With a monumental effort, he forced his face into a pleasant expression. “Perhaps I was swept away by love at first sight,” he said. “Could you blame me, then, Lady Jillian, for wishing to acquire you for a dance?”
She laughed. She laughed, the vixen—not a delighted sound of pleasure, but a sweet mocking trill of amusement, as if he had told a great joke.
Needled, he inquired frostily, “What? Do you not believe in the power of love at first sight?”
“No, Your Grace,” she replied. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in his and something dark flickered in her eyes, as if he had poked too close to a wound that had not healed. “That sort of thing is for fools and empty-headed young girls, and I am neither.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, affronted. “Are you insinuating that I am a fool?”
She considered that for a moment, canting her head to the side and casting that emerald green gaze skyward in thought. The movement dislodged a curl, sent it sliding down her neck to settle near her throat, the vivid strands shining in the light, drawing his attention to the smooth expanse of glowing skin bared above the neckline of her gown. He would have lain with her if she had been a toad, but he found himself oddly relieved that she was not.
“I believe I might be,” she said at last.
He found himself unwillingly amused. It would be much easier to feign interest in her if she were actually interesting, he supposed. He couldn’t imagine that her chaperone would be impressed with her behavior, however.
“And do you imply such things of all of your suitors?” he asked. He was finding it appallingly difficult to maintain the pace of the dance. She seemed to command all of his attention. Everything else just drifted away to the periphery, unimportant.
“I haven’t any suitors.” She gave an elegant shrug, unconcerned. Truly unconcerned. She did not give a fig for securing his interest, for ingratiating herself to him.
“One would think,” he said, “that you were not particularly matrimonially inclined. Isn’t that the purpose of these things?”
She did smile then, a wry sort of grin that flirted with the very corners of her mouth. “I am not,” she said. “If that is your inclination, Your Grace, I beg you choose someone else.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Lady Rebecca Crain is lovely.”
“Which one is she?” he asked, fascinated by the working of her mind. At her nonplussed stare, he added, “I’m not one for the social whirl. There’s a new batch of fresh-faced debutantes every year, and it’s become quite impossible to tell them apart.”
“That one,” she said, indicating with a tilt of her head. “The blond with the peach gown.”
He craned his neck to look. “Good God,” he said, aghast. “She can’t be more than eighteen.”
“It is her first season,” she acknowledged. “But she is lovely and kind. You could do worse.”
“I am twenty-six,” he said. “And she is a child. Try again.”
For some reason that had pleased her. She glanced around the room, mulling his prospective brides over in her head. “Miss Iphigenia Wetherford,” she said, nodding toward a statuesque black-haired beauty currently dancing across the floor from them. “It’s her third season. She’s fascinating, and exceedingly accomplished.”
“I could never wed a woman called Iphigenia,” he said, shuddering at the prospect. “No, she won’t do at all. Choose again.”
“Your Grace, you cannot discount a woman because of her name,” she scolded. “That’s hardly fair. She didn’t choose it.”
“I can discount anyone I like,” he countered. “Dukes can afford to be discriminating. Choose again.”
“Lady Beatrice Ainsley is the daughter of the Marquess of Colridge,” she said, indicating the girl who danced opposite them. “She’s quite beautiful, and with a bit of maturity, she would make you a fine duchess.”
Lady Beatrice he was familiar with. She was coquette who had spent the evening casting her limpid blue eyes in his direction, but he had also seen her shooting disdainful glances at anyone she deemed beneath her. Several gentlemen had been sent fleeing from her sharp tongue.
“I had a horse like her, once,” he said. “An accomplished flirt when she chose, but with the devil of a temper otherwise. I don’t think I’d care to take a wife I couldn’t trust not to bite by hand off.”
Her lips quirked again in a sort of sardonic amusement. “Lady Alice Preston, then. She’s the daughter of an earl, well-educated, with a sterling reputation. She is very much involved in charity works.”
He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “She sounds like a paragon. No, she won’t do at all—perfection is boring. I shouldn’t like to be bored with my wife.”
