Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman's Honor

Chapter 14

Noise, laughter, and the distant scrape of a violin greeted Kit as she strolled up the steps of Marchmont Hall. At the door, the butler stood, sharp eyes searching each guest for the required sprig of laurel. Drawing abreast of him, Kit smiled and raised her gloved fingers to the leaves thrust through the buttonhole in her lapel.

The butler bowed. Kit inclined her head, pleased that the retainer had not recognized her. He’d seen her frequently enough in her skirts to be a reasonable test case. Confidence brimming, she sauntered to the wide double doors that gave onto the ballroom, pausing at the last to check that her plain black mask was in place, shading her eyes as well as covering her telltale mouth and chin.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she was conscious of being examined by a large number of eyes. Her confidence wavered, then surged when no one looked more than puzzled. They couldn’t place the elegant stripling, of course. Calmly, as if considering the attention only her due, Kit strolled into the crowd milling about the dance floor. She’d had Elmina recut a cast-off evening coat belonging to her cousin Geoffrey, deepest midnight blue, and had bullied her elderly maid into creating a pair of buff inexpressibles that clung to her long limbs as if molded to them. Her blue-and-gold waistcoat had once been a brocaded underskirt; it was cut long to cover the anatomical inadequacies otherwise revealed by the tight breeches. Her snowy white cravat, borrowed from Spencer’s collection, was tied in a fair imitation of the Oriental style. The brown wig had been the biggest challenge; she’d found a whole trunk of them in the attic and had spent hours making her selection, then recutting the curls to a more modern style. All in all, she felt no little pride in her disguise.

Her principal objective was to locate Lord Hendon amid the guests. She’d imagined she’d find him being lionized by the local ladies, but a quick survey of the room brought no such interesting specimen to light. Lady Dersingham was by the musicians’ dais, Lady Gresham was seated not far from the door, and Lady Marchmont was hovering as close as she could to the portal; all three were obviously keeping watch.

Kit grinned beneath her mask. She was one their ladyships would be keen to identify; their other prime target would be her quarry. Convinced Lord Hendon had not yet arrived, Kit circulated among the guests, keeping a weather eye on one or another of her three well-wishers at all times. She was sure they’d react when the new High Commissioner darkened the doorway.

To her mind, this opportunity to evaluate Lord Hendon was unparalleled and unlikely to be repeated. She intended to study the man behind the title, and, if the facade looked promising, to investigate further. Disguised as she was, there were any number of conversational gambits with which she could engage the new High Commissioner.

Kit glimpsed Amy in her Columbine costume at the other end of the room and headed in that direction. She passed Spencer, talking farming with Amy’s father, and carefully avoided his attention. She’d convinced him to come alone in his carriage, on the grounds that she needed to arrive without his very identifying escort to remain incognito. Thinking she meant to hoodwink Amy and their ladyships, he’d agreed readily enough, assuming that she’d use the smaller carriage. Instead, she’d ridden here on Delia. She’d never brought Delia to Marchmont Hall before, so the grooms had not recognized the mare.

The Marchmont Hall ballroom was long and narrow. Kit sauntered through the crowd, nodding here and there at people she knew, delighting in their confusion. Throughout, she kept mum. Those who knew her might recognize the husky quality of her voice and be sufficiently shrewd to think the unthinkable. She was perfectly aware her enterprise was scandalous in the extreme, but she’d no intention of being within Marchmont Hall when the time came to unmask.

As she drew closer to the musicians’ raised dais, she heard them tuning their instruments.

“You there, young man!”

Kit turned and beheld her hostess bearing down on her, a plain girl in tow. Holding her breath, Kit bowed, praying her mask hadn’t slipped.

“I haven’t the faintest notion who you are, dear boy, but you can dance, can’t you?”

Kit nodded, too relieved that Lady Marchmont hadn’t recognized her to realize the wisdom of denying that accomplishment.

