The Seduction of an English Scoundrel (17 page)

“Yes,” he said, at a loss. “I suppose I am.” And let Brentford make of that what he would.

There was a pause. Both men watched as Jane went out on the dance floor with one of her brother's close friends. She was actually laughing, apparently enjoying herself, until in the middle of a turn she glanced over at the two dissimilar males studying her with brooding intensity. Her face clouded over, and she faltered a step.

“That is what I mean,” Grayson said, shifting his shoulder from the pillar. “She is
not
going to wallow in heartbreak over my cousin if I can help it.”

“I don't know how she can appear so carefree when he abandoned her only a week or so ago,” Brentford said thoughtfully. “I applaud her acting ability. It is uncanny.”

Grayson, only half listening to this melancholy nonsense, gave Brentford a piercing look. “What are you saying?”

The baron hesitated. “Far be it from me to believe gossip. It's just that some of her friends suspect she never really loved Nigel to begin with. A few have even speculated that she wasn't that unhappy to—”

The contempt on Grayson's face cut him dead.

“Gossip, my lord,” Brentford said quickly. “Only low gossip.”

“Then do not repeat it. Ever.”

Brentford lifted his brow. “My grandmama always said gossip is a seed that bears ill fruit.”

“Then do listen to her,” Grayson said in a cold voice. “Do not plant ill-begotten seeds.”

Brentford nodded. “I shall leave you to your duty as her guard.”

“Do that,” Grayson said curtly, hoping that whatever other malicious rumors about Jane were circulating through the ton would die stillborn.

Chapter 15

The following morning a small box arrived for Jane from Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell, the jewelers on Ludgate Hill, containing a diamond mouse brooch with onyx eyes. There was no card attached. No message to hint at that passionate encounter in the maze, just this very costly reminder of a moment she could never forget had she so desired. While Caroline and Miranda admired the unusual gift, wondering aloud at its significance, Jane sneaked downstairs to the kitchen to see Cook.

“A rhubarb, you say, my lady?” Cook wiped her damp hands on her apron. “Well, I haven't seen one in ages, but there is an apothecary my aunt visits who sells imported Chinese potions. Dried rhubarb roots and such.”

“Rhubarb roots.” A pleased grin spread across Jane's face as she pictured repaying Sedgecroft in kind. “Oh, splendid. Have a nice big one wrapped in a pretty box and sent to the marquess at Park Lane. With my best wishes. And tie a pink ribbon around the rhubarb.”

“To the marquess. A rhubarb root. With a pink ribbon.”

“In a fancy box, mind you,” Jane added, before turning away.

Cook stared at the scullery maid frozen at the sink, her face perplexed. “Rhubarb root,” she whispered. “Lord help us. What would a young lady be wanting with a root unless it was one of those hocus-pocus love potions the gypsies sell? Resorting to magic to get herself a man,” she answered herself. “Poor thing.”

The scullery maid threw down her spoon. “I'd like to buy some arsenic to slip into Sir Nigel's tea, I would.”

“Wouldn't we both?” Cook said. “But arsenic is too kind, dear, for what that miserable sod has done. I'd like to get my hands around his neck and wring it like a pullet.”

The maid glanced down at the towel Cook was squeezing in her powerful hands. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hartley. The young lady has the marquess to take care of those matters for her.”

Cook frowned. “And sending him a rhubarb, as if I'm too thick to know what
that
signifies. No subtlety there, my girl. Not that even an old woman like me cannot see the attraction.”

 

Grayson approached the Earl of Belshire's Grosvenor Square mansion on his horse later that same afternoon.

He had thought about Jane all night long, at turns perplexed, amused, and terrified by his attraction to her. He'd thought about her as he revisited Nigel's club and favorite haunts, none of which rendered any helpful clues to his disappearance. He was beginning to wonder if he wouldn't be better off joining Heath on his search, but then he had promised to stay here and defend Jane from social cruelty. Defending her from himself was yet another matter entirely.

He wanted her more every time he saw her.

He knew he shouldn't have her.

He wanted her anyway.

