Once an Innocent (15 page)

Her chin lifted pertly and her eyes blazed in triumph as Sir Randell frowned.

The library door opened. Lord Freese entered, glancing over his shoulder at Naomi. “This should be a private place at this time of — oh! I beg your pardon.”

Naomi’s eyes went wide when she spotted her aunt across the room. She glanced at Lord Freese and colored. Janine wondered what the discomfort was. At last it occurred to her that she and Sir Randell had just been found alone and standing very close together.

Bother and bosh
, she thought crossly.
I’m entirely too old to have aspersions cast in my direction. I don’t need a chaperone — I
am
the chaperone!

Naomi sidled away from Lord Freese.

Of course, Janine reflected, those two
should
have a chaperone. Why did they seek a private place for a
tête-à-tête?
Her niece was a sensible girl, though. Janine trusted her judgment as much as she’d trusted her own at that age — and her own sensibilities had never led her astray.

“There you are, Auntie!” Naomi blurted, a bright smile pasted to her lips. “We’ve been searching for you high and low, have we not, Lord Freese?”

“Indeed,” the gentleman contributed. “It’s nearly time for supper. You’ve been missed. In the parlor.”

A moment passed wherein the four parties looked one at the other, electing by silent consent to accept this falsehood for the sake of appearances.

“Excellent!” Sir Randell broke the silence and offered Janine his arm. “Lady Janine and I were just wondering to one another what the time is. Now we know.”

Lord Freese gave Naomi a meaningful look, and the two departed in the direction of the parlor.

Janine snorted. “Never mind the clock standing in the corner.”

Sir Randell shot her a frown. “We wouldn’t want to embarrass the children. Still,” he said as they strolled toward the sounds of the assembled guests, “I wonder what they were about?”

“Some stones are best left unturned, sir.”

“Now
that
,” Sir Randell said, nodding sagely, “is a point upon which we are in perfect accord.”

Throughout supper, Jordan could focus on neither the meal nor the company. Naomi had sent him a note while he prepared for the evening, begging a moment of his time. It had been an unexpected pleasure to hold words addressed to him, written in her hand. He’d urged his valet to hurry through dressing him, curious to know what prompted this unprecedented summons.

She awaited him in the entrance hall, looking every inch the fashionable lady in a green gown with a daring, square neckline. Yet something furtive shadowed her eyes, and she asked if they might not find somewhere more secluded to talk.

Intrigued, he led her to the library — where they found their respective uncle and aunt going at one another like sparring cocks. Naomi made a pretty excuse for their presence but abandoned the discussion she’d meant to have with him. He now cast significant looks in her direction, which she ignored.

Hosting was such a tedious chore. Jordan did not want to sit at the head of the table and separately engage Mr. and Mrs. Richard in conversation, since they could barely countenance looking at one another, much less speak civilly. What he really wanted to do was push back his chair, stalk the length of the table to where Naomi sat between Mr. Perry and Mr. Young, pull her onto the terrace, and —

His fork clattered onto his plate. Mrs. Richard pursed her lips and raised a disapproving brow. Jordan muttered an apology and swallowed half a glass of wine in one gulp.

What was
that
his brain had concocted?

This is Naomi, you degenerate,
he scolded himself. The strain of this whole manhunt-house party, intrigue-riddled, international catastrophe was already wearing him down, and it hadn’t been a week. His mind was straying, turning things out of their proper place.

If Jordan did seek Naomi out every evening, if he’d hurried to answer her note, it was only because he’d been commissioned by her brother to take particular care of her. That was it.

He realized he was staring again, devouring her creamy throat with his eyes.

The ladies finally withdrew, and Naomi took her intoxicating innocence and sensuality out of the room. He could breathe again.

“I think we should set a night patrol,” Mr. Richard said without preamble. His mean, little eyes peered at Jordan. “What good does it do us to tromp around the moor all day, if the Frenchies are free to come within a stone’s throw of the front door at night?”

Lord Gray waved a hand in disagreement. “We settled this days ago. A few of our men close to the house at night is sufficient. Would you have us falling off mountainsides and breaking our necks, stumbling about in the dark? I guarantee you our French agents aren’t that stupid.”

