Authors: Gaelen Foley
“Why, it’s beautiful,” her companion murmured, taking a step closer.
Jacinda turned back to him in question, barely hiding her bemusement. “Goodness, I had heard that it was stolen.”
He shrugged, his eyes dancing. “Lady Sudeby was telling us a short while ago that some anonymous benefactor managed to retrieve it, and returned it to her.”
“An anonymous benefactor?” she asked meaningfully.
“Indeed.”
“How very mysterious! I am so pleased it has been returned to its rightful owner.” She paused, casting him a wily look. “Actually, Lord Rackford, I was not aware that you were acquainted with Lady Sudeby.”
“She is my aunt,” he said drily. “My mother’s twin sister.”
She blinked with astonishment, then quickly looked away, biting her lip to hold back her mirth at his revelation. She cleared her throat. “Lord Rackford, allow me to present my dearest friend in all the world, Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.”
He bowed to her modestly pretty companion. “Miss Carlisle, it is a pleasure.”
“How do you do, my lord,” the older, brown-haired girl murmured, curtseying.
Rackford felt himself closely inspected by Miss Carlisle’s penetrating gaze as he bowed over her hand. Truly, he wanted the earth to swallow him at the moment, for he sensed that the best friend was making her own judgment on his worthiness or lack thereof for Her Ladyship. That could only mean Jacinda had told her friend heaven-knew-what about him, maybe even about his blundering proposal of the previous night.
Blasted women. They could never keep a thing to themselves, but this one, he realized, could make or break his cause with the queen bee.
Straightening up again, he glanced at Jacinda, rather miffed by his suspicions. He only hoped Miss Carlisle could hold her tongue about whatever she had been told.
Upon the announcement shortly thereafter that dinner was served, Jacinda saw fit to award him the privilege of taking her down to dine. In the luxuriously appointed dining room, the candelabras glowed, burnishing the gilding throughout the room and gleaming upon the fine silver and exquisite painted china. He walked his lady to her place and pulled out her chair for her, waiting as she daintily sat down. His gloved fingertips brushed the bare skin of her back. He saw the small shiver that ran down her spine at his light, accidental touch.
“You look ravishing,” he murmured loud enough for only her to hear as he pushed in her chair.
She slipped him a haughty look that warned he was not in the clear yet. Rather chastened, he nodded to her, then went in search of his seat. He soon found that his dotty aunt had surrounded him with young ladies whose mothers had never dared break Society’s rules.
Jacinda sat on the opposite side of the table, two chairs down. Taking his seat, he blanched at the intimidating array of silverware before him, spread out like so many surgeon’s tools.
Wonderful
, he thought in disgust.
Acer was sitting nearby and was watching him with interest, as though he already suspected that half of the odd-shaped spoons and tiny forks were completely foreign to him. Rackford dropped his gaze, placing his napkin on his lap.
When the first course was served, he realized by watching the others that the gentlemen were expected to carve the meat dish that happened to be set in front of them.
He eyed up the steaming chine of lamb before him, picked up the long, serrated carving knife, and gave Acer Loring a hard, meaningful look, needing not a single word to make his threat concisely plain.
Acer’s smug hauteur wilted as he watched Rackford slice the eight pounds of steaming red meat; Billy hadn’t earned the nickname “Blade” for no reason. By the time he was through with the job, he trusted the dandy had gotten the message.
Done, he stuck the knife into the saddle of lamb with a flourish and offered the dish to the debutantes seated around him.
He noticed Jacinda giving him an exasperated look. He sent her a small shrug. She looked away, shaking her head.
When it came time to attack the meal, however, he floundered, as uncertain as the dupe of some shell-game trickster, his hand wavering above the selection of silverware. He swept a rather desperate glance over the other guests until he saw Jacinda staring forcefully at him.
The person next to her asked her a question, and she rejoined the conversation with a smile, but he watched her hand as she slowly picked up the second fork from the left and twirled it playfully between her fingers.
He made his selection in relief. She glanced at him briefly a moment later, making sure he had not made another faux pas.
