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But the boy didn’t respond with a similar expression. Instead, he gave her a brisk, businesslike nod and set off at a lope.
It was nearly an hour before the footboy returned. His livery had lost any hint of crispness in the streets. His boots were covered in mud, clear up to his calves, and the red-and-gold coat was damp and dripping from the pervasive fog. And he was still carrying that brown package, much worse for the journey. A second note was tucked on top.
He thrust his armload at Jenny. She took it and plucked the piece of paper from where it had been secured under the twine.
Irrational. Unethical. Really, Madame Esmerelda, there’s no need to add “tedious” to your many sins. -B.
Tedious? Well. If there was anything more tedious than conducting this exchange via drooping delivery boy, Jenny couldn’t think of it. She pushed the wrapped gown back at the boy, but he raised his hands and stepped back.
“No, ma’am. I’m not to take it back. His lordship said so. He also said I was to tell you there would be no further debate, and he’ll accept your thanks along with your agreement.”
Jenny tapped her foot. Clearly Lord Blakely thought she was engaging in recalcitrance for the sake of recalcitrance. It wasn’t a poor guess on his part; it just wasn’t true in this particular instance. Well. She was not expecting clients to come by until the next morning.
If his servant wouldn’t tote the dress back, Jenny had little choice. Lord Blakely had no one to blame but himself.
“Will you wait for my reply?” Jenny asked.
He nodded, and Jenny dashed into action. She donned half boots and grabbed a heavy shawl and a bonnet. The footman bit his lip in growing trepidation.
“Right,” Jenny said, hefting the package into her arms. “I’m ready.”
“Um.” The boy scuffed his boots against her floor.
“Well? Lead on.”
“But—”
“None of that, now. He told you to bring the reply. The reply is me. He’ll fume if he doesn’t hear what I have to say.”
His gaze flicked up and down, from her head to toe. Even in his soiled state, he still looked grander than Jenny in her faded clothing. “He’ll fume if he does,” he finally said.
“Yes, but he’ll fume at me.”
That argument apparently carried the day. He shook his head, straightened his wig, and set off down the street at a brisk pace. Jenny followed. As the journey went on, the streets became cleaner and the houses larger. By the time they reached Mayfair, the rows of stolid houses rose over her head like a military encampment, heavy stone walls stretching up past the tops of the trees. Flowers bloomed. The squares were carefully curried: bushes trimmed to exacting geometric shapes, bits of lawn clipped to perfect smoothness.
The people they passed on the streets no doubt took Jenny for some kind of a delivery girl. Their eyes slipped right past her, as if she didn’t exist. After all, she carried a heavy package, and the washed-out pattern of her unfashionable skirts proclaimed her a member of the servant class.
Jenny felt increasingly out of place. The hem of her skirt was muddied, and her sturdy blouse was cut from heavy material designed to last for years. Its color had dulled to a nondescript gray.
That feeling of bone-deep dinginess only intensified as the footboy darted alongside a tall mausoleum of gray-streaked stone. She ducked after him, down a set of stairs and through the servants’ entrance. They entered an unaccountably clean pantry, its shelves stocked with dry goods. Two maids in the doorway took one look at Jenny and fell to squawking. They waved their arms and directed her to a corner of the kitchen where she was instructed to remove her muddy boots. As she undid the laces, a heated conference developed in the corner. A dour-faced butler appeared. He was gesticulating at a matronly housekeeper. Neither smiled. There was talk from the butler of his high-and-mighty lordship, who must not be disturbed at any cost. The poor master was working, agreed the housekeeper, and if he didn’t take time to eat—
They weren’t debating whether to let her upstairs to face Lord Blakely’s wrath. They were wondering whether to throw her out now, or let her clean up and warm by the fire first.
Jenny set her muddy boots in the corner. Thankfully, it hadn’t been so wet that her stockings were damp. They were still clean and serviceable. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She drew herself up, channeling Madame Esmerelda’s outward poise. There was no reason to be intimidated by this household, caught as it was in the contagious grip of a bad case of Lord Blakely’s grims.
Well, no reason other than the crisp starch of the scullery maids’ uniforms. And the gleam of scrubbed copper pots. And the wide, warm kitchen, larger than her rooms put together and trebled, smelling of the sort of savory things Jenny had only read about in books.
