“Good morning,” Jane said, keeping her tone as light as possible.
Percy groaned in reply, holding his head.
She leaned over to kiss him, then went to the sideboard and poured herself some coffee. She turned, holding the carafe. “Do you need some?”
Percy gave a vigorous nod, then winced.
Their dining room was snug, but warm and welcoming. It held a rectangular table with six well-upholstered chairs, the sideboard, and a cupboard displaying various items Jane and Percy had found since deciding to live together. Not for them the displaying of dinnerware and fragile vases; Jane kept finding books in increasing stages of decay, while Percy took great joy in locating various mathematical tools such as abacuses from China and compasses from Italy. Not to mention a variety of writing implements purportedly used by famous economists from the past.
She chuckled at Percy’s continuing groans as she filled another cup. “Was it another reading?” Percy and Jane’s sister, Lavinia, was the author of several salacious novels, but Lavinia had persuaded Percy to appear in public as the author for a variety of reasons, not least of which was that Percy was handsome in a tortured artist sort of way, even though he was neither tortured nor an artist.
He was, in fact, extremely adept at numbers, and worked for their father, who was a financial advisor to the queen. He was kind, and gentle, and loved to meet and speak with people. If he had been born in different circumstances, he would be the king of London Society. As it was, he was close to being its prince.
Percy, however, was only her half brother, born to an illicit liaison their father had had in between Jane’s and Lavinia’s births.
Oddly enough, Jane’s mother adored her husband’s bastard son, far preferring him to Lavinia. But it was Lavinia’s marriage to the Duke of Hasford that had enabled Percy to rise to such a prestigious position—nobody would dare to scorn a duke’s relative, since the duke had made his acceptance of his wife’s family clear to everyone.
He shook his head. “No, not a reading. It was a meeting of the Economic Society.”
“Oh, those economic rascals,” she said with a wry smile.
“They don’t get to go out very often,” he replied in a wan tone. “And so they wanted me to take them out. All night. I got in around six o’clock this morning.”
Jane glanced at the clock in the corner. “So what are you doing up at nine, then? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“I promised to meet Thomas to visit the Free Exhibition.”
“Is he coming here?” she asked, her tone deliberately light. As though she didn’t care at all, when of course she did.
“Mmm-hmm.” Percy took a sip of coffee, giving a happy exhale as he put the cup back down. “He says that the exhibition is a good place to find—” And then he froze, his eyes widening in horror. “Never mind that,” he continued hastily.
“To find eligible and wealthy young ladies?” Jane said. “I know what he wants. In fact,” she began, trying to sound as casual as possible, “we spoke about it last evening.”
“You did?” Percy narrowed his gaze at her. Not entirely the forbidding look he was striving for, given he still had a sack held to one side of his head, but she understood his expression nonetheless. “You spoke to him?” His tone was suspicious.
“He is your friend, Percy. Should I not speak with him?” Well. Now she knew for certain what he’d say about all those other things she and Mr. Sharpe had spoken about last night.
Percy’s expression was reproving. “It is fine if you speak with him, just don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
He shook his head, making him wince again.
“You might want to stop that, given how much pain you’re in. Really, I’m impressed those economics types could bring you to such a state.”
“We were calculating the precise volume of liquor one could drink and still walk a straight line. We might have overdone it a bit.”
“How much did it end up being?”
He opened his mouth, then sat straight up in his chair, finally achieving that impressive glare. “Don’t change the subject!”
“Me?” She gave him an innocent gaze. “I am merely curious about your calculations.”
“What did you and Thomas speak about? Where did you see him, anyway?” He hesitated, then spoke again. “I know he is charming and all that, but he is not anyone for you to know. I mean,” he continued, as her eyes narrowed, “he is so charming that ladies can’t help but fall in love with him. And I know you are still bruised from Mr. McTavish—”
“Mr. RatTavish,” she corrected. “And it was two years ago.” Yes, it still hurt. No, she wasn’t going to admit that to Percy.
Percy waved her off dismissively. “And I don’t want you to read into anything he might say. You’re—and I mean this in the best possible way—you’re sweet and inexperienced, and you might get hurt.”
“You think that if I do something as simple as speak to your friend—your best friend, mind you—that I will fall horribly in love with him and have my heart broken?”
Percy considered it, twisting his mouth in thought. “That’s about right.”
“Oh you!” she exclaimed, flinging her hands up in the air. “We were at Miss Ivy’s. I went for their masked evening since Lavinia said it was so much fun.” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you seriously believe that I am so innocent that I will mistake a gentleman’s conversing with me for something more serious?”
