Between the Devil and Desire (13 page)

“That one, it is,” Lord Chesney said with a laugh, standing up, his knees creaking as he went.

Henry glanced back at Mr. Dodger, who handed Lord Chesney a small pouch that jingled when it landed in his palm. As they were walking back to the carriage, holding his puppy close, Henry said, “He c-cost a lot.”

“Not really. I suspect in the end he'll make me money.”

“How?”

“Can you hold a confidence?”

Henry nodded even though he didn't know what a confidence was.

Mr. Dodger grinned broadly. “When his pockets are full, Lord Chesney plays very loosely at the gaming tables. Tonight he'll spend what I just gave him and then some, so it comes back into my coffers.”

Henry wasn't exactly sure what Mr. Dodger was talking about. “Will he t-take the dog back then?”

“Hell no. The dog is yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You're welcome, lad.”

He knew his mother wouldn't agree, but Henry thought Mr. Dodger was a very good guardian.

O
livia stood outside the library door waiting for her courage to return.

Henry adored his new puppy. He'd named it Pippin. She didn't know where he'd gotten the name. But he already loved the animal so much, that it was as though they'd been made for each other.

She had one of the chambermaids watching Henry while she offered an olive branch—or in her situation, a meal.

As soon as they'd returned home, Dodger had gone to the library, no doubt to study the books further. He'd asked for no refreshments nor called for any of the servants.

It was early afternoon. As she thought of his assortment of bottles, she tried not to wonder if he'd indulged, if no one had heard from him because he was lying on the floor in a drunken stupor. She seemed unable to think about him without expecting the worst, and to her shame, she had to acknowledge her low opinion of him was unfounded.

Regardless of her trepidation it was time to confront him, time to put matters to right. She nodded at the
footman. He opened the door. Taking a deep breath, she walked in, carrying the tray. Her heart thudded with the closing of the door. She'd expected Dodger to make some scathing comment and was surprised to find he wasn't sitting at his desk but in a chair near the window.

Although sitting wasn't the correct word. He was fairly sprawled in it, with one leg stretched out, the open ledger in his lap, his head at an awkward angle, his eyes closed. Yet even in slumber, he didn't appear innocent.

As quietly as possible, she walked over the carpet and set the tray on the desk. Curiosity getting the better of her, she cautiously approached the man whom Lovingdon had deemed worthy of guarding his son. She was not yet ready to proclaim that he was the best selection, but she was willing to reluctantly admit he might not be the worst.

He really was in dire need of having his hair trimmed. She considered what it might be like to thread her fingers through his unruly curls. The disheveled strands should have given him the appearance of a child—but nothing about him reflected the innocence of youth. She suspected he hadn't been innocent even when he was born.

His face contained a cragginess that remained, even in sleep, as though the harshness of his life never left him at peace. She wanted to reach out and ease the furrow between his brows. A strange thing to desire.

She felt a trifle wicked standing there, watching him without his knowing.

His hand flicked, and she almost screeched. It was resting on an open page of his ledger. Curled slightly, it revealed that horrible burn. She'd not given any thought to how much it had to have hurt, but had focused on what it represented. She couldn't imagine him willingly holding out his hand to accept a brand. He would have fought. They would have had to hold him down. Her stomach roiled. Even if he'd stolen, did he deserve to be burned? Did anyone?

She lifted her gaze back to the welt on his cheek. It was red, inflamed. He hadn't deserved that, either. He hadn't deserved her wrath or mistrust.

What he did deserve, she decided, was undisturbed rest. She remembered how he'd expressed concern she'd wake up stiff if he'd left her in Henry's bed. He was going to do the same, but she certainly couldn't carry him to bed. Although she thought she could make him a bit more comfortable. If she just eased the ledger…

Iron clamped around her wrist, jerking her forward—

Releasing the tiniest of screeches, she halted her progress by shoving her hand against something hard—Jack Dodger's chest. Her face was uncomfortably close to his, and for a moment she knew sheer terror, because in his eyes she saw reflected a savagery that she suspected existed only on battlefields. His breathing was harsh, his chest moving up and down beneath her fingers. Her knees had hit the chair, and to her mortification, she realized she'd somehow become wedged between his thighs.

