Page 35 of The Duke of Deceit

After a few minutes, Shay ventured, “What happened back there at the townhouse?”

“Madnesshappened at the townhouse,” Lucien muttered. And he didn’t mean the aunt.

He thought he’d be able to see Jessamyn, convince her she was wrong about him, and walk out without a second thought. Instead, he’d found himself pushing down the urge to cross the drawing room to her and give her the kind of proper kiss he’d been longing to share since that moment when he’d jumped into her carriage and glimpsed the fire in her.

Christ.He’d very nearly kissed her goodbye right there at the front door!

Madness, indeed.

“Is she going to stop harassing you?”

Lucien shook his head. “Most likely not. She didn’t believe me when I tried to explain why I know for certain I’m not the father of her sister’s child.”

He rolled his eyes.Good lord.He sounded like the narrator in one of those terrible Gothic novels that were all the rage among middleclass women these days.

“But I have proof in case her sister attempts to force me into marriage,” he added.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter. Then froze.

The letter in his hand wasn’t his. Jess had given him a different one. For a moment, his dark heart assumed the worst—she’d purposefully switched letters so she could destroy it and any proof he had that her sister was lying.

No. She was sharp, but even she couldn’t have known he’d show it to her, so she wouldn’t have had a spare letter handy to switch out. She’d simply given it to him by mistake.

The handwriting was decidedly masculine. His chest clenched. Was the fierce little gel receiving love letters? Was she being courted, perhaps even had an understanding? Lucien shouldn’t have cared; she meant nothing to him except the fleeting enjoyment of a few stolen kisses. Yet jealousy squeezed his chest like a lovesick schoolboy’s.

His jaw tightened as he unfolded the letter and scanned it. His heart skipped. Not a love letter and not from a suitor. Far worse than that—

It was from an investigator, providing information abouthim.

“What’s that?” Shay asked.

Lucien shoved the letter back into his pocket and muttered through clenched teeth, “A declaration of war.”

Chapter Eleven

Putting down herpaint brush, Jess stepped back to assess her work on an illustration of a red flower whose name completely escaped her. Not that it mattered. Her job wasn’t to learn anything about the flowers; her job was to present them in the best possible position to show off their features.

She had managed to do just that, too. On this one, at least. There were others she needed to spend more time on, still others she needed to travel back to Kew to sketch in more detail before the season ended and the flowers went dormant. But for now, she was making excellent progress.

A heavy sigh sagged her shoulders, and she wiped her hands on her apron. She was exhausted. Last night had been another sleepless night. Well, not entirely. She had managed to fall asleep a few times between tossing and turning in bed, but each time, her dreams had been filled with Lucien, and not all of them had been the wonderful dreams of before. Finally, she’d given up well before dawn, slipped out of bed and dressed, then came down to her studio to once more throw herself into the refuge of her work.

That was proving to be the only good thing about her confusion over Lucien. It had been incredibly productive for her art, letting her create some of the best work she’d ever donewith her illustrations. She’d even been tempted to pick up her oil paints again.

She walked to her work table where she kept her supplies and sketches and began to sort through the pieces of chalk she’d thrown into a small drawer, but her thoughts kept drifting to Amanda.

Was it possible her sister had lied to her? If she had, what reason could she possibly have had for violating Jess’s trust? Jess had written a letter to Amanda immediately after Lucien left their house yesterday. In it, she demanded to know the truth—neededto know it, if she were to help her sister out of her situation.

But the security of having that letter on its way to Ireland didn’t stop Jess from anxiously waiting and worrying.

“Or writing again, just in case,” she muttered to herself as she went to the small writing desk and withdraw a piece of stationary, quill, and ink pot.

She paused, took a deep breath, and wrote,

Sister,

What happened in the garden between you and the Duke of Crewe—exactly? Is Lucien Grenier truly the father of your baby? I desperately need to know. Please reply as soon as you receive this missive.

Always Your Loving Sister—