It had been half-impulsive chivalry and half-imprinted manners that'd forced him to rescue Lady Eleanor. Though he'd toyed with the thought of abandoning her—and the rest of the crowd—the wincing twitch of her mouth convinced him.
That and the lean figure of his father shadowing the growing crowd. No, if his father was determined to re-engage him, Jacob had no intention of tempting his vicious tongue with a listening audience. Rescuing Eleanor Fane seemed an easier of evils.
Not that she herself was particularly an evil. She was only the physical representation of it: an unmarried anchor threatening to tie him to the life he refused to return to. No, it wasn't Lady Eleanor's fault that she embodied the very thing he meant to escape. And admittedly, the woman did not seem to need much rescuing. Jacob had full faith that she would have marched herself back to Newmarket with hardly a whimper.
She was a far cry from the rest of his admittedly few feminine acquaintances. Lady Eleanor had the flinty-eyed look of a seasoned general, or perhaps a weathered captain. Not that he could say he admired her for it: these were not frilly, dainty, lady-like compliments women enjoyed receiving. He did not have any frilly, dainty, lady-like compliments to give her. Nonetheless, even with that fiery determination and swearing mouth, she felt smaller in his arms than he'd anticipated. Though she was by no definitions petite. There was a sturdiness to her height, an obvious physical strength that had been hidden beneath an ill-fitting dress. Jacob found it surprisingly attractive.
That and the clever, alto-pitched smoothness of her voice.
Hell, he almost offered use of his name if only to hear it on her lips.
Until she made it perfectly clear that she thought herself better than him.
"Worthy of your notice?" he asked in a choked voice. Though choked with laughter or disbelief, he wasn't certain. He had half a mind to drop her! If only to prove her right! For a moment, he wished she was just an unknown surgeon's daughter and he was some base-born midshipman and they could dispense with the rules and expectations keeping him from saying exactly what he thought of her and exactly what he wanted to do to that proud, clever mouth.
Lady Eleanor did the impossible managed to shrug, perfectly cavalier, in his arms. Her lips pursed in a frown Jacob was certain she contrived to spite him. And as if she knew it galled him, she did not elaborate beyond the gesture.
"How choosy you women are!" Though there was no true bite to his words, Jacob could not deny her comment irritated him. He might not be a first son, but really, he was at least worth the interest of some formerly unknown surgeon's daughter. "Inherit a title, and you've decided that there is no man in England worth your attention."
Nora laughed, in bright surprise, at that. Jacob ignored how it sent a hot wave straight to his groin. "Oh, it has nothing to do with the title," she said, smiling. It was not the flirtatious smile so many of the ladies flashed at him. Lady Eleanor's mouth had far touch too much wry pleasure. "Or perhaps it has everything to do with the title."
He had, at least, provoked her back into arguing. It was, at that point, that he realized he was smiling too. Jacob had fallen so deeply into the discussion that he'd forgotten he was carrying her away from the party. He could have sworn in surprise. With his luck, he'd be accused of kidnapping the woman; the last thing he needed was the threat of a scandal forcing a wife on him.
"Is this another skill ladies are taught?" Jacob countered. He maneuvered to a lone bench far, though still partially, and respectably, visible, from the revelries. Shaded in the low branches an oak tree, half-shrouded by the garden's hedges, it seemed a safe enough haven to avoid his father and avoid any rumor that he'd taken liberties with Lady Eleanor's virtue. "To contradict yourself in a single breath?"
Lady Eleanor thanked him perfunctorily as he set her down. She narrowed those sharp gray eyes and brushed at some of the stubborn wrinkles at her skirt. It certainly did not smooth any of damage, though did help to accentuate the figure she was hiding. If she had been anyone else, Jacob would have assumed she'd done it on purpose, but her face was still crinkled with impish irritation. With a haughty glare, she said, "Please don't mistake my sex for inadequacy."
Jacob could have laughed at the irony. Lady Eleanor was certainly no lady, but she was wholly adequate. Her hair was wild, her dress mussed, her eyes bright. With the flush of irritation in her cheeks, she looked perfectly disheveled. Hell, she was barefoot. Jacob ran a hand through his hair as his thoughts turned deliciously wicked. The only damn issue was a part of the allure: Lady Eleanor, lady or no, clearly had no idea of her affect on him. If she guessed a fraction of what he was imagining... she'd run off screaming. Even with that injured ankle.
