Jess had gleaned valuable knowledge today, but she fought to stay focused on her goal. She’d make use of the soap wrapper—the trick was figuring out how and when.
And her mind kept circling back to the duke. She could thoroughly describe the shape of the duke’s lips, and speculate on the feel of his tongue against her flesh. Tonight, she knew, she would dream of those lips, and then, just as now, she would struggle to think of a reason why she shouldn’t kiss them.
It came as no surprise at all to Jess that the duke had made arrangements for a special private luncheon at an exclusive club in Belgravia, a short caravan’s ride from Catton’s.
“This is a gentlemen’s club,” Jess noted as she and the other guests climbed the short flight of stairs to the front door. She’d heard of the club through her careful perusal of newspapers, and that many significant financial and political understandings had been negotiated in its rarified atmosphere. “We don’t belong here.”
“You suggest that I am no gentleman?” The duke looked affronted, then a corner of his mouth hitched into a half smile. “Correct, madam. Only by breeding, but not behavior.”
“She means we ladies do not belong here.” Lady Haighe sniffed.
“Typically, women are not permitted entrance.” The duke stood back to allow the three females to cross the threshold. Once inside, Jess noted the foyer and the entire interior were paneled in dark wood with accents of blue-and-white porcelain here and there. “But it took very little persuading for the proprietors to change their minds about their policy. For the next two hours, in any event.”
A man in livery gestured for everyone to move toward a large parlor, which they did.
“Surely the request coming from a duke had nothing to do with it.” Jess stepped into the room. Long banquet tables had been arranged in a horseshoe shape, draped with snowy-white linen tablecloths. Sparkling silver and gilt-edged china had already been laid out in anticipation of the Bazaar guests.
“It was merely my oratory skills that persuaded them,” the duke said. “And the tureens full of money. And, Lady Whitfield,” he added in a lower voice, “once again I must ask for your forgiveness.”
“This was all organized before you realized the error of your ways,” she said wryly.
“The error of one of my ways. I’m rather fond of my others.”
She shook her head. Blast the man for being so bloody charming.
The gentlemen waited to take their seats until after the women had done so. Fortunately, several people sat between Jess and the duke, with Baron Mentmore beside her. After being thoroughly distracted by the duke at Catton’s, she needed all of her attention and concentration for this luncheon.
She could not wait any longer. It was time to act, or else her presence here at the Bazaar would be for nothing.
“Where is my handkerchief?” she murmured, rifling through her reticule. “I could have sworn I brought it with me, and— Oh, I beg your pardon!” Her exclamation came as the soap wrapper tumbled out, directly into the lap of the baron.
“What’s this?” the gentleman asked, holding it up.
“It’s nothing, truly. Just some paper that was wrapped around a bar of soap a friend of mine gave me. How dreadfully embarrassing! I do apologize.”
Baron Mentmore handed her the wrapper. “It has a lovely fragrance. Is that honey?”
“I believe so? I’d saved the paper because it smelled so delightful.”
“That’s it.” The duke snapped his fingers. “That’s what you smell like.” He gave her a roguish smile.
Her stomach leapt in response. To distract herself, she studied the paper, though she knew precisely what it said because she had been the one to write up the description on the packaging. “It says it’s made in Wiltshire, Baron Mentmore. That’s where my friend bought it, I believe, if you were thinking of purchasing some for yourself or your wife.”
The baron’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes, my wife would enjoy that.”
“A marvelous idea, my lord,” Jess said. “It would be a simple matter to send a footman to Bond Street to obtain some for you. Here, you can keep this.” She tucked the paper into his hand before turning her attention to the meal before her. “This soup is delicious, don’t you think?”
Conversation continued, with the luncheon progressing smoothly.
She glanced at the duke. He conversed with Lord Trask, seated beside him. And though he did not break off in the middle of their exchange, his gaze—full of searing