“They’re stupid enough to support a defeated madman,” Solomon Perry sneered.

Ditman cast a contemptuous glance at Perry. “If Bonaparte was as soundly defeated as we’d like him to be, none of us would be here, would we?”

Jordan’s temper rose in proportion to the volume of the squabble. “The watch remains as is,” he declared crossly. “Who is out this evening?”

He glanced around the table, but for the life of him, he still couldn’t recall all the men in his company. Forgettable faces were an asset to the Foreign Office, but Jordan’s obliviousness was more than that. He didn’t care enough about these men to become acquainted. He only cared to apprehend French agents. Beyond that, Jordan had no use for any of them except Fitzhugh Ditman, who had more than proved his worth in Spain.

Dispatching the remainder of his port, Jordan stood. “Let’s join the ladies, shall we?”

“Ladies in the plural sense,” Solomon Perry said with a smarmy smile, “or just the one? Lady Naomi might be the only female in existence, for all the notice you take of the others. You cling to her skirt like a devoted lapdog.”

Jordan fixed the overgrown scarecrow in a wrathful gaze.

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed; his face blanched. “Not that I blame you,” he said hurriedly. “She is, of course, without a protector, unlike the rest of our ladies.”

Jordan pressed forward. Perry retreated until he stumbled against a chair and plopped onto it. Jordan snatched his lapels and brought his face within inches of the other man’s. “Get out of my house,” he sneered. “You have night watch for the rest of the week.”

Nodding his hasty assent, Perry scrambled backward out of Jordan’s grip.

Jordan was still out of sorts when he reached the parlor. He had half a mind to take the night watch himself. Whist, charades, and mindless gossip held no appeal. His gaze raked over the motley assortment of females, who all ceased their various activities when the men entered.

“Tea will be here in a trice,” Clara announced while moving to Jordan. She took his elbow and steered him aside. “Is something the matter?” she inquired. To his blank stare, his stepmother made an exasperated sound. “You’re going to frighten the ladies, scowling so fiercely at everyone.”

With an effort, he schooled his features into a more decorous composition and gave her a toothy grin.

Clara frowned incredulously. “Worse. Now you look like a wolf come to devour the little lambs.” She gave him an arch look as two maids entered with the tea trays. “Do try to be more domesticated, Jordan.” She patted his arm and went to pour tea.

Jordan’s attention lit upon Naomi, who chatted with Albertha Wood. Miss Wood shared her brother’s unfortunate, overlarge teeth, but her smile was quite pleasant with lips closed.

He had only a glance to spare for Miss Wood, however, before his awareness returned to Naomi. Merely looking upon her was a balm to his agitated nerves — but also stirred up other, hungrier, sensations.

She must have felt his gaze, for Naomi caught his eye and favored him with a nod. Though an entirely different gesture than a crooked finger, that little bend of her neck beckoned to him all the same. “Deuce take it,” he grumbled as he crossed the parlor.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, interrupting Miss Wood in the middle of a sentence. “Lady Naomi, it has just come to my attention that Crawford, my head gardener, is having difficulties with a night-blooming primrose.”

Naomi’s brow arched in inquiry.

Hands clasped behind his back, Jordan continued. “It would appear the specimen in question has been flowering at noon, which is quite out of the question for a night bloom.”

Miss Wood pressed a hand to her cheek. “My word! I wonder what could have caused such a curious deviation.”

“Just so, Miss Wood. The answer has so far eluded poor Crawford. Even as we speak, he’s in the hothouse with the primrose, seeking to unearth, as it were, the root of the mystery.”

“Perhaps the cause is not in the roots,” Naomi suggested, her face alight with mirth.

“You may be right, Lady Naomi,” he said thoughtfully. “It occurs to me that your brother, His Grace the duke, is something of a botanist, is he not?”

Jordan perfectly well knew this to be the case, but Naomi caught where he was leading and played along.

“You remember right, my lord. It has been my pleasure to aid him in some of his research. As it happens,” she said innocently, “last year I assisted his work with evening primrose.”

“How fortunate!” Miss Wood proclaimed. She turned eagerly to Naomi. “I wonder if you might … ” She covered her mouth. “Oh, but I speak out of turn. Forgive me for putting you forward, my lady.”

