A sudden desire to toss the blasted cat aside so he could resume its attentions to her bosom seized Peter by the throat. He had to fight for decorum to prevail. He cleared his throat again, a bit louder this time.“Good morning. I wager from the state of my drawing room that you all had some success in the first ball of the Season.” He gestured toward the endless supply of fresh-cut flowers overwhelming his nostrils. “Perhaps, Sophie, one of the senders will suit you as a potential match? Or would that be rushing matters, since this is only your sixth Season on the marriage mart. Or is it your seventh?”
She only scowled at him in response, but then offered, “You did very well by Jane last night in securing potential suitors. The vast majority of these flowers are for her. I daresay she’ll have a room full of gentlemen callers this afternoon. Well done.” She clucked a tongue, and her tongue dripped with sarcasm.
“Do I hear a dash of jealousy, Sophia? Should I send more gentlemen your way at the next ball, so that you can then dash their hopes and give them the cut direct?” Of course, he was being forced at present to ignore his own jealousy, so he shouldn’t give her such grief. Not that he really thought she was jealous. She’d had more opportunities to marry than he could count, and flouted them all.
Peter looked down at the orange fluff in Miss Matthews’s lap again and forced his ire down. It was bloody ridiculous to envy a cat.
“Not jealousy at all,” Sophie countered. “I was merely pointing out that you sent so many gentlemen for introductions to Jane, including some...shall we say, less-than-desirables.”
“Really, Peter,” interrupted Charlotte. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when Lord Utley came across from your group and begged an introduction to her. It was quite irregular, to say the least.”
“I did not—” He couldn’t finish his objection before Sophie cut in.
“Luckily for Jane, nothing happened when she danced with him. Granted, he did take her out for some air, and then he left her to rejoin the ball alone...but I daresay hardly anyone noticed so it doesn’t really signify. I doubt her reputation will suffer overmuch from the gossip. Surely they’ll move on to something more scintillating—something juicier—in no time.”
Through the entire discussion to this point, Miss Matthews had remained silent, listening to the arguments over her reputation—and the possibility of scandal—with an abashed look upon her face.
Finally, at this juncture, she entered the fray. “I’m unconcerned about the gossip mill, Sophie. And as I told you last night, I’m certain some sort of miscommunication must have occurred. Why, if Lord Utley truly has the sort of reputation you feel he has...well, then I’m more than positive that your brother would never have sent him over for an introduction. His Grace can’t very well be blamed for a scandal which may very well not matriculate at all.”
Sensible head on that one, even if she thought she knew more about what was good for her than he did. Still, it was rather charming to find a woman who could think so clearly. Most ladies of his acquaintance, his sisters occasionally being exceptions to the rule, couldn’t make a decision about what flavor of ice they wanted at Gunter’s on their own, let alone come to a logical conclusion to solve any sort of problem.
Blast it, why could she not be the dull, dreary, and uneducated, countrified mouse that he had initially thought her to be? He had a sinking suspicion that life as he knew it was soon to become overly complicated. And if there was one thing that Peter hated—truly, utterly detested with every ounce of his soul—it was complication.
He preferred his life to be neat and orderly, much like his office. Everything lined up in neat rows. Everyone knowing their role and position. Everything operating smoothly, without a constant need for his input or prodding.
But there was nothing neat, or orderly, or in need of merely a gentle prodding (not to mention having an understanding of her role, but he would have to deal with that later, when there was no audience present to eavesdrop on their discussion), about Miss Matthews. Nothing at all. In fact, she might just be the epitome of chaos itself.
So why on earth was he attracted to the woman?
She was everything he wanted to avoid, but at the same time, she had begun to consume his thoughts. Why couldn’t she have been a bumbling fool when they had danced together last night? Then he would have been able to brush his budding lust for her aside and move on with his night, working to find her a husband before dancing with enough other young ladies to appease his mother.
Dancing with Miss Matthews, however, had only added fuel to his desire. She had proved her intelligence and wit while they danced, and he’d wanted to dance her away through the open doors allowing a cool breeze to waft over the party, take her under cover of the darkened garden, and do any number of inexcusable and dastardly deeds with her. Somehow he had restrained himself.
But then instead of fulfilling his obligations to his mother and dancing with other ladies, he’d allowed himself to stand to the side of the dance floor and watch her. Dangerous, that.
She had danced and laughed gaily with Sinclaire, and Peter’s jealousy had only mildly surged. Then there was Eldredge and Pottinger, and a small contingent of other eligible gentlemen, all of whom would make rather advantageous matches for Miss Matthews, and whom he had sent over for introductions in the hopes he could hurry things along in that arena. Still, with each of them Peter had kept a tight rein over the envy threatening to dislodge whichever gentleman was on the receiving end of her smiles by clamping his jaw closed and glaring.
That tactic had worked rather well with keeping the undesirable women away from him, also—not an unwelcome effect, all things considered. He imagined he must have looked like a glowering lunatic for the majority of the evening.
