She looked down at her plate and blinked. “I was hoping,” she said softly to her plate, “that I could go out and purchase you a present.”

He slammed his goblet on the table. “A present?” He looked perfectly gobsmacked.

She nodded quickly. “It’s all right,” she said. “It can wait.”

He shook his head. “Why would you get me a present?”

“I told you,” she said patiently, “I’m trying. If we’re to be married, we may as well be on good terms.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t believe you.”

Which was exactly what she’d feared.

But she knew what to do.

“Very well,” she said, and stood. “I won’t purchase this present. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

“Tell me what is,” he demanded, loosening his cravat as if preparing for a fight. “And sit—back—down.”

Trembling (she was discovering she could be a very good actress when she had a lot at stake), she sat. Then she raised her chin and looked at a point on the wall behind him, as if she were very, very shy.

“It’s a private gift,” she whispered.

“Oh?” An edge entered his voice, the worst kind of edge. The one that meant he was thinking of the bedchamber.

“Yes,” she said, “something for which you’ve been longing.” She clenched her fingers in her lap.

He gave a little laugh. Really, almost a giggle. She had to restrain herself from flinching at the sound.

“Tell me,” he said slowly and leered at her.

“If I do, then it’s no longer a surprise,” she said almost coyly.

“Tell me!” he barked.

She ran a finger over the tablecloth, slowly, thoughtfully, and then she looked up at him. “It’s a whip,” she said. “With our initials engraved—entwined, actually—on the handle.”

There was utter silence.

And then Hector leaned back in his chair and laughed. He laughed until he cried, and she sat there and watched, hoping, hoping …

When he was finished, he looked up at her. “Go get your little whip,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I want you to present it to me on your hands and knees.”

He continued chuckling, but she knew he was serious—perfectly serious.

She stood again, pretended that her dignity had been wounded.

“You’ll take a stable boy with you,” he said.

There was no lady’s maid, of course. He’d not seen to her comfort in the least.

“The big one,” he went on, still amused. “His name is Jared, and if you make one false move, I’ll tell him to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder. And you’ll not like what I let him do to you—in front of me—when he gets you home.”

Jilly felt a wave of revulsion sweep through her and almost buckle her knees.

“I understand,” she said quietly. “May I go now?”

“Yes,” he said. “Get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow night we’ll christen your little gift. Although it might have to wait. I might be gone for a day or two. I haven’t decided.”

“Really?” She tried to look terribly disappointed.

“Yes. But remember what I said.” He wagged a finger at her. “One wrong move, and Jared is going to be a very lucky man.”

She turned then and walked out, her relief at being able to escape her husband for the day fortunately greater than her disgust, which was profound.

And now, as she bounded down the stairs the next morning, she vowed that she’d let nothing Hector could do to her get in her way. Somehow, she’d rid herself of Jared. He didn’t appear very bright, and even if he were, she was brighter.

She’d spend her day at the fair. With Stephen.

On her beloved Dreare Street.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the early hours of the morning of the fair, Stephen was with Jilly again, and she was all over him. It was pure heaven—

Until he smelled her breath.

Good God.

Onions?

His eyes popped open.

“Captain!” Lady Hartley was in his face, and she was stark naked. She laid a kiss right on his gaping mouth.

He sat bolt upright on the pillows, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and pointed at the closed bedchamber door (which he should have locked, he realized a little too late).

“Get out, Lady Hartley,” he said in low tones. “Get out before I call Sir Ned in here.”

She pulled a sheet up over her breasts. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes I would.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “But Captain—”

“Your behavior is entirely inappropriate,” he said.

She turned to him. “Do you not find me attractive?”

He couldn’t say no. He was too much of a gentleman.

“You’re married,” he said. “That makes all the difference.”

Dear God, listen to him! A wave of guilt ricocheted through his chest.

Lady Hartley’s brow puckered. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ah, married women are off limits. It’s a vow I made long ago to keep, come hell or high water.”

