Read Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack Online

Authors: Sally MacKenzie

Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (18 page)

BOOK: Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack

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From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Frances flinch.

“So Hadley never felt the need to visit his estate when he was in England?” Jack tried to keep his voice even. He wouldn’t mention Frances. How the blackguard could fail to see his daughter or even write her a letter was impossible to fathom. Unless . . . could he have written, and Frances’s aunt kept his letters a secret, just as she’d hidden Rothmarsh’s correspondence?

No. The aunt might have hidden a letter, but she couldn’t have hidden a visit. There was no justifiable reason Hadley hadn’t come to Landsford. It was only a few hours’ ride from London.

“But why would he visit?” Puddington smiled at Frances. “Miss Hadley was doing a satisfactory job managing things, especially for a female.” He winked at Jack. “As Hadley said, it kept her busy and out of trouble, eh?”

The bloody bounder. He saw Frances’s hands grab the chair arm. Good. A little fire was coming back to her eyes.

“Now, Miss Hadley,” Puddington said, tugging on his waistcoat and turning to Frances, “about your nonsensical request for your dowry. I’m afraid it’s really not possible to advance you the money. And in any event, not that Lord Jack needs any extra funds—everyone knows he’s rich as Croesus—you don’t want to go to the altar completely empty-handed.”

Frances leaned forward. “Didn’t you hear me?” She pronounced each word distinctly, as if Puddington was a halfwit. “I. Am. Not. Marrying. Lord Jack.” She paused to take a deep breath and then hissed,
“I am not marrying anybody!”

Puddington reared back, shock and distaste warring on his fat face. “But your reputation, Miss Hadley! Think of your reputation.” Puddington tugged on his waistcoat again, but it was a hopeless endeavor. There was far too little cloth to cover his expansive middle.

He took a breath, obviously gathering his courage, and looked at Jack. “My lord, much as it pains me to say it, what about Miss Hadley’s reputation? I’m certain her father and brother would wish me to point out the stories are quite damning.” He squared his narrow shoulders. “
Quite
damning. The chance of Miss Hadley finding anyone to marry her after you are through with her is miniscule.”

“I am not marrying anybody,” Frances repeated forcefully.

Jack leaned forward and looked straight into Puddington’s jowly, trembling face. “Miss Hadley does not have to do anything she does not wish to do.”

“But, my lord—”

“You and Miss Hadley’s relatives need not worry.” He was quite certain the only thing the blackguards would concern themselves with were the marriage settlements. “My mother and Miss Hadley’s grandmother have things well in hand. Who do you think would dare argue with the Duchess of Greycliffe or the Marchioness of Rothmarsh, not to mention the duke and the marquis?”

“Er . . . Well, of course . . . That is . . .”

“No one.” Jack smiled in the way that made people—even some of London’s worst villains—squirm. Puddington was no exception. He turned an interesting shade of green.

“My mother is the best of women, Puddington, but she does not suffer fools gladly, and my father most assuredly will not allow anyone to criticize his wife. I assume Rothmarsh feels the same way.”

“Ah. I did not mean to imply—”

Jack went on as if the man hadn’t spoken. “My brother’s betrothed has just come to London and is making her bows as well, so Miss Hadley has graciously agreed to accompany her to all the Season’s social events.”

Frances made an odd little noise, a cross between a gasp and a giggle. She had clearly reached her limit.

He stood. “I believe we’ve accomplished all we can hope to at the moment. Do you agree, Miss Hadley?”

Frances nodded.

“Then, good day, Puddington.”

He offered Frances his arm. She took it and walked with him out of the office, head high, looking neither right nor left, eyes focused on some invisible point in front of them. He felt her tension as she gripped his arm, and saw it in the stiffness of her gait, the brittle way she held her head steady. She was going to come crashing down like a tower of blocks at any moment.

He didn’t speak—even one word would have been too much. When they reached the street, he helped her into the curricle and went round to climb into his seat.

Frances would not want anyone to observe the loss of control he was certain was coming; she wouldn’t want him to witness it, either, but he was not about to let her weather this storm alone.

