Double drat. When would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut when she good and well needed to keep it shut?
“Nothing.”
“Stop lying. It is unattractive. You said one option was acceptable. Tell me what you meant.”
“Er...”
“Don’t you dare try to avoid this, Jane. Answer me.”
“I could...I could open my own modiste business. I could sew to make my living.” Please, let Sophie drop it now.
A moment passed in silence, then, “A modiste shop? Oh, that would be perfect for you!” Sophie’s cobalt blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “But now is not the time. You need to face Peter instead of running away from him. Besides, your come-out ball is just around the corner. You couldn’t disappoint Mama like that. Let us get through this, and then we’ll see what’s to be done. I’ll help you.”
“You’ll help me? How?”
“Well, have you found a solicitor yet? I believe I know of a few gentlemen who could help. And perhaps you’ll need a contributor—you know, financially. I can help with that, too.”
“Oh, no. I could never take your money. I have enough on my own.”
Sophie studied her for a moment and then nodded briskly. “Very well. And the solicitor?”
“I would gladly appreciate your suggestions in that area.”
“Excellent. Then it’s settled.”
“Really? You’ll help me do it. Why?”
“Because frankly, no woman should have to marry simply because that is the way of things. If you want to run a modiste shop, I’ll do anything I can to assist you in that endeavor.” Sophie stood and looked about at the massive mess in Jane’s dressing room. “I suggest you allow Meg to help you dress. That is, if she can find something appropriate in all of this. We should be downstairs soon, or Mama will come up to see what’s causing the delay.”
With a grin as wide as the sea, Sophie left.
Chapter Ten
The one man in all of England Jane most wanted to strangle was the one man who refused to leave her side the entire evening.
As expected, word of her misadventures in Hyde Park had traveled through the ton faster than one could sneeze. She was the talk of Town—quite literally.
Throughout Lady Kearsey’s drawing room, interspersed groups of ladies and gentlemen stood whispering with their heads close together while pointing or passing a nod in her direction. Occasionally, their whispers rose in pitch and carried over the air to where she could hear. No one, it seemed, had anything to discuss that evening other than Miss Jane Matthews dashing before a mad horse—not to mention the tales of her rather public set-down of Lord Eldredge which followed.
Charlotte made her way with Lord Naismith, one of the many men of the beau monde who was currently paying her court, through the crush of the grand drawing room with a single glass of lemonade to where Jane was flanked on either side by Sophie and the blasted duke.
“I daresay if you hadn’t already caused a splash with the ton, Jane, this would certainly be enough to manage the feat. Everyone I passed along the way was commending your bravery—and commenting a touch on your audacity, too, but not enough to truly worry about. That part will pass over in no time.” Charlotte brushed a single lock of her auburn curls away from her face and tucked it securely behind her ear. “The gossips will undoubtedly have some new on dit to discuss by tomorrow, at the very latest, after tonight’s balls.”
“I suppose it’s good I’m not counting on being the height of gossip, then, if they will move on so soon,” Jane replied drolly. “But really, I wish they would not all point and whisper so. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Somerton tilted his head to the side to stare more fully at her. “I would not expect you to care what was said about you, Miss Matthews. You always seem to do or say whatever is on your mind, irrespective of the consequences.” He looked away from her and scanned the crowd. “If you did not want the attention, I’d think you might learn to act and speak with a hint more decorum.”
“Is that so?” Jane lifted a brow. Two could play his game. “And if you intended to do as your mother expects of you and find a bride, I’d think you might expend your energies in such a manner instead of spending the entire evening in the company of your sisters and me.”
“Obviously it is so, ma’am, as you’ve just shown everyone standing within earshot.” He indicated Lord Naismith, standing with eyes wide next to Charlotte, whom Jane had thoroughly forgotten was there. Drat. The duke kept his voice low and gentle—misleadingly so, in fact. “And it’s also true that you insist on turning the tables upon me in order to avoid paying any heed to your own flaws. You might consider spending some time on self-reflection. It would do you a world of good. And to answer your earlier question—or accusation, as that might be more appropriate, considering the nature of the words—I’ve decided that someone needs to protect you from yourself because of your inability to bite your tongue as you ought.”
Oh, the nerve of the man. “It would likewise do you a world of good to remember there are other people in your life, people who have feelings and minds of their own and therefore do not need to be ordered about constantly.” Unlike him, Jane made no effort at keeping quiet. It would serve the blasted man right to have a bit of scandal come down upon him. Maybe it would help him relax. “But why would you care about that? You are the Duke of Somerton. Everyone else in the world is too far beneath your touch to deserve even your notice. Heaven forbid you grant someone the unrealistic concession of thinking for themselves and making their own decisions.”
During their argument, Sophie, Charlotte, and Lord Naismith had slowly backed away. Charlotte whispered something that sounded like, “Oh, dear, I’ve never heard anyone speak to Peter in such a manner,” but Jane couldn’t be entirely certain because of the fury pounding through the vein in her temple.
