Page 74 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“And some people are cynical?”

“Far too many, I’m afraid.” He studied her, and his smile faded to a thoughtful expression. “You’re a very unusual woman, do you know that?”

“Why? Because after knowing you less than two weeks, I’ve taken you as my lover?”

She tried to sound nonchalant, but she feared the breathlessness of her voice spoiled the effect.

“In a way, yes. You are very unexpected, Irene. I never can seem to predict what you’ll think or feel about anything. Or what you’ll take it into your head to do.”

“That’s part of my charm.”

She was being facetious, but he did not laugh. “Indeed, it is. I think I’m coming to like it, actually.” He kissed her, then lifted himself away from her, and she let out a startled breath as his body slipped free of hers.

His hand reached between them, stirring between her thighs, but it wasn’t a caress, and she knew he was retrieving what had been in the red packet. Strangely, knowing that made her feel shy all of a sudden. “What happens now?” she whispered.

“That depends on where everyone thinks you are.”

“If you mean Clara, she thinks I’m at Belford Row. If you mean Papa, he thinks I’m spending the night at Upper Brook Street.”

A frown knit his brows. Abruptly, he rolled away, and she felt a strange shiver of apprehension as he sat up, his back to her, the contents of the red envelope in his closed fist.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just a bit awkward.” He gave a short laugh. “Talking about your father at this particular moment.”

“If you think I regret what happened, Henry, I don’t.”

“I’m glad.” He turned his head, smiling a little, and with his free hand, he reached for one of hers. He kissed it, then let her go and rose from the bed. Irene sat up, allowing herself a good, long look as he walked to his own room. His body was really quite splendid, she thought, craning her neck. His wide shoulders, his muscled back, his bum. He vanished through the door, and she gave an aggrieved sigh before falling back against the mattress.

When he returned, he was clad in a long, dark red dressing gown, much to her aggravation. He resumed his seat on the edge of the bed. “If you don’t need to be back home straightaway, shall we have dinner up here?”

“Oh, can we? What a lovely idea. I’m famished.”

That made him laugh, and she smiled at the sound. “As much as I like to make you laugh,” she said as she sat up, “why was that amusing?”

“Because I know the reason you’re hungry.” Smiling back, he kissed her, and then he looked down, and his hand cupped her breast.

Her body responded to his touch at once, arching into his hand, but her delicious anticipation was quashed before she had the chance to savor it.

“You’ll have to give me a bit of time to recover, darling,” he said. “Men need that.”

“Oh.” She blushed, realizing there was a great deal about men she did not know. Then she frowned, tapping his wrist. “If that’s so, then why are you teasing me this way?”

His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked as innocently disingenuous as one of his naughty nephews. “Is that what I’m doing?” he murmured, his fingertips brushing over her nipple, stirring heat inside her.

“Yes,” she said firmly and pushed his hand away. “Besides, you promised me food.”

“So, dinner for two, then? Do you trust me to order for you?”

“Certainly. Being a duke, you’re sure to know what food goes with what wine, and all that, so order whatever you think best. But no dessert,” she added as he started to rise.

He sank back down, giving her a puzzled little frown, the one between his brows that told her she’d confounded him yet again. “Why not dessert?”

“I don’t need any.” She smiled, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You’re my dessert.”

And so it began, the life of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Henry would telephone from his club which hotel they would be staying in, a different hotel every night. He arranged for the transportation of her suitcase and the laundering of her discarded clothes, so that no matter where they spent the night, she always had fresh garments without anyone in her household or his being given cause for suspicion while doing the laundry. And he assured her that he never came in his own carriage and that he always took a circuitous route to their destination. They met after dark and parted before dawn.

These illicit arrangements were a facet of life she already knew something about, for the bread and butter of gossip columns involved the love affairs of various members of the aristocracy. And that knowledge served her well in guarding against any gossip being directed at her and Henry. She was always sure to leave him shrouded in her dark cloak and veil. Train stations served as desirable places to slip out of her distinctive veiled garments and into her usual shirtwaist and skirt, a uniform indistinguishable from the shop girls, telephone operators and typists who scuttled about London late at night and early in the morning. Even her hair color was easily hidden beneath a plain straw bonnet. Despite these precautions, one of Irene’s competitors did make mention in its Wednesday edition of the Duke of Torquil’s sudden interest in a mysterious veiled lady, forcing Irene to make sure that Josie’s next Delilah Dawlish column did the same, for a failure to mention it would be noticed by her competitors. She even began to fabricate an identity for Torquil’s mistress. His family, of course, asked him no questions about this woman, for as he assured her, among his sort of people, a man’s mistress was never discussed.

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