What the Duke Doesn't Know (15 page)

She stopped at the recommended dressmaker's on the way back, and tried on several attractive gowns. The woman and her assistant pinned and prodded and agreed to make the necessary alterations and deliver the dresses the next afternoon. Kawena decided that would do; there must be places to buy undergarments and other things in Oxford.

In the cab back to Langford House, and for a long time after she had returned, Kawena sat in her bedchamber and thought about everything that had happened since she'd left home. She reviewed things she'd heard and facts she'd learned, certain items standing out in her mind. She thought over the course of her life so far, her father's teachings, and dreams and ambitions she'd had. She decided that she would return to Ian Crane's office by herself and have a long talk with him. It was time now to make a plan.

James ducked, lunged, and smashed his left fist into his opponent's ribs. The man let out an “Oof” and danced backward in the boxing ring. James followed, dodging a roundhouse right by a hair. He took a sharp blow to his bare shoulder, and then caught his sparring partner glancingly on the jaw. They moved apart again, fists upraised, sweat beading on their skins. Though not previously acquainted, they were well matched, paired up by the retired champion who ruled Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon as a courteous despot.

Movement, action, had always been the best way for James to deal with upsets or confusion or the floods of excess energy that sometimes plagued him. Physical exertion cleared his mind as nothing else could do. He'd learned to box with his brothers as a youth, and it was good to see that his skills hadn't been lost. Good, too, that this civilized bout was nothing like the hand-to-hand combat of the war. It called up no bad memories. His opponent moved back in with a flurry of jabs. James dodged and responded, and they danced apart again.

Kawena had gone out somewhere first thing this morning, without telling anybody what she was up to. At this moment, he had no notion where she was, which both annoyed and concerned him. But to be with her was to want what he couldn't have. His lapse in his parents' house was not to be repeated. His mind still shied away from the fact of it.

And in any case, Kawena didn't seem to need or want his guidance now that she'd gotten what she wanted, now that she was rich. She'd sloughed him off like a tattered sail. Probably she still blamed him for the near loss of her blasted jewels. How could it be his fault that some careless boy had sold him the carving? Or that her father had hidden his fortune in such a blasted silly place? Or that it was the sort of piece that one would never mention to a young lady?

Hadn't he gone out of his way to help her search? Traveling up and down the country when he'd far rather have been doing something else? He told himself that he was glad the task was over, while uneasily aware that this was not the whole truth. Actually, he was melancholy and resentful and frustrated all at the same time. And so here he was exchanging blows with a stranger.

His attention diverted, James sustained a hard knock to the side of his head. His ears rang, and he went down on one knee under the impact. Jackson at once climbed into the ring, saying, “That's enough, gentlemen.” He moved between them, although James's opponent had already stepped back. “Some good cross and jostle work,” the trainer added. He put a hand on James's shoulder. “All right, then?”

James nodded, rising to his feet. Following his sparring partner out of the ring to leave room for another pair to begin, he began unwrapping the strips of cloth protecting his fists. Fingers free, he shook hands with the other man, then went to wash off the sweat.

James returned to Langford House late in the afternoon, having stopped at an inn for bread and cheese and a tankard of ale. He was tired of pick-up meals, too, and well aware that Mrs. Hastings was even more tired of providing them. She'd hinted more than once that her small staff was not equipped for sustained family visits. He would inform Kawena that they were going back to Oxford, no matter what she thought she was doing. As soon as he could find her, that is.

James realized that he was hanging about his mother's drawing room, listening for the sound of the front door like a mooncalf. With a savage gesture, he retreated to his bedchamber. But there was nothing to do there except recall the delicious, forbidden moments when Kawena had shared this bed with him—her eager lips, the tumble of her beautiful hair, the soft cries she made…

James sprang up and paced the floor, seething with desire, a growing irritation over her absence, and fear that something had happened to her. By the time he finally heard a carriage pulling up in front of the house, well after five o'clock, he was primed for an explosion.

He met her on the stairway landing above the entry hall. He started to ask where the devil she'd been, but when she looked up at him, he was momentarily silenced by the beauty of her face, the depths of her dark eyes.