She was afraid to move, afraid not to. He was looking at her as though he'd never seen her before, as though
he was trying to determine how every aspect of her features had been formed.

“What are you doing?” he rasped.

She swallowed the tight ball suddenly lodged in her throat. “You-you were sleeping. I thought to make you more comfortable.”

He lowered his gaze to her mouth and she realized it had been so very long since she'd been this close to a man, so very, very long since her lips had been so near to being kissed. She recognized the passion flaring in his eyes. Her heart thudded, her knees weakened, and she thought she was in danger of finding herself sprawled in his lap. She fully expected him to draw her nearer, to place that perfectly shaped mouth, those full lips on hers—

Lifting his free hand, he cradled her cheek. His palm was much rougher than Lovingdon's had been. Rougher and larger. He skimmed his thumb over her lips, before lifting his gaze back to hers. “Careful, Duchess,” he said in a gruff voice. “I'm not a man who settles for only a kiss.”

Humiliation slammed into her, and she feared he saw in her eyes what she saw reflected in his. Desire. Desire that must go unsatisfied, that must be left to burn itself out, lest she find herself burning for all eternity. She had too much pride to admit he'd accurately guessed what she wanted and was too cowardly to reach for. To protect herself, she chose to be stern. “Unhand me, sir.”

Abruptly he released her. Her balance was off. She started to fall and he grabbed her waist with both hands. With great difficulty in retaining her dignity, she
righted herself and stepped back, brushing her hands over her skirt.

He cocked his head to the side. “What are you doing here, Olivia? Trying to steal my ledger?”

“I'm not the thief here, sir.”

“No, you're not. So what did you want?”

She felt so terribly silly. “Brittles said you had yet to eat, so I brought you something.”

He gave her a look that made her think he was considering devouring her. She spun on her heel and went to the desk, moving the tray closer to the chair on the other side. “It's lamb and potatoes. You really should eat.”

“Should I?”

She cleared her throat. “I prepared the tray myself.”

“I haven't servants to prepare trays?”

“You're making this so blasted difficult.”

Jack studied her, tried not to think about how his hands had spanned her waist. He didn't want to remember how he'd awoken to find her hovering over him. How close her lips had been to his, how with the slightest of movements he could have known the taste of her. He was not in the habit of denying himself pleasures, but she was dangerous in ways he didn't care to examine.

“Are you trying to make amends?” he asked.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I'm trying to be a bit more pleasant.”

“Pleasant, is it?” He got out of the chair, went to the table in the corner, and lifted the top from a decanter. “Would you care to join me?”

“No, thank you. You do like your spirits, don't you?”

“Been drinking gin since I was eight. See no reason to stop now.” He walked to the desk and removed the lid covering the plate. The delicious aromas hit him, and only then did he realize he was famished. He took his chair.

“Brittles said you didn't eat yesterday afternoon. Do you often work without taking the time to eat?” she asked.

“I can't stand hovering females. Either sit down or leave.”

To his immense surprise and pleasure, she sat. “You didn't answer my question.”

He cut off a bit of lamb and popped it into his mouth, savoring the flavor. “I work during most meals. Time not working is time spent not making money.”

“You care a good deal about money.”

“I care only about money.”

“Is that the reason you agreed to the terms of the will?”

He chewed, swallowed. “Yes.” He tapped the knife against the plate. “Why are you here?” He waved his hand over the plate. “Why this?”

Glancing down at her hands, balled in her lap, she shifted in her chair before lifting her gaze back to him. “I may have judged you unfairly. In every situation, I have thought the worst. I thought the inspector was here to arrest you. I thought your bookkeeper was a prostitute. I thought you'd done something to hurt Henry. I'm trying to apologize and I'm not very good at it.”

“Don't apologize often?”

“I'm not often wrong.”

In a heartbeat, she'd gone from contrite to haughty.
He preferred her that way, displaying her steel rather than her softness. But even with the steel, she possessed an uncommon beauty. It hadn't been entirely noticeable when he'd first met her. It was as though with each moment's passing, he noticed more things about her and those in turn enhanced her beauty. She had the faintest dusting of freckles across her cheeks, and he imagined her playing outside without benefit of a hat or parasol. He imagined her first Season and all the gentlemen who would have swarmed around her.

“Why did you marry him?” he asked.

