More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (25 page)

Would Jocelyn dance tonight? she wondered. Would he waltz?

But she would not indulge in depressing thoughts.

For a moment her heart lifted when she heard a tap on the den door. Had he come back? But then she saw the butler peering around the door, his expression wary.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Mr. Jacobs said, “but there are two great boxes just now arrived. What would you like done with them?”

“Boxes?” Jane raised her eyebrows and set her embroidery aside.

“From his grace,” the butler explained. “Almost too heavy to lift.”

“I am not expecting anything.” She got to her feet. “I had better come and see for myself. You are sure his grace sent them?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he assured her. “His own servants brought them and explained they were for you.”

Jane was intrigued, especially when she saw two large crates in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“Please open one of them,” she said, and Mrs. Jacobs fetched a knife and the butler cut the string that held one of the boxes closed.

Jane pushed back the lid, and all the servants—the butler, the housekeeper, the cook, the housemaid, and the footman—leaned forward with her to peer inside.

“Books!” The housemaid sounded vastly disappointed.

“Books!” Mrs. Jacobs sounded surprised. “Well. He never sent books here before. I wonder why he sent them now? Do you read, ma’am?”

“Of course she does,” Mr. Jacobs said sharply. “Why else would she want a desk and paper and ink, I ask you?”

“Books!” Jane said almost in a reverential whisper, her hands clasped to her bosom.

She could see from the ones on top that they were from his own library. There were a Daniel Defoe, a Walter Scott, a Henry Fielding, and an Alexander Pope visible before she touched a single volume.

“It seems a funny sort of gift to me,” the housemaid said, “begging your pardon, ma’am. P’raps there’s something better in the other box.”

Jane was biting hard on her upper lip. “It is a priceless gift,” she said. “Mr. Jacobs, are the boxes too heavy for you and Phillip to carry into the den?”

“I can carry them on my own, ma’am,” the young footman said eagerly. “Shall I unpack them for you too?”

“No.” Jane smiled at him. “I shall do that myself, thank you. I want to see all the books one at a time. I want to see what he has chosen for me.”

By happy chance there was a bookcase in the den though it had been covered with tasteless ornaments before Jane had cleared it off.

She spent two hours kneeling beside the boxes, drawing out one book at a time, arranging them pleasingly
on the shelves, pondering over which she would read first.

And occasionally blinking her eyes fast and even swiping at them with her handkerchief when she thought of him going home this afternoon and hand-picking all these books for her. She knew he had not simply directed Mr. Quincy to do the choosing for him. The books included ones she had mentioned as her particular favorites.

If he had sent her some costly piece of jewelry, she would not have been one fraction as well pleased. Such a gift would not even dent his purse. But his books! His own books, not ones he had purchased for her. He had taken them from his own shelves, and among them were his personal favorites too.

Some of the loneliness had gone from the evening. And some of the bewilderment at his leaving so abruptly during the afternoon, without a word of farewell. He must have gone straight home and spent time in his library. Just for her sake.

She must not, Jane told herself firmly, allow herself to fall any deeper in love with him. And she must not—she absolutely
must not
—let herself
love
him.

He was a man humoring a new mistress. Nothing more.

But she read happily until midnight.

T
HE NEXT MORNING THE
Duke of Tresham rode in Hyde Park at an hour when he often met some of his friends there on Rotten Row. The rain had stopped sometime during the night and the sun shone, making diamonds of the moisture on the grass. Fortunately for his need for
distraction, he ran into Sir Conan Brougham and Viscount Kimble almost immediately.

“Tresh,” the viscount said by way of greeting as Jocelyn joined the group, “we were expecting you at White’s for dinner.”

“I dined at home,” Jocelyn told him. And he had. He had been unable to dine with Jane as his feelings had been rubbed raw and he had not wanted her to know it. And although he had dressed to go out, he had not done so. He was not quite sure why.

“Alone?” Brougham asked. “Without even the delectable Miss Ingleby for company?”

“She never did dine with me,” Jocelyn said. “She was a servant, if you will remember.”

“She could be my servant any time,” Kimble said with a theatrical sigh.