Get yourself together, he told himself. Perhaps rushing to London had been a more foolish idea than he'd realized. He was hardly as rakish as George, but any man would find themselves wound in frustration after three months at sea. He forced his tone to be lighter than the sudden, heavy interest he felt. Returning to their battlefield seemed safer than suggesting what he'd rather do with her. With a rakish smile, he said "So I do have to hear your list of accomplishments, then? I thought we rather escaped that torture."
Lady Eleanor laughed, full and throaty.
So much for safety, Jacob thought, his eyes fixed on the smooth column of her neck. He realized that instead of wearing paste diamonds, she'd chosen to forgo any jewelry, and oddly, she seemed lovelier for its lack. He was beginning to wonder why he hadn't found her handsome at first glance.
Smiling without humor, she said, "Oh, I'm sure Caroline would have twisted them into something pretty for you, but I'm afraid my only true talents are for the skills that would make a terrible wife."
"What are they then? We've already discussed swooning and conversation and contradiction as the wifely standard to aspire to."
"Oh they're hardly worth mentioning," Lady Eleanor said. She waved her hand dismissively and turned towards the river. From her profile, she still could not hide the creep of a rosy blush.
Jacob couldn't help teasing her further. "I already know of your talent for swearing. Certainly that's a skill any man would desire in a wife. And I know you're a surgeon's daughter. Can you stitch a wound?"
"Of course."
"Do you ride?"
"Quite well."
"Shoot?"
"Yes."
"Speak other languages?"
"Latin, French, and Italian. A bit of a few others."
That piqued his interest. A surgeon's daughter might have picked up a foreign word or two over the years, but Latin, French, and Italian were the mark of aristocratic tutoring, surely. As if she could read the question from his very thoughts, she quickly added, "I've an ear for languages is all."
But it made him wonder what other skills she was hiding behind an overlarge dress and imperfectly polished manners.
"Do you play the pianoforte?"
"Yes."
"And you read?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"Watercolors? Singing? Embroidery?"
Her nose crinkled at the list of traditional feminine accomplishments.
"Those as well," she murmured.
Jacob did not notice the softening of her voice, the slight edge of melancholy that lingered in her words. Too caught in their teasing, he pushed further.
"Can a woman be over accomplished?" He asked factitiously. "I would think there has to be a limit. It's a wonder you aren't married."
At this, Lady Eleanor glowered. As if a dark cloud at settled over her, her tone grew sharp and cold. "This is exactly what I meant when I said no gentlemen were worthy of my notice." She stood and anger punctuated each word. "You sit here judging me for the accomplishments society has determined I learn, and what of you?"
"Lady Eleanor, I—"
She did not let him finish, did not let him explain that he was not criticizing her in anything more than jest, did not let him stutter out an apology. With a dark stare, each word more venomous than the last, she said, "How many languages do you speak, lieutenant? What accomplishments do you possess? A good name and a fortune should hardly inspire personal pride. It was bestowed upon you, after all. What good is a gentleman except to laze and leisure?"
Jacob felt his anger spark to life. He had meant only to tease her in mild flirtation, and she'd turned on him with the ferocity of a she-wolf. How dare this surgeon's daughter accuse him of owning no worth? Hell, he'd volunteered himself to join the navy, rather than ask his father for a single penny toward a commission. He hadn't known a moment of lazing since he'd stepped onto that ship ten years ago.
She's not entirely wrong, an annoying, rational portion of his mind whispered. George was the perfect example of a duke's son: wholly uninterested in the world around himself save for the vices and pleasures that distracted from aristocratic ennui. And Charlie? Oh, he might have engaged in some loose definition of "effort" in order to earn his marks at Cambridge, but had not their father paid the tuition and then some? Despite the love he had for his brothers, Jacob could not pretend they were not precisely the type of men to whom she referred.
He meant to agree with her, to apologize—that would be the gentlemanly thing to do—but the knowing, haughty stare she leveled from the cast of her dark eyelashes dried up those amends in a heartbeat. Jacob's pride flared with vicious retribution.
"And what good is lady who is wholly unsuitable for marriage?"
Lady Eleanor's mouth gaped and closed. She tripped over the unsaid words Jacob could see buzzing in her head.
"Ah, well, scintillating conversationalist did seem too high an accomplishment for a surgeon's daughter." He smirked. "Perhaps you're not over accomplished, after all."
"You—you," Nora hissed. Whatever she meant to call him, however, died with a mingled look of horror and surprise. For behind the shrubbery that had so conveniently sheltered them from his father, and the curious eyes of the gossiping ton, a new set of voices echoed through the branches.
Jacob's breath froze in his chest.
Her mussed hair. Her wrinkled dress. Her bare feet.
The splash of pink fury at her cheeks and throat.
Hell and the Devil.
They were done for.