anytime?”
“Anytime at all.”
“How about tomorrow at eleven? I can stay all afternoon.”
Blimey! No beating around the bush with this one.
“Eleven o’clock will be perfect.”
She rose on tiptoe and brushed a kiss to his mouth. “I’ll see you then,” she said.
She drew away and hurried back to the party. He watched her go, cursing his rampant erection and worrying over what the hell he’d set in motion. She’d be a handful, that was guaranteed, but wasn’t he due for some excitement?
He grinned, his sojourn in Scotland suddenly not seeming quite so dreary.
He started toward the party, too, whistling as he went.
“MONSIEUR Dubois? It is you!”
Lily leaned over the balustrade to get a better view as he returned from a stroll in the garden with Barbara Middleton. Barbara swept up the stairs, but Dubois approached more slowly.
Lily had noticed him earlier in the card room, but she’d been sure her eyes were playing tricks. She’d seen his sister, Clarinda, as well, promenading in a line of dancers, but again, she’d told herself that she had to be mistaken.
She’d met Dubois twice previous, and both occasions had been brief and in passing: near Penworth Hall after Lord Penworth had first hired her, and later, at the harbor in London.
Dubois’s wagon had been parked at the dock, and he’d been hawking his wares to departing travelers. His sister had been with him, and they’d enjoyed a cordial good-bye as Lily had boarded Bramwell’s ship to sail for Scotland.
What on earth was he doing at Penworth Castle?
He stepped onto the terrace, his hands extended in greeting.
“Miss Lambert,” he said, “how lovely to see you. I was wondering if you were still working for Lord Penworth.”
“Hello, Mr. Dubois. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been dying to ask you about—”
He cut her off. “Actually, it’s Dudley. Phillip Dudley.”
At the admission, she frowned. “What happened to your accent?”
Flushing—as if embarrassed—he glanced over to where Barbara was about to go inside. She halted and peered over her shoulder.
“His accent?” Barbara inquired.
Dubois looked at Barbara, then Lily, and he shrugged.
“It’s a long story,” he claimed.
“She called you Dubois .”
“It’s just a little joke between the two of us,” he contended.
“A secret name,” Barbara mulled, “and a lost accent. I’m guessing there’s a fascinating tale behind it all.”
“There might be,” Dubois allowed.
“Oh,” Barbara gushed, “this will be even more entertaining than I imagined.”
She flashed a sultry smile, then continued on. Lily was alone with Dubois or Dudley or whoever he was.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“We certainly do.”
He guided her down the stairs and out into the garden, away from the other guests. They came to a bench and sat.
“I must ask you,” he began, appearing uncomfortable, “not to mention a few things when you bump into me.”
“Which things?”
“Well, my French name and my occupation—for starters.”
She studied him, gazing into his beautiful brown eyes. She’d suspected he was a mysterious fellow, but apparently, she’d had no idea!
“What are you up to, Dubois?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Why don’t you attempt to explain? Are you scheming against the earl? Should I warn him?”
“No,” he scoffed, “it’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m here with my sister. We’re living on the next property. She’s trying to fit in in the neighborhood. I want people to believe she’s gentry.”
“She’s not.”
“She’s close enough, and she can pull it off. It’s important to her, and I won’t ruin it.”
“So you’ve become an Englishman?”
“I’ve always been an Englishman.”
She should have been angry with him, but he gave her such a saucy grin that she couldn’t be. The knave.
“You’re Dudley, then. Not Dubois.”
“Phillip Dudley, yes. I pretend to be French
“Anytime at all.”
“How about tomorrow at eleven? I can stay all afternoon.”
Blimey! No beating around the bush with this one.
“Eleven o’clock will be perfect.”
She rose on tiptoe and brushed a kiss to his mouth. “I’ll see you then,” she said.
She drew away and hurried back to the party. He watched her go, cursing his rampant erection and worrying over what the hell he’d set in motion. She’d be a handful, that was guaranteed, but wasn’t he due for some excitement?
He grinned, his sojourn in Scotland suddenly not seeming quite so dreary.
He started toward the party, too, whistling as he went.
“MONSIEUR Dubois? It is you!”
Lily leaned over the balustrade to get a better view as he returned from a stroll in the garden with Barbara Middleton. Barbara swept up the stairs, but Dubois approached more slowly.
Lily had noticed him earlier in the card room, but she’d been sure her eyes were playing tricks. She’d seen his sister, Clarinda, as well, promenading in a line of dancers, but again, she’d told herself that she had to be mistaken.
She’d met Dubois twice previous, and both occasions had been brief and in passing: near Penworth Hall after Lord Penworth had first hired her, and later, at the harbor in London.
Dubois’s wagon had been parked at the dock, and he’d been hawking his wares to departing travelers. His sister had been with him, and they’d enjoyed a cordial good-bye as Lily had boarded Bramwell’s ship to sail for Scotland.
What on earth was he doing at Penworth Castle?
He stepped onto the terrace, his hands extended in greeting.
“Miss Lambert,” he said, “how lovely to see you. I was wondering if you were still working for Lord Penworth.”
“Hello, Mr. Dubois. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been dying to ask you about—”
He cut her off. “Actually, it’s Dudley. Phillip Dudley.”
At the admission, she frowned. “What happened to your accent?”
Flushing—as if embarrassed—he glanced over to where Barbara was about to go inside. She halted and peered over her shoulder.
“His accent?” Barbara inquired.
Dubois looked at Barbara, then Lily, and he shrugged.
“It’s a long story,” he claimed.
“She called you Dubois .”
“It’s just a little joke between the two of us,” he contended.
“A secret name,” Barbara mulled, “and a lost accent. I’m guessing there’s a fascinating tale behind it all.”
“There might be,” Dubois allowed.
“Oh,” Barbara gushed, “this will be even more entertaining than I imagined.”
She flashed a sultry smile, then continued on. Lily was alone with Dubois or Dudley or whoever he was.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“We certainly do.”
He guided her down the stairs and out into the garden, away from the other guests. They came to a bench and sat.
“I must ask you,” he began, appearing uncomfortable, “not to mention a few things when you bump into me.”
“Which things?”
“Well, my French name and my occupation—for starters.”
She studied him, gazing into his beautiful brown eyes. She’d suspected he was a mysterious fellow, but apparently, she’d had no idea!
“What are you up to, Dubois?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Why don’t you attempt to explain? Are you scheming against the earl? Should I warn him?”
“No,” he scoffed, “it’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m here with my sister. We’re living on the next property. She’s trying to fit in in the neighborhood. I want people to believe she’s gentry.”
“She’s not.”
“She’s close enough, and she can pull it off. It’s important to her, and I won’t ruin it.”
“So you’ve become an Englishman?”
“I’ve always been an Englishman.”
She should have been angry with him, but he gave her such a saucy grin that she couldn’t be. The knave.
“You’re Dudley, then. Not Dubois.”
“Phillip Dudley, yes. I pretend to be French
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