by Mary Balogh
And it irritated him to know that it was so. Why should he care what happened to the woman? He was not really responsible for her. And he had given her the chance of a secure future. Two chances. She would have lived far more comfortably as his mistress than she had ever lived in her life, he would wager. And when she had refused that life, he had sent her to his grandmother. And Grandmama would not let him down. She would find something for Miss Moore.
Why should he be worried, then, worried to the point of scarcely sleeping the night before and of rushing to Berkeley Square for the second time in three days? Why should he be worried that she would not have gone to his grandmother? He fervently hoped that she had. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to be roaming the streets of London, searching all the favorite haunts of prostitutes for the next several weeks if she had not.
Damn that woman! Rutherford thought as he handed his greatcoat, hat, and gloves to a footman and followed the butler upstairs to his grandmother's drawing room. She had stood before him in the parlor of the Blue Peacock Inn the morning after his sleepless night, the little gray governess all over again, her eyes not once directed at anything but the floor, coolly refusing all his most charming and lordly invitations to ride with him in his carriage. It had been almost impossible to imagine, looking at her, that she was the same woman who had lain hot and aroused in his arms for all too brief and unsatisfactory a period the night before.
Damn her! He hoped she had come and that Grandmama had sent her to a remote corner of Wales or Scotland. Then he could put her out of his mind and seek out more grateful female companionship that night.
"Ah, Charles, m'boy," the duchess said when he was announced, "I have been expecting you. I am in the middle of telling these ladies that I am soon to have company. Young granddaughter of one of the dearest friends of my youth. Coming for the winter. I am going to introduce her to society."
"You, Grandmama?" Rutherford stared at her in some surprise, his eyebrows raised.
"Lonely in my old age," she said vaguely. "I shall enjoy it."
It was only later, when the arrival of more visitors led to less generalized conversation that she was able to add for the ears of her grandson only, "Young chit, Charles. Might make a good wife for you, m'boy. I shall expect you to show her some attention."
Rutherford pulled a face. "So far, Grandmama," he said, "I don't thoroughly approve your idea of eligible females. I am sure that with your connections you will be able to marry her off in a fortnight. Especially if her father has money. Did Miss Moore come yesterday?"
"Eh?" she said vaguely. "Oh, your gray governess, Charless. Yes, yes. I have dealt satisfactorily with that matter."
"You have found her a situation?" he asked.
"Yes, yes," she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Now about this gel, Charles. She will be new to society, you know. I shall be counting on you to bring her into fashion."
He grimaced. "I suppose that means dancing with her at assemblies, sitting in your box at the opera, and such like," he said. "Well, Grandmama, I suppose one favor deserves another. I shall play the gallant. But only for a few days, mind. If she is from the country, the girl is bound to be a dreadful bore."
"We shall see," the duchess said, rising to her feet and advancing on a pair of new arrivals, one hand extended graciously.
5
Jessica looked at herself full-length in the mirror once more. She had dismissed the maid fifteen minutes before. But she still deemed it too early to go downstairs.
What she saw in the glass did not entirely displease her, she had to admit. After two years in unrelieved gray, with her hair constantly pulled back into an unbecoming bun, she felt a certain delight to see herself in a colored gown. The apricot silk fell loosely from beneath her breasts. It was adorned with heavy flounces around the hem. The plain scooped neckline was daringly low, she felt, though both the dowager duchess and the dressmaker had assured her that it was quite conservative. The short puffed sleeves were trimmed with miniature flounces to match the hem. She wore apricot slippers and long white gloves.
And her hair! It had rarely been cut in her life, and then only because she had felt the ends were lifeless and split. Papa had held that a woman was intended to leave her hair long, and she had always respected his opinions. She still could not believe the lightness of her head without all the bulk. Her hair was still not short as the hairdresser had tried to persuade her was all the crack. It was twisted up into a topknot. But the severity was all gone. Soft curls framed her face and trailed along her neck. She really looked quite pretty, she thought privately, for all her four-and-twenty years.
And what an advanced age it was to be making her first appearance in society. And at a ball at that. She had never thought to attend a real grand ball. Indeed, she had been taking dancing lessons for the past five days, brushing up on the steps of the country dances they had performed on the village green at home, learning the more elegant dances, including the scandalous waltz, against which her father had spoken so strongly when he had heard of it.
And what was she doing, Jessica thought, turning away from the mirror again and toying with the brushes on the dressing table, in residence at Berkeley Square with the Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh, friend of her grandmother? And what was she doing allowing the duchess to clothe her and train her in the social skills and organize a social life for her? It was the very life she had refused to allow her own grandfather to provide for her two years before. She had chosen rather to make her own way in life. She had become Sybil Barrie's governess.
She had loved her grandparents while her grandmother lived. During the one week of each year that she spent with them, she had loved to explore the house with its many treasures and to roam the estate, both on foot and on horseback. And this despite the fact that her grandfather had never had anything good to say about her father. Her grandmother had been a gentle soul who was content to pour out the love of her lonely heart on her one grandchild, whom she saw so seldom.