“First, Your Grace, you would need to acquire one.” This, with a pointed look.
“Dear Lady Jillian, I am trying.” The dance was drawing to a close. He had only moments left, and she doubtless would refuse to walk with him if he asked her. “Somehow I suspect that if I were to ask to call upon you, you would refuse me. So I shall not.”
She gave a sigh of relief. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “But I have no inclination to—”
“Lady Jillian, I believe you have misunderstood,” he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow as he escorted her back toward Lady Ravenhurst. “I meant I did not intend to ask.”
“Your Grace,” she said, her tone laced with annoyance. “I am not seeking a husband.”
“Perhaps not,” he acknowledged. “But then, I haven’t asked you. Yet.” He patted her hand consolingly. “We shall have to see if your opinions can be changed.”
For half a moment her eyes darkened, a shadow of a memory crossing before them. But she set her shoulders and said, quite clearly, “They cannot. I am firm in my convictions, Your Grace.”
“Then testing them will present little trouble, will it not?” He was confused by the tense lines of her face, the sudden clench of her fingers on his arm. “Lady Jillian, I wish only to further our acquaintance. I find you interesting, and I should like to know you better. If you do not wish to wed me, I shall not press you.” He shrugged as if it did not matter terribly much to him. “Perhaps instead you will advise me on what ladies you might deem an acceptable match.”
Relief flickered across her face. She was relieved that he would not press his suit? What sort of woman would turn down a duke if he offered for her? It was beyond imagining. Lady Jillian was a woman of much mystery, and he suspected he would have to unravel it before she would be seduced. He had not expected revenge to be such a chore.
A frisson of shock slid through him as he realized that for a moment he had entirely forgotten his aim. Jillian had made him forget it—she was interesting, and, were she not Westwood’s sister, he might even have liked her.
He could not allow it to happen again. From this moment on she was merely a means to an end, the tool by which he would extract his pound of flesh from Westwood.
Lady Ravenhurst gave a bright smile as they approached. “Your Grace,” she said, with a slight inclination of her head. “You and Jilly looked very well together.”
Had he imagined the huff of displeasure from Lady Jillian? She released his arm, slid away from him as if he had the pox, retreating to Lady Ravenhurst’s side.
“Lady Jillian,” he said, “I thank you for the dance.” He sketched a bow.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, her gaze sliding away from his.
Lady Ravenhurst’s eyes slid between them, her round cheeks cut with dimples as she absorbed the tension. James had no earthly idea what had pleased her so, but she was clearly delighted with it.
“I think it only fair to warn you,” he said to Lady Jillian. “I intend to call upon you tomorrow.”
And he strode away, Lady Jillian’s gasp of dismay breaking even over Lady Ravenhurst’s delighted laughter.
Chapter Two
“Jilly,” Eleanora said, her voice wheedling. “You liked him. You know that you did.”
“I did not!” Jilly replied, exasperated and halfway to furious. “He was presumptuous and arrogant! And you—you are supposed to be my friend! How could you toss me to the wolves like that!”
“Oh, please.” Eleanora waved that way with her gloved hand, tipping her pert nose into the air. “I threw you to a duke. Who is the catch of the Season, mind you.” Her dark eyes bored into Jilly’s face. “And you did like him,” she said. “I saw it. I know you, Jilly.”
Jilly averted her eyes, aware of the stares cast her way by the other attendees. The duke’s interest in her had been marked, and she flushed beneath the scrutiny directed her way. She knew what they must be thinking—she was no fresh-faced, bright-eyed debutante; what had the duke seen in a woman of her advanced years?
“It matters not whether or not I liked him,” she said, her voice pitched low to avoid falling into straining ears. “I won’t have him, Nora.” Her trembling fingers snatched up a flute of champagne, and she lifted it to her lips for a steadying sip, trying to pretend an unaffectedness that she did not feel. She had seen him watch her—seen his eyes follow the curl that had slipped free of her pins, felt his heated gaze land on her throat and coast along the skin exposed above the neckline of her gown. It had been so long since a man had looked at her like that. She had quite forgotten what it felt like.