The poor footboy had been pulled into the argument. He did not hunch; that would have been poor posture. But he did bend enough to look unhappy.
Jenny glanced across the room and spotted a narrow servants’ staircase. Somewhere above her, Lord Blakely prowled. Her skin pricked at the thought of him pacing in some room above her head, unaware how near she was. How would he react? Badly, she supposed. How far away was he? If she knew him at all, she’d wager he had a study tucked at the back of the house, away from all the noise and bother of the street. Undoubtedly, he’d also receive men of business there. The first floor would be most convenient for that.
Jenny sauntered carefully across the room, hugging the bulky package to her chest. If anyone asked, she would say she planned to set it on one of those wide counters. She stopped, pretending to ogle her distorted reflection in the side of one of the copper pots. Nobody paid her any mind. She was as invisible now as she’d been on the streets of Mayfair.
Good.
She very carefully didn’t look at the stairs until she stood at the bottom. Then, before anyone could stop her, she pounded up them and out the scullery door.
Shouts erupted behind her.
She threw open another door across the way before anyone could follow her.
The hallway she entered was part of the family quarters. Landscapes hung in polished, pristine wood frames, showing idyllic scenes of a countryside Jenny had never known. Her stockinged feet sank into a rich, thick carpet. To the right lay the entry, where two additional liveried footmen turned to face her. Jenny turned left and dashed to the back of the house. She opened one door. There was a large rectangular dining table, the sort that could seat an entire legion of soldiers. She swiveled and faced one last door. Her heart pounded from exertion, and her breath burned in her lungs. It was this, or nothing.
The handle turned smoothly.
Jenny’s vision swam. In front of her were books. Books. Books. Books—and Blakely. Light from the fire glinted off his tawny hair. Here in his study he seemed relaxed, almost boyish. He looked very different from the cold man who’d last confronted her. The lines of his face were freed from some subtle tension and his lips were parted. Something inside her chest froze painfully at the sight. She had a sudden vision of the marquess hiding behind a solid facade of arrogance every time he went in society.
She could not shake the feeling that this man, stripped of the cold shell that surrounded him, was the true Lord Blakely.
He was seated at a heavy desk, paper piled in front of him. Paper on the table; on the chairs. Even stacked neatly on the floor. He scratched intently away with a dip pen. He didn’t look up at her entrance. Instead his hand moved protectively over the documents before him as they rustled in the draft of the door’s opening. She slipped inside and shut the door.
“Well,” came that precise drawl, “did she send a reply? And what had she to say for herself?” Still he did not look up.
Jenny stepped forward, clutching the paper package.
“She says, I can’t wear this dress.”
That brought his head up, his eyes widening in shock. For one instant, his mouth opened in a near welcome. Then that protective armor slammed into place. His spine stiffened.
If she had any sense, she would have been intimidated. But he wasn’t looking through her. He didn’t see a delivery girl, no matter how faded the color of Jenny’s blouse. His lips parted, almost in welcome; his gaze took her in from muddied skirts on up. He focused on her with almost savage intensity. Intensity, Jenny could handle. It was indifference that would have sunk her. She tossed the parcel on his desk. Papers scattered.
He grabbed for them. “You! You can’t come in here.”
“Why not? After all, you invaded my rooms without invitation the other night.”
“That was different. I—”
“Oh, yes. It was different. It was different because you are six inches taller than me, three stone heavier and twice as strong. And I was all alone, whereas you are surrounded by staff who will no doubt pour through that door in a matter of seconds, ready to send me away.”
He set his pen down.
Jenny took off her shawl and looped it over a stack of books. His eyes dropped to her damp blouse. The garment clung to her breasts. His gaze rested there, an almost palpable touch against her hardening nipples.
“No, my lord, when you say it is different, you mean that you are Lord Blakely and I am nobody.”
“Quite.” Ice and steel in his tone, belied by that gaze, still fixed on her bosom. There was a hint of his former vulnerability in that look, a youthfulness that he had not managed to dispel.
She wanted to crack the solid casing that surrounded him. And now, he’d shown her how to do it.
Jenny lifted one foot and set her toes on the edge of a chair. The motion pulled her skirt just above her ankle, and his gaze traveled to her foot and arrested on that hint of stocking-clad limb. His mouth opened and he leaned forward.
