Brenda Hiatt Read online

  “I give you good day, Lord Foxhaven,” he said, bowing. “I have been sent with a message from the War Office.”

  “Good to see you again, Woolsey,” Jack greeted the senior clerk, one known for his self-importance. “How goes the peace process?”

  Mr. Woolsey produced a grimace that might possibly have been a smile, along with a sealed letter. “It progresses on various fronts. This message will no doubt tell you whatever it is you have need to know.”

  Jack glanced at the envelope and his eyebrows rose at the sight of the Duke of Wellington’s seal. “No doubt it will. I presume I may send any response to Whitehall?”

  Mr. Woolsey sniffed. “You’ll not wish to keep His Grace waiting. I am willing to remain while you compose it, my lord.”

  “This instant?” Jack was incredulous. “Surely it can’t be as urgent as all that, now we’re at peace. I’m a busy man now, you know, with estates to consider.” He no longer had to jump at Wellington’s command—or anyone else’s. The knowledge gave him a perverse delight.

  Unwilling respect colored Mr. Woolsey’s response, pleasing him further. “Of…of course, my lord. You may send your response to Whitehall.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woolsey. I’ll be in touch.”

  Jack waited until the man was gone to break the seal on the duke’s letter. Its contents were brief and to the point.

  Recently appointed to the post of ambassador to Louis XVIII’s court, Wellington had reason to believe certain factions intended his removal, not only from Paris but from life. Given that climate, he wished to surround himself with a few people he could trust. In particular, he felt that Major Ashecroft’s experience as an unorthodox but clever strategist, combined with his other distinctive abilities, would be of great benefit in exposing any plots before they came to fruition. He was therefore “invited” to join his former commander at the royal court in Paris.

  Jack perused the letter again, thoughtfully. He had no doubt that there were many in France who would count it quite a coup to dispose of the great Duke of Wellington who had so embarrassed Napoleon’s forces. He was surely in far greater danger than he implied in writing, for Wellington was no coward.

  Jack had made quite a name for himself over the course of his military career, he knew, for his ability to extract information, supplies, and other, more personal favors, from sources of all ranks and nationalities. Wellington plainly thought those particular abilities could be put to good use in Paris just now. Just as plainly, the Iron Duke had not yet heard of Jack’s succession to his title.

  A post in Paris, working again under Wellington—the only man other than his grandfather whose respect had ever mattered to him. The idea appealed to Jack, on various levels. But it would be the death of any chance of fulfilling his grandfather’s dying wish. Once back amid the licentious atmosphere there, he had no doubt that he would give way to temptation in short order, making his previous excesses seem tame by comparison. His character—and reputation—would be fixed, as the most debauched Lord Foxhaven England had ever known.

  Unless…

  Unless he married first, and brought his bride along. Surely Lady Haughton would be proof against the temptations of Paris. With a respectable wife, he might strike a blow for England and still keep his resolution to honor his grandfather’s wishes. It was the only way.

  So a leisurely courtship was out after all. This very afternoon he would attempt to obtain Lady Haughton’s promise. And the moment he had her secure—by this evening, no doubt—he would send his response to the Iron Duke.

  Lady Haughton did not keep him waiting above two minutes, which Jack took as an excellent sign. Then she apologized for that brief delay, which augured even better.

  “I left my muff upstairs,” she explained as she joined him and Lady Creamcroft downstairs, “and Prudence reminded me that I’d be chilly without it—at least in an open carriage. Is yours?”

  “It is indeed.” Endeavoring to hide his amusement, he indicated his high-perch phaeton through the drawing room window. For a moment he thought Lady Haughton would clap her hands, but she merely clasped them tightly together instead.

  “How famous! I’ve never ridden in such a conveyance in my life. Shall we go?”

  A chuckle escaped him despite his efforts, so childlike was her delight. “Very well, my lady. Lady Creamcroft, your servant.” He bowed to the wooden-faced Prudence and escorted her lively young sister from the house.

