Jemma’s palm itched to slap the sneer off his face, but she could not openly cross her grandfather’s wishes in such a way.
“Excellent,” her grandfather and Lord Wynfell boomed as one.
Lord Wynfell clapped Grandfather on the back. “Let’s leave the young people to it, then, shall we, and retire to the card room? I’m told the Duke of Scarsdale is holding court in there as we speak.”
Jemma wasn’t surprised when her grandfather nodded his head quickly in the affirmative, waved Mrs. Featherstone over, and instructed her to keep an eye on Jemma and Anne. Grandfather likely could care less that Lord Glenmore was more interested in the size of her breasts than anything else, but she cared. The man had a wicked gleam in his eyes that spelled trouble. She’d place all the pin money she’d saved on the opinion that Lord Glenmore’s notion of getting to know her did not fall within the realm of proper English etiquette. And that was one bit of etiquette she liked very much, indeed.
As Grandfather and Lord Wynfell excused themselves, Mrs. Featherstone pointed to a chair behind them. “I simply must sit down,” she said. “I will chaperone you from the chair.”
Thank goodness Jemma had Anne. Her twin would never leave her alone with Lord Glenmore. She turned to give Anne a look that conveyed her desperation, but Anne still had her head turned to the dance floor. When Jemma touched her fingers to Anne’s arm, her sister swiveled to look at her, a beatific smile lighting Anne’s face.
Jemma peered over Anne’s shoulder and searched for what held her rapt attention. She passed her gaze over Lady and Lord Letterbee, Lady Emma, the Dowager Duchess of Darlington, and Mr. Ian Frazier, a notorious railroad magnate who had once fancied himself enamored of Sophia, or rather, in Sophia’s opinion, the large fortune she’d inherited when it was thought for a time that her husband was dead. Jemma started to move on and then snapped her gaze back.
Surely Anne had not been staring at Mr. Frazier who—Jemma blinked—was striding straight toward them with long, cocksure steps. Jemma narrowed her eyes and tried to picture the man as sweet, innocent Anne would. He was very tall with thick, golden hair, piercing light-blue eyes, and an easy, open smile. The closer he drew the tighter her stomach became. Surely, surely, Anne was wise enough not to fall under Mr. Frazier’s spell. Why, they’d not been around him enough for Anne to fall for him. Had they?
Jemma quickly thought back. He’d been at the ball Grandfather had given—and at Jemma’s invitation because she’d wanted to irritate Grandfather. He’d been at several dinner parties, a garden party, a musicale… She groaned as he stopped in front of them and Anne let out a little sigh. Heaven above! How had she missed that Anne was smitten? Was this Anne’s secret? Dread filled Jemma. Mr. Frazier was a rake to the core and would break her sister’s huge heart with his big, clumsy hands.
Mr. Frazier bowed as he came to stand before them. “Good evenin’, ladies.” His Scottish brogue was as thick as ever.
“Mr. Frazier, might I present Lord Glenmore, and of course, you already know my sister.” Jemma watched them carefully as Anne curtsied to Mr. Frazier and he bowed to her. Were Anne’s eyes locked on him in a dreamy way, or was Jemma imagining it?
Lord Glenmore offered Mr. Frazier a condescending smile, showing his true nature in her judgment. Lord Glenmore was a self-important addlepate.
Before she could think of a topic of conversation to fill the silence among the four of them, Mr. Frazier turned to Anne. “Is this dance taken?”
Jemma silently willed Anne to say, Yes.
“No,” Anne gushed and didn’t even look at Jemma as she handed her dance card to Mr. Frazier and he scratched his name on it before offering Anne his escort.
“If ye’ll excuse us,” Mr. Frazier said.
“Anne!” Jemma gasped as Anne started to leave with him.
Her sister turned back to her with a beseeching look that Jemma could not ignore. Jemma clamped her mouth shut. One dance in a crowded ballroom would not lead to disaster. Besides, Mrs. Featherstone was watching them. Tonight, when they returned home, she would warn Anne against Mr. Frazier. It wasn’t just that Sophia swore he was a social climber, either; there was a predatory gleam in his eye for which Jemma didn’t care.