“Good! You can partner this fair shepherdess then.”

Lady Marchmont held out the young girl’s gloved hand. Smoothly, Kit took it and bowed low. “Charmed,” she murmured, wondering frantically whether she could remember how to reverse the steps she’d been accustomed to performing automatically for the past six years.

The shepherdess curtsied. Behind her mask, Kit frowned critically. The girl wobbled too much-she should practice in front of a mirror.

Lady Marchmont sighed with relief and, with a farewell pat on Kit’s arm, left them in search of other suitable gentlemen to pair with single girls.

To Kit’s relief, the music started immediately, rendering conversation unnecessary. She and the shepherdess took their places in the nearest set and the ordeal began. By the first turn, Kit realized the cotillion was more of an ordeal for the shepherdess than herself. Kit had taught her youngest two male cousins to dance, so was acquainted with the gentleman’s movements. Knowing the lady’s movements by heart made it easy enough to remember and match the appropriate position. Her confidence grew with every step. The shepherdess, in contrast, was a bundle of nerves, unraveling steadily.

When, through hesitation, the girl nearly slipped, Kit spoke as encouragingly as she could: “Relax. You’re doing it quite well, but you’ll improve if you don’t tense so.”

A strained smile that was more like a grimace was her reward.

With an inward sigh, Kit set herself to calm the girl and instill a bit of confidence. She succeeded sufficiently well for the shepherdess to smile normally by the end of the measure and thank her effusively.

From the other side of the room, Jack surveyed the dancers. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, rigged out in his “poor country squire togs,” a black half mask and a brown tie wig. For the first three minutes, all had gone well. After that, the evening had headed downhill. First, Lord Marchmont had recognized him, how he’d no idea. His host had immediately borne him off to present him to his wife. Unfortunately, she’d been standing with three other local ladies. He was now on nodding terms with the ladies Gresham, Dersingham, and Falworth.

Lady Marchmont had iced his cake with an arch pronouncement that she’d “someone” she most particularly wished him to meet. He’d suppressed a shudder, intensified by the gleam he saw in the other ladies’ eyes. They were all in league to leg-shackle him to some damn drab. Sheer panic had come to his rescue. He’d charmed his way from their sides and gone immediately in search of refreshment, remembering just in time to redevelop his limp. At least it provided an excuse not to dance. Strong liquor was what he’d needed to regain his equilibrium. Matthew had gone alone to the Blackbird, to line up their next cargo. Jack wished he was with him, with a tankard of their abominable home brew in front of him.

In the alcove off the ballroom where the drinks were set forth, he’d come upon George, a decidedly glum Harlequin. At sight of him, he’d uttered a hoot of laughter, for which George repaid him with a scowl.

“I know it looks damn stupid, but what could I do?”

“Call off the engagement?”

George threw him a withering look, then added: “Not that I’m not sure it constitutes sufficient cause.”

Jack thumped him on the shoulder. “Never mind your troubles-mine are worse.”

George studied the grim set of his lips. “They recognized you?”

Reaching for a brandy, Jack nodded. “Virtually immediately. God only knows what gave me away.”

George opened his mouth to tell him but never got the chance.

“Christ Almighty!” Jack choked on his brandy. Abruptly, he swung away from the ballroom. “What the bloody hell’s Kit doing here?”

Frowning, George looked over the guests. “Where?”

“Dancing, would you believe! With a shepherdess in pale pink-third set from the door.”

George located the slender youth dipping through the last moves of the cotillion. “You sure that’s Kit?”

Jack swallowed his “Of course I’m damned sure, I’d know her legs anywhere” and substituted a curt, “Positive.”

George studied the figure across the room. “A wig?”

“And his Sunday best,” said Jack, risking a quick glance at the ballroom. The last thing he wanted was for Kit to see him. If the Lord Lieutenant could recognize him immediately, it was certain Kit would. But she knew him as Captain Jack.