But then Utley had come along, and the jealousy building in Peter’s chest had turned to an erupting volcano of rage. That the bloody, licentious bastard had dared to dance with her was more than enough to send Peter into conniptions. As though that, in itself, weren’t enough, the dance was not only a waltz—but also the supper dance. It took every ounce of Peter’s patience, long honed through a lifetime of being groomed for his current station in life, not to challenge the scoundrel in front of everyone present, gossip and legalities be damned.
So of course, when the man in question had led his charge out onto the veranda, the very same thing Peter had imagined doing with her himself, there was nothing he could do but follow them. He’d been completely unable to stop his feet from treading the same path Utley’s had taken.
Yet again. Peter loathed Utley more with each passing moment. Wasn’t ruining two lives enough retribution for Utley? Why must he add a third?
Peter told himself (not to mention Miss Matthews when he’d confronted her in the garden during her attempt at escape) that his intention had been to protect her virtue. To make certain her reputation remained unharmed by spending time alone with a man of Utley’s standing within society.
There was truth to that statement, though it was far from the whole truth. Was his tiny, white lie such a travesty, though, in face of the dangers presented by Utley?
Yet instead of protecting her, his own actions would have utterly ruined her, had they been caught. Blast it, why must he feel this inexplicable attraction to her? But that kiss—that one sinful and altogether-too-enjoyable kiss—had nearly been his undoing.
She smelled and tasted of peaches, sweet, ripe, and delectable. And while she was thoroughly inexperienced, her response had been eager and invigorating. Thankfully, she had fallen into him, serving to remind him, however painful such a task may be, that he must stop at once. Frankly, he ought never to have started in the first place.
Damnation, he was hardening again just from the memory of her curves, soft and lush, as he’d held her against his frame. This frustration would solve nothing, but what could he do?
But then his mother’s impatient voice broke through his ruminations. “Peter.”
He looked to her, unable to
stop the glower from taking over his features. Surely, he’d be hearing about that one later, as well. “I’m so sorry, Mama. What did you ask?” Or had someone else asked him something which he had then ignored? Good God, he had never been so scatterbrained in his life.
Mama lifted a brow. “I asked you nothing. Your sister, however, asked if you might be so kind as to take herself and the other young ladies of the house for a drive through Hyde Park this afternoon.”
And so his torture truly began. He’d never have another minute to himself until the blasted Season came to a close, at this rate. He had agreed to it, however. And it was just this one Season. After this, Mama would finally leave him be. Peter gathered his wits and turned to the eldest of his sisters. “Of course, Sophie. I would be glad to take you.”
“Really, Peter,” piped in Charlotte. “Can you not tell your own sisters apart? I asked, not Sophie.”
“What on earth has you so distracted?” asked Sophie. “You’ve been staring off into space with the most atrocious scowl upon your face virtually since you woke up this morning. And, I might add, you haven’t the slightest inkling of what discussion has been taking place. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had your head in a twist over a female.”
Char tittered with laughter and Sophie snorted inelegantly before trying to mask the action with coughing on her morning chocolate, while Mama gave them both a look full of admonishment. Miss Matthews said nothing, but stared fixedly out the front window at a tree branch blowing lazily in the breeze.
Apparently choosing to ignore their mother’s unspoken warning, Sophie continued: “Of course, I know that could not possibly be the case, since the only lady Peter danced with the entire night was Jane. Why, he hardly even laid eyes upon another miss throughout the whole affair.”
With that, Miss Matthews’s face turned a delightful shade of pink all over. Peter had a sudden, keen desire to situate himself beside her and plant kisses all over that pink face, even with his family watching, just to see how much more splendidly red her face could become. He wouldn’t mind kissing her any number of other places, as well, to see if they would flush such a charming hue—although he’d prefer not to have an audience for that.
But that sort of behavior was out of the question. If he followed through, he would be forced to marry her—and Peter could think of few ladies in his acquaintance less suitable to become his new duchess than Miss Matthews, even if she had caused him to stay up all night, in the grips of unfulfilled desire.
Before Peter could give his sisters any semblance of a response, Spenser entered and announced the arrival of “Lord Eldredge to call upon Miss Matthews.” Then he bowed low before backing away when he received a nod from the dowager.
After only a few more moments, the drawing room was filled with nearly as many gentlemen callers as arrangements of flowers. Peter took that as his cue to exit.
He needed to find some time to settle his accounts, and now he would have to follow through with his promise to Char and drive the ladies through Hyde Park later in the afternoon.
And of course, there would be yet another entertainment to attend in the evening. He sincerely doubted he could manage another evening of avoiding all of the young misses desperate for a piece of his attention. At least, not if his mother had anything to say about it, which she was bound to do.
He pushed his way through the throng of admirers, gathered to fawn over his sisters and Miss Matthews, and stalked through the halls of his home. Once he collected his account records, Peter slipped upstairs to find a quiet room where he could work.
Any reasonable man had only a limited supply of patience. Peter’s had long since worn thin.
Chapter Eight
The whirlwind of Jane’s first—and only—Season was blowing full force. After the first ball at Turnsley Hall, they had attended some new entertainment or another every evening. In the afternoons, Jane, Sophie, and Charlotte received their gentlemen callers, some of whom occasionally took them for a drive through Hyde Park or for an ice at Gunter’s or strolling through the streets of Mayfair.