Sophie, ever clear-headed, interjected, “Oh, look, Charlotte. I believe Lady Rowland and her daughters are over there by the window. We haven’t seen them in an age or two. Lord Naismith, would you be so kind as to escort us over to speak with them?”
Without waiting for a response from either of her companions, she took up Naismith’s arm in one hand, grabbed Charlotte’s hand with the other, and then led them away.
Even with the three of them gone, however, the duke and Jane retained an audience. A good quarter of the room were listening intently, peeking over their shoulders at intervals to see the display, and not entirely (or rather, not at all) trying to hide their attempts at eavesdropping. If the gossips would have moved on to something juicier by the next day, she and Somerton were clearly making certain nothing of the sort would happen.
“I’m a tyrant, am I? A dictator?” Somehow, his voice dropped even lower and he leaned in toward Jane, ensuring that no one could hear him but her. “And how could you believe yourself to be beneath my touch—you, whom I touched most inappropriately only a brief time ago? Or have you already forgotten my kiss?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the memory, and it only intensified at the thought that anyone might overhear their discussion.
She wanted to be anywhere but where she was at the moment, with him so close the heat of his body enveloped her like a cocoon. So close his breath against her ear fanned over her ear. So close his sandalwood scent invaded her and took root, like it had been burned for eternity into her nostrils. So close the passion building in his darkened eyes threatened to consume her. So close she couldn’t form a coherent thought if her life depended upon it.
“Have you? Have you forgotten?” Somerton moved away again, far enough she could regain some small piece of her sanity. “Because I promise you, I have not.”
His words poured through her and traveled straight to her most intimate places. Her body tugged and pulled, straining as though to betray her.
Jane shifted from foot to foot, trying to put at least a moderate distance between them. “You are behaving most inappropriately, sir,” she mumbled. But gracious h
eavens above, she hoped he wouldn’t stop. What a brazen thought!
“And you changed the subject yet again, ma’am.” Disdain traveled from his tongue in rivers.
The clang of spoon against glass rang through the crowded drawing room, and Lady Kearsey’s voice rang out above the crowd, requesting they all take their seats immediately. Thank goodness. The concert would finally begin, and perhaps she could remove herself from this infernal man’s presence.
“Shall we?” he asked as he placed her hand against his arm and held it there in a manner which brooked no argument.
Drat. Perhaps not, then.
He led her to a position a third of the way from the front and slightly to one side, waiting until she was positioned before taking his seat directly beside her.
Jane looked about, searching for or Sophie or Esther’s faces amongst the sea of London’s elite. Even Cousin Henrietta would do, or perhaps Charlotte. For that matter, she would settle for one of the infernal gentleman admirers who so often plagued her with their attentions of late. Anyone to ease the discomfort of spending the rest of the evening in such close proximity to this particular man. For all she knew, he quite possibly would prove himself to be her nemesis, if tonight acted as a precursor for their future engagements.
Search as she might, she found no one to alleviate her discomfiture.
Oh, there were plenty of onlookers nearby, hoping (by the looks upon their faces) to catch any stray comments uttered between the two. She imagined they intended to rush off to the nearest gossip so hopefully they could be the first to reveal the latest tidbits. But when Jane looked to a few of them—women with whom she had at least an acquaintance—they all smiled condescendingly at her and turned away.
Double drat. She supposed now she was truly on her own with him.
If only the concert were nearly finished instead of only just beginning.
Jane looked down at the hand printed program for the evening and groaned. A pianist would start the evening, followed by a string quartet, and then an Italian soprano would close. Each of them would perform a minimum of five pieces each...with the soprano performing six. Including parts of The Messiah.
It would be an interminably long evening, indeed.
She settled in and tried to ignore the heat radiating from his leg, which he had positioned uncomfortably close to her own.
With no luck.
In love with him, indeed. That just went to prove that Sophie did not know everything, even when she thought she did.
~ * ~
In the last weeks, Utley had become quite the sneak. He’d skulked about Town, keeping an eye on Somerton and his Miss Matthews and learning of their comings and goings. He’d even spied on the other Hardwickes, as dull and dreary as such a thing might be. The only member of the family Utley had not been able to track handily was Lord Neil Hardwicke, but he was clearly busy sowing his wild oats and not doing anything of interest.
He hadn’t stopped with his spying there, though. Oh, no. There were far too many things he needed to sort out in the midst of his planning.
And so, at the moment, he stood outside Lady Kearsey’s townhouse (or crouched in the bushes, if one wanted to be entirely accurate), waiting for one invited guest in particular to step outside.
Surely, the biddy would follow her usual pattern and slip out before the close of the festivities—rushing off to spread her gossip as fast and as far as she could. Utley needn’t wait much longer. Which was good, since his thighs were starting to burn from being in the same position for so long.
Finally, the grand doors pushed open, and the short, squat woman he’d been waiting for waddled down the stairs. She took off on foot down the street, not getting into one of the waiting carriages that had begun to reconvene.
Utley dusted himself off and started after her. They had business matters to discuss.
~ * ~
This Season, his first on the marriage mart in years, was quickly becoming an abysmal failure on his part, at least in Mama’s opinion.