“Maybe Spencer brought him?”

“Like hell! More likely the young devil decided to come and see how the other half lives.”

George grinned. “Well, it’s safe enough. He’ll just have to leave before the unmasking and no one will be any the wiser.”

“But he’ll be a whole lot wiser if he sets eyes on either you or me.”

George’s indulgent smile faded. “Oh.”

“Indeed. So how do we remove Kit from this charming little gathering without creating a scene?”

They both sipped their brandies and considered the problem. Jack kept his back to the room; George, far less recognizable in his Harlequin suit, maintained a watchful eye on Kit.

“He’s left his partner and is moving down the room.”

“Is your fiancée here?” Jack asked. “Can you get her to take a note to Kit?”

George nodded. Jack pulled out a small tablet and pencil. After a moment’s hesitation, he scribbled a few words, then carefully folded and refolded the note. “That should do it.” He handed the square to George. “If I’m not back by the time for unmasking, make my excuses.”

Jack put his empty glass back on the table and turned to leave.

Appalled, George barred the way. “What the hell should I say? This ball was all but organized for you.”

Jack smiled grimly. “Tell them I was called away to deal with a case of mistaken identity.”

Disentangling herself from the shepherdess’s clinging adoration, Kit beat a hasty retreat, heading for the corner where she’d last seen Amy. When she got there, Amy was nowhere in sight. Drifting back along the room, Kit kept a wary eye out for the shepherdess and Lady Marchmont.

In the end, it was Amy who found her.

“Excuse me.”

Kit swung about-Amy’s Columbine mask met her eyes. Beneath her own far more concealing mask, Kit smiled in delight and bowed elegantly.

She straightened and saw a look of confusion in Amy’s clear eyes.

“I’ve been asked to deliver this note to you-Kit!”

Kit grabbed Amy’s arm and squeezed it warningly. “Keep your voice down, you goose! What gave me away?”

“Your eyes, mostly. But there was something else-something about your height and size and the way you hold your hands, I think.” Amy’s gaze wandered over Kit’s sartorial perfection, then dropped to the slim legs perfectly revealed by the clinging knee breeches and clocked stockings. “Oh, Kit!”

Kit felt a twinge of guilt at Amy’s shocked whisper.

“Yes, well, that’s why no one must know who I am. And for goodness sake, don’t color up so, or people will think I’m making improper suggestions!”

Amy giggled.

“And you can’t take my arm, either, or come too close. Please think, Amy,” Kit pleaded, “or you’ll land me in the suds.”

Amy dutifully tried to remember that Kit was a youth. “It’s very hard when I’ve known you all my life and know you’re not a boy.”

“Where’s this note?” Kit lifted the small white square from Amy’s palm and unfolded it. She read the short message three times before she could believe her eyes.

Kit, Meet me on the terrace as soon as possible, Jack

“Who gave you this?” Kit looked at Amy.

Amy looked back. George had impressed on her she was not to tell the slim youth who had given her the note-but did George know the slim youth was Kit? She frowned. “Don’t you know who it’s from?”

“Yes. But I wondered who gave it to you-did you recognize him?”

Amy blinked. “It was passed on. I don’t have any idea who wrote it.” That, at least, was the truth.

Too caught up in the startling discovery that Jack was somewhere near, probably among the guests, Kit missed the less than direct nature of Amy’s answer. Forgetting her own instructions, she put a hand on Amy’s arm. “Amy, you must promise you’ll tell no one of my disguise.”

Amy promptly reassured her on that score.

“And I won’t, of course, be here for the unmasking. Can you tell Lady Marchmont-and Spencer, too-that I was here, but that I felt unwell and returned home? Tell Spencer I didn’t want to spoil his evening.” Kit grinned wryly; if she stayed for the unmasking, she’d definitely ruin Spencer’s night.

“But what about the note?” asked Amy.

