Page 10 of Would I Lie to the Duke
As he’d promised, Noel downed his sparkling wine in a few short swallows. The moment his glass was empty, a server appeared with a full one to replace it. Noel tucked a crown into the servant’s pocket, and the man stammered his astonished thanks.
“You’re burning as bright as Vauxhall fireworks tonight,” McCameron murmured when the servant hurried away.
Noel grinned. “A night out with my friends necessitates a grand display.”
“This display’s noisier than most.” McCameronstudied him. “I’m not here to gamble, but I’d wager something’s on your mind.”
Curse McCameron for being an excellent soldier. Nothing escaped his notice.
At Noel’s pause, McCameron said, “Out with it. Or I’ll be forced to sing regimental songs at the top of my lungs and nobody wants to hear that.”
“Nothing we need to discuss.” When McCameron continued to bore into him with his gaze, he relented. “It’s about a woman.”
“Ah.” An internal struggle waged behind McCameron’s eyes, and Noel hated the shadows that lurked there, knowing they caused his friend pain. McCameron shook his head. “I can talk about women, you know. I’m not going to dissolve into a puddle of tears.”
Noel almost wished McCameronwouldweep. Surely that had to be better, more productive, than forcibly ignoring past pain.
“I meant what I said about singing regimental ditties,” McCameron said. “Unless you come clean and tell me about the woman that’s lit all of your fuses.”
There was no hope for it but to tell his friend everything. “I met a woman. She was...” How to explain the hawk of Bond Street?
The lady had possessed an angled jaw, which revealed her dynamic personality as much as the words that came from her lips. Her slightly arched dark brows had lifted in silent defiance when he’d challenged her, and he’d been enthralled by the energy and intelligence in her tawny eyes.
She hadn’t looked away. She hadn’t retreated in deference. Every word from her lips had been like a perfectly cut gem. Blow for blow, she’d met him, and damn him if that didn’t make her the most alluring person he’d encountered in a decade.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her,” he admitted.
“Who was she?”
Noel snorted a laugh. “Hell if I know. I got dragged down the street by a swarm of sycophants before I could learn her name or anything about her.”
“You’re a ruddyduke,” McCameron pointed out. “Surely you can find out who she is.”
“I’m not certain I didn’t imagine her. Though, she did manage to knock a few of my Bond Street grovelers on their metaphorical arses.” He chuckled.
“If she was on Bond Street, she likely travels in lofty circles. You’ll see her at some ball or some other gala you toffs throw to keep from dying of boredom.”
“Aristo blood flows in your veins, too,” Noel noted.
“Scottisharisto blood. That makes it stronger and thicker than English toff blood.” McCameron clicked his tongue. “And if you don’t meet her again, there’s no harm in it. You’ve no shortage of female company. If I’m not mistaken, that brunette over there would be perfectly willing to help you forget any Bond Street beauty.” He nodded in the direction of a woman who wore an enticing smile and not much else. “She’ll grind you down to a nub, my friend.”
“I need to save my strength for the Bazaar,” Noel said. Odd, but he felt no pull toward the flirtatiousbrunette. Not when his mysterious lady continued to haunt him.
Damn it, hewasa duke. He could have anything he wanted—surely he had some means at his disposal to learn her identity. As soon as the Bazaar was over, he would do just that.
A woman like that didn’t come around very often. Like hell would he let her slip through his fingers. He would find her, charm her with his standard methodology, and, for a little while, make life very agreeable for both of them. As usual, he would make plain from the beginning that it would be a short-term arrangement. With a handful of exceptions, his lovers accepted these terms. Surely his Bond Street charmer would be the same.
Cheered by that thought, he hooked an arm around McCameron’s shoulders. “Now it’s time for us to show the rest of these English toffs how a few reprobates from Eton carouse.”
Chapter 4
With her plan to gain entrance to the Bazaar firmly in place, Jess walked up Portland Place. She gave her stride the purposefulness that she needed to propel her through the next hour, deliberately ignoring all the voices in her head that told her she was mad. It wasn’t easy, however. The voices were awfully loud.
She tugged on her gloves, making certain they were perfectly in place. As she had planned, the dress she wore today was borrowed from Lady Catherton’s wardrobe. She pushed aside a stab of guilt over the unauthorized use of the garment. To succeed in business, one sometimes had to ignore the rules.
Looking her best was essential if she meant to talk her way into presenting for the attendees at the Bazaar. She’d brought her pack that contained more bars of McGale & McGale soap, along with the flagon of water and small bowl for demonstration, just as she’d done on Bond Street. Today, however, shewouldsecure funding. The guests of the Bazaar were primed to look for investments, and she’d do her damnedest to see that at least one of them provided her the necessary capital.
As she neared Lord Trask’s home, a man in the clothing of a marginally prosperous craftsman stepped to the home’s entrance, a satchel in one hand. He kept licking his lips, and after he knocked smartly on the door, he wiped his hands down the front of his pantaloons. When the door opened, revealing a man wearing eyeglasses and a dark coat, he took a step back.
