This Rake of Mine (16 page)

"Ah, Duchess, I think you are being too hard on Lord Douglas, for part of our family curse is that we love only once in a lifetime. Once a Tremont man falls in love, he shall never have an eye for another."

Tally sighed. "Just like you and Miss Mabberly. Is that why you never married?"

Now during his wild days in London, he'd gotten into more than one scrape when he thought he'd end up sticking his fork in the wall for certain, but nothing had prepared him for having four pairs of feminine eyes gazing at him intently, awaiting his reply.

Even Brutus sat at his feet, paying his boots no heed and looking up for his answer.

His gaze flew to Miss Porter, looking for some help, some admonishment about proper conversation. But there was none forthcoming. The vexing woman just stood there, her head tipped to one side and a look that challenged him to deny it.

And as he looked at her, really looked at the woman before him, he found himself forgetting the girl who'd stolen his heart so long ago. Suddenly all those things about Miranda that had left him filled with regrets and longing—her innocence, her quicksilver passion—seemed a quaint dream in the face of this managing, proper spinster with her tempting tresses and tart opinions.

A woman that challenged him in ways he didn't yet understand, didn't know if he wanted to.

What the devil was he thinking? He might not understand what was happening to him, but he knew how to put a stop to it.

"Yes," he told them quickly. "That's exactly the reason. My affection for Miss Mabberly has become my curse." He shrugged his shoulders, if only to cast off any last lingering notions about Miss Porter, and said, "Now we have one last stop on this tour. The Great Hall. If you'll come this way—" He turned to lead them down the hall when Brutus gave a short woof and darted between his legs, then under and through Miss Porter's skirts.

The little dog's mischief was enough to topple the lady, sending her feet skidding out from beneath her.

Jack was having his own problems remaining upright, and they collided somewhere in the middle, falling into each other's arms.

They slammed together with a mighty
whoosh
, and Jack caught her and steadied them both—though the same couldn't be said for the bolt of desire that ricocheted through his veins.

"Bad, Brutus!" Tally shouted and went dashing off after her dog, her sister and cousin in her wake—leaving Jack and Miranda alone.

Alone
. And in each other's arms. What had Birdwell said? Keep his enemies closer still?

Ah, but Jack discovered an enemy of another kind, a devilish temptation that could steal a man's heart. He glanced down at her, a tightening thread of passion pulling her closer to him.

Even worse, she was supple and pliant in his arms. Perhaps it was the shock of being upended, but there she was, as fluid as a willing lover, her breasts pressed against his chest, their legs tangled, his arms wound around her ever so tightly.

Through the muslin of her gown, he could feel her corset, the stiff linen, the rigid stays, the tightly pulled strings, but the living, breathing woman all but defied her prim prison.

Around him, he could swear he heard the roar of a mighty wind, feel the cold chill of time wind around them, marking them, marking him. He looked at this woman in his arms and wanted her with a depth that swept all the way down to his soul.

He forgot everything around him. All the problems that haunted his days, made up his nights, turned to ash. With her in his arms a calm settled into his soul, lending him a peace he hadn't felt… well, ever.

It was this house, he averred. This woman…

Enchanting him. Whispering impossible notions into his ear.

Kiss her. Kiss her.

And her lips parted in answer, as if begging him to cover them, to explore her, to conquer her desire. She looked as if she had something to say, something she wanted so desperately to tell him, and yet the words—

"I am so sorry, Miss Porter," Tally was saying as she and the other girls returned. "I don't know what got into—" The girl came to an abrupt halt.

Jack knew right then and there he was indeed cursed.

"Oh, my—" Pippin gasped as she stumbled into Tally.

Felicity for once took a romantic turn. "Lord John, how heroic you are to save Miss Porter. I just knew you were what Nanny Lucia would call a '
preux chevalier'
."

Whatever spell had been cast over Miss Porter in the last half hour—demmit, in the last magical minute—evaporated in the blink of an eye as Tally translated her sister's words in a breathless whisper of acknowledgement.

"A knight in shining armor."

