thinking rather a lot about Jack, her attentions drawn to whatever rumour was circulating about him any given week. She’d heard since Christmas he’d been busy kissing Lady Scofield in her big gardens at Lambeth.
A delicious tremor shot through Dulci. Had he truly brought her out here, into this garden, to do the same? Would she, should she, let him? Those Christmas kisses had dominated too much of her mind. She couldn’t deny the truth; she wanted Jack to kiss her and perhaps do more than kiss her. Her body could not forget the heat Jack’s hands had invoked, the need for something more that his body had awakened in hers. She wanted to feel that way again, wanted him to wake her again.
She opted for a show of sophistication. She didn’t want Jack thinking she was overly eager if he actually had seduction on his mind. Nor did she want to be overeager if he didn’t; such a miscalculation would be embarrassing and only serve to stoke his already overinflated sense of self-importance.
‘What now, Jack?’ Dulci gave him a practised, coy smile. She moved into the alcove, surveying its furnishings with an assessing look. ‘The fountain is probably not an option, but perhaps the bench is a possibility.’
‘Did you consider I might not have asked you out here to seduce you? I seem to recall in the ballroom that you were rankly against such a venue.’ Jack leaned against a stone column at the alcove’s entrance, looking urbane and relaxed, very much at home with the situation. But Dulci could feel his eyes, hot and direct, following her movements. She could not fool him for long. He was experienced enough to know the game was afoot.
‘Since when has that ever stopped you, Jack? The greater the challenge, the harder you try.’ She trailed a hand in the fountain.
‘I have been known to rise to the occasion.’ Jack grinned wickedly and stepped towards her. ‘I have the firmest of resolves, or so I’ve been told.’
She recognised that cicisbeo smile of his all too well. It was his stock in trade in London ballrooms, the smile that said she was the centre of his attention, that every wish, every desire was about to be fulfilled and more. She’d seen many women believe it. It was easy to believe that smile. She believed in it now against better sense.
Dulci stepped backwards, striving to create more space between them. She had not come to the Fotheringay ball looking for this. Indeed, she had not expected to find Jack here at all. The Season was too young. She’d thought she’d have a few weeks to herself before Jack came to wreak havoc on her senses. She’d thought she’d heard he was out of town. ‘You’ve gathered all the other women to your banner tonight, Jack. You have no need of me as well.’
‘But you’re the only one I want.’ Jack was grinning broadly now. Drat him, he knew he had her on the run.
‘No, it’s simply your arrogance, Jack. You can’t stand not having every woman in the room swooning at your feet.’
Jack laughed, the sharp planes of his aristocratic face melting into boyish playfulness. ‘By Jove, Dulci, no one quite cuts me down to size like you do, and goodness knows on occasion I need it.’ He looked ten years younger, whatever secret cares he bore dissolving, minimising the darkness and mystery that limned him like a nimbus around the sun since his return to England. It occurred to her to wonder what he’d been like before? Surely he hadn’t always been this way? How did a man become like Jack?
‘Dulci.’ The sound of her name on his lips was an invitation to sin. It was enough and it succeeded where all Jack’s calculated foreplay had fallen short. She was in his arms in an instant, letting her body savour the strength of him, the feel of him, the almond scent of his soap, letting her mind forget all the reasons this was going to be a bad idea. His mouth took hers in a long, slow kiss, teasing her with its languorous exploration, one hand at the back of her neck, fingers entwined in her hair. The heat in her started to rise.
‘I’m sorry about the orangery, Dulci,’ Jack murmured, with sincere penitence. How could she not forgive him? Then something caught her eye over Jack’s shoulder and she froze, her mind remembering all the reasons.
Jack nuzzled her neck encouragingly. ‘Dulci, this is where you say you’re sorry too about throwing that pot and you run your hands through my hair looking for any remnants of that damnable lump you gave me.’
‘I don’t think so, Jack.’ Dulci pushed against his chest and stepped back, the moment lost to reality and disappointment. She’d been so ready to believe. She gave a flick of her head, nodding for Jack to turn around. It was the orangery all over again.
A throat cleared in the nominal darkness. A nervous, blushing page dressed in the royal livery of Hanover stammered his message. ‘Excuse me, my lord. I have an urgent message from Clarence House. I was told to find you and tell you to come at once.’
Dulci watched Jack straighten his shoulders almost imperceptibly, the boyish pleasure that had so recently wreathed his face instantly subdued. The transformation happened so swiftly, it was possible to think she’d imagined the other. Jack pressed a few coins into the messenger’s hand, no doubt meant to buy his silence regarding where and how the boy had found the viscount and sent him on before turning back to her.
‘Dulci, I’m sorry. I have to leave. May I escort you back inside?’ He was all duty now. Did this happen with all his women or was it just her bad luck? She hadn’t heard, but then again she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to brag Jack had thrown them over for a government summons.
‘What could the king want this time of night? Isn’t he off to his own clubs and entertainments?’ Dulci had recognised the address immediately: the residence of William IV.
‘England never sleeps, Dulci.’ Jack gave her a kind smile that she found condescending.
‘Don’t patronise me, Jack,’ Dulci snapped.
‘I’ll call on you tomorrow,’ Jack offered. But she would have none of his olive-branch brand of pity.
‘I will not be home to you. I am not going to become one of your easy women who let you kiss them whenever you pass through town.’ Dulci pushed past him, angrier at herself than at him. Jack would always be Jack, whoever that really was. As much time as she’d spent listening to rumours she’d thought she’d have understood that by now. She would find her own way back inside and, after a decent interval, she’d leave. The night had lost its lustre. But he halted her with a warm chuckle that said he didn’t believe her bluff for a moment.
‘You can’t ignore me, Dulci. Very well, don’t receive me. But I will see you tomorrow night. At the Danby rout, if you remember,’ Jack called softly. ‘I’ll be the one in azure. Perhaps we can rename the ball the Blue Danby ball. It can be our private joke.’
She didn’t want anything ‘private’ with Jack. Dulci fisted her hands in her gown where no one could see, her temper rising. It was just like Jack to make a joke when she was mad. Damn it all. She’d already forgot about the wager. She allowed herself the unladylike luxury of stomping her foot in frustration on the garden path. She’d known from the start coming out here with Jack was a bad idea; anything with Jack was a bad idea as she’d proven yet again. At least she’d have plenty to berate herself with on the lonely carriage ride home.
The carriage was crowded for all that there was only one person in it, thanks to the enormity of her thoughts, Dulci groused an hour later. She felt slightly better thinking it was Jack’s fault, but that wasn’t entirely true. He’d merely opened Pandora’s box with his kisses and let loose all nature of strange feelings and emotions