“Oh, that.” Kit stuffed the white paper into her pocket. “It’s nothing. Just a joke-from someone else who recognized me.”

“Oh.” Amy eyed Kit and wondered. The male disguise was almost perfect-if she’d had such difficulty recognizing Kit, who else would?

“And now, Amy dearest, we must part or people will start to wonder.”

“You won’t do anything scandalous, will you?”

Kit repressed the urge to give Amy a hug. “Of course, I won’t. Why, I’m doing everything possible to avoid such an outcome.” With a twinkle in her eye, Kit bowed.

With a look that stated she found the act of attending a ball in male attire inconsistent with avoiding scandal, Amy curtsied and reluctantly moved away.

Kit took refuge behind a large palm by the side of the ballroom. Caution dictated she avoid Jack whenever possible, but was it possible? Or wise? If she didn’t appear on the terrace, he was perfectly capable of appearing in the ballroom, by her side, in a decidedly devilish mood. No-it was the lesser of two evils, but the terrace it would have to be. After all, what could he possibly do to her on the Lord Lieutenant’s terrace?

She scanned the crowd, studying men of Jack’s height. There were a few who fit that criterion, but none was Jack. She wondered what mad start had brought him to the ball. Unobtrusively, she made her way to where long windows opened onto the terrace that ran the length of the house.

The night air was crisp, refreshing after the stuffiness of the close-packed humanity within. Kit drew a deep breath, then looked about her. On the terrace, he’d said, but where on such a long terrace?

There were a few couples taking the air. None spared a glance for the slim youth in the midnight blue coat. Kit strolled the flags, looking at the sky, ostensibly taking a breather from the bustle inside. Then she saw Jack, a dim shadow sitting on the balustrade at the far end.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed as she drew near. He was sitting with his back propped against the wall, one booted foot swinging.

Jack, who had watched her approach, was taken aback. “What am I doing here? What the devil are you doing here, you dim-witted whelp?”

Kit noted the dangerous glitter in the eyes watching her through the slits in his simple black mask. She put up her chin. “That’s none of your affair. And I asked first.”

Under his breath, Jack swore. He hadn’t given his excuse for being at the ball a single thought, so fixated had he been on the necessity of removing Kit from this place of revelations. “I’m here for the same reason you are.”

Kit bit back a laugh. The idea of Jack, in disguise, looking over a potential bride from among the local gentry was distinctly humorous. “How did you recognize me?”

Jack’s lips twisted in a mocking smile. “Let’s just say I’m particularly well acquainted with your manly physique.”

Kit’s chin rose along with her blush. “What did you want to see me about?”

Jack blinked. What the hell did she imagine he wanted to see her about? “I wanted to make sure that, having now seen how the other half comports itself, you’ll realize the wisdom of making yourself scarce, before someone stumbles on your identity.”

Behind her mask, Kit’s frown was black. The man was insufferable. Who did he think he was, to hand her thinly veiled orders? “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.”

Her clipped tone convinced Jack she was not about to take his suggestion to heart. With an exasperated sigh, he got to his feet. “What sort of chaos do you think you’d cause if that wig slipped loose during one of the dances?” Jack took a step toward her but stopped when she backed away. A quick glance along the terrace revealed a single couple, physically entwined, at the opposite end.

Kit considered insisting Jack sit down again but doubted he’d oblige. He was very good at giving orders and highly resistant to taking any. And in the moonlight on the terrace, his height and bulk were intimidating. Particularly when she didn’t want to do what he clearly wanted her to do. She took another step back.

“The ball’s over for you, Kit. Time to go home.”

Kit took a third step back, then judged the distance between them sufficient to allow her to say: “I’ve no intention of leaving yet. The person-”

Her words were cut off when Jack’s hand clamped over her mouth. In the same instant, his other arm wrapped about her waist and lifted her from her feet. She hadn’t even seen him move yet he was now behind her, carrying her to the balustrade. Kit struggled frantically to no effect.