Somehow she got him through the three-hour meal, until at last, it was over. The ladies withdrew, while the men stayed at table for a short while longer, drinking port and sherry. He met her rakehelly brother, Lord Alec Knight, who was of an age with him, and liked the man at once.
At last, the sexes reconvened in the salon, where card tables were set up for a few respectable games of whist. The debutantes, however, seemed more interested in showing off their musical talents on the pianoforte, either playing the instrument for the crowd of guests or singing with its accompaniment. Rackford stood at the back of the room, leaning against the wall and sipping another glass of the thick, fortified wine. He was most interested in waiting for Jacinda’s performance, but rather than going to the piano, she meandered slowly through the crowded drawing room.
He looked into her eyes as she casually sauntered toward him. Pure lightning leaped between them, but she demurely looked away and leaned against the wall beside him, sipping her wine. He pretended to enjoy the music, but all his senses were ferociously focused on her.
He could feel her acute awareness of him, as well. It was torture, not being able to touch her. “Thanks for your help in there,” he said under his breath.
She waved her silk fan idly, avoiding his gaze. “I know you think me a useless ornament, but sometimes my trivial expertise has its uses.”
“I never said you were useless.” He could think of any number of uses for her, all of which would have gotten him slapped. “Dare I hope your kindness to me means you have decided to believe me? ”
“No.”
“Then why did you help me?”
“I have decided to withhold judgment until Lucien comes home. That is all.”
“Fair enough.”
“Till then…” She sighed. Pretending to watch the next piano-playing debutante’s performance, she slid him a wary, sideways glance. “I haven’t much time, and this is
not
to be interpreted as encouragement, but you, Lord Rackford, are a pitiful sight. You will never survive the ton on your own, but for reasons I do not wish to contemplate, I am disposed to help you. Call on me tomorrow at one. Do not be late.”
Taken aback, he had no time to react as she gave him a bolstering look, then drifted on through the crowd, chatting with people here and there.
He watched her with newfound hope wafting up from the core of him.
A pitiful sight? he wondered in amusement. How could anyone possibly interpret that as encouragement? But he hid his widening smile and sipped his sherry, too happy, suddenly, to care.
At five minutes before one the next day, a splendid black town coach with the Albright coat of arms on the door rolled through the high wrought-iron gates of Knight House. Jacinda watched from an upper window just long enough to note that the driver and footmen were in tan livery with frothy white lace jabots and black tricornes. The four black horses were perfectly matched, their black harnesses shot through with smart crimson stitching. Her eyes shining with excitement, she dashed off to the drawing room to receive her caller.
She doubted he was familiar enough with Society’s customs to realize he had been invited at a most informal hour reserved for visits with one’s most intimate friends; social calls grew more ceremonious as the afternoon advanced. Lord knew she might well need the whole day to bring him up to scratch. Since the afternoon was sunny and pleasant, she had already decided that she and Lord Rackford should walk in Green Park, where they could talk privately. Knowing beforehand that he would be coming, she had sent Miss Hood out on a fool’s errand. Lizzie would accompany them, a much more agreeable chaperon than the eagle-eyed governess.
Downstairs, she heard Mr. Walsh answer the door. She slipped into the drawing room, where Bel and Lizzie were sewing, and hurried to arrange herself in a graceful attitude on one of the sofas, neatly smoothing her skirts around her. Lizzie gave her a mirthful look, in on the secret, but Bel was intent on her work, carefully rethreading her needle. Robert, thankfully, was at White’s—not that his presence would have deterred Billy Blade.
Jacinda’s heart beat faster as she heard Rackford’s sure, heavy footfalls following Mr. Walsh’s dignified march up the curved marble staircase. In another moment, the butler gave a knock on the drawing room door and opened it at the duchess’s summons.
Stepping into the room, Mr. Walsh stood to the side of the door and bowed to Bel, the lady of the house. “Your Grace: the earl of Rackford.”
Jacinda felt her spirit leap as her caller appeared in the white-trimmed doorway of the drawing room.
In spite of herself, a surge of pleasure coursed through her veins.