  Jack assisted Lady Haughton up the short ladder into the phaeton. “I fear your sister does not entirely approve of me,” he commented, once they were out of earshot.

  “Oh, pray do not mind Prudence.” She settled herself into the seat, then looked over the edge as if to judge the distance to the ground. “She truly believes she is looking out for my best interests.” The face she turned back to him showed no trace of alarm at the height of the carriage.

  Jack smiled his approval. More worldly ladies than she had exhibited substantial nervousness at being suspended nearly six feet above the street. “You are fortunate to have someone to watch over you so carefully.” He whipped up the horses.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she replied with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Her face brightened again as the pair of bays broke into a brisk trot. “Are these carriages as dangerous as Prudence says?”

  “Only in the hands of an inept driver,” Jack assured her, though she seemed to need no such reassurance. The smile she sent his way in response nearly took his breath away. He realized again how very lovely she was. “A diamond of the first water,” Peter had said. By Jove, the man was right.

  It was no more than three blocks from Upper Brook Street to the Grosvenor gate of Hyde Park. Only moments later they turned in to join the throng already assembled along the paths to enjoy the fine October day. Jack had already decided that this would be the proper moment to launch the next stage of his campaign: achieving a first-name acquaintanceship.

  “That deep shade of green particularly becomes you, Lady Haughton…or may I call you Agnes?”

  To his surprise, she laughed at him. “Not if you wish me to answer, my lord.” Her eyes danced merrily, so she could not be offended. “I’ve always detested that name. Family and friends call me Nessa,” she explained. “You may do so as well.”

  Only as the feeling subsided did Jack realize how dismayed he’d been for a moment, thinking she had rebuffed him. Now he grinned in relief. “And you may call me Jack. I, too, prefer a nickname to my given one.”

  She inclined her head playfully. “Very well then, Jack. The name suits you, I think.”

  “And Nessa, you. I confess I’d had difficulty thinking of you as an ‘Agnes.’”

  “I’m relieved to hear it!” she replied, and they laughed together, drawing stares from two nearby carriages and a few pedestrians.

  As he had with so many of the gambles he’d taken throughout his career, Jack decided to hazard everything upon a single throw.

  “Lady Haughton—Nessa. I enjoy your company as much as that of any woman I’ve ever known. In fact, I believe we deal remarkably well together. It is my wish that we might always do so.”

  Her eyes widened to astonished pools of liquid brown, but she did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I had hoped, when you implied such an intention this morning, that ’twas merely to mollify Prudence, but I see now it was not so. I must apologize, Jack, if I have in any way led you to believe I expected such a declaration.”

  Jack felt the first stirrings of misgiving, though he took her continued use of his name as a hopeful sign. “This is entirely my own inclination, I assure you, Nessa.” He transferred the reins to one hand so that he could take hers with the other. “I wish you to become my wife. Will you?”

  Gently but firmly, she extricated her hand from his clasp. “I’m most honored, of course, but I fear my answer must be no. I have no intention of marrying again, ever, no matter how much I might like a man.”

  As stunned as though she had dump
ed cold water upon his head, Jack nearly let the reins go slack, before the sidling of his spirited horses recalled him. Bringing them quickly under control, he turned back to this most startling woman. “You are certain?”

  She nodded. “I am absolutely resolved, and have been so for some time. I’m sorry, Jack.”

  7

  Nessa watched the rapid play of emotions across Jack’s face with some concern. Was it possible that he actually cared enough for her to be wounded by her refusal? It seemed highly unlikely. More reasonable was the theory that he needed her wealth, though Prudence had implied he was quite well set-up financially.

  “Jack?” she prompted softly, when he made no response to her final words.

  He blinked, her voice apparently jarring him out of his thoughts. “I beg your pardon, Lady Haughton, and hope I have not offended you by my precipitousness.” His tone was distracted, as though his mind were not on his words.

  “I gave you leave to call me Nessa, remember? I’m not at all offended, and do hope we can remain friends.”