Yet a promise was a promise, even if it had caused a problem he hadn't anticipated when he had thrown himself into the unlikely role of maiden rescuer. Yes, he regretted the impulse, but not for the reasons he might have foreseen. Although his treacherous body hungered for her with a persistence that challenged his moral views of courtship, far more disturbing was the fact that he enjoyed her company and conversation. He certainly liked her too much to foist her off on the first suicidal baron who desired her.

If he couldn't pursue her in a normal fashion, he would simply have to think up another way that was acceptable to them both.

His mood lifted as she appeared on the front steps, her brother in tow. Simon looked green about the gills, nursing a headache from the previous night's indulgences. He probably did not even remember that Grayson had brought him home last night to deposit him on the exact spot he now stood.

He grinned at Jane and dismounted to help her onto her mare, covertly waving away the groom who had appeared for that same purpose. If the truth be told, he didn't particularly want anyone touching her but himself.

“I see you're wearing my brooch,” he said in an undertone.

“Oh, yes. Everyone admires it, even if no one quite understands the significance. I might even start a fashion for mice and diamonds in the morning.” She gave him an arch smile. “How thoughtful of you to commemorate our evening.”

“My pleasure entirely.” He eyed the tight cut of her burgundy velvet riding costume, the thrust of her full breasts, his body tensing in response. His pleasure indeed. “Is Simon coming?”

They glanced around in unison to see Simon sagging forward on his horse, one hand clapped to his eyes.

Jane laughed. “I wonder if he'll make it to the park.”

“Don't worry.” Grayson guided her horse into the flow of traffic. “If he falls, the crossing sweepers will find him.”

They rode the short distance in silence, Grayson dodging children rolling hoops and barking dogs while studying the way Jane's backside bounced in rhythm with her horse. The sensual jostling of her body made him think of a different sort of ride, which explained the smoldering look on his face when on Upper Brook Street she glanced around to look at him. Unfortunately he could not mask his lustful thoughts in time to escape her detection.

“Grayson Boscastle,” she said in soft tones of despair, “don't you dare look at me like that in public!”

He gave her a lazy smile. “I was simply admiring your seat.”

“What is one to do with you?”

“I cannot help it if I think like a man.” And if he remembered how soft and wet she'd been last night, open and receptive in her sensuality. The memory burned deep into his bones.

“Yes, it's that appalling manliness of yours showing again,” she said.

He didn't know what to make of her. She seemed at times sophisticated. At others she was vulnerable. She was a contradiction at every turn. Yet so was he.

She did little to make herself attractive to another potential husband. She attracted him without the smallest effort when other women had plotted to gain his notice.

She saw through him whenever he slipped. She dared to call him names when he wanted to help her. This was a different sort of friendship than he had ever known, and he liked it.

“By the way,” he said, drawing his horse close to hers as they reached the corner of the park, “it was thoughtful of you to send the rhubarb root this morning. You'll pardon me for not wearing it.”

She pretended to look crushed. “You didn't like it?”

“Oh, I did. I almost fell off the bed laughing.”

The pale sunlight caught the golden highlights in her hair, drawn back into loose waves on her neck. He studied the delicate bones of her face and felt a strange emotion stir in the depths of his heart.

An unfamiliar, frightening emotion.

He didn't want to put a name to it.

He hoped against hope that whatever it was would go away all by itself.

He had an awful feeling he wouldn't be that fortunate.

“I think the world is deceived by you, Jane.”

She hesitated, the sparkle in her eye fading. “How so?” she asked in a subdued voice.

“There is a vixen's mind at work beneath all those ladylike airs. A true devil you are.”

“Oh, look who's talking.”

He grinned, tightening his powerful thighs to urge the stallion toward her. “One devil recognizes another, I suppose. Shall we try to lose your brother?”

At her nod they took their horses onto the bridal path for a brief ride before Grayson slowed and suggested a walk. Several other couples waved at him, studying Jane covertly, as if unsure whether to pretend they knew about the wedding scandal or not.

She ignored their glances and stared fixedly at the water of the lake, embarrassed by all the attention. To think that the beau monde might assume the pair of them were destined for marriage. She and Grayson. Man and wife.

“I wonder if Simon is looking for us,” she said suddenly, more to divert her imagination from that provocative possibility than any concern over her errant sibling.

