that,’ Jessica said primly, wondering whether Gareth was being ironic about the fragile sense of self-worth or whether even large, calm aristocrats had their insecurities.
‘Tell me about your family.’ He changed the subject abruptly as she rang the bell.
‘I was about to leave you to your port and nuts.’
‘You have an absorbing novel, or perhaps some stitchery to occupy yourself?’ Gareth leaned back in his chair to allow the footman access to his plate.
‘Neither, I confess.’
‘Then stay and keep me company,’ he suggested as the man placed the decanter at his side and the dish of nuts before him.
‘Is that not rather…unusual behaviour for a lady?’
‘Rather dashing—but then…’ Gareth waited until the door closed behind the footman ‘…you are rather a dashing lady, are you not, Mrs Carleton?’
‘So I understand. May I try some port?’
Gareth poured a little into her empty wine glass, then cracked a walnut and placed the meat on her side plate. Jessica sipped, wrinkling her nose. ‘Very heavy.’ He took a swallow of his, watching her over the edge of his glass. Strangely it did not make her feel uncomfortable; it was as though she had spent many an evening companionably in his company. She put her elbows on the table, nibbling the nut, her port forgotten. ‘What should I be doing tomorrow?’
‘What do you want to do? More shopping?’
‘No!’ Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘I have shopped until I can shop no more—at least for a day or two. I shall wait until everything is delivered, then Lady Dereham and Lady Sebastian will come and we will go through it all and see what further accessories I need. I cannot imagine anything can be missing, but they insist there will be all kinds of things we have forgotten.’
‘If you have no engagements, there are two things we need to see to.’
‘Really?’ Jessica frowned and absently sipped her port. The rich taste was beginning to grow on her.
‘Perfume and jewellery,’ Gareth said and it seemed to her he was watching her for her reaction.
‘Jewellery?’ she enquired coolly. There were only two sorts of women a man bought jewellery for—his wife and his mistress.
‘I rather thought you might take it like that. How would it be if I promise to take it all back at the end, every last pearl? If I promise to leave you with not so much as an amber bead?’
‘That, my lord, would be acceptable.’ At least, it would be socially acceptable. Jessica found her heart was beating erratically with a mixture of disappointment and the thought of wearing such jewellery, if only for a short time. The picture of Gareth showering gems upon her was shamefully pleasurable—and yet she had never so much as coveted a diamond in her life. Mama’s pearl set was in the bank along with her savings, Papa’s signet ring and her coral-and-silver christening rattle.
Governesses did not wear any jewellery beyond, perhaps, a chaste cross. Had a few hours with this man seduced her from her acceptance of her true station in life to such a extent that she had fallen prey to the shallowness of fashionable life?
The feeling that had give risen to the giggle was stirring again and a little voice was murmuring in her ear to stop being such a prig. She was going to earn her holiday from reality; if that meant revelling in a little shallowness, then she, Miss Jessica Gifford, was going to do so with gusto.
‘May I have diamonds?’ Jessica asked, hoping Gareth would realise she was joking. In for a penny, in for a thousand pounds, the reckless little voice urged her, while common sense told her that aquamarines, pearls and garnets would be the sensible thing for him to buy.
‘Of course. Of the finest water, naturally, although, with your eyes, emeralds should be your stone. But only a limited number of pieces.’ Without thinking she raised her eyebrows in enquiry, surprised at his sudden lack of liberality. ‘To be in keeping with your cover story. The late Mr Carleton would have earned good money from his royal service, but not so much that he could shower his wife with jewels. And perhaps you have already sold a few pieces to finance your London adventure.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She tried another sip of port, beginning to enjoy the warm slide of the wine down her throat. ‘I am, perhaps, just a little bit desperate to find a new protector?’
‘Not desperate yet, but certainly a trifle concerned. This London adventure is a big gamble for you.’
‘And yet I am retaining the good will of the Grand Duchess?’ Jessica took the fresh walnut that Gareth cracked for her, frowning over the intricacies of her new character. She seemed as convoluted as the whorls of the nut.
‘Eva is a continental—London society will expect her court to be a touch more…relaxed. And I am sure she will let it be known that the family owed your late husband a debt of gratitude for some service. Given the intrigues of her late husband, the exact nature of the service is naturally something we do not speak about. It would explain a little indulgence on her part.’
‘May I ask a personal question?’ What was making her so bold? Perhaps the port, perhaps the intimacy of sitting like this with a man with the curtains drawn tight against the cold, damp night and the candlelight flickering. Or perhaps it was just this man
‘You may, although I cannot promise I will answer.’ He smiled at her, a look heavy-lidded and amused. ‘In return I will ask you again about your family.’
‘Very well.’ She did not have to tell him everything, after all. ‘If you met this Mrs Carleton in real life, would you pursue her, attempt to become her protector?’
Would he answer? ‘I don’t know,’ Gareth replied, his expression becoming speculative. ‘I haven’t met her yet.’
Very clever, my lord, Jessica thought, determined not to let him escape with word play. ‘But in principle?’
‘In principle, possibly.’
‘Even if you were not trying to shock Lord Pangbourne?’
‘Possibly.’ He watched her face. ‘Now have I shocked you?’
‘No.’ Jessica shrugged, hiding the fact that, yes, she was a little shocked. Which was foolish. Did she think this man was different from all the rest in some way? ‘It is the way of the world. Or at least, of so-called polite society.’
‘And not-so-polite society, I can assure you. Enough of my moral deficiencies—where do you come from, Miss Jessica Gifford?’
She had thought about this moment and what she could safely reply. ‘My father was a military man. And a gamester. He and my mother eloped and both families cut them off. He was killed in an argument over cards when I was twelve.’ She paused, wondering how much more she might tell him.
‘Twelve? Were you the only child?’ She nodded. ‘How did your mother support you?’
Tell him the truth, the shocking truth I only realised when I was sixteen? Tell him that I was raised and sent to a good school in Bath on the proceeds of Mama’s great charm and thanks to the liberality of her protectors? No.
‘Mama had many good friends. I was well educated and able to take all those expensive additional lessons that have equipped me for life as a superior governess. I can play the harp as well as the pianoforte, speak three languages, paint in watercolour. Mama died of a fever when I was in my final year at school in Bath.’
The protector of the moment had disappeared before his paramour was even laid in her coffin. She fought back the memories of those days when she could not allow herself to give way to her grief, days while she sold every piece of jewellery, every pretty trinket, every length of