  The smile he gave her was rather twisted. “Friends. Of course.” He studied her for a moment, consideringly, then leaned toward her. “Very good friends, perhaps?” His voice was now low and suggestive.

  Nessa felt a shiver of mingled alarm and excitement. But surely, this was what she’d been hoping for? “That…that might be pleasant.” Though she tried for a seductive tone, the words came out rather high and breathless.

  Jack drove on for a few moments, and Nessa realized that he was guiding the phaeton down one of the less-traveled side paths of the Park. Again, that curious mixture of fear and anticipation coursed through her. What might he be intending?

  A minute or two later, he pulled the horses to a halt. They’d rounded a bend and trees now screened them from any onlookers. Transferring the reins to one hand, he turned toward her.

  “I’d like to be your very good friend, Nessa.” With his free hand, he reached out to gently—so gently—stroke her cheek. A wild jumble of feelings assailed her at his touch, so unlike any touch she’d experienced before.

  Unconsciously, she leaned into his hand. “I…I should like that, Jack.” Again her voice trembled, defying her control.

  Stroking again from temple to jawline, he then curled his fingers at the nape of her neck and drew her, again so gently, toward him. For just the barest second Nessa resisted, then became pliable under his touch, swaying forward until their lips were only inches apart.

  “I should like that, too,” he said softly. Tilting his head slightly, he brought their lips together.

  His kiss was not precisely demanding, but it was very thorough. He began by gliding his lips along the outer edges of hers, then delicately explored her lips with the very tip of his tongue. Finally he pressed his mouth firmly upon hers, and she felt her own soft and yielding beneath his. And then it was over.

  Nessa realized she was breathing very quickly. Lord Haughton had never kissed her like that! His infrequent kisses had been either dry, fatherly pecks, or wet and unpleasant—the latter during their occasional couplings. Lord Foxhaven’s kiss was something else entirely.

  And most pleasant.

  She smiled up at him and thought he looked startled for a moment. “Is that how a rake kisses?” she asked. “I suppose there is something to be said for experience.”

  He was undeniably startled now. “Lady Haughton—Nessa—you are a woman of continual surprises.” His hand, still on the nape of her neck, tightened there for an instant, as though to pull her to him again—but then he released her.

  “I should take you back to your sister’s. The fashionable driving hour is nearly over.”

  Nessa tried to hide her disappointment. “Certainly, if you think it best, my lord.”

  He gave her another lingering look that set her pulse, only beginning to slow, into another gallop. But then he turned his attention resolutely to the horses, taking the reins again in both hands. “There should be a place to turn around just ahead,” he said, flicking the pair to a trot.

  They drove back to Upper Brook Street in silence, but Nessa scarcely noticed, her mind was so busy. Had this been but a prelude to a future seduction, or had her kiss disappointed him into abandoning the idea? She wished she had the courage to ask, but could think of no remotely delicate way to do so.

  Certainly she had not been put off by that kiss, so much more enjoyable than the quick one she’d stolen at the masquerade. If that was a sample of what a notorious rake could do, perhaps she should peruse the entire catalogue of his skills. She shivered naughtily at the thought—one no gently bred lady should have allowed to cross her mind. But it appeared she might never have the chance to do more than think about it.

  “Here we are, my lady,” said Jack, pulling the phaeton smartly to a halt in front of the Creamcroft house. Jumping down, he came around to help her from the carriage, then escorted her to the door. Frantically, she tried to think of some way to appease her curiosity.

  “Will I see you again, my lord?” she finally asked in a rush, just as he plied the knocker. The door was opened immediately by the vigilant butler.

  “Most assuredly, my lady,” he replied, to her vast relief. “I’ve never been one to surrender after a single setback.”

  Leaving both Nessa and the butler to wonder what on earth he meant by that remark, he bowed, then walked briskly back to his phaeton.

  “I tell you, Peter, the easiest course by far would be to compromise her so that she has no choice in the matter. I would never have believed a widow with five years of marriage behind her could be such an innocent.”

