“Then you’re an even greater fool than I took you for,” she hissed, her cheeks coloring. “Greater than your cousin thinks, too, I daresay.”
Jamie chuckled and watched the play before them, though he could still see Daphne clearly in the corner of his eye. “Then you don’t know my cousin very well. He’s determined to enjoy this Season as well, but not at your expense.”
Daphne heaved a great sigh as if the effort of conversing with him was simply too much to endure. “Then at whose?” she asked, though her voice clearly indicated she really would rather have not.
“At mine.”
She jerked a little beside him, but he pointedly kept his gaze on the stage. “What? Why?”
He smiled. “Disappointed that someone won’t be paying attention to you?”
“No,” she muttered petulantly, settling back. “I just find the idea of paying attention to you a rather boring concept.”
He suppressed a laugh at her wit. “So does everyone else, most of the time,” he allowed. “I’m really a very boring person.”
On cue, Daphne yawned once more, this time quite loudly. Her mother turned around and gave her the sort of scolding look that all mothers possess in great potency. Daphne reluctantly straightened up, scowling and looking more miserable than anything Jamie had ever seen a person at the theater.
The moment her mother turned back, Daphne slouched once more.
“He’s watching me,” Jamie murmured low, leaning closer, “because he knows that I’ll be enjoying whatever it is you have planned. He wants to see how you affect me.”
Daphne glanced at him again, brow furrowed. “That’s not particularly nice. Why would your cousin care?”
“Because he is an interfering busybody, despite his polite facade.” Jamie smiled fondly, shaking his head. “Jonathan and I are only months apart, and we were raised together. I was raised with all of his siblings, and as there are a great many of them, I seem to have inherited the nuisance of siblings without the trouble of the true relationship.”
“Siblings are a trial,” Daphne countered in a surprisingly dark tone. “I’ve not found much they are good for.”
That drew Jamie’s gaze away from the stage to her face, and he was surprised to find a raw anguish there, her eyes burning with pain and anger. He looked away quickly, knowing she would hate being so exposed and vulnerable to him.
What had been in Daphne’s past to render such an expression and such words?
“Well,” he said quickly, desperate to move away from whatever pain was there, “they are remarkably good at hiding evidence of mischief when all could be punished for the deeds. I can recall at least a dozen instances where we ought to have been severely punished, but we were so skilled at covering up our ways that they were never discovered.”
He counted Daphne’s twitching lips a great victory. “So you would be praised for your villainy?”
“For our cunning, surely,” he corrected. “But we are long past such deeds.”
“So you say.”
The actors did or said something that brought laughter from the audience to a new level, but neither he nor Daphne joined in, as neither had been paying attention. Jamie managed a smile; Daphne looked supremely bored.
“I don’t know anything about the Woodbridges,” Daphne said thoughtfully, her tone contrasting with her expression.
“Would you like to?” Jamie inquired, keeping a teasing smile on his face. He would love nothing more than to tell her all about them, about him, about the kind of life they’d had, but if he knew her, and he was beginning to think he just might, he doubted she would allow such a long-winded explanation of something so personal.
She shook her head slowly, her jaw tight. “No, that was not an invitation. It was simply a statement. I’ve never heard of the lot of you, so why should anyone care?”
He exhaled sharply, the sting of her words real despite the amusement he found in them. She was trying so hard to be callous and unfeeling, but anyone with eyes could see the fire within her, and if they paid close enough attention, they would also see the passion she possessed for a great many things. Dancing, for one, and unless he was very much mistaken, the theater as well.
She was a witty one and proud. She also seemed to have a passion for sparring with him, which he would exploit whenever he had the chance.
“I’ve never heard of you either,” he told her, “yet I care. Perhaps more for not knowing.”
“Then you are a very great idiot, Jamie Woodbridge,” she replied easily, a smile now on her face.
Jamie grinned and settled himself in to enjoy the rest of the evening. “Yes, so I have been told. My cousin Ross said as much not two weeks ago, but that had nothing to do with you. Ross is the second son, you know, and feels the strain of that unfortunate business on a daily basis.”
“I don’t care.”
“Neither do I, to be sure, but Ross does, so the rest of us must feel it.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Now Ethan, on the other hand, thrives upon being a younger son,” Jamie went on, keeping his voice low so that no one but Daphne would hear, “but he is a twin, so Emma would never let him get too far out of line. She’s a bit of a snob, compared to the rest of us, but still too wild for convention.”
“Are you going to go through the entire family?”
He nodded once. “It is a very long show, I am told, so there will be plenty of time to give you the full scope of Woodbridge madness.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Grace is the quiet one,” he went on, emboldened by her apparent misery. “Quite the mystery. Scares me to death.”
“I will throw myself out of this box if you don’t stop,” Daphne warned.
Jamie shrugged once. “It’s not that far. You won’t be too injured. Your mother would bodily restrain you, at any rate, so for your own sake, don’t attempt it.”
Daphne snorted in surprise, covering her mouth at once.
