A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (2 page)

‘Azure. I choose azure,' she announced coyly over the top of her painted fan after pretending to give the answer a great deal of thought. And perhaps she had. Jack had to admit blue was the perfect choice for a careful answer. There were so many shades of blue; a gentleman could pick a hue of his own comfort level.

Jack bowed again. ‘Azure it shall be, Lady Dulcinea. I duly accept your charge with all these gentlemen as my witnesses. Tomorrow night, at the Danby rout, I shall carry out my commission.'

Jack turned his gaze to the man next to him in the circle as if noticing the Spanish gentleman for the first time. ‘Lady Dulcinea, I must beg an introduction. I believe this gentleman and I are not acquainted.' The match was over. Dulci had won the dare, but he'd got what he came for. The rest of the group wouldn't realise that. But Dulci would.

Dulci gave a deceptively sweet smile and made the introductions. ‘Wainsbridge, this is Señor Calisto Ortiz, of the Venezuelan diplomatic delegation. I had the good fortune to meet him at a Royal Geographic Society dinner a few days ago.
Señor
, allow me to present Viscount Wainsbridge.'

The Spaniard bowed smoothly and introduced two other gentlemen in turn, a Señor Adalberto Vargas, who was clearly the august leader of the delegation, and Señor
Dias, whose mediocre clothing clearly marked him as the hanger-on.

Ortiz was all handsome manners and Jack disliked him immediately. Younger than his Venezuelan counter parts by over a decade, darkly handsome with inky hair, and expensively dressed, Calisto Ortiz radiated a rather obvious appeal of the kind women found charming. He did not endear himself to Jack further when he turned that charm on Dulci.

For tonight, he'd tolerated enough of the man's covert ogling of Dulci's bosom, as deliciously displayed as it was in the tight bodice of her gown. Like recognised like, and Jack recognised Ortiz to be a womaniser of the highest order.

It was time to throw down the gauntlet, in the politest of fashions, of course. A little competition always brought one's true colours to light and he did not expect Ortiz to prove the exception to the rule. Instead he fully expected Ortiz to prickle in response to a few well-placed remarks. It wasn't Jack's job to make friends. His orders were very clear: take the measure of the delegation. There wasn't a single word mentioned about befriending them.

Jack inserted himself into the general conversation during a lull, casually launching his first sally. ‘Señor Ortiz,
como le gusta Londres
?'

His fluent command of the language had the desired effect. Ortiz looked momentarily surprised at hearing Spanish. Jack wanted him to be surprised and warned. The Venezuelans might be thou sands of miles from home and those who knew the territory, but the English were not without their re sources here. The Venezuelans
would not be dealing with London-based politicians ignorant of the New World's geography.

Ortiz favoured him with a cold smile. ‘I assure you my English is quite fluent.' His terse answer imbued a level of tension into the group. Touchy young man, Jack thought, to be so thoroughly insulted on the acquaintance of six words.

‘Je parle français, aussi,'
Ortiz went on, his steely gaze fixed intently on Jack.

‘Très bien. J'aime parler français,'
Jack smoothly switched into French. He could play this game for a while if Ortiz was so inclined. He might not have the formal degrees of a polyglot scholar, but Jack could bed a woman in six different languages.

Señor Vargas intervened swiftly. ‘Señor Ortiz has been educated at the finest of schools. He's the nephew of one of the viceroys posted to our region.'

‘Ah,' Jack exclaimed with all the appreciation he could summon. Señor Ortiz's role in the delegation was becoming clearer. ‘Are you considered to hold an official diplomatic post, then?'

His enquiry hit the mark. It was petty gratification to see the handsome man's smile fade into a grim line. ‘I'm an ombudsman.'

‘I see. That's quite an impressive
title
.' Jack's steely tone conveyed the rest of the message to Ortiz. They both knew an ombudsman operated in a limited capacity. The title was honorary at best, a sop to one's ego.

Ortiz's dark eyes flashed dangerously. Jack answered with a cool smile. The man fully under stood his allusion and had the good grace to be insulted. But the flare in his eyes suggested he did not have the good grace to be defeated. Ortiz would bear watching. His temper
suggested he was a man quick to anger, quick to take impulsive actions that might later be regretted.

