was.
Dulci gamely readied herself and engaged. This time the move worked and Jack found himself disarmed in short order.
‘Very good,’ Jack applauded, his admiration obvious, as was his approval. Overt approval was not something she was used to. Men might admire her, and she knew very well that many did. But admiration was not the same as approval. It had taken her a long time to understand the nuances that separated the two.
Men who considered themselves modern and above the traditions of their station might enjoy privately fencing with her, might take pleasure in discussing her collection of histories and artefacts, might even applaud her personal studies from a distance. All of that was well and good in their minds until it came to marriage. A man could admire such traits from afar, but no man wanted to be shackled permanently to a woman who possessed those traits. It had taken six marriage proposals for her to fully understand.
But Jack was different. She supposed it was because he’d openly declared himself not the marrying kind and she could trust him to stand by that declaration unlike Gladstone, her sixth miserable proposal. Gladstone had declared no more than friendship and respect for her and then surprised her with a marriage offer accompanied by a list of demands regarding the things she’d need to give up as his viscountess.
In those terms at least there was no risk of such a misunderstanding with Jack. She understood Jack perfectly. Rumour could be trusted in this regard: he offered a moment of physical pleasure, no promises attached. A relationship would last only as long as Jack’s work didn’t encroach. In many ways, a relationship with Jack was over before it started. A woman who gave herself to Jack would have to be happy with whatever she could salvage. In the long term, Dulci doubted she could do such a thing. But it hardly mattered. She wanted only the experience he offered and then they could go their separate ways.
The thought haunted her throughout their work out. Dulci was glad for the excuse of exercise. She could pretend the flush on her cheeks was from their exertions.
They worked a while longer on footwork and various techniques until both were well exercised from their efforts. Dulci stopped and wiped her face with a towel. ‘I’m finished, Jack. How about you? I’ll have a tea tray sent to my collections room. We can eat a little supper and I’ll show you the new batch of artefacts. I’ve just begun cataloging them. You can see for yourself that I’ve not been hoodwinked into buying fakes.’
The collection room far exceeded any of Jack’s preconceived expectations. Two adjoining drawing rooms had been devoted to Dulci’s work, the dividing doors between them pulled back to maximise the space; tall windows overlooking the back garden let in copious amounts of light during the day. Where the light was best, a long work table sat against a wall, strewn with stones, statues and wood carvings. Bookcases were laden with atlases and treatises from the Royal Geographic Society. Free-standing curio cabinets with glass shelves stood about the room, compelling the visitor to wander, stopping to look at each treasure.
And they were indeed treasures, Jack noted, studying each case in turn. It was impossible to tell how honestly anyone had come by the items, but they were authentic. He could rest easy on that account. Dulci had not been misled into purchasing frauds. He stopped to eye a splendid lapis-lazuli-and-gold Egyptian collar. ‘These are very fine items, Dulci.’
He studied a cabinet containing a set of bronze elephants with jewelled eyes. ‘From India?’
Dulci moved to stand beside him. ‘From a maharajah. An old friend brought them back for me a few years ago.’
‘Is that wistfulness I hear?’ Jack asked, tossing her a sideways glance. ‘Would you like to go to India some day?’
‘I’d like to go anywhere.’ Dulci ran an idle hand over a mask, tracing the contours. ‘India, Egypt, the Americas. There’s a big world out there—’ Dulci waved a hand ‘—and I’ve seen so very little of it.’
A footman entered with the trays and Dulci crossed the room to direct the setting out of the tea and supper on a vacant table. Jack studied her as she gave instructions, her dark hair hanging in a thick braid down her back, the shapely curve of her hips in the tight fencing trousers she wore.
A stab of jealousy went through him. He was an only child and had never acquired an appreciation for sharing. Had Gladstone seen her dressed thusly? Probably not, Jack reasoned. No man could see Dulci turned out in tight trousers and white shirt and blithely let her go. He could feel himself rising appreciatively at the provocative sight of her backside. On the other hand, maybe Gladstone, traditional bastard that he was, had seen Dulci like this and promptly run the other way. Gladstone wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like Dulci.
Jack knew. Whether or not that was a credit to him, however, was in dubious question. Dulci was a woman full of passion, a woman ready to burst with it. He recognised it in her smiles, in her blue eyes so full of life. It was there in her dares, those stupid dares that would bring her down sooner or later. She would not be careful for ever. One risk would be to go too far with the wrong sort of gentleman who would covet her joie de vivre. He would spare her that humiliation, that fall from grace if he could. But Dulci would not tolerate being reined in.
She’d done an admirable job of fooling London society so far. He could hardly reconcile the perfectly coiffed Incomparable who took to the dance floor every night of the London Season with the energetic virago who’d bested him at fencing and took a serious interest in anthropology. He supposed it was something of a revelation to learn he wasn’t the only one who wore a mask. In that, he and Dulci were quite alike.
The one thing that had become abundantly clear to him in the past few months since Christmas and intensely so in the past few days, was that he wanted her. Kissing her in the garden had only served to re-ignite his previous desire. He wanted all that energy, all that beauty, all that wit, in his bed. He knew too that it would have to be her choice, her understanding of what such an arrangement would mean and what it would not, both for her as well as for him.
There were so many reasons not to pursue this mad passion any further; she was untouched and he had nothing to offer—nothing he would or could offer. This decision would cost her far more than it would cost him. It would not impede his chances to marry—not that he had any plans in that direction—but it would impede hers should she ever change her mind and accept some erstwhile suitor in the future. But the body defied logic. Such reasons did nothing to staunch his desire.
The supper things were settled at last to Dulci’s satisfaction and Jack took a seat on the sofa across from her, picking up the thread of their interrupted conversation. ‘If you want to travel, why don’t you?’ Jack reached for a plate of cold meats and bread.
Dulci laughed. ‘I haven’t the same freedoms as a man, Jack. I can’t pack my maid off to Egypt with me as if it were a trip to Bath.’ Dulci bit into her meal with a ferocity that echoed her disapproval of such strictures.
‘Of course not. Surely something can be arranged. There are guidebooks and tours these days. You’d hardly be alone.’
Dulci shook her head and made a face. ‘I don’t want to travel with a tour. It would be incredibly boring, visiting all the same places everyone else visits. I want to explore. You’ve seen land no Englishman has ever seen. It’s simply not fair. You got to because you’re a man.’ Dulci sighed and sank back against her chair. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Jack. Your life is portable, your body is portable. I wager you could walk out this door and be on a ship to anywhere by the tide, or a mail coach within minutes of leaving my house.’
Конец
