“As a wise man recently said to me, if only everyone else thought you as droll as you find yourself, friend.” His grin faded when his gaze settled upon someone in the crush of dancers. “What the devil isshedoing here?”
“She?” Whitley’s expression turned wolfish. “Is something amiss, Duncan?”
Mr. Kirkwood’s countenance darkened, his eyes fixed upon the unknown female that so confounded him. “Nothing I cannot manage, Cris.” He bowed. “Enjoy the evening, lovebirds.”
With that, he stalked off, the milling guests parting for him as if a giant, invisible hand preceded him. What an odd, interesting fellow. Jacinda watched him for a moment before turning to the duke. “You are friends with Mr. Kirkwood?”
“I was friends with him until he held your hand far longer than necessary,” he growled.
Jacinda suppressed a smile at the possessive note in Whitley’s voice, for she knew she could never truly lay claim to him regardless of how much part of her wished it. “For tonight, I am yours,” she said softly.
Even if it was all they had.
His eyes blazed into hers, glittering with sensual promise. “If I had known how greatly it would please me to see you wearing a beautiful gown, I would have directed Madame Ormonde to make you two dozen more than the handful I chose. Pink suits you, my dear.”
She felt removed from herself in the dress, almost as if she were someone else. How freeing it was to pretend, to live in the moment rather than worry about tomorrow and all the pain and uncertainty it would bring. But then his words settled in her mind, and her earlier puzzlement at the modiste possessing a small cache of gowns that seemed suited to Jacinda’s figure made sense.
“Do you mean to tell me the gowns I saw today were commissioned for me by you?” she demanded.
“You are too beautiful to hide yourself in colorless sacks,” was his mild response as he snagged two glasses from a passing servant who bore a tray of beverages. He presented her with one and kept the other for himself. “Drink. It will do wonders to ease the frown wrinkling your brow.”
She fixed him with a stern look, the one she usually reserved for his wayward sisters. “When?”
“Preferably now,” he muttered before taking a sip from his own glass and wincing. “Bracing stuff. I do wonder what concoction Duncan has ordered for this evening’s festivities. A warning, before you begin. Moderation is required in all things at The Duke’s Bastard.”
Good heavens, even the name of this dubious establishment was sinful. But Jacinda was not going to allow him to distract her so easily. “I meant to ask when you commissioned the gowns for me, not when should I drink this dubious brew.”
As she said the last, she gave her glass a discreet sniff. Ratafia, it was decidedly not. He considered her with his cool stare, and she wished she could see his entire face without the hindrance of his half mask.
“Yesterday. Fortunately, Madame Ormonde possessed some dresses made for a lady who was not able to afford them after her wastrel husband lost everything in a game of hazard.” He paused. “Her form was propitiously similar to yours, it would appear. But I will not deny that whilst I was there, I requested she create some more suitable gowns for you. Seeing you in brown grows hideously tiresome.”
“You cannot buy me gowns, Your Grace,” she hissed, reverting to his title as a reminder to herself as much as it was to him that this enchanted evening was all they had.
His jaw flexed. “It pleases me to do so.”
“It is wrong,” she argued, feeling she must. She could not afford to allow herself to think what was between them was anything more than fleeting. For heaven’s sake, even without the deception she was forced to perpetrate against him, she had too much pride to become his mistress. What she had given of herself, she gave freely.
“I want to take care of you,” he said softly, the admission sounding torn from him. “Will you not let me in this small capacity? Is it truly so hateful to accept something from me?”
She stared at him, realization hitting her with the force of a blow. No, of course it was not hateful to accept his gifts. She wore a gown that had been paid for with his coin at that very moment. But the reason she could not allow him to buy her gowns was not her pride alone. Rather, it was far more troubling.
She had fallen in love with him.
There, in the midst of the den of iniquity to which he had brought her, surrounded by masked lords and ladies of the night, she knew without a doubt her heart belonged to the Duke of Whitley. To the Duke of Depravity. To Crispin. Whoever and whatever he was, she was his. The thought of leaving him left her with a physical ache in her chest and a swirl of nausea in her stomach.
It was why she could not accept more than this gown and this final night. As it was, she considered the gown a loan. She would leave it in her chamber when the time came for her to depart Whitley House in less than a fortnight.
“Damnation.”
His gritted epithet woke her from the spell that had seemed to settle upon her, and it occurred to her she stood gawping at him, no rejoinder at the ready. What could she say? She was afraid if she attempted to use her tongue, it would reveal her every secret.
I love you.
I am betraying you.
Please forgive me.
“I do not wish to argue with you, Jacinda.” His lips compressed into a firm line that she longed to coax away with a kiss. “Come. Let us find a place where we can have some privacy. The dancing can bloody well wait.”