Dulci placed a hand on Jack's sleeve. ‘It is time for that dance you promised me.'

Jack gave her easy compliance. There was no more to be gained from provoking Ortiz. He'd got what he came for. He'd taken the measure of the delegation and it was quite telling.

D
ulci's announcement was immediately un popular with everyone except Jack. ‘But the next waltz is mine,' a rather dull-witted fellow, the Earl of Carstairs's son, stepped forwards to protest.

The boy was not fast enough. Jack claimed indisputable possession, covering Dulci's gloved hand on his sleeve with his own. ‘I'm sure Lady Dulcinea has something saved for you later.'

‘I have a country dance free in the fourth set.' Dulci quickly offset the boy's sour face.

‘Good choice,' Jack remarked in low tones, leading her towards the dance floor. ‘Less conversational opportunities with a country dance. You're probably doing him a favour. I doubt he has the requisite half-hour of conversation saved up to get through a waltz.'

‘I'm doing myself a favour.' Dulci placed her hand on Jack's shoulder as they positioned them selves. ‘The man's got the brains and build of an ox. He stepped on my feet no less than five times last week at the Balfour ball.'

‘Here I thought you were protecting Ortiz when in reality you were angling for a dance with me.'

‘Don't flatter yourself. I'm not desperate to dance with you like the other women in the ballroom.'

‘They want more than dancing from me, I assure you. You noticed my following? It is quite considerable.'

Dulci blushed as he intended.

‘What? There's nothing wrong with the words “following” or “considerable”.' Jack feigned ignorance of his innuendo.

‘Except when
you
say them. I can't say I have noticed your “following”, but I've noticed you're still as conceited as I remember in the orangery.'

Jack laughed at Dulci's pique, the familiar longings starting to stir. He was enjoying this: his hand at her back, the warmth of her body through the thin silk of her gown, his mind taking pleasure in the mental exercise of parrying her comments.

‘It's the truth.' Jack swung them into the opening patterns of the waltz. He was starting to wonder if his emotional distance could be challenged tonight. He'd like nothing more than to try his luck at stealing a few kisses.

‘That all women are dying of love for you?'

‘No need to be envious. It's not as if you don't have the other half of London at your feet.' Jack shot a look at the jilted heir on the sidelines. ‘I would have thought women found him rather handsome. He's tall, muscular in a beefy sort of way. Quite the pride of English manhood.'

‘It will all run to fat in ten years,' Dulci said matter of factly. ‘I prefer a leaner sort of man. Big men don't tend to dance well.'

‘Your brother's tall,' Jack argued for the sake of disagreement. With Dulci, anything was fair game for an argument. ‘The ladies love dancing with him whenever Nora gives them a chance.'

‘Brandon's an exception.'

‘Speaking of Brandon, I had a note from your brother a month ago. He and Nora are doing well.' Brandon was the one safe topic of conversation they had between them. ‘I gathered they aren't coming up to town because of the new baby.'

‘No, they won't be coming up. It's to be expected. They are the most doting of parents.' A small smile played across Dulci's lips at the mention of her new nephew, giving her features a rare soft look. It occurred to Jack that Dulci's long-standing reign as an Incomparable might indeed be a lonely one. The girl friends who had débuted with her eight years ago would have long since married and started their own families. He had not thought of it in that way before—a price to be paid for her determination to remain unattached. Much in the same way he paid for the life style he achieved. It had been quite un intentional on his part. Was that true for her as well?

It was also a stark reminder that he didn't know Dulci Wycroft all that well, all the ways she'd changed in the years of his absence. She'd come of age and entered society while he'd been off performing the various com missions that had eventually landed him his viscountcy.

Much of his adult life had been spent away from England doing things for the empire he couldn't share with another. The result was that he knew very little about the woman she'd become. Good God, when he'd left England she'd been sixteen, and he a mere twenty-
four. Those intervening years were a blank. He knew only that her beauty, her wit, her innate fire for life and the wild side she strove to keep hidden drew him irrevocably despite his better intentions. Jack didn't dare con tem plate too deeply the reasons for his inexplicable attraction. Those reasons were best left unexplored for fear of uncovering longings and truths that couldn't be answered or tolerated. He could not afford to fall in love with anyone, especially not Dulci. He'd have a hard time explaining that to Brandon.