She glanced at her hands again, as though she kept the answer hidden there. “My father wished it.”

“Lovingdon was considerably older than you.”

She nodded, lifting her gaze to his. “But he was my father's friend. He needed an heir for his respected title. And I was a dutiful daughter. I did as my father wanted. In my world, Mr. Dodger, daughters tend to obey their fathers.”

“Were you a dutiful wife?” Before she could answer, he said, “My apologies. That question was uncalled for. Obviously when it comes to polite society, my conversational skills are lacking.”

“Based upon your reputation with women, I'd have thought you'd have exceptional conversational skills.”

“When I'm with women, my mouth is usually occupied with things other than talking.”

She blushed profusely. He didn't know why he took pleasure in bringing the color to her cheeks. He'd like to do it with a great deal more than words. But she was an aristocratic lady, and he knew that simply touching one put a man in danger of having to take a trip down the
aisle—a trip he had no plans to ever make. Besides, he wanted no claim on her. He wanted her married, so he could shuck off the responsibility of raising her son.

“You seemed very insistent you didn't want to marry Briarwood.”

She looked down at her hands again. “If I should ever marry again, I would like very much for it to be my choice and my decision.”

Unfortunately, that attitude was going to cause a problem for Jack. It indicated a delayed process and he wanted her married very soon. “So if you could choose to marry anyone, who would he be?”

She looked up, startled. “I'd not given it any thought.”

“Oh, come now. Surely over the years, someone caught your fancy. At a dinner or during a ball. Perhaps you danced with him and thought you'd enjoy something more.”

“I was married.”

“I'm not suggesting you had an affair, because God knows you'd never do anything inappropriate, but thinking about it isn't wrong. Surely you thought about it.”

“I did not, sir. Never.”

To his utter amazement, he realized she was speaking the truth. Never to fantasize about the forbidden? He couldn't imagine it.

“All right, I'll give you that you probably never thought about getting close to any other man, but surely you liked someone, found someone else pleasant to be around. I could arrange for him to visit you here so you could come to know him better—”

“I'm in mourning.”

“So you keep reminding me when it's not necessary, Olivia. Quite honestly, it's evident by your attire. You look ghastly in black, by the way. Have you anything in violet?”

She stammered out a few sounds. He raised his hand. “Never mind. We can address your clothing later. Here's the thing. You don't want me to be guardian of your son. I don't want to be guardian. The simplest solution to both our problems is for you to marry. And I'm willing to help in any way I can. I'll bring the suitors to you. Who do you fancy?”

“It would be entirely inappropriate for me to take male callers.”

“Of course, it's inappropriate. That's the reason we'll do it discreetly.”

“When a woman is in mourning, she's not to issue invitations.”

“You won't. I will.”

She stood up. “I'm not sure why I bothered to try to make matters right between us.”

And he didn't know why he kept trying to make them un-right. “Sit down.”

She hesitated.

“Please.”

With a nod, she sat. “Henry likes his dog very much.”

The change in topic startled but pleased him. “As well he should. Cost me a fortune.”

“So he told me.” She smiled, and again he was struck by how approachable it made her appear. If she were his, he thought he'd always seek to make her smile. “He
wasn't quite certain how to go about holding a confidence since you didn't give him anything to actually
hold
.”

“That must have been an interesting conversation.”

“I daresay it was most enlightening.”

He should have taken more care about explaining things to the lad, not that he was particularly bothered his mother knew the truth of the situation. He just didn't want it to get back to Chesney.

“How did you know?” she asked.

He finished chewing the remarkable lamb and swallowed. “Pardon?”

“Helen. Henry's nanny. You were suspicious of her from the start. Henry told me she kept a stick in her pocket and would whack him on the hand if he displeased her. Those aren't his precise words, of course, but they are the gist of what he confessed. How did you know she was frightening him?”

Something was shifting between them, something he wasn't quite comfortable with. But he was also weary of the bickering. Until he could get her married off, they'd be living in this house together. Might as well do it amicably. “When I was very young, for a short time, I lived with someone who hurt me. While I was frightened I stammered. I'm certain people stammer for all sorts of reasons, so perhaps one thing had nothing to do with the other. Plus he is a boy, and they are not by nature so terribly well behaved.”