“Lord James,” she said with a nod. “I think it is time we returned to Oxford.”

Those precise words died on his tongue. James endured a further surge of annoyance at the fact that she'd said it first. “Oh, have you taken charge of arrangements now?” he replied unreasonably.

Kawena looked startled. “It is simply the sensible thing to do.”

“Are you saying I'm not sensible?” He hadn't been the one who stored a fortune in jewels in a lewd carving and then left it lying about where anyone might walk off with it. “And where have you been? You can't go wandering about the streets of London on your own.”

“I wasn't wandering.”

“Without a word. Anything might have happened to you. It's one thing if you wish to discard me like a used handkerchief now that you have recovered your fortune, but—”

“Discard? What are you talking about?”

He stepped closer to her. “
But
you'll have to take more care how you behave. You'll attract all sorts of attention now you're an heiress. You have to act like a young lady instead of a hoyden.”

She met his eyes squarely—dark brown burning into blue. “A what?” She hadn't heard this word before. It had an odd sound. She was certain it was offensive.

“A wild, uncivilized creature, who flouts the rules of society,” he replied.

They faced off, glaring, hurt and attraction simmering in their locked gazes. The air of the stairwell seemed to thicken around Kawena, making it harder to breathe.

It wasn't clear who moved first, but in the next instant they were in each other's arms, and in a kiss that made her head spin. Resentment and confusion went up like tinder in a bonfire of arousal.

Kawena's back was pressed against the wall. She wound herself around him, diving into the same delightful sensations she felt whenever he held her. His arms drew her closer still; his lips intoxicated her; she vibrated with desire. This was how they were meant to be, not sniping or treading warily around incomprehensible pitfalls. She gave herself up to the delight of it, responding in every way she knew to his ardor.

Lord James tore himself away. He pushed back from the wall, evaded her beseeching hands, and retreated to the other side of the landing. “No. No! You're not going to lure me into this again in my mother's house,” he said breathlessly. He looked around as if checking for prying eyes and backed farther away from her.

“Lure you? I don't believe there was any luring required.” Furious, frustrated, Kawena dug her nails into the wallpaper.

“We can't act like cats in heat in my family's home.”

Kawena knew nothing of cats, but she understood an insult when she heard one. This was what he thought of her then. “Cats are quite improper, I suppose.”

He ignored her, looking over the stair rail, checking whether the footman was at his post, she imagined.

“I am so very tired of that word.”

Lord James glanced up. “Speak more quietly. Or come into the drawing room where—”

“No one will hear,” Kawena finished for him. “Because no one in your mother's house must know that you would kiss me.” Deeply wounded, as well as angry, she put a foot on the upper stair. “We should leave as soon as possible. Miss Jennings wishes to come along with us to Oxford.”

“Flora Jennings?”

“My friend, Miss Jennings.” She said it in ringing tones that surely reached the lower floor. “The one who had the trouble. The one I had to go and see last night. She requires…more assistance.”

“All right!”

Lord James looked hunted, which was somewhat gratifying. It helped Kawena hang on to the tatters of her pride as she started up the steps toward her bedchamber.

“I'm just not sure Alan and Ariel have room for her,” he said as a parting shot.

Kawena hesitated between one step and the next. She didn't know if Flora meant to stay at Lord Alan's house. She had no right to extend such an invitation. Was she even welcome there herself, after all that had happened on this journey? Did
she
wish to continue her association with Lord James's family? Her mind a mass of confusion, she decided that it didn't matter. She could get rooms at an inn. Or elsewhere. She could afford whatever she wanted now. The thought was less comforting than she'd imagined it would be when she had only two coins in her pockets. “You object to having her in the carriage?” she replied haughtily. “I will be happy to pay for the—”

“You don't have to pay,” Lord James interrupted savagely. “Everything isn't about payment.”

No, it was about this infuriating thing called propriety that reared up at the worst possible moments to blight one's life. “I'll tell her that she is most welcome then.” Kawena turned her back and proceeded up the stairs.

“I'll see about a post chaise,” he answered in clipped tones.

“I expect the day after tomorrow would be best,” she said without looking at him. “To give Miss Jennings time to prepare.”