All in all, Cousin Henrietta declared Jane a smashing success. Somehow, instead of convincing the beau monde that she was hopelessly vulgar and backward, she was having quite the opposite effect. It was a mystery, that. At least as far as Jane was concerned.
Young ladies who were the at the height of fashionable society all wanted to be Jane’s friends because, as Sophie was so fond of telling her, she had the audacity and the courage to say things that everyone else thought but never dared to utter. And gentlemen who were far more eligible than she had ever dreamed would want to associate with her had begun to pay her court. It was all quite overwhelming, to say the least. Not to mention more than just a bit daunting.
As she expected, the gossips quickly moved on to more exciting subjects after the grand debacle of Jane dancing with Lord Utley. He had disappeared after that night in the garden, and she had seen neither hide nor hair of him since.
Thank God. While she didn’t particularly care to have anything more to do with the man, the preponderance of him giving her the same attentions again was enough to convince her she might need to seek some assistance from Somerton, of all people. She shuddered at the thought.
With him, as well, there had been no reoccurrence of that night’s events. She couldn’t say it had been an entirely unpleasant kiss—far from it, truth be told—but it had left her more than just a little baffled. The man had an uncanny ability to intimidate her. Jane was none too keen for him to see the effect he had upon her, lest he use it to his advantage—and her disadvantage. But at the same time she was drawn to him, as though some unknown force pulled the two of them together, as though they were meant to be together.
What a laughable thought! She, a mere country vicar’s daughter, meant to be with the Duke of Somerton? If he hadn’t been thoroughly and completely disgusted by her actions and still wanted some sort of connection with her, at most it would be as a mistress—something Jane would never condescend herself to become.
In all honesty, he’d made no indication that he intended to pursue any sort of connection with her since that moment, so Jane would do far better to push such thoughts from her mind and move on to more important and pressing matters—such as Lord Eldredge’s continued attentions, which, at the moment, led her to believe he might soon be making her an offer.
Drat it all.
How had she allowed things to come to this? She never intended to lead the man along or give him the wrong impression, but somehow she feared she had done just that.
She had danced with him at a number of balls. But how many other gentlemen had she danced with at each of those balls? Far too many for her to count, to be sure.
And yes, she had spoken with him and sat next to him at Lady Kirkaldy’s musicale Thursday last. But honestly, she would have done the same with virtually any gentleman in her acquaintance, and was forced to cut her attendance at the entertainment short when Charlotte had become a bit too animated during the intermission, knocking a glass of sherry over and spilling it over the front of Jane’s gown. At that point, she’d been forced—or should she say blessed?—to leave so she could tidy herself up again.
Still, there was no attraction between them, or at least none that Jane felt. She was afraid—very afraid—that Lord Eldredge had developed a growing affection for her. Perhaps a tendre, even. She simply must find some way of convincing him she was unsuitable for him, and sooner, rather than later.
He had called on her every afternoon since their first meeting. At first, he would sit in the crowded drawing room at Hardwicke House and speak with her about the weather or the upcoming routs she might attend.
Then, he had started offering to escort not only herself, but also Sophie, to Gunter’s for an ice or for a lovely, afternoon stroll through Hyde Park.
Each of these endeavors was perfectly acceptable to Jane—because she was never alone with the viscount. He was never granted
any opportunity to speak with her more earnestly, more privately, because they were always surrounded by a chaperone or two, at the very least, or often (as in the case of the various balls) a veritable army of the same.
That had all changed now. Double drat.
When he’d arrived this afternoon, he had begged Cousin Henrietta for permission to take Jane for a walk through Hyde Park—alone.
Cousin Henrietta, thrilled with the progress of their “budding courtship,” as she was more than happy to refer to it, had all too happily granted him his request. She’d not even seen the need to send Meg along as a chaperone, since countless others would undoubtedly be out at the park doing the same thing. No harm to Jane’s reputation could possibly come from such a stroll through the park with a perfectly respectable and eligible gentleman, after all, so the dowager had practically pushed her out the door with him with a smile as wide as the English Channel.
“It is such a beautiful day, is it not, Miss Matthews?” he asked her as they ambled down Grosvenor Square, heading away from Hardwicke House.
Lord Eldredge was rather tall, though still stood about half a head below the duke. Drat, drat, drat. There she went again, thinking about that blasted man. Jane growled at herself beneath her breath and pushed the thoughts aside before she answered his innocuous question.
“Yes, my lord, it’s quite lovely today. How very lucky we are to have the sun shining so brilliantly. I am a bit bored with the constant clouds and rain we’ve had of late.” Not to mention the constant discussion with Lord Eldredge of the weather.
He smiled down at her, a smile that would easily dazzle Charlotte. Handsome would not begin to do the man full justice—he was downright gorgeous. Everything about him was utter perfection, from his white teeth all in a neat row, to his chestnut brown hair that fell just so across his forehead, to the manner in which he held Jane’s parasol over her in just the precise position to block the sun from damaging her complexion while still allowing her to see for miles ahead without straining. He was everything any normal, reasonable young lady would want in a match—handsome, genial, titled, wealthy...
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