Nicola Cornick Collection: The Last Rake In London / Notorious / Desired. Nicola Cornick
found that he wanted to ask Sally about her marriage, but he sensed it was too soon and she would rebuff him. She was consciously keeping him at arm’s length. He did not intend to stay there for the whole evening. He might not believe in romance, but he definitely believed in physical attraction and the attraction he had for Sally was going to be satisfied.
He watched as she speared a stalk, dipped it in butter, and ate it with delicate relish.
‘I hope you do not mind that I ordered for both of us,’ she said, ‘as I know what is the very best from the kitchens.’
Jack tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘So do you also consider me a man who allows a woman to take charge?’
Their eyes met and locked. Sally licked butter thoughtfully from her fingers and Jack felt the lust spear through his entire body again. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, they should get back to talking about politics. Generally it was something of a passion killer, although with Sally Bowes it seemed that any topic of conversation could incite an almost ungovernable rush of desire in him. So far he had managed to keep it battened down, restrained, but it was the devil’s own job.
‘I doubt that you are a man to relinquish control in general,’ she said. ‘The way that you behaved earlier does not suggest a very … tractable nature.’
A mocking smile twisted Jack’s mouth. ‘I believe you understand me very well, Miss Bowes.’
‘I believe I do,’ Sally said composedly.
Her coolness, her frankness, her authority, sent Jack’s blood pressure rocketing further. The dining room seemed extremely hot.
‘And are you not going to ask what I think of you in return?’ he asked.
Once again the dimple showed in Sally’s cheek as she smiled. ‘No, I do not think so, Mr Kestrel. You see, I am confident enough to have no need for your approval. Nor your censure.’ Her tone changed. ‘Indeed, as I said, I get plenty of that elsewhere.’
Jack raised his brows. ‘Because of the politics?’
‘And many other things.’ Sally waved a careless hand. ‘A single woman running a club like this? And a widow to boot?’ She looked at him. ‘You may not be aware, Mr Kestrel, that I was on the point of divorcing my husband when he died suddenly. The police were called in to make sure that I had not murdered him to save myself the cost and disgrace of the divorce courts. I do not think one can get any more scandalous than that.’
‘Only if you had murdered him,’ Jack agreed smoothly. He was not shocked at her disclosures—he had seen far too much of the world to be shocked by most things—but he was curious as to what sort of man her husband had been. What had Sally Bowes looked for in a man, before her dreams of romance and marriage had turned sour and ended in death and disgrace? It was no wonder, he thought, that she was more careful of giving herself than most women in the glittering, amoral world of high society.
Sally gave a little snort of laughter. ‘I assure you I did not murder Jonathan. Not that the idea was not tempting at times. He died of influenza. It was a most virulent outbreak that year. I was sick, too, but I survived.’
‘What was he like?’ Jack asked.
The amusement fled Sally’s face and her lashes came down to veil her eyes. ‘He was weak and dissolute and he gave me grounds enough for divorce with his flagrant cruelty and his infidelity,’ she said. For a second Jack saw a bleak chill of loneliness reflected in her eyes and then she shrugged and picked up her champagne glass again. ‘Forgive me. I was forgetting that you have been abroad and so know nothing of my scandalous affairs.’ She looked up at him. ‘It was something of a cause célèbre at the time, as all divorces are, I fear.’
Jack could imagine that it might have been. Whether or not she was the injured party, divorce ruined a woman’s reputation and deprived her of her place in polite society. To have gone as far as the courts, even if her husband’s timely death had saved her the final disgrace of going through with the divorce action, would have been the end of Sally’s good reputation. It was no wonder that she had had to carve out a new role for herself here at the Blue Parrot and she had done it with great style.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry that you had to endure that.’
She shrugged lightly. ‘Fortunately I had my inheritance. It could have been worse. But you will understand now why the club is so important to me.’
There was a warning there, Jack thought. She had not forgotten his threat to take away from her everything she valued. She did not trust him. He doubted that she trusted anyone after everything she had experienced. She might have been as stunned as he by the physical attraction that had flared between them so violently, but it did not mean that she was entirely swept away. Once again the challenge she presented, the excitement of the chase, lit his blood.
‘What I told you about Connie was true,’ she said suddenly. Her eyes met his and his heart jolted at the impact of her look. ‘I knew nothing about her plan to blackmail your uncle.’
Jack nodded. ‘I know.’ He had a cynical soul, but he thought his instincts were sound and they told him Miss Sally Bowes was honest.
She nodded, and he saw a smile of relief touch her lips. ‘Thank you.’
The waiter took their plates and replaced them with dressed pheasant and tiny, sweet vegetables. Another bottle of champagne was delivered. Jack deliberately turned the conversation to Biarritz and Monte Carlo, to society and culture and the new Liberal government. At Sally’s prompting he spoke a little about the aviation business he had set up after leaving the army. He was very conscious of Sally sitting so close to him, of her smile and her low, smoky voice and the brush of her fingers against his sleeve. The temptation to lean across and kiss her was becoming overwhelming, but he contained his impatience. Soon …
The lights seemed dimmer now and the music had changed to the soft caress of the piano. The waiter brought cream gateau with curls of bitter chocolate and candied violets. The champagne bottle was empty.
And Jack waited and calculated and planned more carefully than he had ever plotted a seduction before.
‘Would you care for coffee, Mr Kestrel?’ Sally finished the last of her dessert and put down her spoon. There was a smudge of cream on her cheek. ‘Brandy? Cigars?’
‘No, thank you.’ By now Jack was conscious of nothing other than Sally and did not want to indulge in drinks or cigars. He reached forward and gently rubbed the cream away from her cheek. Her skin felt incredibly soft. He wanted to cup her cheek in his hand, explore the smoothness of her skin. The strength of the urge shocked him. His desire for her was coiled intolerably tightly within him, barely under his control. Fleetingly he wondered what on earth had happened to him. This was not how the game was usually played.
‘You had cream on your cheek,’ he said. His voice was a little hoarse.
‘Oh!’ For a second Sally looked adorably confused and vulnerable. She drew back, a wary look in her eyes, but he caught her hand and held it.
‘I would like you to show me the gardens,’ he said. ‘May we go outside?’
The tension spun out between them like gossamer. Sally caught her lip between her teeth.
‘Mr Kestrel, that really would not be a good idea at all.’
Jack thought it was the finest idea he had had in an age. To find a dark arbour, to hold her, to kiss her again …
‘I promise not to touch you unless you wish me to,’ he said, and knew he was lying.
He could see the uncertainty reflected in her eyes and sensed that she was torn. She knew as well as he what would happen when they were alone in the dark, and although she was tempted she was wary as well. He took her hand, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of it, and felt her tremble a little.
‘I hear your gardens are modelled on the Moulin Rouge,’ he said, ‘and that