“Leo is an infant, though he refuses to accept it, but puppies of fourteen never see themselves clearly . . .”
Chapter Five
Daphne was in a right mess of things, and there was absolutely no indication that anything would change in the near future.
She had done everything she could possibly think of to deter Jamie from his courtship of her, and he was not budging. Worse than that, he seemed to enjoy her efforts, viewing them as a challenge and not an obstacle.
He rambled on happily when she blatantly ignored him, took absolutely no offense with anything she said or did, and smiled at her every moody response. He was unfailingly cheerful, which ought to have been irritating to her, and surprised her regularly with his quick wit. Her sarcasm was rewarded in equal measure, her barbed insults provoking a repartee of teasing that only encouraged them both.
It had been two weeks since the night at the theater, where he had detailed so much about his family throughout the first act that Daphne could have recited all of the pertinent details of every Woodbridge sibling and half a dozen stories from their childhood. She hadn’t thought he really would go into all of that, but he seemed to enjoy testing her the way she did him.
Worst of all, she was beginning to enjoy it.
She was beginning to enjoy him.
It was the most horrifying result that could have come from all of this.
She enjoyed the wicked glint in his eye. She enjoyed the anticipation of his response, knowing it would be something clever and would make her bristle and laugh at the same time. She had actually enjoyed hearing him talk about his family—the way his tone warmed when he spoke of the girls and how he smiled when he considered the boys. She had protested repeatedly throughout the telling and had even risen on one occasion to leave, only to be hushed back down by her mother.
She had been secretly pleased to have been forced to remain. She wanted to ask him questions about the family, prod for more details on them all, but she could not give in to interest. She could not b
e eager.
She could not enjoy him or his stories or his attentions.
And she could not enjoy the way he touched her without seeming to notice.
The second act of the play that night at the theater might have been worse than the first, but for entirely different reasons. At the interval, he had taken her for a turn about the theater, her parents in tow again, and she had ignored him in every way she could. Her hand was on his arm, as it had to be, but she kept her expression lifeless and did not respond to a single word he said. She had been so convincing that she had heard whispers about it and about him. It ought to have bothered him, but it did not dampen him at all.
When they had returned to the box and to their seats, he’d been as silent as she had been, sitting side-by-side. Daphne had just been able to focus on the show at hand when she felt something grazing along her forearm and wrist. She glanced down quickly to see Jamie’s fingers running up and down her glove, but in an absent fashion. His hand was opening and closing, his fingers dragging along the fabric, the feeling sinking into her skin beneath. She watched his fingers move for a moment, waiting for them to shift higher or lower to get more of a reaction from her.
They never did.
She frowned. She did not know much about men or the art of flirtation or seduction, but she suspected that someone with certain designs, whether innocent or nefarious, would have pressed his advantage to its limits, whatever they happened to be. Yet Jamie didn’t. Over and over, his fingers moved in exactly the same pattern, at exactly the same speed, and with exactly the same absence of intent.
Daphne had glanced up at Jamie and found him intent on the stage, for once not seeming to be aware of her. He wore a small smile, but not the teasing one he used when provoking her. There was absolutely no indication that he was intentionally teasing her now, nor that he was even aware of what he was doing.
She returned her attention to the stage, but nothing there could draw her like Jamie’s fingers on her arm. The more she tried to focus on the stage, the more she felt the slow drag of his fingers. There was an odd comfort in them, and she felt herself growing warm with it. She tried everything she could to ignore it, to shut off all feeling to that particular limb, but her resistance only seemed to increase its effect.
Finally, she jerked her hand away and folded it in her lap, her cheeks burning and her breathing unsettled.
Jamie looked at her, whether in surprise or amusement she could not have said, and then his hand rested too comfortably on the back of her chair, where it safely remained the rest of the evening.
Daphne’s arm burned for the rest of the night, even after the maddening man left her presence.
No scolding of her mother’s could ever have matched the scolding she gave herself that night, and she determined to double her efforts, not only to scandalize society, but to shake Jamie Woodbridge loose from this inane courtship.
Having gained the trust of her mother once more, after a week of mostly proper behavior, as far as she knew, and having met all of the stricter requirements as far as invitations and behavior went, Daphne had now earned the right to attend events in the company of her aunt alone, so long as her mother oversaw her dressing before she left.
Of course, her mother had no way of knowing that Daphne managed to hide a gown of her own choosing in the carriage so that she could change into it once they were safely away from the house. It was a bit awkward to accomplish, but traveling with a willing chaperone made that much easier. Well, perhaps not willing so much as indifferent. Aunt Josephine, her father’s sister, was perfectly content to let Daphne do whatever she wished—a worthless chaperone as far as propriety went, but rather convenient for Daphne’s purposes.
Her mother had no idea Josephine was not nearly as proper as Daphne had led her to believe.
The change in ensembles brought more attention to Daphne and more whispers, more rumors and disapproval, and she reveled in it. Jamie had been surprised—she could see it in his eyes—but he escorted her and stayed as close as she would let him. Which, most of the time, was not particularly close.