After Grandmama's death, the visits had been less enjoyable. Grandpapa had been forever criticizing her drab appearance, her love of reading, her serious ideas on life, religion, and politics. He had wanted her to come and live with him so that he could make her into the lady she should be by birth. He had wished to send her to school. She had quarreled quite violently with him two years before her own father's death when he had accused Papa of dreadful things including stealing and then killing her mother. She had refused to visit him after that.
She might have gone to him after her father's death. Although she was of age, she had led a quiet and sheltered life. She was frightened by the prospect of being alone. Her father had left almost nothing beyond a pile of books. But the marquess had come to her and had angered her beyond bearing when he told her his plans for her. They included a Season in London and a dazzling marriage, both of which she had secretly dreamed of for years. But his manner had been irritating. He had not consulted her wishes at all. And he had loudly criticized her poor dead father yet again for holding her back from her birthright until she was already fairly on the shelf.
"It's a good thing I am able to offer a handsome dowry, Jessica," he had said, "or I do not know where we would find the man to take you at your age."
That had been the final straw. "I do not need either your dowry or a husband, Grandpapa," she had said quite firmly. "I am my father's daughter as well as my mother's. I shall make my own way in life without your help."
They had both said a great deal more in voices that had gradually risen in volume and increased in vehemence. But neither had shifted position. In the end the marquess had returned home in high dudgeon, and a frightened Jessica had taken up residence with some friends while the local squire's wife graciously agreed to help her find a situation.
And here she was, Jessica thought now, for all her fine words, doing what her grandfather had wanted her to do all along. She had found it less easy to defy the Dowager Duchess of M
iddleburgh. That lady did not lose her temper. She merely had a will of iron. Jessica had protested. She could not be so beholden to a stranger. She could not have hospitality and gifts showered on her when she had nothing to offer in exchange. She could not make an appearance in society when nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for such a life. She could not face the Earl of Rutherford if she accepted his grandmother's generosity. This last objection had been stated hesitantly, but in truth it was perhaps the most forceful in Jessica's mind.
The duchess had had an answer for everything. She was not a stranger. The Marchioness of Heddingly had been one of her dearest friends, if not the dearest. Jessica had a great deal to offer in exchange for the little the duchess could give her. She had her youth and her freshness. The duchess was a lonely old woman, who would be eternally grateful for Jessica's company. Jessica had a suspicion that this was quite a bouncer. The "gel" would do very nicely in society for all her lack of formal training. She had a natural refinement of manner. And as for Rutherford-the old lady had made a dismissive gesture-she rarely set eyes on the boy. They certainly did not frequent the same events. It was very unlikely that Jessica would so much as set eyes on him ever again.
Jessica felt somewhat comforted by the last assurance, though not entirely. Why had Lord Rutherford been so certain that his grandmother would help her if he rarely visited in Berkeley Square? And he clearly had been there before her own visit to tell his grandmother of her coming.
However, Jessica thought as she picked up the ivory fan that lay on her bed, it was rather too late to be having second thoughts now. Somehow she had been drawn into the duchess's schemes the week before, and since then she had been wrapped in luxury. The only irksome fact had been having to stay indoors until some presentable clothes could be delivered from the dressmaker's. Indeed, she had not even been allowed out of her room during those afternoons when visitors were expected. She was to make her first appearance, the duchess had decided, on this very evening, when Lord
Chalmers was giving a ball on the occasion of his wife's birthday.
And make her appearance she must, Jessica decided, taking a deep breath and realizing that her heartbeat was becoming painful and was interfering with her breathing. She turned resolutely to leave the room.
He really did not want to be here. Lord Rutherford looked up the staircase to where he could just see the beginning of the receiving line, and down the staircase to where several chattering groups had already gathered behind him. He glanced at Sir Godfrey Hall beside him and marveled at how his friend could always look amiable even in the most trying of circumstances. And this was extremely trying. It was not so much that he objected to being at Chalmers' ball. He supposed it was quite likely that he would have looked in on it anyway, such entertainments being sparse enough at this particular time of the year. What had really set him into a bad temper was having to come at such an hour. He could not remember when he had last been subjected to the tedium of a receiving line.
But he had to be present to lead this new protegee of his grandmother's into the opening set, she had said. It was not enough to assure her that he would sign the chit's card for two separate sets later in the evening. No, he must be there at the start so that she would be seen dancing with him and would be in demand for the rest of the evening. Was the girl so ugly that only such notice by him would induce other men to partner her? He had a premonition that she would be another Sybil Barrie, heaven help him.
But, he thought with a shrug, at least he would not be trapped in the country for a week or more with this particular matrimonial gem. A few days, he had promised his grandmother. He would dance with her twice tonight and lead her in to supper-he had been forced to promise that the second dance he had with her would be the supper dance. He would pay a call on her in Berkeley Square when there were plenty of other people there to take note of the fact. And he would take her for a brisk drive in the park-not such a mark of distinction as it would be in the spring, when there was always such a squeeze that a carriage could scarcely move. But still better than nothing. He would pay his respects at the Middleburgh box if she was taken to the theater.
