Page 11 of My Deceitful Duchess
“Ah,” Jenny said. “I’m afraid it has not yet been released.” She dug into the concealed pocket in her gown and slipped free a little notebook and a pencil, and scribbled a note therein. “But I have made a note of it. We shall place an order once it is made available, and inform you once it has arrived.”
Lady Milhouse gave a beatific smile. “My thanks. I’m afraid the lending library does not tend to carry such works. Have you any suggestions for what I might enjoy while I wait for the next volume?”
“Of course, my lady.” Jenny stepped within the reading room, scanning the shelves—rows upon rows of precious volumes, traipsing up one wall and down the other. They were a forbidden luxury, these novels, and they had taken a great deal of effort to acquire. They ranged anywhere from romantic to downright salacious—but from the title Lady Milhouse had offered, Jenny was of the opinion that she had only touched her toes into the shallowest depths of depravity offered herein, and so she selected a volume from the tamer end of the spectrum from the shelf and held it out in offer.
“It’s a bit more scandalous than this,” Jenny said, retrieving the completed volume from Lady Milhouse and replacing it upon the shelf. “But only the tiniest bit. I think you will enjoy it a great deal. And there are two more that follow, both of which we currently have in our library.”
“Oh, my.” Lady Milhouse accepted the book, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Thank you. I’m certain I will enjoy it.” And then she was scampering back toward the large, comfortable chair she had abandoned, settling into it like a bird into a nest. Chocolate, Jenny decided—there was just something about a proper cup of drinking chocolate that made the reading experience so much the richer.
She wound back toward the kitchens to give the order, dodging a maid with a serving tray laden with little etched glass bowls filled with scoops of the lavender-flavored ice cream that was today’s offering, and stopped before the wall of windows that looked out into the mews.
Jenny had not had occasion—or reason—to wonder before now. Buttwenty paces, Mr. Knight had said, and she had no reason to doubt it. Three townhouses in a row had a view entire of the mews. They were on the small side; not the stately homes owned by the aristocracy, but the sort that might have been taken for let by a gentleman of independent means, particularly one who had no wife or other family to support.
She wasn’t considering an affair. Notreally. But she supposed—she supposed if shehadbeen, it would at least beconvenient. There would be no one to wonder at her presence, when Ambrosia was located only steps away. It would be only a short walk out through the servants’ entrance, across the mews, and to his door.
Absently, she wondered which belonged to him. Not the middle, she suspected. He didn’t seem the sort to appreciate being wedged between two neighbors, where he might fall victim to the sounds of those living on either side of him. Neither the one on the left, with its darkened windows. Though there was little enough she knew of him, he seemed the sort to keep odd hours—he would not be asleep at this hour, but neither would he be out visiting.
That left the one on the right, the corner townhouse with its perfect view into the mews and of the adjoining street besides. And on the uppermost floor there was a lighted window, and she thought—ithadto be him. Reading, she supposed. He seemed the sort that would read extensively. Not romantic novels, or even those of a more salacious bent, but heavy texts and treatises on all manner of things that likely would never have occurred to her that one might read for enjoyment.
But he was the sort that would. Learning for the sake of it, because he seemed to treat everything as if it were some project to be tackled, reduced down to its smallest parts, and understood.
He would treat her the same way. The thought provoked a shiver, but she wasn’t certain if it were fear or titillation. A bit of both, perhaps.
Her virgin suitor, who had professed himselfcompetentnonetheless, and she—shebelievedhim. She believed that he would treat lovemaking like a subject to be studied and perfected. A dangerous man, he, with his queer mannerisms and plain speaking. He hadn’t a romantic bone in his body, but he was ardent nonetheless. Persistent, but inoffensive. Somehow charming, though she would have credited him with absolutely no efforts taken toward achieving that perception.
Perhaps he had merited as many as ten minutes.
Chapter Five
Sebastian hurried along the street as the sun glinted over the rooftops, just a shade higher than it ought to have been. Or, rather, the sun was precisely as it was meant to be—it washewho was late. Only by a few minutes, but a few minutes was all he had had, and with so few days to their acquaintance, he could hardly expect Jenny to wait for him to arrive.
The sum of nineteen minutes all told, though it had felt longer. Certainly they had crammed quite a lot into those nineteen minutes. But they did not confer with them a sense of obligation.
He had hoped to catch her walking back, but perhaps she had walked more briskly without his accompaniment. Certainly she could have made it back to Ambrosia already—at her usual morning pace, it was just a five minute walk, and he was late by seven.
Sebastian had prepared for disappointment when he turned the corner at last to where the door of the bakery stood open—but instead he experienced a queer shock of…something. Something strange in his chest, like a bolt of lightning.
She was there. Jenny, in a simple pink day dress, casually picking tiny bits from the crust of one of her profiteroles. Her blond hair swept up and back in what had certainly once been a neat chignon, but had doubtless gone a bit untidy from her work through the evening. She watched him as he approached at last, and he wondered what she was thinking as those cool blue eyes assessed him.
“You waited,” he said as she took that first step. His time—such as it was—had begun.
“You brushed your hair,” she said. “Andyou are late.”
“I expected that I would miss you anyway,” he said. “I thought that if I were to arrive late, I could at least do you the courtesy of having appeared to givesomethought toward my grooming.” Especially considering that there had not been time to shave, and so she was forced to suffer the brief whiskers that shaded his jaw. “Regrettably, I was up rather late, and I failed to awaken on time. I did hurry over as soon as I reasonably could.” In fact, he had missed breakfast to do so. But that could wait another few minutes, which was all she would likely grant him, anyway.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I saw the light in your window.”
Her certainty was charming. “How do you know which is mine?”
She took a leisurely bite of her profiterole before answering. “There are but three houses that might afford a clear look at the mews,” she said. “I thought not the middle one—too crowded for you.”
He nodded. “Well-reasoned.”
“And not the one to the left. The house was dark. Probably the owner had gone visiting, or was out at some amusement or other, or perhaps even had gone to bed. But the one to the right—the corner house, with the view of both the mews and the adjoining street—there was a window that was all lit up, even at such an hour.”
Sebastian coughed into his fist. “It seems I am not the only one with a talent for deduction, then.”
“I was correct, then?” The pleasure in her voice was unmistakable; she gave a little smile, her lips pursing in delight. “What were you doing so late?”
