My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3)

by Julie Johnstone

  Anne, who was naturally resplendent in white, breezed through the door looking like a delicate flower as Jemma tried to bat Eliza’s hands away when she attempted to powder her face to hide the freckles.

  “No powder,” she said.

  “But, Miss Adair, your grandfather—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jemma huffed. “Don’t tell me you’ll lose your position if my freckles are showing.”

  The maid nodded. Jemma let out a disgruntled sigh but turned to face Eliza so the woman could powder her. When she was done, Jemma looked in the mirror and frowned. The powder had done its job, which was the opposite of what Jemma had wanted.

  “I believe my work here is done,” Eliza said. She bobbed a curtsy and rushed out the door.

  Jemma grunted. “I’m surprised Grandfather didn’t tell her to bind my feet. After all, they’re too big compared to most women’s.”

  “Your feet are perfect,” Anne said with a slight wince.

  Jemma touched Anne’s shoulder. “Is your leg bothering you?”

  Anne nodded. “It’s the horseback riding lessons. I think I overtaxed myself.”

  Jemma nibbled her lip. “Perhaps you ought not go tonight.” She didn’t voice what Anne already knew: when her leg was bothering her, her limp became incredibly pronounced and could make even walking painful. If Anne had to dance...

  “I’m going! So don’t you dare say a word, especially in front of Grandfather. He might say I cannot attend tonight because he’s afraid I’d embarrass him with my graceless gait. I refuse to be denied.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Anne. Missing one ball will not be the end of your life. You will have opportunity aplenty to meet a man.”

  Anne opened her mouth as if to say something, then clamped it shut. “I’m going. I must, and that’s the end of it. Besides”—she hiked up her dress and pointed at her new slippers—“these do help me tremendously. For all Grandfather’s coolness, it occurred to me how incredibly thoughtful this gift was.”

  Jemma frowned. It was thoughtful, which was completely unlike him. “He must have an ulterior motive.”

  A dark, mutinous look crossed Anne’s face, and she thrust out her chin. “You’ve become a judgmental, cold, tart-tongued shrew.”

  Jemma gasped. It had been funny when Lord Harthorne had called her Katherina from The Taming of the Shrew because she knew he had been teasing her, but Anne was wholly serious. “I do believe that is the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Anne sighed. “Well, I’m sorry but it’s true. Just look how tart you were with Lord Harthorne. He paid you a compliment and you told him he had a beautiful gift for lying!”

  Jemma winced. She did feel the teeniest bit regretful about that. Though, it was probably correct. He was man, after all. She shrugged. “He didn’t seem overly wounded.”

  “What was he supposed to say? That you’re rather nasty? He’s a gentleman. And unless you are blind, surely you see how handsome the man is with his mahogany hair and dark, dazzling eyes.”

  Mahogany hair? Dark, dazzling eyes? Anne’s language was so flowery, yet Jemma would have chosen those exact words to describe Lord Harthorne. She could picture his eyes and hair now—in exact detail—and that was the problem. It raised her defenses. He raised her defenses.

  A gleam came to Anne’s eyes, as if she could read Jemma’s thoughts and understood that now was the time to strike. “And as for Lord Glenmore, you’ve judged him unworthy before you’ve ever met the poor man! You, sister dear, are the sort of old, lonely, bitter woman we used to feel so sorry for when she came into the bakery, except you are not old.”

  Anne’s words stung, especially because Jemma worried that the bitter part was true. Will’s betrayal had changed her. Before he’d broken her heart, she’d believed Mother had just had rotten luck with Father and that Grandfather was your typical stuffy aristocrat who couldn’t move past the fact that his daughter had defied him. But after Will, she knew she’d been fooling herself, and that made her angry at Will, at Father, and at Grandfather. She didn’t want to be bitter for the rest of her life. She had to work to let that anger go, she knew. But that didn’t mean she was changing how she felt about men. She was not.

  “Jemma?”

  “I don’t want to be bitter,” she relented.

  Anne quirked a brow. “And Lord Glenmore?”

  Jemma shook her head. “Any man who would agree to court a woman he’s never met would never be the sort of man I would have considered for marriage, even before I became a shrew,” she said with a smirk.

  Anne smiled. “I suppose I’ll have to take what you’ll give me.”

  “Smart sister.” Jemma winked.

  Soon they were on their way to their first ball of the Season with their grandfather and their chaperone, Mrs. Featherstone. It didn’t take long to get to the Duke of Scarsdale’s home, and once they arrived, Grandfather turned to Jemma and waved a hand.

  “Come, I already see Lord Glenmore.”

  Jemma barely stifled her groan as she, Anne, and Mrs. Featherstone followed Grandfather through the thick crowd. Within moments, she found herself curtsying as she was introduced to Lord Glenmore and his father, the Marquess of Wynfell, under glittering chandeliers and surrounded by the swirling notes of a quadrille. When she came up from her curtsy, she searched out Lord Glenmore’s eyes and realized, with a start, that the small, beady things were focused on her bosom. She slid Anne an I-told-you-so look, but Anne wasn’t even paying attention. She had her head turned to the dance floor, and as Jemma tried to ferret out at what or whom her sister might be looking, Lord Glenmore spoke and she turned sharply back toward him.

  “I’ll be pleased to court Miss Adair,” he said in a most lecherous tone, not bothering to take his gaze from her chest as he spoke.

  Was the fiendish man talking to her, her grandfather, or his father? Regardless, her temper sparked to life like a raging river, and she opened her mouth to ask him if he always ogled women’s bosoms, but he drew his gray eyes upward to her face and curled his lips back in a feral sort of smile.

  “I’m sure it won’t take us long at all to ascertain whether or not we suit.” A sneer pulled his lips even farther back as his gaze drifted slowly once again down to her bosom.

  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. “And 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.”