Page 8 of Would I Lie to the Duke
“And it did not.” She spoke as calmly as possible, since any hint of feeling in her voice would immediately be seized upon by the men as proof that she was overly emotional. “But Buxton has pulled nearly half his laborers employed at the plate manufactory to work on repairing and rebuilding his furniture mill. With that many men absent from the plate manufactory, it will be impossible to deliver his goods by the promised date.
“Therefore,” she concluded, “as the duke said, investing in Buxton’s silver plate operation is not a sound decision. Not at the moment. But I would advise reconsidering the possibility by the end of summer, when buyers are beginning to think of entertaining their families for Christmas and Boxing Day.”
It was as though all traffic had stopped on busy Bond Street. The silence that followed her pronouncements reverberated outward, so that even the hoofbeats of horses pulling carriages seemed muffled. The men surrounding the duke gaped at her, while the duke smiled.
It was a devastating smile. Brilliant and assured and ever so slightly carnal. Yet what made her breath catch was the genuine admiration in his eyes. He touchedhis fingers to the brim of his hat, which, given the disparity in their ranks, was astonishing.
A hot flare of desire sparked in her belly—something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not that long ago, she’d been engaged. She and Oliver had grown up together, gone to the same dame school, sat three pews apart at church. The attraction between them had been gradual, more like a warm blanket than a devastating conflagration. Even his lovemaking, after they’d agreed to marry, had been undemanding and gentle.
When he’d withdrawn his suit, she had barely missed him. Her body craved touch and release, but she’d barely gotten that with Oliver. So she’d resigned herself to a life deprived of sensation. It wasn’t what she wanted for herself, but there were things in life she had to accept.
Now, on this stretch of Bond Street, she was flushed and more fiercely aware of the duke than she’d ever been for any man.
“You are a veritable hawk amongst the doves, miss,” he murmured.
She heard herself reply, “Meaning, Your Grace?”
“That you’re an expert hunter, as opposed to this cote of prey.” He made a flicking motion with one long, elegant finger toward the men surrounding him. “Have pity on them and try to eat only one or two.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “I cannot help if they are so easily devoured. The meat would be too flavorless, though.”
He laughed, the sound warm and husky. “A palpable hit.”
Words sprang to her lips, but before she could speak them, the crowd around the duke surged back to life—and new men joined the swelling group of hangers-on.
“Your Grace,” many voices cried out at once. “A moment of your time, Your Grace.”
The crowd moved like a flood pouring down the pavement, carrying the duke along with it. He glanced back at her.
“Your Grace,” she called after him. He could have some advice for her, some insight as to how to crack the difficult London marketplace.
But she couldn’t be heard above the countless other demands for his attention. And in a short moment, he was gone, swept up in the human tide.
She stood alone on the sidewalk, watching the space where he’d been.
Today on Bond Street had been a setback, yet she wouldn’t admit defeat. She hadn’t time for flirtations with a duke.
Perhaps, someday when she was old, she’d reminisce fondly about the time she flirted with a duke. Right now, however, she needed a dram of whiskey, and solitude.
The moment she stepped into the foyer of the rented town house, the butler appeared. “A letter arrived for you, Miss McGale.”
She picked up the missive on the side table in the entryway. The thin cursive indicated that it was penned by Lady Catherton.
Jess carried the letter up to her room. Breaking itswafer, she frowned to discover a pound note folded within the missive. She read:
Miss McGale,
Due to an unfortunate incident getting out of my carriage in the rain, I have sustained an injury to my ankle. The physician insists the only way to make a full recovery is through a strict program of non-activity. I am not to put any weight upon my ankle, nor jostle it, for no less time than a fortnight.
The entire situation is most irritating, and has curtailed my plans to come to Town before my departure for the Continent.
However, the property has already been leased in the city. It makes no sense for you to return here, since we will set off from the London docks. Thus, I have determined that I desire you to remain in the city. Doubtless, I shall join you at the end of the recuperative fortnight. I have enclosed a pound to cover any expenses you might incur during this time, but I urge frugality, and I anticipate receiving the remaining balance when I do finally arrive in London.
Yours, &c.
Lady C
Jess stared at the letter for a full minute to absorb its contents.