“And you were not at Lady Halliday’s,” Brougham observed.

“I stayed home,” Jocelyn said.

He was aware of his friends exchanging glances before they broke into merry laughter.

“Ho, Tresham,” Brougham said, “who is she? Anyone we know?”

“A fellow cannot claim to have spent an evening at home alone without incurring suspicion?” Jocelyn spurred his horse into a canter. But his friends, who adjusted the speed of their mounts to match that of his, were not to be deterred. They rode one on either side of him.

“Someone new if she kept him from dinner at White’s and the card room at Lady Halliday’s, Cone,” Kimble said.

“And someone who kept him awake all night if this
morning’s ill temper is anything to judge by, Kimble,” Brougham observed.

They were talking across Jocelyn, both grinning, just as if he were not there.

“Go to the devil,” he told them.

But they both greeted his uncharitable invitation with renewed mirth.

It was a relief to see Angeline approaching on foot beyond the fence with Mrs. Stebbins, one of her particular friends. They were out for a morning stroll.

“Provoking man!” Angeline exclaimed as soon as Jocelyn rode within earshot. “Why are you always out when I call, Tresham? I made a particular point of going to Dudley House yesterday afternoon as Heyward informed me you had left White’s before luncheon. I was quite sure you must have gone home.”

Jocelyn fingered the ribbon of his quizzing glass. “Were you?” he said. “It would be redundant to inform you that you were wrong. To what, may I ask, did I owe the show of sisterly affection? Good morning, Mrs. Stebbins.” He touched the brim of his hat with his whip and inclined his head.

“Everyone is talking about it,” Angeline said while her friend made his grace a deep curtsy. “I have heard it three times in the past two days, not to mention Ferdie’s speaking of it when I saw him yesterday. So I daresay you have heard it too. But I must have your assurance that you will do nothing foolish, Tresham, or my nerves will be shattered. And I must have your promise that you will defend the family honor at whatever cost to yourself.”

“I trust,” Jocelyn said, “you intend sooner or later to enlighten me on the topic of this fascinating conversation,
Angeline. Might I suggest sooner as Cavalier is still frisky?”

“It
was
being said,” she explained, “that the Forbes brothers fled town in fear of retaliation from you for what they tried to do to Ferdie.”

“As well they might,” he commented. “They have some modicum of wisdom among the three of them if that was indeed the reason for their disappearance.”

“But now,” she said, “it is known for absolute certain—is it not, Maria?” She turned to Mrs. Stebbins for confirmation. “Mr. Hammond mentioned it at Mrs. Bury-Haugh’s two days ago and everyone knows that his wife is second cousin to Mrs. Wesley Forbes. So it must be true.”

“Incontrovertibly, I would say,” Jocelyn agreed dryly, using his quizzing glass to peruse the other walkers beyond the fence and the other riders within.

“They are not satisfied,” Angeline announced. “Can you imagine the gall of them, Tresham? When Ferdie might have been killed? They are not satisfied because you took the curricle and came to no worse harm than to ruin a pair of leather gloves.
They
are still vowing vengeance on you! When everyone knows that
you
are now the one with the grievance. They have gone for reinforcements and are expected back at any moment.”

Jocelyn turned about with a flourish to look at the grassy expanse behind him. “But not quite yet, Angeline,” he said. “The reinforcements to which you refer are presumably the Reverend Josiah Forbes and Captain Samuel Forbes?”

“It will be five against one,” she declared dramatically. “Or five against two if one counts Ferdie as he insists one must. It would be five against three if Heyward
would not insist in his odious manner that he will not involve himself in childish capers. I will wheedle a gun out of him and start practicing my marksmanship again. I am a Dudley, after all.”

“I beg you to desist,” Jocelyn said firmly. “None of us would know which side was in more danger from you if you were to prove as adept at shooting now as you were as a girl.” He raised his glass again and looked her over from head to ankles. “That is a surprisingly elegant bonnet you are wearing,” he said. “But the poppy red flowers are a lamentably poor match for the pink of your walking dress.”

“Lord Pym met us ten minutes ago,” she said with a toss of her head, “and observed, foolish man, that I look like a particularly delectable meadow in which he could only wish he were strolling alone. Did he not, Maria?”