"I think I'm well enough to stand now, my lord," she said, clambering out of his arms. "Thank you for catching me." Her hasty tone and the way she swiped her hands over her skirt made it seem as if she were brushing away the last vestiges of the web that had entangled them. "There, now," she said, tucking her hair up and deftly pinning it back into place. She turned to the girls. "Do you have that beast in hand, Miss Thalia?"

Tally nodded. Their prim chaperone was back, and there wasn't a single soul in the room who felt like cheering her return.

Least of all Jack.

"Very well," Miss Porter told them. "Girls, let us thank Lord John for the tour and—"

"Oh, Miss Porter!"

"No!"

"We've hardly begun," came the protests.

From the pinched expression on her face, the disapproval knit across her brow, he knew their protests were falling on deaf ears.

"Really, Miss Porter, what is your hurry?" he asked.

She didn't look up at him this time but instead went to work settling her shawl around her shoulders like a mantle of chain mail. "If we are to be gone at first light, we need to finish our packing."

"Delay your departure until after breakfast," he found himself suggesting.

Oh, the devil take his tongue! What was he saying?

"That isn't possible." She looked up at him then, her face once again composed and set. "We have other stops to make before we reach Lady Caldecott's. Educational diversions. Houses of architectural interest, ones that offer lessons in history."

Jack grinned. Lessons? She wanted lessons? "There are some excellent architectural points to Thistleton Park that are quite educational, if you would give the house a chance."

Give me a chance.

Her eyes widened, and she stepped back. Oh, she understood exactly what he meant.

"Come now, Miss Porter, you hardly strike me as a spoilsport. In truth, I can see it in your eyes, you are as immensely curious about my Tremont ancestors and Thistleton Park as your charges are."

She shot him a wry look, one that most would believe was filled with disdain. But not Jack. He'd seen that spark in her eyes when he'd held her, and for some unfathomable reason, he wanted to see it again.

"At least come and see the Great Hall," he cajoled. "My Aunt Josephine had the original medieval portion of the house turned into a portrait gallery, and I know that Birdwell asked the girls from the village to clean it up before they left this afternoon." He turned a wide-eyed expression on the hopelessly romantic trio behind him to gain their help. "Tis said that Eleanor of Aquitaine dined there before she was exiled by her husband. Much to Lord Harold's delight."

Pippin, the obvious bluestocking of the bunch, nearly swooned. "Oh, please, Miss Porter. Such a room would be worthy of recounting to Miss Emery. You know how keen she is on medieval history."

If there was one thing Jack did remember about women, it was how to spot the moment when they begin to capitulate. In a flirtation—or even an improper invitation—there is that split second when a woman goes from being downright unwilling to cautiously entertaining.

"Well, I don't know—" Miss Porter began.

Jack didn't wait for her to finish. "Excellent!" he declared, catching her by the arm and spinning her toward the hall. "I think you will find it a most illuminating experience."

"I can only imagine," came what might have sounded like a tart reply but to Jack's ears was a tempting challenge to see if he could rediscover the lady he'd found… and lost.

Pushing the double doors wide open, Jack announced, "While to most this would be your typical portrait gallery, it is what we Tremonts refer to privately as our own version of Bedlam. When a family member is banished to Thistleton Park, any and all portraits usually follow—we Tremonts don't like to keep reminders about that there are branches on the family tree that have failed to exhibit our requisite noble and lofty traits."

"Ooooh," came their excited sighs as the girls gazed into the dazzling room.

Birdwell and his helpers had done their part—all the Holland covers were pulled and every sconce filled with candles. The gallery was ablaze in light.

For the first time since Jack had taken possession of Thistleton Park, he felt a sense of pride for his disreputable residence.

The girls followed him eagerly, spellbound by the sight, as well as by the scandalous taint that the room seemed to hold in its depths.

"Who's this?" Felicity asked at the first portrait they came to.

He stopped before the great oil canvas and set the candelabra he was carrying on a nearby curio cabinet. "May I introduce you to my great-aunt, Lady Josephine Tremont."

"The one who was murdered?" Tally breathed.

"So avers Sir Norris," Jack told them. "But there has never been any proof of foul play. Nor was her body ever found. I think the old girl went out for a walk and got too close to the edge."

"On a dark and stormy night?" Miss Porter asked.

