of lavender, fresh and beguiling like the temptress who wore it. ‘I heard you won a racing dare in Richmond last week.’
Dulci looked momentarily alarmed. ‘No one is supposed to know. Who told you?’ She stopped herself in mid-question and shook her head. ‘Never mind, there were only two of us who knew. I know very well who told you.’ She made a pretty pout. ‘I thought Lord Amberston would know better.’
Jack laughed. ‘Don’t worry, your reputation is intact. However, it does occur to me that you play awfully close to the fire—does society know their darling Incomparable dabbles in scandal on a regular basis?’
Dulci would not be diverted. ‘This is not about me, Jack. I want your word. I don’t want you playing cards with Señor Ortiz.’
Jack was all mock solemnity. ‘I promise you, this is not about cards.’ Such a suggestion was almost laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious. She could no more conceive of stopping a war before it started than he could conceive of having nothing more serious to worry about than a card game. The damnable thing was, he could not tell her otherwise.
‘Do you promise?’ Dulci was sceptical of his easy acquiescence.
‘You have my word, Dulci. In exchange, I want yours that there will be no more moonlight horse racing in Richmond. That’s dangerous. You should know better than to risk your neck and your horse’s.’
‘Now who’s the hypocrite?’ Dulci flashed a teasing smile that showed off the dimple in her cheek. ‘You’re hardly the arbiter of moral fashion. I remember a few years ago when you masqueraded as a fop to help Brandon catch the Cat of Manchester. That escapade ran fairly close to outright law breaking. My horse race was merely ill advised.’
Jack managed a smile at the memory. ‘That’s the best service I’ve ever rendered your brother. I got him a wife in the bargain and he’s been happy ever since.’
Dulci held his gaze, returning his smile. Something warm flickered to life in those blue eyes of hers. Jack moved her close to him as they turned. She did not resist his subtle possession. Jack gave her a private, knowing look. He knew she was remembering the thrill of their exploits to save Nora, the midnight wedding ceremony where Brandon, the earl, had married the notorious Cat. Perhaps she was remembering the dangerous sparks of desire that had risen suddenly and unbidden in the orangery at Christmas.
‘Don’t, Jack,’ Dulci cautioned him softly.
‘Don’t what, Dulci?’ Jack prodded with a whisper, knowing full well her thoughts had gone in the same direction as his, his body enjoying the feel of her far more than it should on a ballroom floor. ‘Don’t remember you in the orangery? Your hair coming down, your lips wet and red, your face tilted up in the candlelight waiting for my kiss? Your body pressed to mine as close as two bodies can be with their clothes on? How can I forget when I’ve seen you like that in my mind every night since?’ The moment had been unpredictably heady. For a man with his vast experience with women, his reaction had played havoc with his senses whenever he recalled it, which was far too often for his own good.
Nothing had proved its equal, although Jack had certainly tried in the ensuing months. Dulci was a woman who demanded all of a man and that was far too dangerous of a commitment for him to make, for her as well as himself. But he was flirting shamelessly now, seducing her with words, his body and mind firing at the thrill of the challenge she presented.
He saw the pulse in her neck race at his words, belying the protest on her lips. ‘Don’t remember, Jack. We both know it was a mistake and it will be a mistake again.’
‘I don’t make mistakes when it comes to seduction, Dulci.’
‘No, but afterwards you make plenty. Your seductus exitus needs work.’
‘That’s not a real Latin phrase.’
‘Exitus is and it doesn’t change the fact that yours needs work.’
‘Only practice makes perfect.’ Jack gave a heavy sigh of over-exaggerated disappointment. ‘Alas, I have so few chances to practise.’
‘That’s not what I hear.’
Jack had no desire to talk about those particular rumours—rumours that involved a certain actress, strawberries and a large grain of the truth. If he could get Dulci away from the crowds, away from the eyes that watched their every move, maybe they could just talk, maybe something more. He did want to talk. He wanted to find out what she knew about the Venezuelans. Then again, who was he fooling? He wanted to do more than talk. He wanted to see if the sensations were still there. Perhaps Christmas had been an anomaly. It was a risky proposition at best, especially if he was wrong, but tonight his better judgement was no match for Dulci in pomegranate silk and memories of hot kisses.
‘A walk in the garden then, Dulci,’ Jack breathed against her ear, inhaling the lavender rinse of her hair. He could feel her body giving in, no matter what arguments her mind made. He could feel it answering to his, fickle compatriots to the codes of decency and honour that demanded they take a different route.
‘All right, but just a walk,’ Dulci consented.
Jack murmured low at her ear, ‘I’m sure there’ll be something handy to throw at me if you need it.’ His hand tightened at her waist, ushering her towards the French doors that led outside. Ballrooms might be for business, but gardens…well, gardens were for pleasure.
The garden with Jack was a bad idea. Anything with Jack was a bad idea as she very well knew from gossip and brief personal experience. He had a reputation for a reason, actually several reasons. Dulci wasn’t regretting her consent to walk in the garden, but she was going to. She knew it and yet she allowed him to lead her down both the proverbial and literal garden path, because she’d been able to think of nothing else since Christmas and Jack was irresistible, flaws and all.
There were definitely plenty of flaws, which worked only to heighten her own curiosity regarding the man behind the rumours—where did he go when he disappeared from London for months on end? What service had he rendered King William that had catapulted a poor squire’s son into the ranks of the peerage with a hereditary title? How true was the tittle-tattle circulating behind ladies’ fans that Jack was a lover beyond compare? There was probably a reason curiosity killed the cat, Dulci thought. She’d do better to forget such sordid things and to hope that Jack didn’t read minds.
It was proving more difficult than expected to banish such thoughts at the moment. Jack drew her aside, slightly off the garden path, having arrived at his intended destination, a small alcove with a burbling fountain and a stone bench, the moon overhead and the paper lanterns that festively lined the garden paths giving off enough light to wander without fear of tripping.
It was a setting that showed Jack to great advantage. The moonlight cast a silvery hue to his winter-wheat hair, giving it the appearance of a smooth, sleek mane, every hair in place. The subtle detail work of his tailor emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist and the length of his legs, a reminder that while turned out in the guise of an immaculate, well-groomed gentleman, there was a raw, rough power beneath the clothes, signs of a man who’d led a life full of varied experiences.
Dulci often wondered if anyone else saw that quality in Jack. The longer she knew him, the more she didn’t know him. He was a master of illusion. One only saw what Jack wanted to show and she’d been as easily duped on occasion as the rest.
She
