Captain Jack's Woman by Stephanie Laurens

Better that than the truth—which he wouldn’t believe anyway.
    Kit’s eyes glazed. She blushed and looked down.
    The odd expressions that passed over Kit’s face in rapid succession left Jack bewildered. But the blush he understood immediately. “Sorry,” he said. “An unnecessarily prying question.”
    Kit looked up, amazed. He was apologizing?
    “Where do you live?” Jack remembered her mare. The stubborn pride of the present Lord Cranmer was as well-known as his family’s coloring. Jack hazarded a guess. “With your grandfather?”
    Slowly, Kit nodded. Her mind was racing. If she was her father’s illegitimate daughter, nothing would be more likely. Her father had been Spencer’s favorite. Her grandfather would naturally assume responsibility for any bastards his son had left behind. But she had to tread warily—Captain Jack knew far too much about the local families to allow her to invent freely. Luckily, he obviously didn’t know Spencer’s legitimate granddaughter had returned from London.
    “I live at the Hall.” One of her cousin Geoffrey’s maxims on lying replayed in her head. Stick to the truth as far as possible. “I grew up there, but when my grandmother died they sent me away.” If Jack was a local, he’d wonder why he’d never seen her about.
    “Away?” Jack look interested.
    Kit took another sip of brandy, grateful for the warmth unfurling in her belly. It seemed to be easing her head. “I was sent to London to live with the curate from Holme when he moved to Chiswick.” Kit grabbed at the memory of the young curate—the image fitted perfectly. “I didn’t really like the capital. When the curate was promoted, I came back.” Kit prayed Jack didn’t know the curate from Holme personally; she’d no idea if he’d been promoted or not.
    Neither did Jack. Kit’s tale made sense, even accounting for her cultured speech and sophisticated gestures. If she’d been brought up at Cranmer under her grandmother’s eye, then spent time in London, even with a boring curate, she’d be every bit as confident and at ease with him as she was proving to be. No simple country miss, this one. Her story was believable. Her attitude suggested she knew as much. Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So you live at the Hall and Spencer openly acknowledges you?”
    Now that, my fine gentleman, is a trick question. Kit waved airily. “Oh, I’ve always lived quietly. I was trained to look after the house, so that’s what I do.” She smiled at her inquisitor, knowing she’d passed the test. Not even Spencer would raise a bastard granddaughter on a par with the trueborn.
    Grimly, Jack acknowledged that smile. She was certainly quick, but he could do without her smiles. They infused her face with a radiance painters had wasted lifetimes trying to capture. Whoever her mother had been, she must have been uncommonly beautiful to give rise to a daughter to rival Aphrodite.
    “So by day, Spencer’s housekeeper; by night, Young Kit, leader of a smuggling gang. How long have you been in the trade?”
    “Only a few weeks.” Kit wished he’d stop scowling at her. He’d smiled at her once at the quarries. She’d a mind to witness the phenomenon in the stronger lamplight, but Jack didn’t seem at all likely to oblige. She smiled at him. He scowled back.
    “How the devil have you survived? You cover your face, there’s padding in your coat—but what happens if one of the men touches you?”
    “They don’t—they haven’t.” Kit hoped her blush didn’t show. “They just think I’m a well-born stripling, not built on their scale.”
    Jack snorted, his gaze never leaving her face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn to swagger—and all the rest of it? It’s not that easy to pass as a male. You’ve not trod the boards, have you?”
    Kit met his gaze—and chose her words with care. She could hardly lay claim to her cousins, much less their influence. “I’ve had opportunity aplenty to study