Jemma faced Lord Glenmore and tried to determine how to get rid of him. She gave a little cough. “I’m awfully thirsty.” She’d slip away when he went to get her a refreshment.
He snapped his fingers at a footman a few feet away who was carrying around a tray of ratafia, and when the footman came near, Lord Glenmore snagged a glass and thrust it at her. “Here.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled as he waved the footman away.
Lord Glenmore flicked his blond hair out of his eyes, then made no pretense of sliding his gaze down her body and back up. When his eyes met hers, the tiniest line appeared as he narrowed them, and the gleam came back. He pressed his thin lips together for a moment. “My father tells me your father was a commoner and that makes you a commoner, duke’s granddaughter or not.”
Jemma lifted her chin. This was the first time since coming to London that someone had openly disdained her origins, and it stung, which made her angry for caring. “It’s no secret my father was not a lord.”
Lord Glenmore nodded. “I have to admit when Father demanded I return from my Grand Tour to court you, I was not pleased, large dowry or not, but I’ve heard whispers about you tonight that you don’t heed the English rules of etiquette, and I like that.” He ran a finger down her bare arm, and the feel of his flesh against hers made her skin crawl. “I can see the fire in your eyes. You’re no English rose. You are a wild American flower, and I’m a wild gentleman. I bet you have a hefty appetite.”
“I eat like a bird, actually,” she snapped, fuming that her grandfather would tie her to this disgusting man without so much as blinking an eyelash.
“Come”—Lord Glenmore’s voice had taken on a slick, slimy tone—“we both know I’m not speaking of food.”
The heat of anger flushed her chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He leaned closer, too close for them to have just met but not so close as to call attention to his actions. He was clever. She’d have to be cleverer. His smell, an unpleasant, sickly sweet odor, surrounded her. “I require an obedient wife in all ways,” he murmured.
She had to force herself to unclench her jaw to speak. “Then I’m afraid, Lord Glenmore, you’d not be happy with me as your wife.”
“Make no mistake, I plan to tame you before I marry you. But don’t fret. You can be as wild as you wish when it is just you and me.”
Jemma felt her lips part in shock, and when Lord Glenmore smirked, she understood he’d wanted to astound her. Her heart pounded so viciously her chest hurt.
“Give me your dance card,” he demanded in a cold voice.
She drew her wrist, with the blank card attached to it, close to her. “I’m so sorry, but all my dances are already taken.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”
“Only a fool would call a lady as beautiful as Miss Adair a liar,” a smooth, deep voice said from behind her.
Jemma whirled around and gawked at the sight of Lord Harthorne, dressed in black evening attire, right down to the dark cravat that matched his amused gaze. He filled his coat out very well. Very well, indeed. How had she missed before this moment how broad his shoulders were and how wide and solid the expanse of his chest?
Embarrassed at her thoughts, she yanked her focus upward. He smiled, and it lit his face, and to her astonishment, her skin not only prickled but her heart raced. Then he turned his eyes toward Lord Glenmore, and Lord Harthorne’s gaze turned frigid, as if a winter blizzard had chilled him from the inside out.
“Glenmore, since I know personally you are a fool, I’m not surprised at your asinine behavior.”
“Is that any way to speak to a friend?” Lord Glenmore said in a sarcastic tone.
“No,” Lord Harthorne said in a deadpan voice. “A
nd that should tell you all you need to know on the subject of our onetime friendship. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Lord Harthorne said and turned to look down at Jemma, “I believe you promised me this dance?”
If he was willing to rescue her, she’d gladly let him. She scooted closer to him, and immediately, his scent—a woodsy musky smell—filled her nose. It was heavenly. She didn’t remember him smelling so good before. She tilted her head to answer him, and he drew nearer, and Lord, but she could swear it was to protect her. Dear heaven, she hoped she was not sliding back into being the dreamy, foolish girl who’d been duped by Will.
No. She firmly shook her head. Never that.