She shocked roomfuls of people by refusing to dance at all, turning down what limited requests were made of her, even from Jamie.
She had considered scandalizing a group of guests, most of whom she had not been introduced to, by asking the one person she knew whether his wife’s lover was in attendance this evening. The other half of the room had been whispering about it, and everybody in London knew of it. But that reminded her too painfully of the comments made about her at home, and she could not let herself go that far. Besides, she was doing well enough without actually causing anyone true humiliation.
In any conversation, she was too blunt, too honest, too rude, and while never outright offensive, she certainly danced with the line. She took comfort in the fact that her conversations were limited and interest in her was kept to a minimum. She was not particularly keen on being infamous, as she had no intention of returning to London for anyone to continue discussing her. She had no doubt she would be talked about, but as she was not truly shocking, it should not last long.
But if Jamie did not give up on her soon, she might have to be more drastic. She had tried to be downright cruel to him, but as she could find nothing of significance to target in his person, her barbs fell harmlessly by the wayside.
It did not help that she did not truly wish to hurt him.
In fact, she found herself wanting to confide in him about a great many things.
She could not allow that. She would never trust any man with her personal thoughts and feelings, and she would certainly never take an interest in a man her parents approved of so highly. That was what had gotten her into trouble before, and she refused to make the same mistake.
The trouble here was that Jamie was just the sort of man that she would have wished for herself, had the Incident never occurred. He was charming, he was polite, he was clever, and he could make her laugh so easily it seemed unnatural. He was devoted to family, did not particularly care about fortune, though he had a decent one, and surprised her at every turn, despite her best efforts.
And he was handsome. The sort of handsome that makes one smile, and then the smile fades as one gets more acquainted with him and the handsomeness grows and grows until the sight of him steals breath and weakens knees.
She was not claiming to have stolen breath or weakened knees, nor would she admit to the beginnings of any such feelings or stirrings. She simply acknowledged that he was that sort of handsome.
If she were interested.
Which she was not.
Definitely not.
Just because her stays seemed a bit tighter at seeing him walk toward her in his pristine eveningwear with his dark hair perfectly in place, the hint of a smirk on his flawless lips, and his eyes an indistinguishable color as they warmed upon seeing her didn’t mean anything.
“Good heavens,” Daphne breathed, grateful Mary had had the foresight to give her a fan, as she needed to use it quite rapidly now.
Jamie bowed before her with absolute precision, and not even Daphne’s repeated reminders of cool composure could ring in her head over the buzzing that James Woodbridge brought to it.
“Lovely, Miss Hutchins,” he murmured as he straightened. “As always.”
Daphne bit her lip on a short laugh. Lovely. Her dress was orange. Not a warm and sunset glow sort of orange, but the sort of orange that made one cringe and was really quite obnoxious. She’d already decided not to look at herself for the rest of the night. There was nothing lovely about it or her. Except maybe the cut of the dress, which was really quite slimming, but no one was going to notice that.
Jamie offered her an arm, smiling fondly. “May I?”
Daphne looked at him dubiously, then exhaled noisily as she haphazardly tossed her arm through his. “Oh, why not?”
He nodded his gratitude impertinently, and then proceeded to take her about the room. “That is an exquisite gown,” he told
her, tilting his head for a better look. “I haven’t seen that shade outside of the Indies.”
Daphne looked up at him in surprise. “You’ve been to the Indies?”
He shook his head quickly. “No, I only saw an exhibition once.”
She tsked and looked away, making a face. “Pity. For a moment, you were almost interesting.” A lady nearby tittered at her words, and Daphne rolled her eyes again. “I may not stay long this evening, if the company does not improve.”
“I shall endeavor to improve matters for you,” Jamie pledged in the teasing voice that made her want to smile, “though you already made an indelible impression simply by attending at all.”
Daphne raised a shoulder in a careless shrug, although her lips lifted in amusement. She swore the other day that she would not come, and let that be known, though she never sent an official refusal. “I changed my mind.”
“Ah, a woman’s prerogative.” He leaned closer to murmur, “What were you wearing when you left the house, Daph?”
She jerked her head away, glaring at him. “Don’t call me Daph!” she hissed.
“I thought you wanted them to talk,” he countered, taunting her with a brow lift.
She snorted and tried to tug her hand away, but he held it fast. “About me, not about you.”
Jamie frowned and continued to promenade her around the room like some prized pony. “Well, that’s a bit selfish, I must say. Especially when I’m courting you.”
Daphne did not bother to hide a snarl. “Against my will.”
He gave her a scolding look and squeezed her hand tightly. “No one is forcing you to talk to me, and yet . . .”
She opened her mouth to reply, then turned away with a scowl.
He had a point. The trouble was that she enjoyed talking to him.
Too much.
She was saved the trouble of responding when his cousin, Mr. Jonathan Woodbridge, approached them and bowed. “Jamie, would you be so good as to introduce me?”
A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6) Page 20