That was what rakes did with women, and one only need read the newspapers to know Lord Jack was a rake of the worst sort: his exploits were recorded in print regularly. Lord J—seen escorting two ladies onto the dark terrace at Lady So-and-So’s ball. Lord J—glimpsed driving down Rotten Row with the fair proprietress of the Gilded G—.
And she’d seen with her own eyes on what easy terms he was with all manner of light-skirts. He was likely as irresponsible as her father, taking his pleasure wherever he wished, not thinking twice about the women and children he left behind.
Well, no, he wasn’t as bad as her father. There was the house in Bromley, and the children who clearly loved him—and for whom he just as clearly cared deeply.
He was probably just annoyed by Mr. Pettigrew, who was certainly an extremely annoying man. Even Shakespeare, who’d been perfectly behaved with the children, had taken Mr. Pettigrew in sudden and extreme dislike.
She must remain calm and keep acting her part. She’d have to stay the night at his family’s house, unchaperoned; she didn’t wish to be ravished in her bed.
Her stomach shivered.
With anxiety . Of course she didn’t wish to be ravished. It sounded like a very uncomfortable experience, not that she perfectly understood what was involved.
She would persuade Lord Jack to take her to Puddington’s offices in the morning—no, she would ask him to send her in a hackney. Of course! That was the perfect solution; he’d never discover her gender that way. And surely Puddington’s offices weren’t in a dangerous section of London, so there would be no need for him to escort her.
Now all she had to do was keep up her masquerade for a little while longer, and then she’d retire early and take dinner on a tray in her room. In the morning she’d go off to see Puddington, and that would be the end of Lord Jack’s involvement in her life.
She felt an odd twinge of sadness, but she repressed it. The sooner she was free of the rake, the better. His animal magnetism, or whatever it was, was clearly affecting her thinking.
They’d reached a broad square with a lovely fenced garden—more of a park, really—in its center. Jack brought his horses to a stop in front of the largest house, and a footman ran out to hold them, as if he’d been watching for Jack to arrive.
“Welcome back, milord.”
“Thank you, Jacob.”
Frances started to climb down, but Jack’s hand clamped around her wrist like iron. She met his eyes. They were as cold as the day, flat and hard.
“A moment, Miss Hadley, and I will assist you.”
Oh God! Her heart lurched into her throat. He had guessed. What the devil was she going to do now?
He released her and swung himself down to the pavement, Shakespeare on his heels.
She could defy him. She should defy him. She was quite capable of getting down by herself, as he well knew. Except her legs seemed to have turned to jelly.
He wouldn’t abuse her. She was relatively certain of that, though not completely certain. If she’d had any hope of fleeing—if she could have slid across the seat, picked up the reins, and stolen his curricle—she would have. But she had no idea how to drive a curricle—not that the footman would let go of the horses—and she had no place to flee to.
She was trapped, so she would cooperate for now. She did not care to stoke his anger to any hotter a flame.
He came to her side and extended his hand, his face a pleasant mask. Anyone observing them from a distance wouldn’t think twice about the scene—unless they wondered why Lord Jack would be helping a boy descend from his curricle. But if they could see the man’s eyes . . .
His eyes promised a very unpleasant interview ahead.
The moment her foot touched the ground, he dropped her fingers and turned to lead the way inside.
She scowled at his back. He had no cause to be in such a pet. Yes, she’d hoodwinked him, but she’d cozened the Findleys, Mrs.
And she’d seen with her own eyes on what easy terms he was with all manner of light-skirts. He was likely as irresponsible as her father, taking his pleasure wherever he wished, not thinking twice about the women and children he left behind.
Well, no, he wasn’t as bad as her father. There was the house in Bromley, and the children who clearly loved him—and for whom he just as clearly cared deeply.
He was probably just annoyed by Mr. Pettigrew, who was certainly an extremely annoying man. Even Shakespeare, who’d been perfectly behaved with the children, had taken Mr. Pettigrew in sudden and extreme dislike.
She must remain calm and keep acting her part. She’d have to stay the night at his family’s house, unchaperoned; she didn’t wish to be ravished in her bed.
Her stomach shivered.
With anxiety . Of course she didn’t wish to be ravished. It sounded like a very uncomfortable experience, not that she perfectly understood what was involved.
She would persuade Lord Jack to take her to Puddington’s offices in the morning—no, she would ask him to send her in a hackney. Of course! That was the perfect solution; he’d never discover her gender that way. And surely Puddington’s offices weren’t in a dangerous section of London, so there would be no need for him to escort her.
Now all she had to do was keep up her masquerade for a little while longer, and then she’d retire early and take dinner on a tray in her room. In the morning she’d go off to see Puddington, and that would be the end of Lord Jack’s involvement in her life.
She felt an odd twinge of sadness, but she repressed it. The sooner she was free of the rake, the better. His animal magnetism, or whatever it was, was clearly affecting her thinking.
They’d reached a broad square with a lovely fenced garden—more of a park, really—in its center. Jack brought his horses to a stop in front of the largest house, and a footman ran out to hold them, as if he’d been watching for Jack to arrive.
“Welcome back, milord.”
“Thank you, Jacob.”
Frances started to climb down, but Jack’s hand clamped around her wrist like iron. She met his eyes. They were as cold as the day, flat and hard.
“A moment, Miss Hadley, and I will assist you.”
Oh God! Her heart lurched into her throat. He had guessed. What the devil was she going to do now?
He released her and swung himself down to the pavement, Shakespeare on his heels.
She could defy him. She should defy him. She was quite capable of getting down by herself, as he well knew. Except her legs seemed to have turned to jelly.
He wouldn’t abuse her. She was relatively certain of that, though not completely certain. If she’d had any hope of fleeing—if she could have slid across the seat, picked up the reins, and stolen his curricle—she would have. But she had no idea how to drive a curricle—not that the footman would let go of the horses—and she had no place to flee to.
She was trapped, so she would cooperate for now. She did not care to stoke his anger to any hotter a flame.
He came to her side and extended his hand, his face a pleasant mask. Anyone observing them from a distance wouldn’t think twice about the scene—unless they wondered why Lord Jack would be helping a boy descend from his curricle. But if they could see the man’s eyes . . .
His eyes promised a very unpleasant interview ahead.
The moment her foot touched the ground, he dropped her fingers and turned to lead the way inside.
She scowled at his back. He had no cause to be in such a pet. Yes, she’d hoodwinked him, but she’d cozened the Findleys, Mrs.
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