Dulci cocked her head, studying him with her sharp gaze. ‘What are you up to tonight, Jack? It must be important if it meant seeking me out. For the record, I was not fooled about your reasons for approaching me. You wanted that introduction.'

Jack executed a tight turn to avoid a collision with the less observant Earl of Hertfordshire. ‘Do I have to be up to anything? Perhaps I just wanted to dance with the loveliest girl in the room?'

‘Doubtful. The last time you saw me, I broke a pottery bowl over your head.' Dulci's eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘You won't tell me what you're really doing here, will you?' she accused.

This was old ground. Old ground, old wound. It went beyond the quarrel in the orangery. He'd had this discussion before with other women. He was not at liberty to discuss his business with her or with anyone else. It was rather ironic that while achieving a title had made him socially acceptable and available, he was not at liberty to act on that availability. A woman was only entitled to part of him. The Crown got the other part without question or consideration.

Such a condition was not acceptable with Dulci. Her
unattached status was proof of that. If she tolerated half-measures, she would have settled for a convenient
ton
nish marriage by now. But half-measures were all he could give. What he did for the king was of the utmost secrecy and not necessarily ‘appreciated' in finer circles. He knew in the absence of such disclosures on his part that Dulci had her own theories about his actions, none of which showed him in a favourable light.

‘You're not going to set up any kind of scheme, are you, such as the time you fleeced Wembley out of his thorough bred over a game of Commerce?' She gave him a stern look and Jack could not hold back his laughter.

‘What a little hypocrite you are, m'dear. Why should you have all the fun? Besides, Wembley deserved it.' Jack leaned close to her ear, inhaling the light scent of lavender, fresh and beguiling like the temp tress who wore it. ‘I heard you won a racing dare in Richmond last week.'

Dulci looked momentarily alarmed. ‘No one is supposed to know. Who told you?' She stopped herself in mid-question and shook her head. ‘Never mind, there were only two of us who knew. I know very well who told you.' She made a pretty pout. ‘I thought Lord Amberston would know better.'

Jack laughed. ‘Don't worry, your reputation is intact. However, it does occur to me that you play awfully close to the fire—does society know their darling Incomparable dabbles in scandal on a regular basis?'

Dulci would not be diverted. ‘This is not about me, Jack. I want your word. I don't want you playing cards with Señor Ortiz.'

Jack was all mock solemnity. ‘I promise you, this is not about cards.' Such a suggestion was almost laughable
if the situation wasn't so serious. She could no more conceive of stopping a war before it started than he could conceive of having nothing more serious to worry about than a card game. The damnable thing was, he could not tell her otherwise.

‘Do you promise?' Dulci was sceptical of his easy acquiescence.

‘You have my word, Dulci. In exchange, I want yours that there will be no more moon light horse racing in Richmond. That's dangerous. You should know better than to risk your neck and your horse's.'

‘Now who's the hypocrite?' Dulci flashed a teasing smile that showed off the dimple in her cheek. ‘You're hardly the arbiter of moral fashion. I remember a few years ago when you masqueraded as a fop to help Brandon catch the Cat of Manchester. That escapade ran fairly close to outright law breaking. My horse race was merely ill advised.'

Jack managed a smile at the memory. ‘That's the best service I've ever rendered your brother. I got him a wife in the bargain and he's been happy ever since.'

Dulci held his gaze, returning his smile. Something warm flickered to life in those blue eyes of hers. Jack moved her close to him as they turned. She did not resist his subtle possession. Jack gave her a private, knowing look. He knew she was remembering the thrill of their exploits to save Nora, the midnight wedding ceremony where Brandon, the earl, had married the notorious Cat. Perhaps she was remembering the dangerous sparks of desire that had risen suddenly and unbidden in the orangery at Christmas.

‘Don't, Jack,' Dulci cautioned him softly.