Eleanora laid a hand on her arm, sympathy written into her face. “It’s been three years since Adrian,” she murmured. “You should have moved on, Jilly. He did.”
Jilly felt her face freeze into a brittle smile. “I have,” she said. “I have moved on. I’m simply not interested in marriage any longer.” One disastrous Season had been quite enough for her. It had been difficult enough to withstand the stares, the whispers floating in the air after Adrian’s defection—it had been agony to pretend her heart had not shattered in her chest. The rumor mill had quieted with time, but no one had ever forgotten.
They looked upon her with pity, or patronizing condescension, or worse, suspicion. Wondering what could have induced Adrian Ross, Viscount Kirkland, to throw her over—she, the daughter of an earl, a consummate lady—in favor of a mere miss of no great fortune. As if Jilly had done something to drive him into the arms of another. As if she were unworthy to be his wife, perhaps to be anyone’s wife.
That had been the hardest to bear, that she had borne the brunt of the scandal alone. After all, Adrian had eloped to Scotland, to his ancestral estate. He had not returned to London in the years since, and that was a blessing in itself. But she had been left to face the speculation, and he had done nothing to quell it. He had owed her at least that, she thought—he owed her at least the courtesy of an explanation, he had owed her the courtesy of accepting responsibility for his actions, sparing her the humiliation of his desertion.
In the intervening years, she had salvaged her social position, she thought. Immediately following Adrian’s elopement, she had been popular indeed—as an object of curiosity and some pity. But the invitations had kept coming long after the furor had died down. She had striven to make herself an amiable guest, a scintillating conversationalist. But she had rebuffed any potential suitors, and eventually they had stopped calling altogether.
“Jilly?”
She gave a start at the softly-spoken inquiry. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was woolgathering, I suppose.”
“So I saw,” Eleanora said. “I haven’t seen you so set adrift since…well, you know.” She gave a hesitant shrug. “It’s about time someone came and shook you loose of your moorings.”
“I like my moorings just as they are, thank you,” Jilly said, with a delicate shudder. “I will thank you to cease your matchmaking efforts on my behalf. It is entirely unnecessary. I’m quite happy with my life as it is.”
“Are you?” Eleanora’s dark eyes softened, and she clasped Jilly’s arm in an affectionate squeeze. “Are you truly happy?”
“Of course I am,” Jilly said, lifting her glass for another bracing swallow of champagne. The words lacked conviction, falling flat from her lips. She was content, at least. Sometimes she managed genuine enjoyment. But happiness? It seemed lost to her, as if she had misplaced it somewhere, and it had gotten shoved into some dark corner, never to be unearthed again.
Instead she watched as her acquaintances experienced it for themselves. She attended their engagement parties, their weddings, christenings for their chubby-cheeked infants. Each time she experienced a flutter of vicarious satisfaction, and it was almost—but not quite—as good as the real thing.
But it also posed no danger to her heart. She would never again be wounded as she had been before. And if she suffered the occasional pang of loneliness, it was worlds better than heartbreak. It was far easier to be dead inside than broken.
∞∞∞
The flower arrangement arrived at noon the next day. It was the first thing Jilly saw as she descended the stairs after a leisurely breakfast in bed, the fresh, fragrant blooms resting in their vase atop the table in the foyer. For a moment she stared at them, entirely bewildered by their presence. It had been so long—years, certainly—since anyone had sent flowers.
She crossed the foyer to the table, casting a hesitant glance around her to see if any servants lurked nearby. The arrangement was unique, quite unlike anything that had ever been sent to her before. Adrian had sent her roses and orchids, the sort of flower that a man of little imagination would send to a woman he was courting. Although she had found them lovely, they had been uninspired. In contrast, this bouquet was interesting in its choices. Without conscious thought she extended her hand to touch the silky petals of a chrysanthemum. Fidelity, they were said to represent, though she’d seen little enough of that in her life. The blue hyacinth, that was for sincerity. The amaryllis, determination. Her fingers slipped over a bunch of lilacs—for new love—and then onto the ruffled petals of a peony—for a happy marriage.
