Between the Devil and Desire (6 page)

“Knowing my husband as I did, I think that entirely unlikely. Lovingdon was meticulous and precise when it came to all aspects of his life.”

“Including bedding his wife?”

Even as she glared at him, a rosy blush spread over her cheeks. Was she embarrassed by the question posed or the accuracy of his deduction?

“You provoke me on purpose to distract me. Any decent man wouldn't ask such a question of a woman.”

“As we've already determined, I find ‘decent' boring.”

He heard her foot tapping the floor and had the feeling she'd like to slap him again. Truth be told, he wished she would. He deserved it. Whatever had pos
sessed him to pose such an intimate question? What did it matter how Lovingdon had treated his wife in bed? If Jack didn't know better, he'd think he was feeling a spark of envy.

Her foot ceased its tapping. “I have shown you mine, now show me yours.”

“My ledger?” he asked.

“Of course, you dolt. What else would we be discussing?”

“I don't know, Olivia, but I can think of more interesting things to show each other than our ledgers.”

“You duped me last night, sir. I would know the reason for it.”

With a sigh, he turned back the pages in his book and pointed. “There. Honest mistake.”

She glanced down. “Black brougham? How do you confuse a brougham with a coach? The brougham is smaller, seats only two—”

“I didn't realize. I thought they were the same thing.”

“I don't believe you're that misinformed, but be that as it may, now that I know the coach is Henry's, I can use it at any time without fear of being arrested for thievery.”

“Actually, you can't. As Henry's guardian, I am also guardian of all his possessions.”

“But Mr. Beckwith gave me the ledger,” she pointed out.

“So you'll know what your son can expect to receive when he turns twenty-one, not because care of those items has been entrusted to you.”

He didn't relish the defeat that caused her to sag. In truth, he knew she'd be a far better guardian over her
son than he would. She'd fight to the death to protect him, while Jack would only fight until he was bloodied. His finances, however, were another matter entirely. Jack doubted she was well equipped to handle those. “You can't win. I hold all the power.”

It seemed his words renewed her determination to best him. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “You are the most irritating man I've ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“Then obviously you've not met many, Olivia.”

“I did not give you leave to address me with such familiarity.”

“Did you not? You instructed me not to address you by your title, which leaves only your name.”

“Mr. Dodger—”

“If I'd had a father, he'd be Mr. Dodger. As I didn't, there is no Mr. Dodger. You may call me Jack.”

Olivia couldn't, she absolutely couldn't pretend such familiarity with this man. And she didn't believe for one second that he had truly believed a coach bearing the ducal crest was his property. He was extremely skilled at unsettling her. Snatching up her ledger, she spun on her heel and walked to the other end of the table, where she set down the book that was certain to drive her insane before Henry reached his majority. The notion of thumbing her nose at etiquette and marrying posthaste was becoming more appealing by the moment.

Needing to gather her wits about her before the next skirmish, she went to the sideboard and filled a plate with poached eggs, toast, and ham—even as she did so, disturbingly aware of Dodger's gaze following her movements. Her stomach tightened into knots with the
thought of spending her morning in his presence. Her headache returned with a vengeance, and it was all she could do to remain standing. She nodded at the footman standing near the sideboard before walking to the table, where a second footman pulled out the chair for her while the butler stood observing everything. Normally the servants' presence didn't bother her because she and her husband had seldom engaged in any discourse that didn't concern the weather.

She feared the same would not be true of any subjects Mr. Dodger would introduce. Perhaps she would insist that all conversations focus on Henry and Henry alone.

Mr. Dodger took his seat with lithe movements that reminded her of a predator settling in to wait for the next opportunity to pounce on its prey. She was left with the impression that, while he'd turned his attention casually back to his ledger, nothing about him was as relaxed as it seemed. He was acutely aware of every aspect of his surroundings. It was common knowledge he'd survived a life on the streets. She imagined his survival had depended on acute senses. Lovingdon had always given the impression he was distracted while reading his newspaper. She had a feeling distractions were as foreign to Jack Dodger as the notion of adhering to society's rules.

She took a sip of warm tea, gathering her resolve for the next confrontation. She didn't particularly want it, but for the sake of her son, she had to make sure his guardian understood that children couldn't be toyed with as adults were. “Mr. Dodger.”

“Please
, Duchess. Jack.”

His mocking tone left the unmistakable impression he held no respect whatsoever for her title.

“If you insist on my using your first name, then I shall refrain from calling you anything at all. Perhaps you could offer me the same courtesy,” she suggested blandly.

“But I enjoy calling you something. Although I must confess you don't strike me as an Olivia. Have you a pet name?” he asked.

“No. And speaking of pets, you promised my son a dog.”

He cocked his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Are you scolding me?”

“You didn't discuss the matter with me.”

“I'm his guardian. I don't have to discuss anything concerning your son with you.”

Oh, she bristled at his smugness. “Have you any concept at all regarding the amount of work required to see after a dog?”

“I've been to rat fights.”

Olivia thought she'd have been in danger of bringing up her breakfast if she'd eaten any of it. “Other than that topic being inappropriate for the breakfast table, what has it to do with dogs?”

“Dogs fight the rats. I've seen the care and attention the owners give their dogs. They treat them like royalty, so I have a good idea of what is involved in caring for the creatures.”

“And when it dies, how will my son deal with his broken heart?”

“I'll get him another one.”

She released a deep sigh. “When you love something and lose it, it cannot be so easily replaced.”

She felt the weight of his gaze as he tapped the open page of that blasted ledger. “Is that how you feel about your husband?”