Peter, however, thought the Season to be progressing rather swimmingly, if one should ask him.
Not that Mama cared for his particular opinions on the matter.
Her largest concern was that he was spending far too much time plastered to Miss Matthews’s side and far too little time actually making any sort of effort toward finding a new wife.
Of course, he had promised to do the latter more so than the former, but one could argue that to be rather beside the point.
In paying his attentions to Miss Matthews, Peter was flabbergasted to discover that she was rather intelligent, interesting, and far more engaging company than the simpering young misses he would otherwise be required to dance with at the balls.
Which was why, on this evening at Lord and Lady Blacknell’s ball, he had already danced with Miss Matthews once and had secured the first waltz with her, as well.
He had discovered four nights previously, at Lady Kearsey’s concert, that he enjoyed antagonizing the poor woman rather more than he ought. There was something utterly fascinating about her when she glared at him, eyes full of passion and heat—which was invariably followed by the most delightful and ravishing blush he had ever seen.
It didn’t hurt matters, either, that by staying so close by her side, Miss Matthews seemed to have fewer gentlemen callers paying her court. Not only that, but nearly all of the ladies (both eligible and otherwise) who’d been haunting Peter at these functions had ceased casting their looks in his direction.
He cared not whether this was due to the gossips assuming he and Miss Matthews were soon to have an arrangement or not. What the ton assumed meant nothing to him. He only hoped Miss Matthews felt the same about such matters.
If the onlookers at the Blacknell soiree weren’t watching them so closely, he might even request her hand for a third set—but as things stood, that would be thoroughly out of the question. Doing so, he’d be forced to offer for her after such a show of preferential treatment—and clearly, neither of them wanted that to come to pass.
Even if they did, Mama would throw a fit of pique. Miss Matthews’s come-out ball, for which his mother had been working tirelessly on the preparations, was to occur in only three more days. She couldn’t have even a hint of a betrothal floating about.
As Mama said, it just would not do.
So he would have to settle for his two dances—with one being a waltz, where he could revel in the feel of her luscious curves pressed against his length, even if only for a brief span of time.
Thankfully, when they had danced earlier in the evening, she had maintained civility with him. That was a step forward. Actually, it proved they had traveled several steps in the few days’ time since the concert.
Once the concert had begun, she had stared straight ahead at the performers and never once turned her head to look at him, not even when he spoke to her. During the carriage ride home, she had glared out the window to the darkened streets of Mayfair instead of allowing even a tiny glimpse in his direction.
Yes, being on speaking terms with Miss Matthews this evening had proven to be a vast improvement over their previous outing. One that he oddly desired to improve upon even more than what he already had done.
The upcoming waltz should give him just that opportunity—an entire set with her drawn tight in his embrace, where she could neither escape nor ignore him.
At the moment, however, he was dancing a quadrille with Lady Helene Fewster, an eighteen-year-old debutante and the eldest daughter of the Marquess of Oldham. The chit was everything Peter had intended to avoid as much as possible this Season.
He should have forced Neil into dancing with her, since the youngest Hardwicke brother had emerged from his cocoon of a bedchamber just in time for Mama to snag him and drag him along. It would serve Neil right to spend a dreary half hour in the company of this chit fresh from the schoolroom and practically still in leading strings—and an altogether dull chit at that. Why should Neil, who cou
ld almost never be bothered to show his face before the sun was making its descent from the sky—reveling in his life of debauchery, it seemed—be allowed to dance with Miss Matthews while Peter was stuck listening to such drivel?
She seemed to have nothing more in her head than a rather long list of gentlemen her parents deemed eligible, and therefore, worthy of her attention and pursuit. Frankly, it was rather lowering to discover himself placed on the same list as some of the halfwits she’d named thus far. When they turned another figure of the dance, Peter found himself face-to-face with Lady Helene again.
“Might you point out Lord Prescott to me, sir? Mother insisted I should find a way to obtain an introduction to him, even though it is usually done the other way around.”
Prescott? Peter blanched. “Of course, ma’am. As soon as he makes his entrance this evening, I am certain you will recognize him immediately. He will be the gentleman gazing at his own reflection in every available surface.”
Blast. It seemed he had caught Miss Matthews’s penchant for speaking whatever passed through his mind without thinking first. But truthfully, the man was the biggest spendthrift in the beau monde, and an utter dandy to boot. How Lady Oldham thought Prescott should be even in the same league as he, Peter would never understand.
“Oh. I see.” The figures of the quadrille sent them away from each other for several bars, so he was pleasantly spared from any more of her drivel for the moment.
Even after they came back together, Lady Helene remained silent. He supposed that if he must make an arse of himself, at least it had come to serve a good purpose. Perhaps he had done quite enough with that solitary comment to effectively remove himself from Lady Oldham’s list of potential suitors for her daughter. He would much prefer to not be grouped alongside men such as Prescott—especially when said list-maker would encourage her daughter to go so far outside the realm of the genteel by seeking her own introductions.
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