“Indeed?” Jocelyn’s manner became instantly frosty. “I trust, Angeline, you reminded Lord Pym that you are the sister of the Duke of Tresham?”

“I sighed soulfully and then laughed at him,” she said. “It was harmless gallantry, Tresham. Do you believe I would allow any man to take liberties with me? I shall tell Heyward about it and he will toss his glance at the ceiling and then tell me … well.” She blushed and laughed again, nodded to Kimble and Brougham, took Maria Stebbins’s arm, and resumed her promenade.

“London needs some new scandal,” Jocelyn observed as he rode onward with his friends. “It seems that no one has anything else to talk about these days except those cowardly scoundrels who claim kinship with Lady Oliver.”

“They are doubtless shaking in their boots, by Jove,” Viscount Kimble said, “since Joseph Forbes was rash
enough to claim responsibility on behalf of all of them for your scraped palms. But they are probably hatching more mischief too—nothing as direct as a challenge, of course.”

“They may not have a choice—except loss of face and the last vestiges of their honor,” Jocelyn said. “But enough on the subject. I am sick to death of it. Let us enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.”

“To blow away the cobwebs?” Brougham asked. He looked beyond Jocelyn to address their other friend again. “Did you notice, Kimble, that according to Lady Heyward, Tresham was from home yesterday afternoon? Was he with you?”

“He was not with me, Cone,” the viscount replied, all seriousness. “Was he with you?”

“I did not set eyes on him between yesterday morning and this,” Brougham said. “She must be
very
new and
very
frisky.”

“The devil!” Kimble drew his horse to such an abrupt halt and threw back his head to laugh with such loud merriment that he was almost unseated and had to exercise considerable skill to bring his mount under control again. “Right under our noses, Cone,” he said when he was able. “The answer, I mean.”

Conan Brougham’s and Jocelyn’s horses were prancing a little distance away.

“The delectable Miss Ingleby!” Kimble announced. “You rogue, Tresh. You lied. You do have her in your keeping. And she kept you from your friends and your obligations and your bed—your own bed, that is—most of yesterday and all night. She must have lived up to all the considerable promise she showed.”

“It has been staring us in the face, has it not?”
Brougham agreed with a grin. “You actually danced—
waltzed
—with her, Tresham. And could not take your eyes off her. But why the secrecy, old chap?”

“I do believe,” Kimble said with an exaggerated sigh, “I am going to go into mourning. I have been considering hiring a Bow Street Runner to search for her.”

“You two,” Jocelyn said with his customary hauteur, “may go to the devil with my blessing. Now if you will excuse me, breakfast awaits at Dudley House.”

At first silence and then their laughter followed him as he rode off unhastily in the direction of home.

It was not like that, he kept thinking foolishly. It was not
like
that.

But if it was not like that—a man with a new mistress enjoying the novelty of a new female body with which to pleasure himself—then what
was
it like?

He hated the thought of even his closest friends snickering over Jane.

S
HE MUST HAVE HEARD
him coming. She was standing in the doorway of the sitting room again, wearing primrose yellow today—another new dress of classically simple design. She had perfect taste in clothing, it seemed, once she had been forced out of the cheap gray monstrosities.

He handed his hat and gloves to the butler and moved toward her. She smiled at him with dazzling warmth and held out both hands, completely throwing him off stride. He had been feeling out of charity with the world and even with her and had been irritated with himself for being unable
not
to come to her again this afternoon.

“Thank you,” she said, and squeezed his hands when
he gave them to her. “How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”

“For the books?” He frowned. He had forgotten about the books. He had intended to take her straight up to bed today, to have his brisk pleasure of her before leaving to get on with the rest of his day, undistracted by thoughts of her. He had intended to get this relationship properly on track. At the same time he had hated the thought of Kimble’s or Brougham’s ribald remarks, which he was sure to hear this evening, and his own knowledge that there was truth in them.

“A mere nothing,” he said curtly. He freed his hands and motioned for her to precede him into the sitting room.

“To you, perhaps,” she said. “But to me, everything. You cannot know how I have missed reading since I came here.”