Page 7 of A Deal with the Rebellious Marquess
She answered his teasing eyes with a lift of her own brow. ‘And you barged into my box, quite disrupting my night.’ In ways he could not imagine. She’d had to seek self-pleasure after midnight to find any relief.
‘Then we are even, the playing field levelled,’ he suggested, the conversation becoming more game than negotiation.
‘Perhaps we can start again, beginning with lunch. Can I interest you in an early déjeuner at Verrey’s on Regent Street? If we leave now, we can get a head start on the noon crowd.’
He put on a show of considering the offer, clearly enjoying the transition to the easy by-play between them. ‘You turned down my supper invitation. Why should I accept yours to lunch?’
‘Because we are starting over and we are no longer strangers,’ she replied, doing some flirting of her own. ‘What sort of woman goes to supper with a man she’s just met? I had to decline on principle no matter how tempted Imighthave been.’
He gave an infectious grin. ‘Youweretempted?’
‘Maybe a little,’ she answered with a smile of her own. ‘I am assuming that’s a yes for lunch?’
‘I am not in the habit of refusing lunch invitations from beautiful women.’ Good lord, how he loved an assertive woman. A debutante of the ilk his mother was always throwing his direction would never dream of inviting him to lunch. Jasper stood and held her coat. She shrugged into it and he caught a coy whiff of her scent: notes of vanilla and jasmine mixed with something he couldn’t name.
It was enough to make him smile. So that was what confidence smelled like. No delicate roses or sweet lilies for this woman. Of course not. Such delicacy didn’t suit a woman who sat alone at the theatre and scolded anyone who dare intrude on her sanctuary even as she flirted with her eyes and considered bold proposals—both his and hers.
It prompted him to wonder what other proposals might be made between them. But such wondering came with a warning. To make this into anything more than what it was intended to be—a fact-finding mission—came with complications. He would need to choose his response wisely. Orion and the family were counting on him, as was his good common sense. Francis Bacon would not approve of being ruled by spontaneity.
Chapter Four
Verrey’s Café was an interesting choice. The main floor was long and narrow, dotted with small, square tables draped in white tablecloths that stretched back to a three-quarter wall of mirrored glass in the rear that gave the space an added sense of largeness. It was still early for lunch. Only a smattering of patrons sat at the tables.
The restaurant was quiet and of that Jasper approved as the maître d’ led them to a discreet table at the back, partially hidden from common view by potted palms. Jasper approved of that, too. For all her boldness, it seemed Mrs Griffiths had a sense of discretion, as well. This was a nearly invisible table and she was dining in advance of the crowd. The woman liked her privacy.
‘I can’t decide, Mrs Griffiths, if you’re simply circumspect in your social behaviours or if you don’t want to be seen with me,’ he offered wryly as they took their seats. In truth, he preferred the privacy as well. There was less chance someone would recognise him and call him Meltham.
She fixed him with her green eyes, emeralds when scolding, grass green in her softer moments. They were emeralds at the moment. ‘I eat for fuel because my body demands it. I do not eat for the sake of being seen.’
He could not resist. ‘And the theatre? Is it fuel or for being seen?’
‘Fuel,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘For my mind, for my soul.’
‘And yet your gown last night was made to be seen,’ he prompted with a little argument. She might have sat alone, might have claimed she wanted no intrusion, but in that gold gown she had to have known she invited intrusion. She’d not passed the evening unremarked. His were not the only opera glasses that had lingered on her box.
‘I like fine clothes. They are a fuel of another sort, a fuel for my eyes, for my fingers. I love the textures, the layers.’ The confession carried a sensual quality to it or was his imagination running away with him at the thought of her touch on his sleeve, her fingers stroking the tight weave of his superfine coat? It was an unseemly thought about a woman who was most likely his enemy.
The waiter came and set the first course down in front of them,oeufs à la Russewith grey caviar for the discerning gourmet who would not appreciate black carp roe. Verrey’s was one of those fine restaurants where menus were not necessary. Regulars knew already what was served or at least knew with confidence that whatever the chef chose to put on the table would be excellent. To have a menu was to mark oneself as an outsider.
‘I must be seen, of course,’ she added with a touch of ruefulness when the waiter left. ‘It inspires confidence in those I do business with to see me out and about, expensively gowned as if I haven’t a care in the world. It tells them that the syndicate is solvent, that it is business as usual even if Adam Griffiths is no longer at the helm. To become a recluse would be to inspire panic and concern.’
Her comment struck a note of empathy within him. He understood that need to be seen. If it were up to him, he’d spend his life at Rosefields, puttering with his science experiments. But the title didn’t allow for that. The Marquess must be seen, the very sight of him a reassurance that all was well for those who counted on him. He spent his days in service to those people as Mrs Griffiths spent her days in service to her people.
‘Did the theatre feed your soul, then, despite the need for a public display?’ he asked as they ate. It seemed odd to him that one might find solace in a farce. A Shakespeare tragedy he could understand. But a comedy? They were made for laughing more than soul-searching reflection. But perhaps she’d had no choice if she wanted to be seen. What had she been looking for last night? He might examine later why it mattered so much to him to find out.
‘Yes. Last night I was thinking of my friends. Remembering. My husband and I shared the box with Lord Luce and Mr Popplewell and their wives.’ There was a shadow in her eyes as the waiter cleared the table and another set down plates ofsole à la Dugléré. ‘I had not been to the theatre since the accident. Last year I was in mourning, of course,’ she explained, taking a flaky forkful of the fish.
Jasper felt like a cad. The evening had been of some significance to her, a private commemoration of sorts, and he’d barged in to disrupt it. He deserved every word of her set down and more. In retrospect, he thought he’d got off rather easily. ‘I must apologise again for my intrusion. It could not have been more poorly timed.’
She gave a small smile, but said nothing. What was he expecting? Absolution? Did he want her to say it was all right? She was too astute for that and he admired her for not letting him off for his intrusion. He’d behaved badly.
‘Are your friends, the wives, not in town? Could they not have joined you?’ Surely she hadn’t needed to face the box and its memories alone last night.
She shook her head, her mood lightening slightly. ‘They are both living abroad.’ She slid him a sly look. ‘Both of them have found new husbands.’ She raised her wine glass, containing a sharp white wine. ‘One of them has married the man who provides the wines to Verrey’s and other fine establishments in London. The other has sailed with her true love to Tahiti. They are not married yet, but they soon will be.’
‘I do recall now reading about the Popplewell department store fire and the story theLondon Tribuneran about the Popplewell’s contributions to the community.’ His mother had been devastated. She’d been looking forward to the new shopping experience.
‘Well, Antonia has turned tragedy into triumph.’
