The mention of Jane Ingleby had made him unbearably restless. It had been five days, and it had seemed more like five weeks. Quincy had personally taken over that silly contract on the second day. To Jocelyn’s surprise she had signed it. He had expected her to haggle over a few small details out of sheer perverseness.
She was officially his mistress.
His virgin, unbedded mistress. How everyone who knew him would jeer if they knew he had engaged a mistress who had banished him from his own house, insisted upon a written contract, and kept the relationship unconsummated a full week after he had made her the proposition.
He laughed aloud suddenly, stopping in the middle of an empty, silent street. Ornery Jane. Even during the consummation she would doubtless not play the part of timid, shrinking virgin being deflowered.
Innocent, naïve Jane, who did not realize how clever she was being. He had desired her a week ago. He had yearned for her five days ago. By now he was on fire for her. He was finding it difficult to think of anything else. Jane with her golden hair, into whose web he could hardly wait to be ensnared.
He was forced to wait two more days before a note finally arrived. It was characteristically brief and to the point.
“The work on the house is complete,” she wrote. “You may call at your convenience.”
Cool, unloverlike words that set him ablaze.
***
JANE WAS PACING. SHEhad sent the note to Dudley House immediately after breakfast, but she knew that often he left home early and did not return until late at night. He might not read the note until tomorrow. He might not come for another day or two.
But she was pacing. And trying in vain not to look through the front-facing windows more often than once every ten minutes.
She was wearing a new dress of delicate spring-green muslin. High-waisted, with a modest neckline and short, puffed sleeves, it was of simple design. But it was expertly styled to mold and flatter her figure above its high waistline and to fall in soft folds to her ankles. It had been very costly. Accustomed to the prices of a country dressmaker, Jane had been shocked. But she had not sent the Bond Street modiste and her two assistants away. The duke had selected them and sent them with specific instructions on the number and nature of garments she was to have.
She had selected the fabrics and designs herself, favoring light colors over vivid ones and simplicity of design over the ornate, but she had not argued over the number or the expense, except flatly to insist upon only one walking dress and only one carriage dress. She had no intention of walking or driving out any time soon.
He would not have given hercarte blancheover the house renovations if he had not intended coming back, she thought as she leaned close to the window yet again early in the afternoon. He would not have sent the modiste or the contract. Indeed, he had sent the latter twice, first two copies for her to peruse and sign and return, and then just one copy to keep, with his own signature—Tresham—scrawled large and bold beneath her own. Mr. Jacobs had witnessed her signature, Mr. Quincy his.
But she could not shake the conviction that he would not come back. The week had been endless. Surely by now he must have forgotten her. Surely by now there was someone else.
She could not understand—and did not care to explore—her own anxiety.
But all anxiety fled suddenly to be replaced by a bursting of joy when she saw a familiar figure striding along the street in the direction of the house. He was walking without a limp, she noticed before turning and hurrying to open the sitting room door. She stopped herself from rushing to open the front door too. She stood where she was, waiting eagerly for his knock, waiting for Mr. Jacobs to answer it.
She had forgotten how broad-shouldered he was, how dark, how forbidding in aspect, how restless with pent-up energy, how—male. He was frowning as usual when he handed his hat and gloves to the butler. He did not look at her until he had done so. Then he strode toward the sitting room and fixed his eyes on her at last.
Eyes that looked not only at her dress and face and hair, she thought, but on everything that was her. Eyes that burned into her with a strange, intense light she had not seen there before.
The eyes of a man come to claim his mistress?
“Well, Jane,” he said, “you have finished playing house at last?”
Had she expected a kiss on the hand? On the lips? Soft lover’s words?
“There was much to do,” she replied coolly, “to convert this house into a dwelling rather than a brothel.”
“And you have done it?” He strode into the sitting room and looked around, his booted feet apart, his hands at his back. He seemed to fill the room.
“Hmm,” he said. “You did not tear down the walls, then?”
“No,” she said. “I kept a great deal. I have not been unnecessarily extravagant.”
“One would hate to have seen Quincy’s face if you had been,” he retorted. “He has been somewhat green about the gills for the past few days as it is. I understand that bills have been flooding in.”
“That is at least partly your fault,” she told him. “I did not need so many clothes and accessories. But the dressmaker you sent said you were adamant and she dared not allow your orders to be contradicted.”
“Some women, you see,” he said, “know their place, Jane. They know how to be submissive and obedient.”
“And how to make a great deal of money in the process,” she added. “I kept the lavender color in here, as you can see, though I would not have chosen it had I been planning the room from scratch. Combined with gray and silver instead of pink, and without all the frills and silly knickknacks, it looks rather delicate and elegant. I like it. I can live here comfortably.”
