How long will they be gone this time?”
Although not actually an aunt, Dr. Abigail Chadwick was a longtime close family friend.
As one of the only female doctors in all of England, she’d delivered both of Mara’s children, and Jack had been apprenticing with her off and on since she was twelve.
Or thirteen. Or however old she’d been when Henry was born.
While she had little interest in pursuing a career in medicine, it was entertaining work, with no day being the same as another.
It had also given her the job of caring for Abigail’s cats whenever she and her husband traveled to their country estate, as Abigail was quite particular, and trusted no one but Jack to look after her beloved felines.
“A week at the most. I’ll arrange for a carriage to take you to their house before dinner.”
“My legs work perfectly fine.”
“Do they?” Kitty asked with feigned amazement. “Thank heavens. Given how long you’ve been lying about, I feared they were broken.”
Jack rolled her eyes. “For your information—”
“Pardon me, my lady, but a gentleman caller has just arrived.” Appearing in the doorway, the housekeeper delivered to Kitty a small white card. After reading the name scrawled across it in black ink, the marchioness’s gaze snapped to her ward.
“Stand up and make yourself presentable,” she ordered. “The Duke of Bradford is here to see you.”
“The Duke of who?” Wrinkling her nose as if she just inhaled a bad odor, Jack nevertheless obeyed, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirts after she’d stood up and stretched her arms above her head.
There were a few occasions where she knew better than to argue with her guardian, and whenever Kitty got that particular tone in her voice was one of them. “I don’t know any dukes.”
“The Duke of Bradford, and apparently you do, as he is waiting in our hall. Oh, look at your hair. We’ll be a minute, Mrs. Bishop.
Please escort His Grace into the drawing room and serve him tea.
” Clucking her tongue, Kitty went straight to Jack with her hands already extended and began buzzing around her head like a bee circling a potent flower.
“Ouch!” Jack cried when a pin jammed into her skull. “That hurts.”
“No one ever said being beautiful was painless. Hold still . . . hold still . . . there!” Kitty clapped twice and took a step back to admire her handiwork just as a rebellious curl sprang loose and pinged across Jack’s temple.
Her lips pursed. “You’re presentable, at the very least. Are you sure you’ve never met the Duke of Bradford before?
He’s rarely in London, given how much he travels, but I did see him at Henry’s recital. ”
Kitty shrugged as they made their way toward the drawing room and the mysterious duke.
“If he was, we weren’t introduced. He probably has the wrong house.
I’m sure he meant to call on Lady Adelaide two doors down.
” She stopped in the middle of the hallway and snapped her fingers.
“I bet that’s it. I’m sure of it. In fact, I really don’t think I even have to go in.
You can explain the mistake, and I’ll be upstairs. ”
Hiding.
While she loved her Uncle Ambrose, that was where Jack’s tolerance for dukes started and ended.
Of all the noblemen, they were undoubtedly the worst. Their arrogance was unmatched.
Their obliviousness to their own mortal failings was comical.
Their dependence on a title they’d done absolutely nothing to earn except being born to the right set of parents was pitiful.
“Move another inch away from the drawing room,” Kitty hissed, “and I’ll make sure to have every embroidery hoop in London delivered to this address by the time the day is through.
Honestly, I don’t know why the Duke of Bradford is here.
I’m sure you’ve done nothing to encourage his advances.
But he is a good man, of good fortune, from a good family, and whether he’s come to the wrong house or not, you will march in there, you will smile, and you will—so help me God—be polite. Is that clear, Jacqueline?”
“All right, all right,” Jack groaned, throwing her head back. Staring at the ceiling, she counted to three, and when she brought her chin down, she was wearing her very best I-don’t-like-you-but-I-promise-not-to-throw-something-at-you smile. “Happy?”
“That remains to be seen.”
A maid opened the door, and Kitty, her own smile fixed in place, preceded Jack into the drawing room. There came the quiet clink of porcelain as a teacup was set back in its saucer, the murmur of obligatory greetings, Kitty’s laugh, and then Jack’s cue.
“Your Grace, may I present my ward, Miss Jacqueline Colborne.”
“Wish me luck,” Jack muttered to the maid before she entered the drawing room and began to sink into an automatic curtsy, only to stop halfway when her gaze caught on the man standing beside her guardian. “You. You’re the Duke of Bradford? Bloody hell.”
“Jack,” Kitty said between clenched teeth, “what on earth are you—”
“At your service, Miss Colborne,” drawled Byron with an insufferable wink. “Won’t you join me for tea?”