Jack sat on the balustrade, Kit held on his lap, then rolled over the edge. He landed upright in the flower bed six feet below the terrace, Kit safe before him.

Seething with fury, Kit waited for him to release her. When he did, she spun on him. “You misbegotten oaf! How dare you-”

To her surprise, a large hand helped her spin until she was facing away from him again. Her words were cut off again, this time by her own mask, untied, folded then retied over her mouth. Kit’s scream of rage was muffled by the black felt. She turned about again, her hands automatically reaching for the mask to drag it away, but Jack moved with her, remaining behind her. He caught her hands in his, his long fingers closing viselike about her wrists, pulling them down and behind her. In stunned disbelief, Kit felt material, Jack’s neckerchief most probably, tighten about her wrists, securing them behind her back. Her temper exploded in a series of protests, none of which made it past the gag.

Jack appeared before her. Through the slits in his mask, his eyes gleamed. “You should be on your most ladylike behavior at a ball, you know.”

Another volley of muffled protests greeted the sally. With a chuckle, Jack stooped; suddenly, Kit found herself looking down on Lady Marchmont’s ruined petunias from a height of four feet. With Kit hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her legs secured under one muscular arm, Jack headed away from the house. Kit’s muffled grumbles ceased abruptly when he ran his free hand over the ripe curves of her bottom, nicely positioned for his attentions. A fraught silence ensued. Giving the firm mounds a fond pat, Jack grinned and strode on.

He headed into the shrubbery at the end of the lawn. Taking a path enclosed by high hedges, he cast about for a niche to stow his booty. The walk ended in a fan-shaped bay just beyond the intersection with two other paths. A stone bench with a carved back stood in the bay. Behind it, between the curved hedge and the bench back, Jack found the perfect place to leave his unwilling companion.

Before he lowered Kit, he undid his belt, wrapped it about her knees, and cinched it tight. Then he shrugged her off his shoulder and into his arms.

Kit glared up into his face, silently fuming, her brain seething with the epithets she wished she could hurl at him.

Jack grinned and sat her on the bench. He pulled off his mask and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll have to leave you while I arrange our transportation. How did you get here? You may as well tell me-I’ll find out soon enough.”

Kit stared back at him.

Jack guessed. “Delia?”

Reluctantly, Kit nodded. A look in the stable would tell him as much.

“Right.”

Jack picked her up, and Kit realized just where he was going to leave her. She struggled and shook her head violently, but Jack took no notice. Then she was laid out, full-length on her side, in the shadowy recess behind the bench.

Jack leaned over her. “If you keep quiet, no one will disturb you.”

What about spiders? was Kit’s agonized thought. She put every ounce of pleading she possessed into her eyes, but Jack didn’t notice.

Unperturbed, he added: “I’ll be back soon.” Then he disappeared from sight.

Kit lay still and pondered her state. Disbelief was her predominant emotion. She was being kidnapped! Kidnapped from the Lord Lieutenant’s ball by a man she wasn’t at all sure she could trust. He thought she’d muff her lines and bring disaster on her head and, in typically high-handed fashion, had decided to remove her for her own good. There was no doubt in her mind that was how Jack saw it; his actions didn’t really surprise her. What did worry her, what was looming as a potential source of panic in her brain, was what he intended doing with her.

Where was he taking her? And what would he do when they got there?

Such questions were not conducive to lying calmly in the dark while being kidnapped. That knowing hand on her bottom had sent a most peculiar thrill all the way to her toes.

In an effort to quell her rising hysteria, Kit forced herself to consider why Jack had been present at the ball. He’d said for the same reason as she. Presumably he’d meant he was here for a lark, just to see how the nobs lived. She could imagine he might do that, just for a laugh-the smugglers’ leader at the Lord Lieutenant’s ball.