His silence spoke volumes. And was also why she was even more determined to continue her mission. She no longer wished to be Lady Jane Capel, Naive and Gentle Flower. She wanted to be Lady Jane, Fearsome and Adventurous Miscreant.
And Mr. Sharpe would be the one to help her. She’d prove Percy wrong—and keep her heart protected—by treating Mr. Sharpe as though he was providing a service. Nothing more.
“So I have bad news for you, then,” she said. She kept her tone firm without sounding defiant. “Mr. Sharpe has agreed to escort me to some of those places you and he go together.”
“He will not!” Percy leaped to his feet.
“Stop,” she said, holding her hand up. He snapped his mouth shut. “And sit,” she commanded, which he did.
“I told him if he would do this for me that I would ensure he gets married to a very wealthy woman.”
“How are you going to manage that?” Percy sounded entirely skeptical. And she couldn’t blame him—Mr. Sharpe and his vast expanse of good looks hadn’t been able to manage it. How could she?
“I have a plan,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. “But the point is, he and I will be spending time together, and you are going to have to be all right with that.”
“But you’re my sister!”
“And he’s your best friend!”
He scowled. “Fine. Just don’t—” And he flung his hand up in a vague gesture.
“Fall in love with him? The gentleman whose only choice of future survival is to marry money, and I happen to have none?” She rolled her eyes. “No, Percy, don’t be concerned about it. I will not.” She had made that mistake before with Mr. RatTavish. She would have fun, she would flirt, she would do everything she wished to.
But she would not fall in love. Perhaps not ever again, but definitely not with Mr. Sharpe.
Thomas hesitated before knocking on the door to Percy and Lady Jane’s house.
They lived in a respectable, if not entirely fashionable, neighborhood. Suitable, he supposed, for an earl’s bastard son and his not-so-obedient half sister.
The door opened, and Thomas was greeted by one of the house’s few servants, their housekeeper. She appeared to be in her midthirties, and her demeanor and accent indicated she’d been born a lady. It seemed the entire household was made up of people just outside of proper Society—a bastard son, a defiant daughter, and a former lady.
“Good morning, Mr. Sharpe,” she said, holding the door wider. He stepped inside, waiting in the small foyer as she turned toward the dining room. “I’ll let Mr. Waters know you are here.”
“I’ll tell him, Mrs. Charing,” Lady Jane said, emerging from the room across the hall.
“Excellent, my lady,” the housekeeper replied, reversing her steps to walk down to the kitchen.
The foyer wasn’t the splendid entrance of other, grander homes, but it was exceedingly well-kept, with a few jaunty vases of flowers placed on two of the low tables set against the wall. The floor gleamed as though it had been recently polished, and there were paintings on the walls clearly chosen for the joy they’d bring to the viewer rather than presenting a gallery of forebears.
“Good morning, Mr. Sharpe.”
Thomas bowed, his gaze traveling over her. She wore a simple gown printed with tiny flowers, her hair pinned up in a low bun at the back of her neck. The gown, like the previous evening’s gown, was a few years out-of-date, and showed signs of wear. A reminder that while she wasn’t in Thomas’s desperate straits, she wasn’t the solution he required.
He needed to keep that reminder firmly in his mind. He also needed her help, so he’d have to ensure she was pleased with their agreement, or it would be another year of failure.
And his family couldn’t afford for him to fail.
“I told Percy you would be taking me around town.” Her cheeks flushed. “I did not give him any of the specifics.” She raised her chin. “He warned me not to fall in love with you. Apparently he believes you are so charming that any lady could not help herself.” She arched a brow as she spoke in the driest tone possible. “I will take it as a personal challenge not to fall in love with you.”
Thomas couldn’t help but feel her words were a taunt. A dare to prove his irresistibility.
But he couldn’t allow her to bait him. Not when he needed her help so desperately.
He took a deep breath, wishing she wasn’t quite so tempting. That he wasn’t so tempted by her.
“Excellent,” he replied in what he hoped was a relieved tone. “I have faith in you, my lady.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You sound as though you doubt me. Are you that irresistible, Mr. Sharpe?”
Now she was definitely challenging him. The urge crossed his mind to stalk over to her and give her a challenge-accepting kiss, one that would establish that he was most definitely in charge and knew precisely what he was doing. And did it well.
But he could not.
“I will leave the answer to that question to you, my lady,” he said instead, sweeping into a bow.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ah, but I am leaving the decision up to you. That is what you want, is it not? Not to allow anyone else to decide who you are and what you will do?” He bowed again. “I am at your service.”