Lord Harthorne frowned at her. “I beg your pardon. I thought it was the first dance I’d claimed. My apologies.”
When he started to step away, she grasped his arm and yanked up her card in a show of checking. “No, no, you’re quite correct. It was the first dance.” She fairly dragged Lord Harthorne away in her haste to put distance between her and Lord Lecher.
The thick crowd in Sophia and His Grace’s home made it impossible to beat a hasty retreat. A crush of people coming off the dance floor stalled Jemma’s progress at the edge. When she glanced over her shoulder, Lord Glenmore was headed toward them. The last thing she wanted was to have to speak to that odious man again tonight.
She whipped to face Lord Harthorne. “I know you must have overheard my conversation with Lord Glenmore and you were gallantly trying to rescue me, but would you please consider really dancing with me?”
“I never considered otherwise,” he said smoothly. He took her hand, and the notes of another quadrille were just starting as he steered her among the dancers.
She bit her lip as they took their positions, and then, swallowing her pride, she frantically whispered in his ear. “I have only practiced this dance once, and it was a dreadful disaster!”
He winked at her. “Follow my lead. I’ll not let you make a cake of yourself.”
He wanted her to trust him? She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. What choice did she have?
The music picked up pace, and she took a deep breath and did as Lord Harthorne said, following his lead. Several times when everyone else went one way, she seemed to be going the other. Every such moment, though, Lord Harthorne was suddenly beside her, laughing and sending her in the correct direction, until soon the rigid muscles of her jaw relaxed and she found herself laughing, too, and actually enjoying herself as she had not in ages. And when Lord Harthorne took her hand for the last spin of the quadrille and his large palm pressed into the small of her back, she shivered from the warmth of the contact.
She glanced sideways at him and found him staring at her intently as the dance ended. As couples started filing off the dance floor, they stood there with one of each of their hands intertwined and his other hand still resting ever so gently against her spine, and stared into each other’s eyes. In that moment, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt that he might, just possibly might, be one of those rare creatures known as gentlemen. Not that she cared. She didn’t. Truly, it didn’t matter. She wanted a bakery, not a husband.
He smiled, and two appealing dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Would you care to take a stroll on the balcony with me?”
Would she? Her heart roared in her ears. Did she dare agree? What did it mean if she did? One little choice, such as an innocent stroll or helping a certain delivery boy carry a cake to his home so many years ago—Will—could lead to tragic mistakes, even if the consequences were years in the coming. Her insides felt as if someone had reached in there and tied them in a large, impossible knot.
Lord Harthorne cocked his head to the side, released her hand, and ran his own hand through his hair, making it a disheveled, irresistible mess. “It’s only a stroll. Other people will be out there. It’s not as if I plan to squire you away to Gretna Green for a quick marriage. I know I’m warm, and by the flush of your cheeks, I assumed you were, as well.”
In actuality, a line of sweat was dripping down her back from the oppressive heat in the ballroom, but she’d never admit such a thing. Lord Harthorne was correct. It was only a stroll, and she was not the foolish, naive girl she had been six months prior. One stroll did not mean she’d stepped into the Garden of Temptation and someone had slammed the gate, locking it behind her.
“All right,” she said, wincing at the slight tremble in her voice.
Chapter Four
As Philip led Jemma toward the open terrace doors across the ballroom, he saw Scarsdale standing with his wife and one of her friends near the refreshment table. Scarsdale raised his brow, giving him a clearly questioning look that said, What the devil are you doing? Damned if Philip knew. He wove a path toward the terrace doors as he considered things.
Earlier this afternoon, he had confided his financial problems to Scarsdale, the only other person besides Aversley who Philip trusted enough to talk to about his situation. Scarsdale had begrudgingly admitted that if he were in Philip’s situation, he would likely proceed as Philip was proceeding. Once the duke had attested to that, it had not been hard to get his friend to help him. That help had consisted of Scarsdale—who just like Aversley and himself had no clue who the debutantes with large dowries were this Season or any other—calling Sophia into his study and making her take a vow of secrecy before he explained that Philip needed her help creating a list of eligible debutantes. Scarsdale’s man of business had been waiting to see him, so he left Sophia and Philip, and they sat and made a list of ten names. Or rather, Sophia penned the list and he just sat there.
