Page 25 of The Duke of Deceit

Lucien halted in his steps. “Only for the moment. I plan on winning this war.”

Shay mumbled, “How does that old saying go? ‘For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost…’ Be wary of the little things. They’ll snowball and cost you your dukedom if you’re not careful.”

“She won’t discover my secrets.” He would never let her, no matter how alluring she was proving to be. “I’ll find out all I can about James Norton for you.”

“Soon,” Shay stressed. “I need to know exactly what sort of man he is before they announce their engagement.”

“Soon,” Lucien promised.

Shay slapped Lucien on the back, then disappeared into the hall to find his own way out.

Blowing out a harsh breath, Lucien helped himself to another drink, this one even more generous than the last, and yanked at his choking cravat to peel it away from his neck. When he was certain Shay was gone from the house, he went to the stairwell and leaned over the wrought iron banister.

“McGregor!” he shouted through the house.

A few seconds later, the dedicated soldier-turned-butler appeared at the bottom of the steps. “Sir?”

“Go through the papers in my study,” Lucien ordered. “There’s a personal letter that arrived a few months ago from Miss Amanda St Claire. Find it and bring it to me.” He added, almost in afterthought. “And bring me that necklace I purchased for Madame Pierre.” The same one he’d bought to placate her for his role in sending Lucille north to her family.

He now had better plans for it.

“Yes, sir.”

He tapped his fist against the banister. “And tell Dalton that I have to make a social visit in the morning and want to be dressed to the nines.” He smiled slowly like a crocodile. “Averyimportant social visit.”

Chapter Nine

“You look likesomething the cat dragged in,” Aunt Matilda commented as Jess walked into the dining room the next morning for breakfast.

“That’s not true, and you know it.” At least Jesshopedit wasn’t.

“I suppose not.” Auntie squinted at her through her spectacles that were still perched on her nose from reading the morning paper. “You look worse.”

Jess shot a chastising grimace at Auntie, then winced at the sight of food on the side table, especially the kippers and sausages, as she sank into her chair. She wasn’t at all hungry, and the thought of food roiled her stomach. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Well? Ha! She didn’t sleep a wink. Her busy mind had kept replaying over and over her encounter with Lucien Grenier on the terrace in the darkness, and her heart kept scolding her for liking it so much.

Because shehadliked it. A great deal.

Good Lord, how could she be attracted to someone who was so terrible? His heart was surely shriveled and black.Ifhe had a heart at all.

Worse—he was supposed to become her brother-in-law, which was as good as a brother. Which meant she had nobusiness thinking of him as anything other than a priest. A very old, very ugly, very smelly priest.

But the truth was that he was young and fit, far from ugly, and the way he’d smelled…simply delicious. Jess had never realized until last night that any man could smell that good. The only men with whom she’d ever been close enough to catch a whiff of had been her father when he’d fallen unconscious on the floor and she’d had to pull him onto the rug in front of the fire—hehad smelled of cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume—and a few dandies who had stolen kisses at soirees. Those men had smelled so much of bergamot and cologne that simply being near them had given her a headache. But Lucien smelled faintly of spices, leather, and musk, and he had filled her senses in a way that left her craving more. And the things he had whispered in her ear were utterly wicked and far more exciting than she wanted to admit.

No, not a priest but Lucifer himself, who apparently knew well how to tempt away ladies’ souls.

Since the night she’d stumbled across Lucien and Amanda together in the darkness, Jess had wondered how Amanda could have fallen for such a rake.

Now she knew, and her sympathy for her sister only grew.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” Matilda pressed as she spread strawberry jam on a piece of toast.

“I was painting.” She’d returned home last night and gone straight to her makeshift studio, where she spent the rest of the night painting and drawing like a woman possessed, sorting through her pigments, sharpening her pencils—anythingto keep her mind from replaying what had happened on the terrace. But none of it had helped. By dawn, she was still as confused as ever, and now she also felt like a traitor. She’d only gone with Lucien because of Amanda, but what had happened between them had nothing to do with saving her sister.

“Yes, dear. Butwhywere you painting?” Matilda pressed.

“Because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Because you were painting.”