The Lady Who Broke the Rules Read online

  ‘Virgil, I would like you to meet our most esteemed neighbour and my sister Sarah’s dear friend.’

  ‘Surely not most esteemed, Josiah. That honour must go first to my father, and I have four older brothers who—I mean, two. I have just two older brothers now.’

  The voice, slightly husky, lost its lightly ironic tone as the woman’s smile faded. Josiah patted her bare shoulder. She flinched and tightened her jaw in response. ‘Lady Katherine’s youngest brother died fighting for his country at Waterloo,’ Josiah said, oblivious of the fact that the sympathy he exuded was making his guest squirm, ‘and her eldest brother—the heir, you know—also died fighting in Spain. It is quite tragic.’

  ‘It is, however, of no interest to Mr Jackson, I am sure.’

  Virgil, who had been about to offer his condolences, was rather taken aback by this brusque tone. Was she simply a very private person, or was she in some very English way slapping him down? Before he could make up his mind, a slim, gloved hand was held out towards him, confusing him even further, for ladies, whether old world or new, did not shake hands.

  ‘I am Lady Katherine Montague. How do you do?’

  His first impression of her was that she was rather severe. His next, that she had a clever face, with a wide brow, sharp cheekbones and a decided chin. Her eyes were her best feature. Neither blue nor grey, fringed with curling lashes, they seemed to tilt up at the corners like a cat’s. Virgil took the proffered hand in his own, noting the way her gaze fell to the contrast of his dark skin on the white kid of her glove. ‘My lady,’ he said.

  ‘Lady Katherine is the daughter of the Duke of Rothermere,’ Josiah Wedgwood said. ‘Castonbury is the biggest estate in Derbyshire, and the Montagues are the oldest family in the county. You have heard of them, I’m sure. The duke…’ He broke off in response to a summons from his wife. ‘Ah, you will excuse me, I must go and see—dinner, you know. Virgil, if you will escort Lady Katherine?’

  A forbidding duke’s daughter, who would cast her eagle aristocratic eye over his table manners. No doubt she expected him to eat with his fingers or, at the very least, use the wrong cutlery. As Josiah hurried over to join his wife, Virgil repressed another sigh. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  ‘Are you enjoying your visit to the Midlands, Mr Jackson?’ Kate asked politely, wondering at the harassed look which flitted across his handsome face. ‘Josiah was telling me that you are to go into business together.’

  ‘Imported Wedgwood pottery will be subject to the new Protective Tariff which our government is introducing, putting it well beyond the means of your average American. We plan to introduce a new range, manufactured in my factories, which can fill a gap in the market for affordable luxury. Josiah’s people are working on the design at the moment.’

  Virgil Jackson’s voice was a slow drawl, neither ironic nor lazy, certainly not languorous, but mesmerising. Though she was, like all the Montagues, above average height, Kate had to look up to meet his eyes. Almond-shaped and deep-set, they were an indefinable colour between tawny brown and gold. His hair was close-cropped, revealing a broad, intelligent brow. His lips were full, a sort of browny pink tone which she found herself wanting to touch. His skin was not really black, but closer to…bronze? Chestnut? Coffee? None of those did it justice. Bitter chocolate, maybe?

  Realising that she had been silent far too long, Kate rushed into speech. ‘You will forgive me if I tell you that I find you far more interesting than tea sets,’ she blurted out. ‘I cannot tell you how thrilled I am at having the opportunity to meet you. I braved the wrath of my brother and my aunt to do so, you know, and my aunt is a most formidable woman.’

  ‘To brave an aunt and a brother, your desire to meet me must have been strong indeed. I’m flattered, Lady Katherine.’

  His teeth gleamed an impossible white. She supposed it must be the contrast with his skin. Despite his smile, his expression had a shuttered look, as if he had seen too much. Or perhaps it was simply that the habit of always being on his guard was so ingrained as to be impossible to overcome. Virgil Jackson was not a man who would trust easily. Or at all, Kate thought. She wondered what there was in his history to have made him so.