“I am entirely at your service,” he replied in a tone so biting that it might have had fangs.

“Thank you,” said Kawena with the same snap.

There was a slapping sound, like a hand striking the wall. “I'm going out,” Lord James snarled, and tramped down the winding stair as Kawena continued upward. From the upper corridor, she heard the front door slam.

Inside her bedroom, Kawena yanked off her stupid, constricting bonnet and threw it onto the bed. Her shawl followed. She longed for other items to hurl about, preferably things that would make loud, satisfying noises as they shattered. She nearly sacrificed a porcelain dog from the mantel, but she managed to resist. Instead, she wrote a note to Flora Jennings confirming their travel arrangement.

When it was sealed, Kawena looked at the bellpull. She knew that it would summon a servant, just as she knew that Mrs. Hastings was finding their presence irksome. Without ever saying a word, members of the small staff left at Langford House had gradually made it clear that they did not wish to wait on her. Kawena
thought
it wasn't personal, that they would have felt the same about any visitor at this unexpected time of year. But she wasn't sure.

She took the missive downstairs herself, and was lucky enough to find the footman in the front hall. He accepted the note and promised it would be delivered at once. The coin she included bought her a cheerful grin.

Kawena returned to her chamber. She was hungry, but didn't want to ask the housekeeper for a meal. Food seemed to be a particular sore point with Mrs. Hastings. More than once she'd reminded them that there was no “proper” cook on the premises. The English applied that wretched word to everything in their country, it seemed. Was there an improper cook then? Because as Kawena had pointed out to Lord James, the servants seemed well nourished, so someone must be cooking for them. He'd brushed her comment aside. Apparently, making logical arguments to housekeepers was another action forbidden by English propriety.

Kawena had a sudden vivid recollection of her mother's house, where savory tidbits would be pressed on her whenever she returned from a few hours absence. She had an established place there. No one criticized her behavior—at least, not often. It was full of people she knew and cared for, and nothing at all like this huge, echoing building peopled by strangers. A tide of bitter homesickness swept over her. It would not be resisted. Deploring her weakness, Kawena threw herself onto the bed and wept.

* * *

James strode along the London streets, fuming. A stream of people trudged along with him to the east, pushing through a throng making its way west. Where could they all be going? Why didn't they just stay where they were? Then there'd be no need to jostle and mutter and consign them all to perdition.

He wondered how many of them, like him, had nowhere to go. He'd had to get out of the house, but he knew no one in London, really, had no connections in this huge, filthy city. He stopped walking; a man behind cursed as he bumped into him. There was one person…

James searched his mind for the name of the club where he was likely to encounter Robert. He'd heard it spoken of a thousand times, by several of his brothers. But he'd taken little interest in their talk of town life. It was a color. He remembered that much. Red didn't seem likely for some reason. Blue or yellow? No. White's—that was it.

James had to ask his way more than once before he found the place. But luck was with him when he inquired at the front door. His brother was indeed there, and at once invited him inside.

The clubroom was nearly empty. One or two fellows paged through newspapers, glasses of wine at their elbows. With all his fashionable friends out of town, Robert professed himself delighted to see him. “You must dine with me and perhaps have a hand of cards?”

James agreed easily to the first, his mouth watering at the idea of a juicy round of roast beef rather than grudgingly proffered sandwiches, and accepted a drink as he settled opposite his brother.

“How's the treasure hunt going?” Robert asked.

“It's over.”

“What, you've given up?”

“No, Miss Benson found the jewels.”

“
She
did?” Robert raised one auburn brow. “Not you?”

It was one of the things that rankled, James realized. He'd exerted himself to help her, but in the end she hadn't needed his help. Only admittance to his family home, where he—her self-appointed protector—had proceeded to risk her reputation… He made a dismissive gesture. He didn't cut a particularly heroic figure in the discovery.

“One of your crew members had them?” Robert prompted.

James shook his head. There was no hiding the truth. He could replace the figure on the shelf, but Kawena was bound to tell Ariel, and the tale would spread. Besides, why should he? So he gave Robert the whole story.