“Oh, all right. If that’s all it is.”

“Yes,” he muttered, and looked away from her. “Please go. Before we cause a scene.”

She tittered. “Very well.”

He heard her stand, and then she began humming.

“Are you decent yet?” he asked her.

“No, you naughty man.” He could hear small sighs emanating from her as she dressed.

“Please hurry.” He could barely contain his impatience. It was a terrible way to wake up in the morning, even worse than being called to watch on board ship in the middle of the night after a day-long storm that had already left everyone weary.

He heard her sigh and then she thumped on her heels over to the door. “You can look now, Captain.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned toward the door.

She was wrapped in a voluminous silk dressing gown. “Just remember this,” she said, fingering the cleft between her breasts, “married women are experts at sneaking about. And we have the experience you’re looking for, without the diseases.”

“Oh,” he said brightly, “that’s a high recommendation. Makes me want to give up my lightskirts right away.”

She nodded sagely. “I thought so. If you ever change your mind…”

She left the statement unfinished.

“Right.” He gave her an uncomfortable half-smile and waved her off.

But she paused in opening the door.

“I forgot to mention,” she said. “Lord Smelling will be here today, and he’s prepared to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She began to chuckle. “It’s really quite amusing. He prefers country living, you know. Can’t bear London. But he’s got a shrew of a second wife, who insists he purchase a home in Mayfair for her mother to live in permanently, and the daughter occasionally, when she visits Town. So he decided it would be an awful joke to buy a house on Dreare Street. He hopes the bad luck will rub off on them both.”

He sounded rather a stupid man, Stephen thought.

“I wonder what Miss Jones will think of having another old harridan as a neighbor?” Lady Hartley asked him.

Ah, Miss Jones. His heart gave a sharp twist of longing.

The baronet’s wife didn’t wait for a reply. “At any rate, Lord Smelling is willing to pay through the nose to get his hands on this house.” She pursed her lips provocatively and waggled her brows. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to celebrate with me?”

Dear God. The poor woman looked like a clown from Astley’s when she did that thing with her eyebrows.

“Positive,” he replied. “You do understand.”

He attempted to look noble—

Which he wasn’t.

He’d slept with a married woman only the day before.

He must have succeeded in his effort, however, because Lady Hartley fluttered a hand in front of her face, as if she were terribly hot. “Oh, thank God for men like you, protecting the motherland with your commitment to principles!”

And then she gave a mighty gasp which subsided in a strange wail, almost as if she were—hell’s bells, he didn’t even want to think what it sounded like—and pulled the door shut behind her.

He threw himself back on the bed, aghast.

The sooner the Hartleys left the premises, the better.

He released a pent-up breath.

On further thought, the sooner he left, the better, too.

* * *

“It couldn’t be a prettier day, Captain!” An hour later Mrs. Hobbs went scurrying past him outside his house, carrying one of many pots of flowers the neighborhood ladies had assembled to beautify the special section of the street designated for Prinny and his advisors to occupy during the theatrical performance.

“Yes, Mrs. Hobbs,” he called after her. “And we had not a shred of fog this morning.”

“Surely a good sign, capitano!” called Pratt to him from the bottom of the balcony Stephen had built for the Canterbury Cousins. Pratt was rolling the contraption to the center of the cobblestones with several other men, Nathaniel among them.

Stephen looked up and down Dreare Street. As far as he was concerned, it looked spectacular. Every house was brightened by paint. The doorsteps had been cleaned and swept. The trimmed hedges and trees were perfectly lovely. Newly cleaned windows shone, and the faces of his neighbors were bright with optimism.

He felt a surge of pride.

And defiance.

They’d raise the money, they would, and send that money man, Mr. Redmond, packing.

But Stephen must admit, he also felt a bit of melancholy. He’d grown to like this place. Yes, it was damned foggy most of the time, but the people—well, they were sterling. Everyone, that is, except Lady Tabitha, Lady Duchamp, and perhaps Mr. Hobbs.