  The fullness of his lips were a stark contrast to the hard planes of his face. She had not seen such sensual lips on a man before. The thought made her colour rise. She was not in the habit of having such thoughts. ‘It is Kate, if you please—I hate Katherine. And as to being flattered—why, you must be perfectly well aware what an honour it is to meet you. Your achievements are little short of miraculous.’

  All traces of his smile disappeared. ‘For a black slave, you mean?’

  Kate flinched. ‘For any man, but perhaps especially for a black slave, though that is not how I would have put it.’ She met his hard look with a measuring one. ‘Every man and woman in this room is in awe of you.’

  It was the truth, but he seemed quite unmoved by it. ‘As they would be a performing bear, I suspect,’ he replied.

  Was he trying to intimidate her? On consideration, Kate thought the opposite. Unlikely as it seemed, given the kind of man he must be to have achieved so much, it appeared to her that he was actually trying not to be intimidated. ‘We are all staring, I know, and it is very rude of us, but I doubt any of us has ever met an African before, let alone one with such an impressive story to tell. Our fascination is surely quite natural. Is it so very different in Boston?’

  Virgil Jackson shrugged. ‘Back home, it is not so much my colour as my success that makes people stare.’

  ‘Unless the ladies of Boston are blind one and all, I doubt very much it is that alone,’ Kate retorted. ‘You must be perfectly well aware that you are an exceptionally good-looking man. Why, even my friend Sarah is sending you languishing looks, and believe me, Sarah is not a woman who is prone to languishing.’

  She was laughing, not at him, but in a way that seemed to include him in a private joke. Virgil couldn’t help smiling in return, even while he wondered whether her words contained a hint of the irony for which the English were so famous. ‘And yet I do not see you languishing, Lady Kate. I suppose you will tell me that you are the exception which proves the rule?’

  ‘I am afraid languishing, along with every other feminine wile, is anathema to my nature. Which is just as well, since I am hardly endowed with the feminine graces which make such wiles effective.’

  The laughter faded from her eyes, which was a shame for it had quite transformed her, softening her expression, making her bottom lip look more kissable than prim. Even that white skin of hers above the creamy froth of lace on the décolleté of her gown had turned from winter snow to warm magnolia. Was she fishing for a compliment? Virgil studied the tiny frown which puckered her brows and decided most definitely not. ‘That is a very disparaging remark,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Realistic, merely. My mirror tells me the limitations of my attractions whenever I look in it, Mr Jackson. I bear rather more resemblance to a greyhound than I would like.’

  Her words were a challenge, but in the short space of this conversation Virgil already knew her well enough not to fall into the trap of flattery or polite contradiction. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said coolly, ‘there is about you a kind of sleek gracefulness in the way you carry yourself, and your bone structure, too, has that delicate, well-bred look.’

  For a fraction of a second, she looked as if she would slap him, before she laughed again, a low, smoky sound, intimate and sensual. Once more he was struck by the transformation it wrought, as if a curtain had been thrown back, allowing him a very private glimpse of the person behind the severe facade. Why would such a privileged woman require such a disguise?

  Before he could pursue this question, the butler announced dinner. Virgil offered his arm, and he and the duke’s daughter followed their hosts through a succession of chilly corridors to the dining room which was, thankfully, in the renovated part of the house. The petticoats of Lady K
ate’s gown rustled seductively as she walked. The claret velvet of her dress lent a lustre to her skin, and brought out golden highlights in her brown hair. As Virgil held her chair out for her, catching an illicit glimpse of very feminine curves as he did so, the first stirrings of attraction took him by surprise. It had been so long, he hardly recognised them.

  Lady Kate sat down, leaving the faintest trace of her scent in the air, flowery and elusive. Despite the relative heat of the dining room compared to the gallery, it was not particularly warm. Another quirk of the English, Virgil had discovered, to serve their food tepid—or perhaps it simply travelled so far from the kitchens that it could not help being cool. Warming dishes were a rarity here, though kitchens built in the most inconvenient place possible were sadly common. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asked abruptly, taking his place on Lady Kate’s right-hand side.

