Dauntsey Park: The Last Rake In London. Nicola Cornick
composed as ever. Except something had changed in her face. Her lips were a little swollen from Jack’s kisses and in her eyes she saw a startled awareness and a knowledge, and a wanting. Her needs, her emotions and her desires were awakened now and were clamouring for release.
She glanced at the little gold clock on the wall. A couple more hours and she would be free of Jack Kestrel’s dangerous presence. She could talk to Connie, secure the letters, send them to Jack and the business would be closed. She need never see him again. She could forget this madness that possessed her. This urge to kick aside every careful precept by which she had lived her life for so long was too frightening. She was not at all sure where it might lead her.
She struggled to re-assert her commonsense. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. A few more hours of Jack’s company … then it would be over.
Chapter Three
Damn the woman. How could she look so cool and unemotional when only ten minutes before he had been kissing her senseless? How dared she look so cool when he was burning up with the need to possess her?
Jack watched Sally as she walked slowly towards him. The waiter had installed him at the very best table in the dining room, up on a dais tucked away at the back of the room and surrounded by drooping green fronds of palm. Somewhere, out of sight, a string quartet was playing softly. It was a charming setting, relaxed but extremely stylish. The food smelled wonderful.
But Jack had lost his appetite for food and he did not feel remotely relaxed. Every nerve ending in his body seemed tense and alert, wound up intolerably, waiting. He watched as Sally smiled and paused to answer the greetings of the other diners. She looked regal, untouchable and very, very seductive in the bright fuchsia-pink silk gown. He had noticed it when she had first walked into the card room. Of course he had. Every man in the room had looked at her. The gown fell long and straight to her ankles and flaunted every single one of her curves. Jack felt his mouth go dry and his breathing constrict as he remembered caressing those curves through the slippery silk. Damn it, there was only one end he wanted to this evening, and it involved him stripping that provocative silk from Sally Bowes’s body and taking her to bed. He had never felt so impatient to have a woman in all his life.
Jack stood up as Sally approached the table and she gave him a very measured, very cool smile that acted like a complete aphrodisiac and sent his blood pressure soaring dangerously. He had only just got himself under control from the interlude in the corridor. His body was still in a state of semi-arousal.
‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Sally said, sounding as though she was not particularly sorry at all.
‘You were not very long,’ Jack said. ‘I do hope,’ he added, determined to shake her out of her apparent calm, ‘that you are quite recovered?’
A shade of colour touched her cheek. She avoided his eyes and made a business of unfolding her napkin. ‘I am very well, thank you,’ she said.
Good. Jack felt a flash of satisfaction to see that blush. She was not as cool as she pretended. He could feel the tension in her. It would take very little to stoke their mutual attraction back to the point it had been before—and beyond. He had every intention of doing precisely that later in the evening, but for now he was going to tread very carefully indeed to avoid frightening her away.
‘I have been admiring the club,’ he continued. ‘You own all this?’
A small, distracting dimple appeared at the side of her mouth when she smiled. ‘I own part of it,’ she said, ‘and the investors own the rest.’
Jack was surprised at her candour. ‘You’re mortgaged to the hilt?’
She shrugged and a shade of reserve came into her eyes and he wondered if she was remembering his earlier threat to ruin her business. She would not want to show any financial vulnerability to him.
‘I own the building,’ she said. ‘That is the important thing.’
Jack waved the waiter aside and filled her champagne glass himself. ‘And how did you come by it? It seems an unusual venue for a lady to own.’
‘My grandmother left it to me,’ Sally said. ‘It was a private house then, of course, but I had no money to maintain it, so I turned it into a business.’
She had, Jack thought, a tough financial head on her shoulders to have made a success of it.
‘Do you think your grandmother would have approved?’ he asked.
‘I doubt it.’ Sally laughed. ‘She was a very conventional Victorian lady, Mr Kestrel, and she disapproved of everything about me, from my liberal upbringing to my political persuasions.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I belong to the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, Mr Kestrel. My sister Petronella is a militant suffragist.’
‘Of course.’ Jack remembered the name of Petronella Bowes from the newspapers. ‘She was one of the women who chained themselves to the railings in Downing Street earlier this year.’
‘Yes.’ Sally ran her fingers reflectively up the side of her champagne glass. ‘Nell supports the cause vigorously. After her husband died her support turned more active. I think that it filled a void for her and she is very passionate in her beliefs.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you dislike political opinions in a woman, Mr Kestrel? Many men do.’
Jack smiled at her. ‘I believe I have sufficient self-confidence to deal with it, Miss Bowes.’
Sally gave a spontaneous peal of laughter. ‘Yes, I suppose it is only men who feel threatened by intelligent women who object to such matters.’
‘And as such their good opinion is not really worth a great deal,’ Jack said. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Miss Bowes, what do you look for in a man?’
He saw the bright light fade from her eyes. ‘Despite what happened just now,’ she said, ‘I would say that I do not look for a man at all, Mr Kestrel.’ Her voice was strained.
Jack touched the back of her hand lightly. ‘Because of your politics? But surely not all suffragists are opposed to the opposite sex?’
‘No.’ She withdrew her hand from beneath his. Her gaze, as it met his, was direct and very candid. ‘It is not because of my political persuasions, Mr Kestrel. I was married once and I am afraid that it did not encourage me to view affairs of the heart in any positive light.’
‘If that is so,’ Jack said, ‘how do you explain what happened between us?’
‘Oh …’ She shifted a little, shrugged. ‘That was … what would one call it? Chemistry? Physical attraction?’
‘Lust?’ Jack said helpfully.
‘Lust. Yes, I suppose so.’ Once again she ran her fingers thoughtfully down the stem of the wineglass and this time it was Jack who shifted on his seat.
‘I heard,’ Sally added, ‘that you, too, have little inclination towards romance, Mr Kestrel.’ She gave him a slight smile.
Jack raised his brows. ‘I see that someone has been talking about me,’ he said. He was not particularly surprised. Everyone in London seemed to be talking about him. He wondered what they might have said.
Sally smiled. ‘Surely you are accustomed to that—a man like you?’
‘A man like me?’ He looked a challenge. ‘What sort of man is that, Miss Bowes?’
She did not appear discomfited by his bluntness and took her time replying. ‘A man who is rich and powerful, and successful in business and with women, I suppose.’
Jack laughed. ‘You account me that?’
‘Are you not?’
The waiter brought asparagus for them at that moment, wrapped in damask napkins and served on a silver platter. It saved Jack the trouble of replying. He had no intention of raking over his past