Grayson caught her by the hand as she dismounted, the press of his hard body against hers a pleasant shock. “You can let go of me now,” she whispered in a shaky voice.

“Why?” he murmured, his lips grazing her hair. “You feel divine, that riding habit fits you like a glove, and I fit against you even better. As to Simon,” he added, slowly releasing her, “he appears to be heading toward the Serpentine with a group of young ladies.”

“Well, I hope he doesn't fall in,” Jane said. “He was wobbling on his horse like Humpty Dumpty the entire way here. I wish he would find a decent young woman to marry.”

They fell into step together, skirting nursemaids chasing after children and dogs, an elderly duke and his servants taking the air. Grayson noticed Baron Brentford's appearance on Rotten Row; heads turned at the two spirited bays drawing the elegant phaeton along the track. Deliberately, Grayson guided Jane rather forcefully in the opposite direction. Brentford brought out a very aggressive streak of possessiveness in him.

“What are you doing?” she asked with an uneasy laugh.

“Protecting you from the ill wind about to blow our way. And back to the subject of Simon. Why is it you females always think marriage is the cure-all for our woes?”

“Marriage is the cornerstone of our civilization,” she said distractedly, peeking around Grayson's shoulder.

He glanced back, his face darkening in anger when he saw the baron slow his well-sprung phaeton to look at her, making a show of bringing his bays under control. Hadn't he made his point clear to Brentford at the ball?

“You are staring at him, Jane,” he said in a cool displeased voice.

She started. “I'm sorry. I was, wasn't I?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I don't know. He was staring at me first. One is compelled to stare back.”

“Jane.” His smile was strained, his manner uncompromising. “One of us might be compelled to stop his staring once and for all.”

“Not here?” she said in horror, afraid he was rash enough to do exactly what he threatened.

“Why not?” he asked lightly. “Blood has been shed on these grounds before. I do, after all, come from a family that follows tradition.”

This time she captured his muscular forearm and dragged him to a peaceful patch of grass, abandoning the groom who had been trailing at a discreet distance. “A tradition apparently steeped in violence and the pursuit of pleasure. Instead of picking on Brentford, why don't you do a good deed and introduce my brother to some sweet young lady who might exert some influence on his errant ways?”

He was rather amused at her efforts to shepherd him; not that she would influence his mind one way or another, of course. If the baron became a serious problem, Grayson would deal with him, not in a public place, but he would deal with him nonetheless.

“I sense another talk coming on the virtues of holy matrimony.” He collapsed on the grass and closed his eyes, releasing a loud theatrical snore. “Am I dead yet?”

“Get up, Sedgecroft. The papers are already full of gossip about us.”

He opened one eye. “Ah, more gossip. What have we been doing now?”

She folded her arms and glared down at him. “We're getting married next month.”

“Well, what's wrong with that?” he said mischievously. “I thought you approved of marriage.”

“Except that our engagement is a lie, Sedgecroft,” she said, making a face. “We can't fool everyone forever. Now please disengage yourself from that undignified position this instant.”

He rolled onto his elbow, reminding her again of a gorgeous lion as he stretched in the sun-dappled grass, his morning coat falling open at the waist. “What exactly did you and Nigel do when you were together?” he asked in a lazy voice as his gaze traveled over her. “Sketch still life?”

“We talked, if you must know. We had what is known in polite circles as conversation.”

He plucked a blade of grass, his face cynically amused. “What did you discuss?”

She sighed. “Life. Books. Love.” Specifically, in the last year or so, Nigel's growing passion for the family's governess.

“Nigel's love for you?” he asked curiously.

She met his gaze, a shiver sliding down her back. “Umm, not exactly.”

A frown darkened his face as he rose, engulfing her in his shadow. “Sometimes I think he could not have been a Boscastle at all.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in hesitation.

“Well, to put it bluntly, a Boscastle would not have spent all those years in your company without progressing further than a conversation, if you take my meaning.”

“I'm afraid I do—” she said in despair, then exclaimed in a deliberately overloud voice to distract him, “Oh, look, isn't that Cecily walking by the water?”

“Jane.” He tugged at the tail of her riding jacket, drawing her back into the broad support of his body. With an indulgent smile, he lowered his face to her neck to murmur, “Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about desire? No one can hear us this far away.”