  She took a sip of her wine. ‘A little. I forgot my wrap. It was my own fault. Polly, my maid, was offended by something the butler said to her, and for almost the entire dressing hour I had to listen to her wax lyrical about servants who were no better than they ought to be, who wouldn’t know a hard day’s graft if it bit them on the ankle, who lived a cosseted life wrapped in cotton, and who had no right at all to look down their noses at a working woman. My dresser used to be a working woman of a very particular kind, you see.’

  Virgil replaced his glass on the table, slopping a drop of red wine onto the immaculate damask. His eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t mean you have a—a courtesan for your maid?’

  ‘Streetwalker. I don’t think Polly ever rose to anything so lofty as a courtesan,’ Kate replied candidly.

  She was expecting him to be shocked, Virgil realised. There was a defiant look in those blue-grey eyes. He recognised it, and he liked it. She was no insipid English rose. ‘Did you take her on to annoy your aunt or your brother?’

  ‘Let us not forget my father, the duke. And no, I did not. Well, only partly,’ Kate admitted ruefully. ‘I took Polly as my maid because she used to work the streets around Covent Garden, and since her protector was rather eager for her to continue to do so, I thought it best to remove her from the city.’

  ‘And does she like being your maid, this reformed streetwalker—I take it she is reformed?’ Virgil asked, torn between amusement and shock.

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty certain of that. There is Mrs Taylor’s Gentlemen’s Parlour in Buxton, of course, but I really don’t think Polly is refined enough for Mrs Taylor, and besides, I feel sure that I would have heard if my maid had been practicing her arts so close at hand, for it is a mere two or three miles from Castonbury you know, and we are a very tight-knit community,’ Kate said, smiling once again. ‘Though Polly is an extremely loyal maid, she’s a little like a vicious dog, liable to savage anyone else who tries to pat her. Her taste in clothes, however, is exquisite. I can see from your face that you’re thinking I am one of those English eccentrics you have read about.’

  ‘I’m thinking that you are about as far from a typical Englishwoman as I am likely to meet,’ Virgil said bluntly.

  ‘I shall take that as a compliment. My father would agree with you, though he views my eccentricities in a rather less positive light. He would much prefer me to be what you call a typical Englishwoman, though to be fair, since I put myself beyond the pale, his efforts to make me conform have been rather half-hearted.’

  Though she had not put the shutters up completely, she had definitely begun to retreat from him. There was an edge to her words. Virgil was intrigued, and a little at a loss. ‘You must have committed a heinous crime indeed,’ he said, careful to keep his tone light. ‘And here was I thinking myself privileged to have such a blue-blooded dinner companion. Should I have shunned you? No, I have that wrong—given you the cut direct?’

  ‘You are mocking me, but believe me, in what is termed the ton, I am very much a social pariah.’

  She was turning a heavy silver knife over and over, not quite looking at him, not quite avoiding his eye. Hurt and determined not to show it, Virgil guessed. ‘Then that makes two of us,’ he said, covering the back of her hand with his. ‘I know all about being an outcast.’

  Kate was not used to sympathy, even less used to understanding, but she was accustomed to insulating herself with her flippant tongue. ‘You are very kind, but I know perfectly well the circumstances are not the same at all.’ The words were out before she could consider their effect.

  Rebuffed, Virgil snatched his hand back. ‘Temerity indeed, to compare myself to a duke’s daughter.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that!’ Kate exclaimed, aghast. ‘I merely meant that…’ But Virgil Jackson shrugged and looked the other way, and they were clearing the plates, and Kate’s other neighbour was patiently waiting to claim her attention. She was almost grateful for the interruption, despite the fact that the subject would inevitably be her family, and could not be anything other than painful, given the recent developments at Castonbury.

  Sure enough Sir Merkland, an old hunting friend of her father’s, and one of the few who seemed either oblivious or uncaring of her tarnished reputation, asked after the duke with that mixture of morbid curiosity and smugness which the healthy reserve for the decrepit, especially when the decrepit person in question was overly proud of his superior rank. Kate abandoned her soup. The consommé was good, but the Wedgwoods’ chef was an amateur compared to the genius currently running the Castonbury kitchens. Not that Monsieur André was likely to remain with them for much longer, for her father’s taste, since the loss of his sons, ran largely to milk puddings and gruel.

