Noel picked up his coat, which he’d draped over a marble bust of a Roman senator, and tugged it on. His whole body was stiff and tight. He was a stranger in his own skin, but then, he’d been unknown to himself ever since the night of Ashford’s ball.
Were he wise, he would send Jess away, and burn whatever letter she left behind without reading it. Perhaps that was the fault of being born a ducal heir—he was unused to denying his impulses, and right now, every impulse and instinct he had shouted that Jess was near, and he had to see her, regardless of the pain it caused him.
After three leisurely, unhurried steps toward the green drawing room, he all but ran down the corridor. He made himself pause outside the door to the chamber. He fussed with the cuffs of his shirt—it became vitally important that just the right hint of white appeared at the edge of his sleeves—and then, with one shaky exhalation, he entered the room.
She stood next to the portrait of Noel and his sisters, studying it, then whirled around at his entrance.
Concern dug into him to see the violet circles beneath her eyes, and the pale cast of her face. Her dress—the same one she’d worn when he first met her on Bond Street, the one she’d had on when they’d visited Covent Garden—was too loose now.
He imagined iron spikes hammered into his boots to keep him from going to her and running a concerned hand across her forehead.
Silence stretched between them.
“You and your sisters?” She gestured to the portrait behind her.
“Painted when I was nine, Sophia was seven, and Elizabeth was four.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “One of them loves harebells.”
Of course Jess would remember that. Of course she had a mind as sharp and expansive as any scholar—because she was her.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said when he’d gone mute once more.
“I shouldn’t have.”
She winced at his bluntness, and, like a fool, he wanted to comfort her from his own words.
“I will go,” she said, her eyes bleak. “But I hope you’ll allow me a minute more.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Talk, then.”
“Your anger is justified,” she said after a moment. She did not fidget, or shuffle her feet. She was immobile, as if facing an inevitable fate. “I’ll never contest that. Just as I won’t contest your kindness at the Earl of Ashford’s ball. You could have left me to be torn apart, but you didn’t. For that, I’m grateful.”
He chopped his hand through the air. “It was instinct. I protect people I—” He bit back words he couldn’t let himself speak.
“Whatever made you do it, I’m indebted.” Her smile was melancholy. “Though I imagine you don’t want anything from me.”
“Perceptive as always.” His words were acidic in his throat. Then, because he could not help himself, he said, “Lost your investors, I suppose.”
“We did—all but Lady Farris. She pledged some capital to aid in our rebuilding. And,” she added, “thanks to you, McGale & McGale soap has become a fiercely coveted item. As of today, Daley’s Emporium will be the only shop in London to exclusively carry our soap. Mr. Daley has even agreed to finance part of the repairs to our operation in order to supply enough product to his customers, so between his funds and Lady Farris’s, we have a chance after all.”
“Jess, that’s wonderful.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he clamped his lips together to silence any more felicitations or pleasure in her accomplishment.
She seemed to recognize that he regretted his praise, her expression dimming. “It will require trips to the city to supervise shipments. But you don’t have to worry. I won’t return to London. Cynthia will oversee everything.”
He stared at her. “This must be the attainment of your ambition, why you infiltrated the Bazaar. Everything you wanted, you’re getting. You should be the one to come to London and enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
“It is.” She lifted a shoulder. “But there’s always a chance you and I would see each other, and”—her throat worked—“I know you wouldn’t want that. It’s better if I stay away—permanently.”
His body locked to keep from staggering as her meaning hit him. She was giving up the realization of something that clearly meant everything to her—for his sake.