In the shadows before the stable, Jack paused to take stock. Only two grooms sat in the puddle of light thrown by a lamp just inside the open door. The visiting coachmen, his own thankfully included, would be in the kitchen, enjoying themselves. All he had to do was pray that the groom who’d relieved Kit of Delia wasn’t one of the two left to mind the stables.

“You two! My horse, quickly.” Jack strode forward, habitual command coloring his words.

“Your horse, sir?” The men rose to their feet uncertainly.

“Yes, my horse, dammit! The black Arab.”

“Yes sir. Right away, sir.”

The alacrity with which the two scrambled up and made their way down the boxes told Jack his prayers had been answered. Delia, however, did not approve of the fumbling attempts of the grooms to saddle her. Jack pushed past them. “Here. Let me.”

He’d handled Delia often enough for her to accept his ministrations. As soon as she was saddled, Jack led her to the yard. With a last prayer that Delia would not balk at carrying his weight and the grooms would not notice the stirrups were too short for him, Jack swung into the saddle.

The gods were smiling. Delia sidled and snorted but responded to the rein. With a dismissive nod to the grooms, Jack cantered her out of the yard. As soon as he was out of sight of the stables, he turned the mare toward the shrubbery.

The first intimation Kit had that she was not alone was a soft giggle, followed by a low, feminine moan. She froze. An instant later, silk skirts rustled as a woman sank onto the stone bench.

“Darling! You really are too impetuous.” The unknown female was a shady figure, the moonlight fitfully glinting on blond curls and bare shoulders.

“Impetuous?” A man sat beside the woman. His tone suggested pique, rather than pride. “How would you describe your own behavior, making sheep’s eyes at that devil Hendon?”

Kit’s brows rose. Devil?

“Really, Harold! How common. I was doing no such thing. You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Harold’s voice rose.

“Yes, jealous,” came the reply. “Just because Lord Hendon’s got the most wonderful shoulders.”

“I don’t think it was the man’s shoulders that impressed you, my dear.”

“Don’t be crude, Harold.” A pause ensued, broken by the woman. “Mind you, I daresay Lord Hendon’s equally impressive in other departments.”

A growl of frustration came from Harold, and the two silhouettes above Kit fused.

Kit lay in her nook and tried to ignore the snuffles and slurps and funny little moans that came from the couple on the bench. It was enough to put anyone off the business for life. She turned to a contemplation of the new vision of Lord Hendon that was forming in her mind. Perhaps she’d been hasty in thinking him a fusty old crock. Certainly, a devil with impressive shoulders and equally impressive other parts did not fit the image she’d constructed. And the woman on the bench sounded as if she had the experience to know of what she spoke.

Perhaps she should give Lord Hendon a closer look. That had, after all, been her aim in coming to the ball, even if she hadn’t had much hope of him then. Now-who knew? But Jack would soon be back, determined to take her away.

Recalling that she’d yet to satisfy herself as to where Jack was taking her, Kit tested the bonds at her wrists. They gave not at all. She could moan and attract the attention of the couple on the bench, assuming she could make them understand it was not them doing the moaning, but the idea of the explanations she’d face defeated that thought.

Really, if there was any justice in the world, Lord Hendon would stumble upon her and rescue her from Jack and his altogether frightening propensities. Resigned, Kit stared at the small section of sky she could see and wished the couple on the bench would go away.

“Who’s that coming?” The woman’s voice held a note of panic.

“Where?” The same panic echoed in Harold’s tone.

“From the side. See-there.”

A long pause ensued. All three figures in the alcove held their breath. Then, “Dammit! It’s Hendon.” Harold rose and drew the woman to her feet.

“Perhaps we ought to wait for him-he might be lost.”

Harold snorted in disgust. “All you females are the same. You’d crawl all over him if he gave you half a chance. But we can’t let him catch us together, and how would you explain being here alone? Come on!”

The two figures departed, and Kit was alone.