  Lord Peter, stretched at his ease before the fire in the Foxhaven House library, sat up to eye him with alarm. “Jack, you haven’t already—that is—surely not in the Park?”

  Jack laughed at him. “Of course not. ’Sdeath, Peter, I didn’t think you believed all of those stories about me! It was damned tempting, however, I must admit. She seems surprisingly willing to enter into an affaire.”

  Peter regarded him with interest. “So what stopped you?”

  Jack frowned and flicked an invisible speck from his well-fitted tobacco-brown pantaloons. “Do you know, Peter, I’m not quite sure. I nearly crossed the line, thinking to force her to wed me in that way, but I’ve a profound dislike for changing my battle strategy without proper planning. Didn’t expect her to refuse an honorable offer, you see.”

  Peter blinked. “You mean to say you made her an offer in form? So soon? And she actually refused you?”

  “Things were going exceptionally well,” Jack explained with a sigh. “She had let down her guard—she’s really quite animated when away from Lady Creamcroft’s influence, you know. We’d agreed to use each other’s Christian names. The moment seemed propitious.” He stared moodily into the fire.

  “Did she give a reason for her refusal? Has she formed an attachment for someone else?”

  Jack’s head snapped up. “No, of course not! In fact, she said that she was resolved against marriage, period. To me, or to anyone.”

  For some reason, Peter seemed almost pleased. “She is but a week out of her weeds,” he reminded Jack. “Perhaps, given more time…”

  But Jack shook his head. “Time is something I don’t have. Wellington has requested my presence in Paris—and I’ve more than half a mind to go. But if I cannot secure Lady Haughton first—”

  “You’ll never have a prayer of becoming respectable,” Peter finished, “or of securing the balance of your inheritance.” He frowned. “You needn’t go, surely? You’ve sold your commission, and as Foxhaven you certainly have no need to jump to Old Nosey’s bidding.”

  “True enough,” Jack agreed. “But to know Wellington thinks highly enough of my abilities to ask…I find myself reluctant to disappoint him.”

  Peter thought for a moment. “Perhaps you could go to Creamcroft directly, in the matter of his sister-in-law? Is he in a position to give consent to a match?”

  Jack
snorted. “Of course not. She is of age, and quite well placed, as I understand it. And even if he were, it seems an underhanded way to do things. Wouldn’t augur well for future happiness, I shouldn’t think.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Peter agreed with a grin. “But compromising her ain’t the answer either, Jack. The whole point, as you recall, was to elevate your respectability—not to lower hers.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Why do you think I stopped short of seduction this afternoon?” Jack had been asking himself that question ever since.

  “You’ll just have to persuade her, then. Woo her more conventionally—flowers, drives, poetry, that sort of thing.”

  “Poetry?” Jack laughed. “Not my style, I assure you. Besides, as I said, there’s no time. No, it’ll have to be blackmail. I see no other way.”

  Peter’s jaw dropped. “Blackmail? What on earth can Lady Haughton have done to warrant that? Going so abruptly from blacks to colors ain’t quite enough, in my opinion. Besides, everyone knows of it already. Surely old Haughton didn’t do anything that you could hold over her head?”

  Jack merely smiled and shook his head. “To be effective, I’m afraid it must remain my secret, Peter—and I still have some research to do on the matter. You’ll know soon enough whether it works. Either there will be a betrothal announcement within the week, or I shall be on my way to Paris.”

  “And perdition,” Peter muttered. “Whatever your scheme is, I hope for your sake it will be successful.”

  “Oh, I think it will.” For now Jack had a weapon—one that should give him just the leverage he needed.

  Immediately after entering the main ballroom of Hightower House that evening, Nessa resumed her campaign to convince her sister to waltz. Not only was she convinced it would do Prudence a world of good, it was also a way to distract her own mind from the disturbing events in the Park that afternoon.

  “Philip, have you never tried to induce Prudence to learn the waltz?” she asked her brother-in-law. “Surely you can convince her that it is not nearly so difficult or risqué as she seems to believe.”