Frankly, at the end of the conversation with Sophia, Philip was depressed. It was disturbing to know he was now most definitely in the lot of men searching for a wife with a large dowry. He considered once more whether he should borrow the money Aversley had offered, but when you borrowed something that meant you repaid it, and he currently could not see how he would ever repay Aversley, even for what he’d already borrowed. He’d be doing the exact same thing his father had done, which had gotten them nowhere and only made matters worse. Borrowing against nothing wasn’t the answer. The only thing he had of worth was his title. It wasn’t the grandest of titles, but some ladies would be happy to be married to an earl. He had to sell himself to save his family. That was it—the cold, hard, indisputable truth. Hopefully, the buyer would be a woman he could love.
So what was he doing escorting Jemma onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air? He should be accompanying one of the ladies on his list onto the terrace or dancing with them, but when he’d walked by Jemma and Glenmore and overheard the cad demand to see the lady’s dance card and then call her a liar, he’d had an actual momentary mental picture of stalking up to Glenmore and planting him a facer.
He glanced sideways at her as he led her through the terrace doors and into the starry night. They headed toward the railing to where there was a space to stand and look at the sky. They paused near a glowing torch, and as she tilted her head to the sky with a soft little sigh, he studied her. Her usually disheveled red hair was piled on top of her head with a half circle of white flowers surrounding the updo. Wearing her hair down in all its wild, ringlet glory suited her personality better, but this way he got a very nice glimpse of her neck. Something he’d never taken much notice of before. It was creamy, long, slender, and devoid of her trademark freckles. He had the sudden urge to press his lips to the expanse of inviting skin.
What the devil? He had clearly been without a woman too long.
“The sky is lovely,” she said dreamily.
He glanced up to drink in the night with her but found his gaze straying back to Jemma. The gown she wore bared her thin, delicate shoulders and showed that, though the night was warm, gooseflesh covered her arms. He shrugged out of his coat as she turned and stared at him but did not speak. Once it was off, he held it just over her shoulders. Her eyes had rounded to twin orbs of bluish-green with a fiery torch reflecting in them.
> “Might I?” he asked. “I see you’re cold.”
She nodded, then said, “You cannot possibly be as nice as you seem.”
Her tone was not sharp; it was slow and musing, and he took her words as a compliment. “You see me as nice?” he asked, settling the black, superfine material over her small frame.
She scrunched up her nose in the most adorable way. “I hadn’t really meant to say that. Sometimes things slip out when I’m not careful, but, yes, you seem nice. Almost too good to be true from what I know of men.”
Her words hinted at why she was sometimes cold and off-putting, almost purposely argumentative. Some man had hurt or disappointed her. Possibly both.
Philip scrubbed a hand over his face as he contemplated her words. She saw him as nice, and that was something he was trying to correct so he’d catch a wife. “I’m not nice,” he growled.
She burst out laughing, and several people turned to stare at them, or maybe they were staring at her. She didn’t have the high tittering laugh that so many ladies of the ton had, nor would he describe her laugh as musical. It was a throaty, deeply sensual laugh that seemed to come from her belly, and the thought of holding her, her body trembling as she laughed, heated him through. Wonderful. The first woman he’d been attracted to in ages—and never with such suddenness or intensity—and he could not afford to be attracted to her. She had no dowry whatsoever.
“Hmm.” Her brow flickered a bit. “It seems as though only someone who was truly nice would try to claim he wasn’t,” she said, swiping at the tears of merriment glistening in her eyes. “I’ve never once met a rake who claimed he wasn’t nice. They always claim the opposite.”
Philip made a mental note of that. He’d have to stop saying he wasn’t nice. “Have you known many rakes, Jemma?” he asked, curious to learn more about her. Hell, had he really just called her by her given name? She didn’t look shocked. In fact, she appeared positively unconcerned. Still, his manners demanded he apologize. “I beg your pardon. That slipped.”
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 87