Affecting surprise, Jordan looked from Miss Wood to Naomi. “Oh, well, I hadn’t … That is, it never crossed my mind — ”

“My lord,” Naomi interjected, “might I see the specimen in question and offer my opinion?”

He waved his hands. “Only if it wouldn’t be any trouble. Although,” he said, adopting a tone of concern, “Crawford hasn’t slept these last several days, as he’s remained at the primrose’s side, trying to set it to rights.”

Miss Wood made a sound of dismay. “Oh, the poor man! What devotion! What care!” Shaking her head, she sighed. “You are fortunate to have him, my lord. Anything that might ease his burden should be considered.”

Naomi’s features fell into a convincing expression of pity. “Right you are, Miss Wood. I can think only of dear Mr. Crawford now, and I’m afraid I shall take no pleasure in the evening if I have not done my part.” Nodding gravely, she said, “Please, my lord, take me to the primrose.”

They slipped out of the parlor, leaving Miss Wood to explain their absence for reasons of botanical emergency.

Naomi did an admirable job maintaining her composure until they were outside, then she dropped Jordan’s arm and laughed, silvery and musical. The sound delighted him, and he chuckled with her.

“Poor Mr. Crawford,” she said, her voice thick with mirth. She dabbed her eyes with a finger until Jordan passed her a handkerchief. “You are shameless. No one besides Miss Wood will believe a word of it.”

Jordan decided to take Naomi to the moon pond, located a fair distance across the park but still within sight of the house. “Perhaps they won’t, but with you and I having begun the story, and Clara vouching for it, no one will dare suggest otherwise.”

“Did you actually put the tale past Lady Whithorn before you approached me?” She seemed both amused and scandalized at the idea.

“No,” he admitted, “but she’s accustomed to my pell-mell ways and takes them in stride.”

It was a cool night, and the path had them walking beside the stream running through the park. Naomi rubbed her arms, and Jordan mentally kicked himself for bringing her out-of-doors before she could retrieve so much as a shawl. Without a word, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

Naomi stopped. He felt her gaze and wondered if she’d ever seen a man disrobed beyond waistcoat and shirt. Before he could stop the insidious thoughts, blood pounded through his veins to the organ behind the fall of his breeches. He wanted to be the first man she saw undressed, the one to give her pleasure.

Stop
, he chided himself. It had been too long since he’d bedded a woman. There had been one last tumble with Lady Evans before he ended their affair at the beginning of the Season, but no one since then had caught his eye.

Someone
did
capture your notice,
whispered a voice inside.
She’s standing in front of you.

“Naomi.” Speaking her name helped cool his lust, even if his mind was still a jumble. This was a girl he’d watched grow into a beautiful woman. He was attracted to her — he could admit as much to himself — but nothing could ever come of it. They were both disinclined to marry, and Jordan didn’t dally with virgins.

“Yes, Jordan?” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

He shook his head. They walked the rest of the way to the moon pond in silence. The water feature’s name served descriptive double duty. The pond was placed in an open expanse of lawn to best reflect the heavens. It was also built in the shape of a half moon, with a statue of a water nymph in the center. The still, dark water mirrored the crescent and stars overhead.

“Beautiful,” Naomi breathed. A dreamy smile touched her lips as she took in the celestial splendor at her feet. Jordan’s coat slipped from her left shoulder; he gently replaced the garment. His hand lingered and, ever so slowly, his fingers brushed up her neck to cup her jaw. There was a reason he’d brought Naomi outside, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.

Her eyes closed, and for an instant, she pressed against his hand. Then she inhaled sharply and pulled away. But it was enough. That minuscule gesture confirmed she was attracted to him, too. It was a heady revelation.

Naomi took a step back and clutched the lapels of his coat closed at her throat. “I would still like to speak with you, Jordan. I’m sorry we couldn’t do so earlier.”

“I’m not.” He closed the distance between them again, tight heat pulsating between his legs. He captured a wayward strand of her hair and brushed it against his lips. Its silky length carried a clean, lemony scent. He brought his other hand to her throat. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch and ordered his into unison.