The snow had melted; it wasn’t so very cold. He would take her to a quiet part of Hyde Park where they could leave the curricle with Sam and walk a bit.

Her father was
not
on some South Pacific island.

Frances sat in Lord Jack’s curricle—she couldn’t quite remember how she’d got there—and clutched the side of the carriage.

He’d been in England, in London, and he’d seen Frederick. He even wrote to her brother regularly. But he’d never come to Landsford. Not once. He hadn’t seen her since her birth. If she passed him on the street, he’d not know it.
She’d
not know it. He could be any of the men strolling along the pavement right now—

No, Puddington had said he was in South America.

She drew in a deep, shuddery breath.

“Hold on,” Jack said. “Just a little longer now.”

She blinked. They had just passed the place they usually turned to reach Greycliffe House. “Where are we going?”

“To walk in Hyde Park. It won’t be crowded now, but we’ll take one of the less popular paths to ensure we won’t be disturbed.”

Was Jack mad? “I don’t wish to go for a walk.” She swallowed. “I-I have the headache. Please turn around.”

“I’m not surprised you have a headache—
I
have a headache. Puddington is a complete horse’s arse.”

Jack was not turning around; in fact, he’d just driven through the park gate. She should demand he change course, but she didn’t have the energy to argue with him. It was too hard to keep from bursting into tears, damn it.

She was not going to let her father turn her into a watering pot like he had her mother.
She
didn’t love him. Absurd! She disliked him intensely. He was a bloody rake, a heartless rogue, a—

Oh God, she
was
going to cry.

“Here we are.” Jack pulled the curricle to a stop, and Sam ran to grab the horses’ bridles. In a moment Jack was beside her, extending his hand to help her down.

She stayed in her seat, her fingers clutching the side of the curricle. “It’s cold. I don’t want to walk.” She wanted to go back to Greycliffe House, close the door to her room, throw herself on her bed, and let the blasted tears flow until they were gone.

Her father had been in London and had not taken the time to travel the short—the very short—distance to Landsford to see her. Not one single, bloody time.

And why the hell did she care? He was a brainless, disgusting animal, just the man who’d impregnated her mother—just a studhorse. She’d done very well without him.

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. She hated crying. It was such a weak, feminine thing to do. It was what her mother had done all those years when she’d sat at Landsford, reading the London scandal sheets.

“Come, Frances,” she heard Jack say.

He was still holding his hand out to her. He looked calm and determined, as if he’d stand there for as long as it took her to decide to get out of the curricle. Clearly, he was not going to drive her back to Greycliffe House until they had this bloody walk. She might as well get it over with.

She let him help her down. It was cold, though not bone-chilling, and quiet. There wasn’t another soul in sight. She took his arm, and they strolled along a slightly rutted path. She had to mind where she put her feet to avoid turning an ankle, but at least it was dry. Most of the snow was gone; only patches remained in the shady areas.

“We should bring Shakespeare here,” Jack said.

“Yes.” His choice of the plural pronoun gave her a funny, warm feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’d never been part of
we
—she’d always been only I.

Which she still was. Jack was a rake, and consorting with rakes was disastrous. She of all people knew that. Look at her mother. What had her grandfather said at dinner? That her mother had been bright and determined once. And see what loving Benedict Hadley had done to her. Turned her into a sullen ghost. Frances was
not
going to make her mother’s mistake.

But what was she going to do? Unless a miracle occurred, Puddington wasn’t going to give her a single farthing.

“Is Madam Celeste coming back to measure you for more dresses today?” Jack asked.

“Yes. This afternoon. I can’t imagine how I could possibly need so many dresses, but your mother says I do.”

He laughed. “If Mama says you need them, then you need them.”

“Oh no.” The duchess was very kind, but she was wrong here. “They are a terrible waste. They are far too fine to wear in a country cottage.”

He frowned down at her. “You are not going to be living in a country cottage.”

