Lady Butterstone nodded wearily. “Very well. In that case, I shall retire.”
In the library, a room of immense proportions lined to the ceiling with tomes and smelling of dust, old parchment, vellum, and leather, Lady Althea rang for a footman and at his quick response, instructed him to light the fire.
“Do you care for more cognac? she asked Jack.
“Best keep a clear head,” he said, concerned at how easily he might lose his.
Once the coal in the hearth had burst into life, the footman left. They went to the inlaid mahogany desk near the window, on which sat a large, leather valise. “As Mother said, Father’s secretary will deal with this matter. But that will take too long. Please take Father’s seat. It’s more comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
Jack drew up a maroon-and-white-striped chintz chair for her. He took the one behind the desk, covered in wine-colored leather.
She pulled the valise toward her and opened it. “I’ll separate all the correspondence relating to France. I doubt the rest is of interest.”
“An excellent idea,” Jack said, watching her. Everything about her delighted him, from her slim hands to her graceful neck caressed by loose tendrils. He’d like to release her hair from the pins. Raise her pale-gold locks to his face and breathe her in. He sighed, leaned back, and tapped his fingers on the leather desktop. He had left London so that he would never want what he could not have. And here he was, hopelessly, foolishly, caught up in something that had proven equally troubling. “Perhaps we can uncover the mystery tonight.”
She raised her eyes to his, a letter in her hand. “You are anxious to leave us.”
He smiled. “My reason for that may surprise you.”
She flushed slightly. “But you won’t tell me.”
“Not a good idea.”
She traced her full bottom lip with her tongue and sighed. “Not if you don’t wish to.”
Jack’s blood heated. He pushed back the chair. He’d been accused of being hot-blooded in the past. And damn it, it was true. Why stop now when he knew what they both wanted? He came around to where she sat, reached down, and removed the letter before taking her hands and drawing her to her feet.
She didn’t protest, her gaze locked with his. With an arm around her waist, he drew her close, raised her chin and brought his mouth down on hers. Oh, but she was sweet; he lost himself in her scent and her slim body as she kissed him back, her fingers stroking his nape.
With a shaky breath, he drew away. “I should apologize. But that would be a lie.”
“I wanted you to kiss me.”
He studied her face for a moment and then pulled her close again,more urgently now, breathing deeply of flowers, and warm woman. “Where is your husband?”
She moved back and looked up at him. “He passed away. Didn’t you know?”
“That you’re a widow? No.”
She looked amused. “Yet you still kissed me.”
“It was worth the risk.”
“I am Lady Althea Lambourne.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Lambourne. The Duke of Westmore’s second son?”
“Yes, Charles and I married when I was eighteen and he nineteen. It was thought he would not live to be old. He died two years ago.” She sighed. “He was always quite frail.”
Now he remembered something of it. Her husband had been an invalid since birth. Jack’s father had gone to his funeral. The man’s elder brother had also been sickly and had died early this year.
“No children?”
She shook her head. “Regrettably, that side of our marriage was not successful,” she said briskly.
Jack sensed the pain behind her words but hid the quick rush of sympathy, which he felt would be unwelcome. “Perhaps we should continue looking into this.” He gestured to the letters.
