She’d heard that some men preferred the company of other men. Was Curtis one of them?
She wondered if Rowe knew how Curtis felt.
Jess glanced at Noel. He watched Curtis with a faint frown, as if trying to puzzle out a riddle. Was it the fact that a man might desire another man? Perhaps his confusion came from another possibility—one of his dearest friends seemed to desire one of their close circle.
“I’ve a houseful of guests currently,” he said after a moment. “If two of you don’t mind sharing a bed, then I ought to be able to accommodate you.”
“Sleeping on the floor should present no difficulty for me,” McCameron said.
“You’re not sleeping on any floor in my house,” Noel replied.
“I can sleep outside, too.”
“Goddamn it, McCameron, you’re getting a bed at Carriford.”
The Scot lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “As you like.”
“Curtis and I can share,” Rowe said distractedly—and seemed completely unaware that Theodore Curtis had gone perfectly still. “Isn’t that so?”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Curtis said quickly. Too quickly.
Another pause fell, and Jess could only speculate what any of the Union might have been thinking at that moment. Noel walked to the bellpull and tugged.
Jess hurried up to him. “I can share a room with Lady Farris or Lady Haighe,” she murmured.
“Absolutely not. I picked out a particular room for you and—” He stopped, and his jaw clenched. It seemed he’d said too much.
“A specific room for me.” She tilted her head to the side as she considered it. Perhaps he’d put her in a room close to his, because he’d hoped that at some point during the night, one would visit the other’s chamber.
Enticing. And . . . a little irritating, that he might be presumptuous enough to put her near him for easy access.
“The Gillyflower Room.” An actual blush spread across his cheeks. “It’s very pretty—the wall hangings, and such. Has a view of the gardens, too.” As if reading her thoughts, he added, “My bedchamber is clear on the other side of the house. But your room is the prettiest of all.”
“I— Oh. Thank you.”
Before she could think of anything more articulate, Mrs. Diehl appeared. “Your Grace?”
“Prepare the remaining bedchambers for my new guests,” he instructed. “Major McCameron in one, and Mr. Rowe and Mr. Curtis in the other.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied before hurrying away.
“Such consideration as a host,” Jess murmured. “Just as promised.”
“I always deliver. Besides,” he said with a shrug, “the bare minimum is hardly deserving of praise. That’s like congratulating a man for covering his belch.”
“This has been very educational.” At his lifted brow, she explained, “The things I’m learning about you. They’re a continual surprise. A good surprise.”
But it wasn’t good. It was, in fact, awful. She was deceiving him, and the more she discovered about Noel—his kindness, his generosity of pocketbook and spirit, his inquisitive nature that he had to keep hidden behind a veneer of rakishness—the more she understood that all the preventative measures she’d taken against opening her heart to him were in vain.
If she wasn’t careful, she could easily love him.
Chapter 18
“Remember when we were here and Curtis challenged you to an axe throwing contest in the Long Gallery?” McCameron asked, coming to stand beside Noel.
Like Noel, he’d changed into clothing more suitable for dinner, and Noel had to wonder if McCameron missed his dress uniform.
Noel chuckled. “Observe.” He pulled back a tapestry to reveal gouges in the parlor’s wooden paneling. “Part of the house’s lore now.”
“Never to be repeated?”
“A rake by reputation I may be—”
“And action,” McCameron added.
Noel inclined his head in acknowledgment. “But I’m nearing my thirty-fifth year—all of the Union is—and, much as it pains me, it’s likely best to leave behind weeklong bacchanals. Rakishness isn’t the same as immaturity.”
He and McCameron watched from the edge of the room as guests from the Bazaar mingled and chatted with his old friends. There was no worry that any members of the Union of the Rakes might embarrass him—they were all men of the world, and knew precisely when Noel’s manners needed loosening and when they needed to be constrained.
“Does that mean you’ll seek the usual accoutrements of a duke?” McCameron asked. “Wife, heirs, and the rest.”
“Been talking with my mother? She’s eager for the ‘dowager’ to come before her ‘duchess.’”
“Her Grace and I have not been corresponding, but you’re the only one of us who has the obligation to get shackled.”
Such cynicism from McCameron wasn’t unexpected, given his history. Still, it pained Noel