She couldn’t be Hortense, Madame Coquette, or Lady Clare. She was an investigator hired for a job. Jamie had a way of making her lose sight of her objectives.
Tonight’s operation had just begun in earnest.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hortense chanced aquick glance at Jamie just as he said, “I never met a rule I particularly liked.” His face had turned to stone, inscrutable. A shiver raced through her.
Rothesbury sidled to her other side and took her arm. His wig tonight was truly something special, abundant with curls and powdered a vivid fuchsia not found in nature. “A husband mustn’t monopolize all his wife’s attention.”
Even as she smiled, Hortense shot Jamie a look. This was it. The job was on. The muscles of his jaw tensed by way of response.
“Your wife’s cheeks are quite flushed,” said Rothesbury, unaware of the unspoken conversation being had around him. “Be a good boy and fetch her a glass of punch.”
Hortense broke into a wide smile. Her laughter was that of the ever gay and carefree marchioness, merciless. “Oh, yes, be a good boy, dear husband, and play fetch. I am positively parched.”
“I wouldn’t want to leave you wanting, sweet wife,” he returned.
A sudden wave of hot lust rolled through her, for that was precisely what he’d done.
And he knew it.
And now he knew what else he must do, though she sensed him hesitating. He needed a nudge to play his role—the cuckold. “Well, dear husband?” she prodded. “The punch won’t fetch itself, now will it?”
Rothesbury’s loud guffaw contained no small amount of cruelty. Stoic, jaw clenched, Jamie pivoted on his heel and strode away. Hortense felt the loss of him like a physical ache. Her body—and mayhap other parts of her, too—wanted him back in the alcove, finishing what he’d started.
“Are you enjoying my little gathering?” Rothesbury asked. The man was ever self-satisfied. She wasn’t even sure what he expected she could do for him.
“I’ve never experienced such a party,” she said. The truth, in more ways than one.
“What a little innocent you are,” he said. Oh, his condescension was near insufferable. “Perhaps you need someone to help divest you of that innocence?”
How many times had he uttered that line?
She could retch at the idea. Instead, she batted her eyelashes at the vile man and asked, “And are you that someone, duke?”
His chest puffed out like a randy fowl. He liked having his title acknowledged and brandished about.
“Perhaps we could go someplace quieter and discover for ourselves?” His leer was so comical as to be a parody of itself. All he lacked was waggling eyebrows.
“If you must know,” she said, “one part of our conversation from last night keeps niggling at me.”
“Oh? Which part?” This time, he did waggle eyebrows powdered a pink to match his wig.
“About your jewel vault.” She bit her lip, drawing his eye. “I have a confession to make.”
“You may confess all your sins to me, my pet.”
Pet.Doyle’s nickname for her. She didn’t like it from this man’s mouth any better. A shiver of revulsion wanted to streak through her, but she repressed it, instead gazing up at him through her eyelashes. “I’ve always wanted to wear a tiara.”
“Surely, Clare could dig into the family vaults and find one or two.”
Mayhap she’d taken her poor, woebegone act too far?
Rothesbury’s conceit, however, saved her. “Of course, the vaults of a marquess would be nothing to a duke’s.”
“A duke’s jewel vault,” she said dreamily. “I can only imagine its wonders. Gold, platinum, silver. Rubies, diamonds, pearls…sapphires.” She gave a dramatic shiver of delight. Gads, she was irritating herself, but Rothesbury couldn’t seem to get enough. “And, oh, to behold such wonders would make me feel so incredibly grateful. I would absolutely need to prove my gratitude in any way. Nothing would be taboo.”
He swallowed as if his mouth had gone suddenly dry. “Nothing?”