Too true, given Puddington’s damnable pigheadedness. Perhaps she could apply directly to Frederick—

Blast it all! Here she’d run Landsford for years, keeping the property prosperous, and now she had to come crawling, hat in hand, to her irresponsible, couldn’t-care-less brother for funds. It was infuriating and insulting. Damn, blasted, bloody, useless males.

And if she couldn’t get the money, what the hell was she going to do? Live the rest of her life with Viola and Frederick’s trollop wife?

Panic fluttered in her chest, but she beat it back. She would manage somehow. She always had.

“Frances, about your father—”

Oh God, she did not want to speak about her father! She rushed to talk over Jack. “But even if your mother is right and I do need the dresses, I’m afraid I just can’t afford so many.”

Which was true. Much as she’d like to bankrupt the estate, she couldn’t in good conscience do so.
She
wasn’t irresponsible. She knew Madam Celeste’s dresses must cost a fortune, but she’d not yet been able to find out exactly how much. It might be rude to ask, but she was going to do so today—and insist on getting an answer.

Jack shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure your grandparents will stand the expense—or else my parents will.”

She stumbled, and he caught her.

Did the man think she had no sense of propriety at all? Well, perhaps he did, since she’d come to London in such an improper fashion, but he was very much mistaken. “I can’t sponge off my grandparents, and I certainly can’t sponge off your parents.”

“But you’re not sponging, Frances. You would make your grandparents—and my parents—very happy if you would accept the gowns.”

She poked him in the chest to emphasize her words. “Are you mad or do you think me a complete greenhorn? It would be totally inappropriate—and greatly add to the scandal—for your parents to buy my clothing. And as to my grandparents footing the bill—”

Oh God, her grandparents. Even though she’d just met them, she’d miss them when she left. But it would be for the best. They had a wonderful, large, scandal-free family. They didn’t need her, and would soon discover they didn’t want her. “I can’t imagine they really wish to spend a small fortune on a girl they’ve spent only one evening with.”

Jack covered her finger where it pressed against him. “But they want to spend more time with you, Frances. You saw how happy they were at dinner last night.”

She tried to retrieve her hand, but he wouldn’t release her. “I’m a moment’s entertainment, that’s all.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re their blood—their family.”

Zeus! She jerked free and took a step back. “Oh yes. Just like I’m my father’s blood?
His
family?”

What if her grandparents turned their backs on her, too? It would be even worse now that they’d met her. Better to turn
her
back on them. “I’m leaving London as soon as I can.”

She whirled away from him, took a step toward the curricle—and tripped over a rut. Damn. She tried to recover, but her ankle twisted. She threw her hands out to break her fall—

Jack’s arm snaked around her waist and hauled her up against his rock-hard chest, turning her so her breast was against his. For a moment she was surrounded by him, by the rough fabric of his greatcoat and the strength of his arms.

She’d never been held this close to a man. Hell, she’d never been held by a man at all. Jack’s shoulders were so broad. She didn’t see the trees or the grass or the snow; she saw only Jack.

Her stomach felt hollow and shivery. She looked up at his chin, his lips—

He held her away and shook her just a little.

“Frances, your father is a complete bounder, and I’d like nothing more than to teach him that lesson with my fists. I do not understand how he can live with himself. But you cannot let him rule your life like this.”

What the hell was the matter with Jack? “I’m not letting my useless father rule my life.”

“Yes, you are. Don’t you see that? You’re angry that he never came to visit you and that he’s been corresponding with your brother. That’s perfectly understandable. But you need to understand that his failure to seek you out is his loss. Truthfully, I’d say you were fortunate not to have made his acquaintance.”

She tried to shrug, but his hands kept her shoulders still, so she glared at him instead. “I understand my father’s limitations. He’s a man. That’s the way men are.”

His grip tightened, and he scowled at her. “That is
not
the way men are. I’m a man, Frances, and I’m not anything like your father.”

The odd feeling in her stomach exploded until it felt as if she was one hollow, shivery mass. She wanted to believe him—

BOOK: Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack

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