And that was really about all his grandmother could expect. If that amount of attention did not fire the girl off, then there was little more he could do to help her. She would have to rely on hints dropped about the size of her dowry.
"My heartiest apologies, Godfrey," Rutherford said quietly to his companion. "I would not have dragged you here this early if I had known that there would be enough of a squeeze for us to be kept waiting on the stairs."
"Think nothing of it," his friend replied, smiling and inclining his head in the direction of an acquaintance farther down the staircase. "Being early does have its advantages, you know, Charles. One can find space on the cards of some of the prettier girls before they fill up."
"Hm," Rutherford said. He had never found difficulty in securing a set with even the prettiest girl after midnight if he just smiled at her or her mama in the right way. Perhaps his status as a wealthy, titled bachelor had something to do with the matter.
By the time the two men had made their way along the line ten minutes later, Rutherford was scowling, an expression that paradoxically drew even more female glances his way than usual. He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the scene around him, while Sir Godfrey beside him looked more pointedly with the aid of a quizzing glass.
His grandmother was not difficult to find, Rutherford soon discovered. Her tall figure and upright bearing drew one's eyes even without the purple satin gown and turban and ridiculously high plumes. And even from a distance he could see the rouge on her cheeks and lips. She had not yet seen him, or she pretended not to have done so. Probably the latter. No one had sharper eyesight than Grandmama, even without the spectacles.
Rutherford's eyes narrowed on the young person beside her. She was half turned away from him so that he could see only the barest profile of her face. The nose was straight, the chin determined, though not jutting. Pretty hair. It was no decided color, merely a light brown, but it was soft and shiny. Her figure, he guessed, was quite exquisite, though the fashionable gown falling loose from below her bosom hinted at rather than revealed the curves of waist and hips. One leg was slightly bent at the knee, a further hint of shapeliness. Her breasts looked full and high. She was perhaps on the low side of medium height.
Perhaps this would not be such an ordeal after all, he thought, his interest piqued.
"I must go and pay my respects to the dowager," he announced to Sir Godfrey, and began to stroll in her direction.
"Who is the beauty?" his friend asked, falling into step beside him. "Anyone I should meet, Charles?"
"Ah, Charles, m'boy," the dowager duchess said loudly as he approached, "what a surprise. I did not know you frequented ton balls."
"Indeed, Grandmama?" he said, eyebrows raised in some surprise. He took the hand she held toward him, executing one of his most elegant bows, and kissed her gloved hand. "I see you are looking quite as ravishing as usual."
"Impertinent boy," she said, rapping him on the sleeve of his brocaded coat with her fan. "Meet my guest, Charles. My grandson, the Earl of Rutherford, my dear. Miss Jessica Moore, Charles."
Strangely, he thought afterward when he had a chance to think, although he had turned to her and looked appreciatively into her lovely face even as his grandmother still spoke, it was only as she mentioned the girl's name that he was jolted into recognition. His hand was already extending itself, he was already in the motion of bowing. His face was already set into a smile.
He completed his actions, raised her hand to his lips, and murmured, "Hello, Jess," without missing a heartbeat, just as if he had known she would be there, had prepared himself to meet her again. In truth, he was stunned. There was an air of unreality about the moment.
His mind hardly registered the fact that she was very pale when he went into his bow, decidedly flushed when he came out of it, and that al
most no sound escaped her as her lips formed the words, "My lord."
"Good evening, Sir Godfrey," the dowager duchess was saying graciously beside them. "How is your father? Recovering? I am delighted to hear it. Do meet my guest, the granddaughter of my dearest friend, who is staying with me for the winter. Jessica, my dear, this is Sir Godfrey Hall. Miss Jessica Moore, sir."
She curtsied to Godfrey and even gave him something that would pass for a smile. She had done neither for him. Rutherford looked at her and then transferred his narrowed gaze to his grandmother. The old fiend. How did she hope to get away with this masquerade? And why was she doing it? To punish him? To have a joke on the ton? It was quite a tasteless and certainly an insufferable joke.
She smiled blandly back. "How grand of you to be here so early, Charles," she said. "Do you plan to dance, or are you to spend the evening in the card room?"
"I came to dance, ma'am," he said, his voice icy. "Miss Moore, may I have the honor of signing your card for the opening set and the supper dance? If those dances have not been spoken for already, of course."
There was an awkward pause as she stared at him in almost open dismay. "No," she said. "I mean no, those sets have not been reserved. I thank you, my lord."
He looked her straight in the eye before bending his head in order to scribble his name against the two dances on her card. He bowed and turned away as Godfrey-poor fool-was reserving the second set with her. He clasped his hands behind him and surveyed the ballroom anew, without seeing anything. He concentrated on keeping his breathing under control. He could not recall ever feeling quite so murderously furious.
He was not given much time in which to either control his anger or allow it to build. Lord Chalmers was leading his wife out onto the floor to begin the opening set. Other sets were beginning to form around them. Lord Rutherford turned toward Jessica, bowed stiffly, and held out his arm for her hand.