that one could keep one’s identity a secret. All these things combined to make it a perfect site for their rendezvous.
“Do you?” he responded, the glitter in his eyes telling her that he was well aware of the suitability of Vauxhall Gardens. “Certainly you must see them. Shall we say tomorrow evening?”
“No, I am afraid I could not do it tomorrow.” She must, after all, keep him dangling for a while in order to whet his appetite. “What about the day after that?”
“As you wish,” he replied graciously, inclining his head toward her.
They took their leave of their host—Julia glanced around but could not find the couple who had been so busily engaged on the chair by the window—and quit the house. Once again Julia turned down his offer to escort her home. He pressed his case for a while, but finally gave in and hailed a hackney for her. He did not try to kiss her again, but let her go with a brief, courteous brush of his lips upon the back of her hand. Julia climbed into the vehicle, and it started off.
Deverel watched the hackney until it turned the corner. Then, with a sigh, he started toward his own home. It was, in truth, an earlier hour than he generally kept when he was in the city, but he found that he had little interest in any of the pursuits with which he could pass the remainder of the night. Without Jessica Nunnelly, the evening was suddenly flat.
It was strange that it should be so, he knew. He was a man quite familiar with women, both of his own class and of the demimonde, and he enjoyed their company. However, he was well past the age of tumbling head over heels for any of them. He was quite capable of finding a new woman attractive and desirable without feeling that he could not rest until she was in his bed. It had been many years since any woman had kept him awake or sent him chasing night after night to the same place in the hope of running into her again. But that was precisely what had happened with this woman. The instant he had seen Jessica Nunnelly across the hallway in Madame Beauclaire’s, desire had surged through him. He had wanted, immediately and fervently, to sweep her up in his arms and carry her home to his bed. Amazingly enough, when he talked to her, he found that the fire in his loins continued unabated—even grew.
She was a trifle cool, yet when he kissed her, she had flamed to life. Her dress stamped her as a bird of paradise, yet her carriage and speech would have been worthy of a duchess. She had wit; she was mysterious; she stirred his blood. And he had been consumed since the moment he met her with a deep and lustful desire to make her his.
He could imagine her in his bed, naked and languid with lovemaking, that glorious auburn hair spread out upon his pillow, her blue eyes smiling up at him. Indeed, it was an image that had been plaguing him day and night for days. Now, the thought of being alone with her at Vauxhall Gardens two nights from now filled him with an impatient lust.
He didn’t know why she had insisted on meeting him there rather than letting him escort her to the Gardens any more than he could figure out why she had twice refused to allow him to escort her home. He wondered if she had a husband or another wealthy “protector.” The thought filled him with an unaccustomed jealousy. Or it could be something she did to add to her air of mystery—he had to admit that, if that was the case, it certainly worked. He was almost as consumed with curiosity as he was with lust. Where had she come from? Why had he never seen her before? Or at least heard of her!
It seemed extremely unlikely that a diamond of the first water could have been inhabiting the demimonde of London for any length of time and he had not heard of her. On the other hand, she certainly did not seem like a green lass fresh from the country. She was too sophisticated, too poised. She spoke and acted like a woman of gentility. Had he met her anywhere else in more ladylike attire, he would have assumed she was a member of the ton. There had been moments when he was kissing her when her reaction had seemed naive and inexperienced. She had even looked embarrassed when she had glanced around at the free-and-easy scene at Alfred’s house. Yet no lady would have appeared in that dress, let alone showed up unaccompanied at Madame Beauclaire’s gambling house. He told himself that she must have pretended those inexperienced reactions in an effort to increase his desire; certainly her seemingly artless responses had quickened his pulse.
It occurred to him that unraveling the mystery of Jessica Nunnelly would be a delightful way to occupy his time, and he smiled to himself. He must procure a private box and supper at Vauxhall first thing tomorrow.
Julia and Phoebe were in the drawing room conversing with Geoffrey Pemberton the following afternoon when one of the footmen announced the arrival of the Honorable Varian St. Leger and Major Gordon Fitzmaurice.
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