“I will not discuss my feelings with a man who will use them against me.” She held up her hands in order to cease this turn in the discussion. She would never reveal to him her feelings about anything. “You promised my son a dog. But you don't know him. He's an extremely sensitive child. I must insist in the future that you discuss with me any decisions you intend to make regarding Henry, before you discuss them with him.”

He studied her, and she was left with the uncomfortable sensation that he could easily discern her feelings without her having to voice them, that he was as skilled at plucking out a person's emotions as he was at picking their pockets. “I hadn't realized it would upset you. I won't get him a dog.”

He returned his attention to the ledger, as though the matter were settled simply because he had deemed it so.

Olivia didn't know whether to feel relief that there would be no dog or anger because he could so easily dismiss a promise he'd made to her son. When she'd brought up the matter, she wasn't certain what she'd wanted the outcome to be—his acknowledging he didn't know the first thing about taking care of her son, she supposed. Unlike most mothers, she didn't want to be a bystander in her son's life. She and Lovingdon had actually argued over the hiring of a nanny. While she understood that all children of the aristocracy were cared for by nannies, she didn't quite agree with the notion. She wanted a more active role, and this man was threaten
ing to remove her completely from Henry's life. “Last night you said you were a man of your word.”

Looking up, he gave her a cocky grin. “I am when it suits me.”

She wanted to scream at the word games he played. She was accustomed to dealing with gentlemen, not scoundrels who changed their tune when the music no longer suited them. “You can't break your promise to him.”

“Make up your mind. Do you want him to have the dog or not?”

“I don't want him to have the dog, but it would be far worse if you were to break your promise to him. Trust is a fragile thing, and you would teach him that a promise means nothing.”

“Usually it doesn't.”

“Perhaps in your world, Mr. Dodger, but not in ours.”

“Jack.”

The man was missing the point entirely. Why was she even wasting her breath arguing with him? Like all men, he would do what he had determined he wanted to do. “May we move on?”

“By all means. To what precisely did you have in mind?”

“I was supposed to meet you in the library last night—”

“So you were. You promised.”

“I did not
promise
,” she snapped.

“You said you would. In
my
world, when a person says something, the promise is implied.”

Oh, her head was throbbing and she had a strong need
to return to bed and bury herself beneath the covers. “You've made your point. I fell asleep. I apologize.”

“Do you always take laudanum before bed?”

“How did you know I did?”

“I smelled it on your breath.”

Cold dread raced through her veins with the implication of that statement. “This morning I awoke in, well, not in my bed and I don't remember how I got there. Did you—” Squirming, she glanced around at the servants. While they didn't appear to be paying attention, she knew none of them were deaf. She leaned forward with the hope of Dodger hearing her while she spoke in a low voice, but the table was so incredibly long. Why did they even need a table this long in this particular room? It wasn't as though they often had guests.

“Did I…?” he prompted.

She glanced around again. “May we dismiss the servants?”

“I don't believe there's a need. As I understand it, they are forbidden by some sort of servant code to discuss our matters, even amongst themselves.”

“Yes, well—” She looked around again.

“When you failed to show as
promised
, I went searching for you.”

“I see. I assume you found me.”

He gave her a slow grin. “I did. You asked me not to go into your bedchamber. I saw no choice except to take you into mine.”

He said it as though he'd done something for which he should be admired. She had little doubt carrying women into his bedchamber was an everyday—every
night
—occurrence.

“Did you take liberties?” she snapped.

“Trust me, Duchess: if I had, you'd remember.”

The sudden intensity of his gaze was unnerving and gave her the distinct impression that he was envisioning himself in her bed, doing things with her body that would be far more memorable than anything she'd ever experienced with Lovingdon. It was unsettling enough to think of Jack Dodger holding her in his arms, against his chest, laying her on his bed, removing the hairpins—because now she had little doubt he was the culprit responsible for her loosened hair—but to contemplate his crawling between the sheets with her…

She dropped her gaze to the food on her plate to hide her shame that she longed to know what his deft fingers might accomplish.

“After depositing you on the bed, I went to my club. Ask Brittles. He had my coach, or what I thought was my coach, readied for me.”

She looked over at the butler. Even though he was not supposed to be eavesdropping on the conversation, he gave her a curt nod. She forced herself to meet Dodger's gaze. “It really wasn't necessary to take me to a bed.”

“The one you were in was quite cramped. I know many a woman who would have been grateful for my considerations.”

“I've no doubt you do,” she snapped. “I'm not one of them.” She rubbed her brow. “I apologize. I'm not normally quite so difficult.” She didn't consider herself difficult at all, but she doubted he'd believe that statement. “The past few days have been incredibly trying, Mr.—”

“Jack.”

She swallowed. She didn't want to accept the familiarity that he was offering, but she was so weary of battling him. “Jack.”

“There. Now, that wasn't so difficult was it?” He came to his feet. “As the past few days have been so trying, I suggest you enjoy a leisurely breakfast, and when you're done, come to the library and we'll discuss this unusual situation that your deceased husband has placed us in.”

She watched in astonishment as he picked up his black book and walked out of the room. She could hardly fathom that a part of her actually regretted his leaving, but it was only because she was now alone, with nothing but her own thoughts for company.

And what strange thoughts they were. For a moment, when she'd walked in, it was almost as though she'd seen her late husband there, greeting her. It was a trick of the morning light, pouring in through the windows. She wasn't accustomed to so much light in this room. Lovingdon had always preferred to keep the world out. From what she'd been able to discern, before he'd married her, he'd never allowed a single drapery to be parted or a shade to be lifted. It had been a somber house, reflecting its owner's melancholy mood. He'd even asked her to restrict her desire for allowing in the sunshine to rooms he didn't frequent.