to decline, and return to her gray half existence as a paid companion.
“I’ll take the journey with you.” The words spilled from her. She needed this, and him, just a little longer. She could play by the rules and still have a bit more time with him. And if she went, she could ensure that everything went smoothly at the farm. Much as she loved Cynthia and Fred, she’d feel far more certain if she herself watched over and quietly managed the visit.
He gave her another of his dazzling smiles.
“Splendid.” His gaze was warm and dark like a summer night. “That is most splendid. I’ll see you at my home tomorrow. Dawn.”
“My abigail will be cross with me to be awakened at such an early hour, but, yes, dawn.”
“It’s a delightful journey to Carriford.” He nearly vibrated with eagerness and excitement, his ducal veneer gone. “The estate’s one of my favorites. There’s a meadow on the eastern part of the parkland I played in as a child, and it has the most glorious oak tree that’s perfect for climbing. Wait until I show it to you.”
His anticipation beguiled Jess—and it ruined her. If only she could give him everything he deserved. Yet she couldn’t. All she deserved was his contempt.
Chapter 17
“Carriford’s charming,” Noel said to the passengers in his carriage. “The grounds are amongst the loveliest of all my estates. The old heap of stones was built in the late sixteenth century—but trust me when I say you’ll be comfortable there. Successive Dukes of Rotherby were keen modernizers, so the walls aren’t porous as sponges, and the rooms are warm. Small, but warm.”
Since boyhood on, he’d looked forward to Carriford. But never in all of his thirty-four years did he feel the excitement he did now, heading there with Jess.
He probably sounded like the veriest ninny, rattling off facts about Carriford. But the hell of it was he didn’t give a damn.
He’d show her everything. He wanted her to love it as he did. It shouldn’t matter—she’d be gone to the Continent soon—but it did.
“We’re nearly there.” He nodded toward the window. “That gristmill with the waterwheel means we’re but a mile away.”
Everyone, including Jess, Lady Haighe, and Mr. Walditch, craned their heads toward the landmark.
“It’s lovely,” Lady Haighe said irritably.
“That distresses you?” Jess asked.
“Lovely things make me aware of my mortality, and I already have reminders of that when I rise from bed every morning and my body aches for no reason at all.”
Noel shared an amused glance with Jess. Fortunately, she sat opposite him, beside Lady Haighe. There was a good chance that if he’d had to ride to Carriford with Jess’s thigh pressed against his, he’d arrive a slavering madman. Having Mr. Walditch next to him was far better.
The caravan toward his country estate consisted of his carriage and Lady Farris’s own vehicle, which transported her, Baron Mentmore, Lord Pickhill, and Mr. Parley. Their servants trundled behind in a more sturdy coach.
It was all Noel could do to keep from jouncing his leg in impatience. The late afternoon light would gild Carriford’s West Terrace, which he’d show Jess as soon as she had settled in her room. He’d made very specific instructions in his letter to the butler as to the placement of Jess’s bedchamber. Hopefully, she’d be pleased with his decision.
“Do you host many house parties at this estate?” Mr. Walditch asked.
“Not for some time.” He wouldn’t mention one weeklong bacchanalia a few years ago that had seen him playing nude billiards with an actress, and the garden fountain that had been filled with wine so that anyone might drink by scooping their hand into its contents. Even shy, scholarly Holloway had been his version of wild, fencing with McCameron in the long, vaulted gallery.
“I think I see some towers.” Jess pointed to the sloped gables that barely poked above the ash trees. “Is that it?”
“We’re passing through the gates just now.” He waited in anticipation as the carriage rolled up the long, curving drive that led to Carriford’s front entrance. Instead of looking out the window, however, his gaze held to Jess’s face, eager to see her response to his estate.
A shame that the soap makers weren’t located in Cambridgeshire, where his grandest home, and the seat of the duchy, was situated. Surely its fifteen bedchambers and thirty public rooms would impress her.
He discreetly rubbed his palms on his thighs in an attempt to dry them. He gave an inaudible, self-deprecating snort. When was the