Her expression shifted as she processed his words. And then his chest tightened—and other things reacted as well—as her lush mouth curled into a sly, knowing smile. As though owning what he was saying and planning to take him up on his promise.
Dear lord, she was going to tempt him to the brink, wasn’t she. And he was going to have to allow her, since if he didn’t, she might not help him as she’d promised.
“And since you are at my service,” she replied, “I wanted to catch you this morning because I believe you and I are both invited to the Lindens’ party tonight. I thought perhaps we could attend that, and I would begin to honor my part of our agreement. I’ll need to do it subtly, of course. And you can let me know which young ladies you are most interested in pursuing.”
The ones with the most money. It was brutal, but it was the truth—he couldn’t afford to choose a wife based on anything but her finances. Just as in exchange his as-yet-unknown wife would be choosing him based primarily on his appearance.
But he wouldn’t speak of all that with Lady Jane—she knew it already, and why admit something that made him feel so dishonorable?
Even though he would make it a point to reveal everything about his situation to whichever woman accepted his proposal. It was the least he could do, given how mercenary his decision would be. And, if he were being even more brutally honest, to ensure he would have access to her money after they wed—he wouldn’t blame a protective family member for tying up a young lady’s fortune if there was any suspicion that her betrothed was infatuated with her funds, not her delightful self.
He might be able to retain some modicum of respect for himself if he were honest. Just as it was crucial he not abuse his best friend’s trust, or rob a woman of her innocence, even if she wished to be robbed.
“I will see you at the Lindens’ then,” he said as he bowed.
“Oh good.” She practically glowed with excitement. “I’ll go fetch Percy.”
She walked toward the dining room, turning her head to give him another sly smile. As though she was very much looking forward to whatever they were going to do that evening, God help him.
He’d have to tread very carefully. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, abuse her or Percy’s trust. But he also wouldn’t deny her some of what she sought—within reason.
It was difficult, he mused wryly, to be entirely pragmatic and ruthless about one’s own future while still respecting everyone else’s.
But at least if this endeavor was successful, his parents and his sister would have a future. If he failed?
They would have nothing. So it was crucial that he keep that in mind as he navigated these perilous waters, perilous waters meaning, in this case, a curious, ravishing woman. Who wanted to explore her sexuality with him.
Life was so much easier when he was just a rakish gentleman pursuing his passions.
The Lindens’ house was filled with people, but the rooms were so spacious and the decorations so well planned that it didn’t feel like it was crowded.
A phalanx of footmen circled discreetly, offering a wide variety of beverages. Another phalanx filled and refilled the scattering of tables holding the food, ranging from the most delicately morseled pastry to the thinnest slices of ham.
The room Jane was standing in had enormously vaulted ceilings, which were decorated with a whimsical assortment of clouds and cherubs. Chandeliers hung down just over the tallest gentlemen’s heads, the candlelight casting a warm yellow glow. The long, narrow windows were flung open to allow for air circulation, while the musicians played on a small stage at one corner of the room.
It was glorious, all of it, but nothing could surpass Mr. Sharpe in presence and appearance.
“Good evening, Mr. Sharpe,” she said, when she was able to breathe again.
Tonight, for the first time, Jane hadn’t braced herself before seeing him. Because last night he had agreed to show her things—show her so many things—and so she could appreciate his looks with that knowledge in mind. He was going to be available to her, albeit for a limited time, and she would revel in his splendor.
So it was an epiphany of desire to see him dressed for the evening. Like every other gentleman at the party, he wore a black coat with a white shirt. Like every other gentleman at the party, he was elegantly and simply attired.
But unlike every other gentleman at the party, he held himself with a careless grace that spoke of his own confidence, of his keen awareness of how mere mortals paled before his godliness.
Not that he was falsely conceited, even though he was clearly arrogant and confident; a conceited person had little to base their own conceit on. He, like her, was better looking than anyone else. It was a relief, she had to admit, to acknowledge that fact about both of them, as he had pointed out last night. Did that make her conceited?
Possibly. But it was a flaw, and she’d been told often enough by many people that she was perfect, so she would welcome any flaws she could claim.
Perhaps she should begin to interrupt people when they were speaking, or forget to use her handkerchief when she sneezed.
Though those things were merely bad manners, not character flaws.
She’d need to work on cultivating some sort of flaw. Thoughtlessness, perhaps? But she couldn’t bear to see people suffer. So that wouldn’t work. Pride? But then she would seem to be proud of her appearance. Which would negate the purpose of the flaw in the first place. Jealousy? No, she had nothing to be jealous about. She was not going to care for Mr. Sharpe—she’d promised Percy and herself, so not that.