The feathery stalks of astilbe neatly inserted into the arrangement gave her pause. She couldn’t recall having seen it in a bouquet before, and she wracked her brain for the meaning. A note tucked into the blooms caught her eye; she snagged it and experienced a sliver of astonishment to find her name scrawled upon it. It was folded over and sealed with a dollop of bright red wax with the imprint of the Duke of Rushton’s crest.
She edged her fingertip beneath the fold, worked free the wax seal, and unfolded the paper. The elegant, masculine script sent a frisson of shock through her.
The meaning of astilbe, which had yet eluded her grasp, was inscribed upon it. I will wait for you.
∞∞∞
At precisely three o’clock, while Jilly and her aunt, Marcheline, were taking tea in the drawing room, there came a knock at the door. Their aged butler, Fenton, made his way to the door, his gnarled fingers outstretched to open it.
He should have been pensioned off ages ago, Jilly knew, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Despite his arthritic joints and raspy wheeze of a voice, he was accustomed to a life of service and had declared he wouldn’t know what to do with himself outside of it. Still, Jilly made an effort to save him the trouble whenever she could. His hearing wasn’t what it had been when she was small, and unless he was lingering nearby, he rarely heard a knock. Not that they received many callers these days.
There was the muffled sound of voices from the foyer. A few moments later, Fenton returned bearing a gold-embossed card, which he presented to Aunt Marcheline.
“Oh, my goodness,” Aunt Marcheline said. Her brows rose in surprise and her hand fluttered to her chest as she gave a gusty sigh. “Yes,” she said, handing the card back. “Yes, of course we are at home for him. Do show His Grace in, Fenton.”
Oh, no—no, no, this would not do at all. “Aunt,” Jilly said. “I am not feeling quite the thing. I think I will retire to my room.”
“Jillian Mary Kittridge, you will stay exactly where you are,” Marcheline replied, her sharp blue eyes fixed upon her niece. “You were in the pink of health not t
wo minutes ago.”
Jillian shifted uncomfortably. “I seem to have acquired a bit of a headache,” she said defensively. “It’s come on rather suddenly.”
A masculine chuckle broke the tension between them, and Jilly felt the shock of it tumble over her. Drat. Too late now. How had he moved so silently?
The duke stood in the doorway, a wry smile etched on his face. “I suppose if a headache could have a name, yours might be the Duke of Rushton,” he suggested mildly.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Marcheline said. “Who would ever suggest such a thing?” She rose from her seat, inclining her head in acknowledgment. “Your Grace, how good of you to call. Fenton tells me that you sent flowers for my dear Jillian this morning.”
“I had the pleasure of her company for a waltz last evening,” Rushton replied. “I thought to send a token of my appreciation.”
“They are lovely. I’m certain dear Jillian enjoyed them; it has been so long since she has received flowers.” Aunt Marcheline dimpled at the duke as he bent over her hand.
“Aunt,” Jillian hissed, mortification pinking her cheeks.
“Or callers,” Marcheline persisted. “Really, it is a tragedy. And Jillian is such a lovely girl. Near to on the shelf,” she sighed, touching a hand to her cheek in dismay. “But truly lovely—she would make any man a fine wife.”
Good lord. Jilly was going to sink straight through the floor in humiliation. Was Aunt Marcheline really so desperate to be rid of her? She had thought they rubbed along well enough together. She risked a peek at the duke, whose eyes glinted as if he were enjoying her discomfort.
“That is truly a shame,” he said, patting Aunt Marcheline’s hand in sympathy. “I shall make certain she never lacks for flowers.” He cast a meaningful grin at Jilly. “Or company.”
She bared her teeth in a feral smile. “That is hardly necessary, Your Grace. I am quite content with my own company.”
His Favorite Mistake Page 2