Lord Hendon was close, but she couldn’t even get to her feet. The chances of anyone walking up and looking over the back of the bench to find her were negligible. Kit closed her eyes in exasperation and swore beneath her gag.

Two minutes later, the hedge rustled. Kit opened her eyes to see Jack leaning over her. He lifted her from her bed, then propped her against his hip and bent down to undo his belt. Her legs free, Kit sank onto the bench.

While Jack replaced his belt, Kit stared about her, looking down each of the three paths leading from the bench. Where had Lord Hendon gone?

“Who are you looking for?” Jack asked, puzzled by her obvious search.

Kit glared at him.

With a lopsided grin, Jack reached for the ties of her mask.

Freed of her gag, Kit moistened her lips and glanced around once more. “There was a couple here, sitting on the bench. They left a few minutes ago because they saw Lord Hendon coming. Did you see him?”

Jack’s stomach muscles clenched. He shook his head slowly and answered truthfully, “No. I didn’t see him.” What was it that made him so easy to recognize? The wig covered his hair and he hadn’t even been limping.

He watched as Kit glanced around again. What was her interest in Lord Hendon? Had she heard the descriptions and been tantalized? Jack hid a smirk. If that was so, it might make telling her the truth later much easier. Taking her arm, he drew her to her feet. “Come on. I’ve got Delia.”

They walked through the extensive shrubbery, Jack’s hand on Kit’s elbow. He didn’t release her hands-he didn’t fancy finding out what retribution she might visit on him if she had the chance.

Kit walked beside him, her insides in a most peculiar knot. The hold on her arm was proprietory, a feeling intensified by the fact that her hands were still tied. She didn’t bother asking to be untied. He’d do it if he wished, and she wasn’t going to give him the joy of refusing her.

Delia was tethered to a branch just beyond the last hedge. Jack walked Kit to the mare’s side, then, to her relief, stepped behind her and untied her hands.

Her relief was short-lived. He untied only one hand, then brought both in front of her and lashed them together again.

“What on earth…?” Kit’s incredulous protest hung in the dark.

“You can’t ride with your hands tied behind you.”

“I can’t ride with my hands tied, period.”

Jack’s lips quirked. “You didn’t think I was going to put you on Delia and let you loose, did you?”

Kit swallowed. She hadn’t thought that, no. But she wasn’t at all sure what he was going to do.

“If I did,” Jack continued, untying Delia’s reins, “you’d be back at the ball as fast as Delia can go.”

Kit could hardly deny that; she kept silent.

Jack pulled off his wig and stuffed it in the saddle pocket. “Up you go.” The mare’s reins in his hand, he lifted Kit up.

Kit swung her leg over and settled, then realized the stirrups had been lengthened. She stared at Jack. “We can’t both ride-she’ll never handle the weight.”

“She will. We won’t get above a canter, if that. Shift forward.”

For an instant, Kit stared mutinously at him, but when he planted his foot in the stirrup, she realized that if she didn’t do as he said, she’d be squashed. Slammed from behind-again. Even so, although she moved forward until the pommel pressed into her belly, it was a tight fit. Delia sidled but accepted them both. Jack, with his far greater weight, sank into the saddle seat proper and settled his feet in the stirrups. He lifted her, then resettled her against him, a more comfortable position but one every bit as unnerving as she’d feared.

Jack touched the mare’s sides and Delia set off. Kit was too fine a rider for him to risk letting her have her feet in the stirrups. Which meant he’d have to endure her curves, riding in front of him, moving against him with every stride the mare took.

Within minutes, his patience was under threat. His jaw ached, a dull echo of the far more potent ache throbbing in his loins. The rubbing rhythm of Kit’s firm bottom transformed mere arousal to rock-hard rigidity and reduced his resolution to almost nothing. Jack gritted his teeth harder; there was nothing else he could do. She was an itch he couldn’t yet scratch.

Which, for a confirmed rake, was an agonizingly painful predicament.