  She provided Sir Merkland with a much more optimistic account of her sire’s health than Papa’s frail appearance the day before merited, then listened with half an ear to the squire praise her sister Phaedra’s prowess on a horse, smiling and nodding with practiced skill as he proceeded on to one of his interminable hunting anecdotes. On her other side, Virgil Jackson was discussing American politics with the wife of one of Josiah’s business partners, patiently explaining the differences between the federal system and the British Parliament. That slow drawl of his was mesmerising.

  The arrival of a haunch of beef and various side dishes distracted Sir Merkland, who was almost as dedicated a trencherman as he was a huntsman, tempting Kate into leaning a little closer to her right. Virgil Jackson was a very solid man. There was a presence about him, a very distinct aura of power which drew one into his orbit. He was certainly different, and undeniably the most innately charismatic man she’d ever met, and it was nothing to do with his colour either, she decided, taking the opportunity to study his profile while his attention was fixed elsewhere. There was just something about him.

  She could not imagine him ever being subservient, which must have made him a rather unusual slave. Had he courted danger? She did not doubt it. Was the skin of that broad back covered in a fretwork of scars? She shuddered, for the answer to that question was almost certainly affirmative. What other scars were there, hidden deep inside that attractive exterior? For she did find him attractive, a fact which was somewhat confounding, given that she had been quite convinced that she was immune to such feelings. Was it that Virgil Jackson was in almost every way the antithesis of Anthony? Or was it, she wondered wryly, the fact that he was in every possible way ineligible, which tempted her wayward streak? Imagine Papa’s reaction if she introduced him to the family. Or better still, Aunt Wilhelmina’s. Oh, if only!

  * * *

  Finally released from his neighbour’s earnest interrogation, Virgil stared down with distaste at the slice of bloody beef on his plate and decided to confine himself to the accompaniments. He was hungry, but the food seemed more designed for display than satisfying a healthy appetite. The goose in the middle of the table looked good, but it was out of bounds. Why it was that he must serve himself only from those dishes within reach he did not know, but he had no wish to repeat the shocked silence which had greeted him at the last formal dinner, when he had asked his neighbour t
o pass the peas.

  He helped himself disconsolately to some mushroom fritters. On his other side, Lady Kate was moving her food around without making any attempt to eat. A smile played at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were unfocused, her attention obviously far from the dining room of Maer Hall. Her skirts brushed against his leg. He could smell her scent over the rich aroma of beef. The delicate diamond and ruby drops she wore in her ears drew attention to the slender line of her neck. At her nape, wispy tendrils of hair clung. Such a tender spot. What would it be like to breathe her in, to taste her? The muscles in his stomach clenched. It had been a long time since such thoughts had occupied him. Eleven years.

  Lady Kate looked up, perhaps conscious of the intensity of his gaze. Their eyes snagged. A trickle of sweat ran down between Virgil’s shoulder blades. He couldn’t understand how he’d ever thought her severe. He couldn’t take his eyes off her plump lower lip. Moist. Pink. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked a little desperately.

  Kate gazed down at her untouched plate and shook her head. Around them the scraping of china, the clatter of silver being dropped into the clearing baskets, made it clear that she’d been wool-gathering for some time. ‘You don’t like the beef, Mr Jackson,’ she said, looking at the slab of meat sitting untouched in front of him.

  He grimaced. ‘Blood. You will call me heathenish, but it puts me off.’

  ‘Monsieur André, our very superior French chef at Castonbury, would call you heathenish. He thinks beef is overcooked if the animal’s heart has ceased to beat,’ Kate replied, ‘but I prefer it properly dead and what he would call burnt to a crisp. Not that I would dare say so to his face. Monsieur André has a very Gallic temperament and would likely beat me with his rolling pin.’