A small, sad smile tugged at her lips. “I have never had any weapons against you, Jack, and that is the problem.”
How wrong she was. No one could slice him to his very marrow the way she could.
AFORTNIGHT.
Dear God, what had she agreed to?
Fourteen days. Fourteen days of seeing Jack, of him spouting off about all the memories they shared, of him looking at her with those emerald bedchamber eyes and making her melt.
Nell’s hands trembled as she descended the staircase later that night on her way to dinner. It was the first time she was not taking a tray in her apartments. She had taken care with her dress—it was somber and black, an old mourning gown she still had from after her mother’s death. High-necked and prim, buttoned to her throat with a line of jet beads and a net of lace falling over its somber silhouette.
While her lady’s maid had aided her in her toilette, she had devised a battle plan for the evening. She was going to get soused. It was the only way to make it through a dinner of Jack’s clever taunts and teasing charm.
Jack sauntered into view. He was dressed beautifully, his short hair brushed back from his high forehead, his maroon waistcoat a vibrant contrast to his black coat and trousers and the crisp whiteness of his shirt. He watched her descend, a curious expression on his handsome face.
When she reached the last step, he offered her an elegant bow.
“Allow me to introduce myself. John Reginald Ainsworth, Marquess of Needham, Earl of Marbury, Viscount Pelham, etcetera. But all my familiars call me Jack.” His signature half grin curved his sensual mouth.
She wanted to kiss those lips, curse him.
Nell dipped into an abbreviated curtsy, determined to steel herself against his charm. “What game are you playing now, Jack?”
“No game.” His grin faded as he met her gaze, the intensity of those verdant orbs searing her. “I thought perhaps we could begin anew tonight. Start again.”
“It will do nothing to further your cause,” she warned him, taking the arm he offered her.
“But surely worth a try.” His voice was smooth. Unaffected.
He did not resemble the man who had come to her at the stream. That Jack had been raw, without his polish, almost desperate. He had been worried about her. And in spite of herself, she had been touched.
His words returned to her as they made their way to the dining room.
You are mine, Nellie. You have always been mine.
Dear God, if he only knew. Resisting him, fighting him, cost her every modicum of resolve she possessed.
Dinner began without a great deal of fanfare.
She was seated far nearer to him than she would have preferred, but she was not going to make a fuss before the servants or her husband. The less anyone—especially Jack—realized how greatly he affected her, the better. She seated herself primly, all too aware of his presence and stare.
“Tell me, my lady,” he said as the first course arrived, “what brings you to the country?”
“Why do you insist upon this nonsensical pretext?” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon.” He fluttered his eyelashes at her as if he were a coquette. “What was that you said, Lady Needham?”
She bit her lip to contain her laughter. Even when he looked ridiculous, he was gorgeous in a way no mere mortal ought to be. Unfair. So very unfair. She waited until the servants removed themselves to the perimeter of the room, where they were not as apt to overhear their conversation.
“If you must know, my lord, I was celebrating,” she told him pointedly.
“Do tell? The happy occasion of the return of your husband, was it?” He grinned at her.
He was enjoying this, the bounder. “Not precisely.”
She turned her attention to thepotage à la princein her bowl. She did not recall approving this rich partridge and chestnut soup—one of her favorites.
“This soup is delicious is it not?” he asked, as if reading her mind. “A lady I admire holds it one of the very best.”