Well, there was that bit of untidy business
, Jack mused. Leave it to Miss Porter to point it out. "My aunt was here at Thistleton Park for a reason. She wasn't always counted on to do the right thing."

"Harrumph," Miss Porter said and continued further into the hall.

"She looks rather formidable," Pippin added.

"She was," Jack told her.

"Why was she here?" Tally asked.

"She made a very inopportune marriage as a young girl. Then her blighter of a husband abandoned her, and she was left with nothing. Rather than see her become an even greater scandal, she was given Thistleton Park, as the previous inhabitant had died a few months earlier. Of course it came with the proviso that she not go out in Society but remain here."

"How terrible," Felicity opined.

"Not really," Jack told her. "Aunt Josephine had her admirers, far and wide, and they were more than willing to come here to see her, much to the family's horror."

"Mr. Billingsworth was quite taken with her," Pippin said.

"And how lucky for us," Jack told her. "Or we wouldn't have met."

There was another "harrumph" from Miss Porter.

It only served to pique his rakish heart all that much more.

"Jack," Tally called out, "who is this?"

"That," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "is my great-great-uncle. They called him Mad Jack Tremont because he had a propensity for gaming and drink."

Miss Porter came to stand just behind the girls. "So you were named after him?" Her question held that sharp-witted irony, which the woman used so well.

"Yes," Jack said. "Much to my mother's dismay. She said it was sure to mark me with Mad Jack's tendencies. Instead, she had hoped to name me after her great-uncle, who was a respected vicar."

"What was his name?" Pippin asked.

He shuddered. "No, you'll only laugh."

The three of them shook their heads. "Surely we won't, Lord John."

"Orson," he told them.

They promptly fell into a spate of giggles. "Never!"

He grinned at them. "What? Don't you think I would have made a good Orson, or is it a good vicar?"

Their giggles were now turning into a gale of laughter. "Neither!" they told him.

"Really, girls," Miss Porter admonished. "I don't see anything funny about Lord John being a vicar."

"Nor do I," he teased. "However perhaps Miss Porter thinks I might have made a good clergyman. What say you, Miss Porter?"

"It might have been a better employment of your talents," she said, staring at him with a straight face, but there it was, in her eyes (if he wasn't mistaken)—that spark of passion that defied her words.

A hint of what they had shared in the hallway.

Jack couldn't help himself. "And those talents would be?"

Her eyes widened, and for just a moment that bit of magic wove them back together. She looked like she was about to say something, as she had in the hall, but she was interrupted by Tally, who had wandered away and now stood before another portrait.

"Jack, who is this?"

"Don't think you'll get off so easily, Miss Porter," he whispered at her as he passed her by to join the girl. Taking a quick glance back at the lady, he saw the slight hint of a blush on her cheeks.

Oh, no, he wasn't mistaken. Her corset was loosening, whether she liked it or not.

Pulling his attention away from the redhead who perplexed him, he glanced up at the portrait Tally was looking at.

"That is Lord Albin Tremont," he told her. "He lived here just before my Aunt Josephine. He built the tower, thus the name, Albin's Folly."

"Why did he build it?" Pippin asked.

"So he could see France more readily, so the story goes," Jack said.

"He looks very sad," Pippin said.

"Spent every penny he could get his hands on building his tower."

"Was he a student of the classics?" Miss Porter asked.

"No," Jack told them. "Nothing more than a man with a broken heart." He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was gazing up at Lord Albin's sad expression with a light of understanding in her own eyes. Was she thinking of the man whose button she still kept? Jack tossed the notion out of his thoughts and told them Albin's heartrending tale.

"The story goes that Albin fell in love with a young girl from a noble French family. They were to be wed, but when it was discovered that he suffered from spells—fits, I suppose they were—the girl's father called off the engagement. She wrote to him and promised him that somehow she would escape her family and come to him. Shortly thereafter, word came that she had been married to another, and the news left Albin bereft. He removed himself here and built his tower so he could watch for her. So he could see France, and in a sense, see her every day that the sky was clear. He died up there, waiting for her. When they found him, that was in his hand," he said, pointing to a miniature of a lady hung beside the grand portrait.