If being indecisive was a character flaw, then she could proudly claim that.
“Good evening, my lady,” Mr. Sharpe said, bowing over her hand, that treacherous lock of hair spilling over his forehead. He rose, sweeping it back into place with one gloved hand.
Whichever woman he could persuade to marry him was going to have a lovely thing to look at each morning. Would that be worth a fortune?
Looking at him now, she rather thought it might.
But only if they said yes. Which meant she’d have to get her plan in motion.
“I think you should ask me to dance,” she said in a low tone, one only he could hear. “But not the supper dance. That one you should save for one of your prospects.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Maybe it should be soon, so I can then start talking about you, about how much I admire you, but that you were distant, as though you were thinking of another.”
He nodded, an amused look on his face. “Anything else? Are there any particular points of conversation you wish me to make? Since you are directing this entire facade.”
She huffed out an annoyed breath. He was remarkably good-looking, but also incredibly irritating. “Don’t be absurd. We are doing this together—it is just that this part is my plan, so I should have the management of it.”
“Of course, my lady,” he replied in an ironic tone of voice, bowing slightly. He placed his fingers on her wrist—the other wrist than the one he’d held the night before—and spoke so that the people around them could hear.
“Might I beg you for the favor of a dance, my lady?” He had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and she felt her glower shift into a slight smile. He was charming, she had to admit, despite also being able to get under her skin. Perhaps it was the feeling of camaraderie they shared, the knowledge that they were embarking on an adventure that was altogether not suitable for a young lady.
Had she ever made dangerous plans with someone before? Plans that would ruin her irrevocably if they were discovered?
Of course not, she could answer firmly. Because if she had, she wouldn’t be in need of his instruction. She’d already have the knowledge he was going to give her, and likely she wouldn’t have to wonder what he and her brother did in the evenings—she would know because she was going there, too.
If she weren’t so sheltered, if she weren’t so protected, if she weren’t so naive.
If she hadn’t thought she had fallen in love with Mr. McTavish, who had done her the good fortune of breaking her heart. She wasn’t certain she had a heart now, to be honest. And if she did, she was going to protect it at all costs.
That was the point of all of it. To know things. To experience things, not just watch from the sidelines as things happened. Not just have things happen to her, but be the cause of the happening.
It was damned dull to be the observer. She wanted to be the participant. And she wanted to participate with him. Because he was safe; she would not allow herself to come close to falling in love with him, nor he with her. Neither one of them wanted that, but both had goals that could be better accomplished with the other’s assistance.
“Two dances from now would be quite agreeable, Mr. Sharpe,” she replied, bowing her head slightly. Long enough from now to make everyone watch who else he might ask, and yet not so long that they would forget.
It was a tricky thing, navigating people’s need for gossip with their short attention spans.
“Excellent,” he replied. He still had hold of her wrist, and he squeezed it slightly, looking deep into her eyes as he did so. As though promising something that she couldn’t even possibly imagine.
Though hopefully after a few . . . interludes with him she would be able to imagine it.
Something in her expression must have changed, because his gaze grew even more intense, and then he emitted some sort of growl, a feral noise that made her whole body shiver in reaction. But not as if she was cold; no, it was the opposite—she was on fire, her whole body suddenly sensitive, as though feathers were lightly caressing her skin. Or fingers, the callused tips of his fingers sliding over her body. Going everywhere they wanted to. Where he wanted them to, which would mean she would want them there, too.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to grip her elbow.
“Like what?” she replied, tilting her face up to his. As though—
“As though you’re waiting for me to kiss you. As though you’re dying for me to kiss you,” he said in a low, rough tone. “Anticipating it.” Much different from his usual suave way of speaking.
She bit back a smile at the feeling of triumph that swept over her. She, Lady Jane of the Naive Flowers or whatever it was she was, had made Mr. Thomas Sharpe speak in a ragged, wanting voice to her.
No wonder these activities were so appealing. To be able to cause such a reaction with only a look was intoxicating stuff, nearly as much as the whisky she’d had the night before. Warming her through, like the whisky, burning a trail through her body to fire her up everywhere.
“Your lessons are already working,” she said in a low tone. “Anticipation, remember? I will see you for our dance,” she replied more loudly, shooting him a glance from under her lashes. She saw his jaw tighten, but he removed his hand from her arm, stepping back to allow her to leave.
Keenly aware that he was watching her walk away, keenly aware that she had given him permission to touch her, and that even now he might be anticipating it as much as she was. Power. It felt like power, and she never wanted to stop tasting it.