‘Don't what, Dulci?' Jack prodded with a whisper,
knowing full well her thoughts had gone in the same direction as his, his body enjoying the feel of her far more than it should on a ballroom floor. ‘Don't remember you in the orangery? Your hair coming down, your lips wet and red, your face tilted up in the candlelight waiting for my kiss? Your body pressed to mine as close as two bodies can be with their clothes on? How can I forget when I've seen you like that in my mind every night since?' The moment had been unpredictably heady. For a man with his vast experience with women, his reaction had played havoc with his senses whenever he recalled it, which was far too often for his own good.

Nothing had proved its equal, although Jack had certainly tried in the ensuing months. Dulci was a woman who demanded all of a man and that was far too dangerous of a commitment for him to make, for her as well as himself. But he was flirting shamelessly now, seducing her with words, his body and mind firing at the thrill of the challenge she presented.

He saw the pulse in her neck race at his words, belying the protest on her lips. ‘Don't remember, Jack. We both know it was a mistake and it will be a mistake again.'

‘I don't make mistakes when it comes to seduction, Dulci.'

‘No, but afterwards you make plenty. Your
seductus exitus
needs work.'

‘That's not a real Latin phrase.'

‘Exitus
is and it doesn't change the fact that yours needs work.'

‘Only practice makes perfect.' Jack gave a heavy sigh
of over-exaggerated disappointment. ‘Alas, I have so few chances to practise.'

‘That's not what I hear.'

Jack had no desire to talk about those particular rumours—rumours that involved a certain actress, strawberries and a large grain of the truth. If he could get Dulci away from the crowds, away from the eyes that watched their every move, maybe they could just talk, maybe something more. He
did
want to talk. He wanted to find out what she knew about the Venezuelans. Then again, who was he fooling? He wanted to do more than talk. He wanted to see if the sensations were still there. Perhaps Christmas had been an anomaly. It was a risky proposition at best, especially if he was wrong, but tonight his better judgement was no match for Dulci in pomegranate silk and memories of hot kisses.

‘A walk in the garden then, Dulci,' Jack breathed against her ear, inhaling the lavender rinse of her hair. He could feel her body giving in, no matter what arguments her mind made. He could feel it answering to his, fickle compatriots to the codes of decency and honour that demanded they take a different route.

‘All right, but just a walk,' Dulci consented.

Jack murmured low at her ear, ‘I'm sure there'll be something handy to throw at me if you need it.' His hand tightened at her waist, ushering her towards the French doors that led outside. Ballrooms might be for business, but gardens…well, gardens were for pleasure.

 

The garden with Jack was a bad idea.
Anything
with Jack was a bad idea as she very well knew from gossip and brief personal experience. He had a reputation for a reason, actually several reasons. Dulci wasn't regretting
her consent to walk in the garden, but she was
going
to. She knew it and yet she allowed him to lead her down both the proverbial and literal garden path, because she'd been able to think of nothing else since Christmas and Jack was irresistible, flaws and all.

There were definitely plenty of flaws, which worked only to heighten her own curiosity regarding the man behind the rumours—where did he go when he disappeared from London for months on end? What service had he rendered King William that had catapulted a poor squire's son into the ranks of the peerage with a hereditary title? How true was the tittle-tattle circulating behind ladies' fans that Jack was a lover beyond compare? There was probably a reason curiosity killed the cat, Dulci thought. She'd do better to forget such sordid things and to hope that Jack didn't read minds.

It was proving more difficult than expected to banish such thoughts at the moment. Jack drew her aside, slightly off the garden path, having arrived at his intended destination, a small alcove with a burbling fountain and a stone bench, the moon overhead and the paper lanterns that festively lined the garden paths giving off enough light to wander without fear of tripping.

It was a setting that showed Jack to great advantage. The moon light cast a silvery hue to his winter-wheat hair, giving it the appearance of a smooth, sleek mane, every hair in place. The subtle detail work of his tailor emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist and the length of his legs, a reminder that while turned out in the guise of an immaculate, well-groomed gentleman, there was a raw, rough power beneath the clothes, signs of a man who'd led a life full of varied experiences.