Perhaps there was hope for him yet, she thought wryly as her approving gaze swept over him. He was dressed with leisurely elegance in a double-breasted spencer jacket of deep Spanish blue, a pristine white waistcoat, a handsome trone d’amour cravat, and drill trousers in a creamy biscuit shade.
He swept off his black top hat and strode in, greeting the ladies in order of precedence. In one hand, he held a silver-handled walking stick, in the other, a giant bouquet, which he presented to Jacinda with a bow.
“How thoughtful,” Bel exclaimed, while Lizzie watched them in delight.
Jacinda blushed brightly, inhaling the delicious mingling of perfumes from the profusion of tiger lilies, irises, tulips, and roses. While the others exchanged pleasantries, she summoned a servant to put the flowers in a vase. Soon, she had procured Bel’s permission to walk in the park with Rackford, Lizzie accompanying them. With an air of complicity, her best friend became absorbed in her book and walked several paces behind them, too honorable to eavesdrop.
“Is it your intention to drive me mad, Lady Jacinda, or does it just come naturally?” Lord Rackford inquired in a naughty murmur, flicking an admiring glance over her carefully chosen promenade gown with its small, tight, decidedly low-cut pink bodice and long white skirts. Since her gown was short-sleeved, she wore long white gloves and a flowing transparent pink scarf draped artfully around her shoulders. Its billowing end reached for him and brushed against him teasingly.
“William,” she warned, boldly using his first name as she glanced at him from behind the brim of her round bonnet, which was trimmed with silk daffodils and tied with a pink ribbon.
He smiled in flirtatious contrition. “Very well. I’ll be good.”
God knew he made her heart beat faster, but she struggled to maintain at least an outward show of cool skepticism. They strolled slowly in step with each other down the wide, quiet, tree-lined path. Rackford measured out his paces with his walking stick while Jacinda languidly did the same with her upended parasol.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
“It is the least that I can do after you came to my rescue last night. I did not expect it, to say the least.”
“Well, it’s very simple. As I am a lady, it is my duty to help those less fortunate than myself, and, forgive me, but it is very clear that, without my guidance, you will be eaten alive. Therefore, I have decided to help you, Lord Rackford. That is why I asked you here today.”
“Help me? How?”
“By civilizing you.”
“I see.” A dashing smile spread slowly over his handsome face. “An intriguing proposition.”
“I believe it should prove an amusing project, yes.”
“Well, I am your eager pupil, my lady, clay in your hands. Mold me as you will,” he said in a lazy purr.
She eyed him skeptically, for every word from his lips seemed laden with rakish innuendo—or maybe it was only her own errant imagination. Clearing her throat with a little, businesslike cough, she opted to ignore it. “Before we begin, I must know everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“About your past.”
“You already know it.”
“Not all of it. You say you started out as the younger son of Lord Truro, and I saw for myself that you ended up as the leader of the Fire Hawks. What I want to know is what happened in between—how you got from point A to point B.“
He slid her a wary look askance. “And all of this pertains to your civilizing me, how?”
“It doesn’t,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “It is merely the payment I demand for my services.”
“Oh-ho, your ‘services’? I wasn’t aware I was going to be serviced, my lady.”
“Oh, come, Billy, you have to tell me! I shall expire of curiosity!”
“All right, all right, if you are so bent on hearing my sorry tale, but first, I have one small, harmless question for you.”
“What is it?” she asked guardedly.
He stopped and turned to her.
“Don’t you think it’s a trifle heartless the way you are using that old man?”
His smooth accusation startled her, but she knew he was referring to Lord Drummond. “I am not using him.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Don’t bother telling me you are in love with him. We both know what you’re really after. Your freedom.”
She stared at him uneasily. “You… realize my intention?”
He nodded. “It’s risky, you know. What if he should perceive your true motives?”
She turned away sharply, scowling. “It’s not like that. There’s no sentimental nonsense between us. Lord Drummond is no fool. It is merely a matter of companionship in his old age. Once, he was an admirer of my mother’s; now, he is a lonely old man with no one to take care of him. I make him happy.”
“Does he make you happy?”
“I don’t need a man to make me happy, Lord Rackford.”