“But, Jillian,” Marcheline said, “you are near to three and twenty. You cannot afford to thumb your nose at suitors. Why, ever since Lord Kirkland—”
“Aunt.” Jillian’s voice snapped with such a depth of fury that even the redoubtable Marcheline lapsed into an awkward silence. Her brows arched to her hairline, Aunt Marcheline patted at her graying hair and took her place upon the sofa.
“Will you sit, Your Grace?” Marcheline inquired, gesturing to an unoccupied chair. “We have just sat down to tea. Jillian would be happy to pour.”
Jillian would indeed be happy to pour—straight onto His Most Noble Grace’s arrogant head. Instead she leashed her rage, grabbed for the teapot, and slung a measure of tea into a dainty china cup.
“I take milk and sugar,” the duke said, the corners of his mouth fighting against a grin.
“Do you?” Jilly inquired sweetly. “How lovely.” She shoved the unadulterated tea across the low table toward him. Aunt Marcheline made a harsh sound in her throat, her hand pressed to her heart, mortified by Jillian’s rudeness. But the duke only gave a low chuckle, accepting the cup. Cradled in his large hand, the cup looked ridiculous, like it had been scavenged from a child’s tea set. The image was so disconcerting that she nearly laughed.
He caught her gaze, sensed the source of her amusement, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “The hazards of large hands,” he said, watching as Jillian collected the last of the tea cakes, leaving only a bare plate.
“Jillian,” Aunt Marcheline scolded. “You’ve left none for our guest.”
“I didn’t invite him,” Jilly said, and bit into a tiny cake, contriving to sigh with pleasure as if it were the most delectable pastry she had ever tasted.
Aunt Marcheline leveled a fierce look at her as she addressed the duke. “Your Grace, our cook’s tea cakes our divine. You simply must stay and sample them. Of course, Cook will have to whip up another batch, so it may be a while.”
“That sounds wonderful,” the duke replied. “I have no pressing appointments. And I do have a terrible sweet tooth.”
The tea cake crumbled to ash in Jilly’s mouth. She washed it down with a sip of tea and patted her mouth with a dainty napkin.
“I cannot think what has come over my niece,” Aunt Marcheline said, her voice laden with reproach. “Her parents, God rest their souls, would be appalled.”
“I don’t know,” the duke said, balancing the dainty tea cup on his knee. “I quite like spirited women. The Ton is littered with insipid girls these days. It’s difficult to tell one from another when they’re all alike.”
Somehow she had failed to offend him, even by breaking every rule of etiquette that she could think of. He might even have liked her better because of it.
“Tell me,” he said to Aunt Marcheline, “do you enjoy the theatre? I have a private box. It would be my pleasure to escort you and your niece.”
“Oh, Your Grace, that would be lovely. Jillian does so enjoy the theatre. Why, it has been an age since we have gone—”
“I won’t go.” The flat statement surprised the both of them.
Aunt Marcheline gritted her teeth and bared them in a travesty of a smile. “Jillian, my dear. Do consider—”
“I have. And I won’t go.” She set down her tea cup, rose from the sofa and inclined her head. “Your Grace, thank you for the flowers. I beg you not to send more. If you will excuse me.” She headed for the door.
Aunt Marcheline thrust her hand out in a staying gesture. “Jillian, you are not excused,” she snapped.
“If you won’t excuse me, then,” Jilly tossed over her shoulder as she fled the room.
The duke’s laughter chased her up the stairs.
Chapter Three
James scowled at Nick over his glass of brandy, sinking into his chair as Nick laughed at his plight. “It’s not amusing,” he growled.
“I beg to differ,” Nick said. “It is incredibly amusing.” He swirled the liquid in his own glass and took a sip, still chuckling. “Might I point out that you are feigning interest in the lady for your own nefarious purposes? The fact that she doesn’t want you is glorious.” He lifted his glass in the air in a bizarre toast. “May Lady Jillian’s will be stronger than yours,” he said.
“I don’t understand it,” James grumbled. “I did everything right—I sent her flowers, I called when I said I would. I was charming. What sort of woman turns her nose up at a duke?”
“Perhaps she’s familiar with your reputation,” Nick suggested. “God knows we’re not exactly the sort to inspire confidence in a woman.”
“I would swear she did not know me,” James replied. “No—it has got to be something else. Her aunt referenced a Lord Kirkland in connection with Lady Jillian. What do you know of him?”
Nick’s eyes widened for a brief moment. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “That was Lady Jillian? James, you must let the poor woman alone.”
“Tell me,” James said, “and I will consider it.”
Nick made a disgusted sound in his throat, throwing back the remainder of his brandy and setting his glass aside. “It was something of a scandal a few years back,” he said. “Lady Jillian was engaged to Adrian Ross, Viscount Kirkland. By all accounts it was a love match, at least on Lady Jillian’s end. A few weeks before the wedding was to take place, he eloped with someone else. Just as casually as you please—the bastard didn’t even bother to tell Lady Jillian that he was throwing her over. The rumor is that she discovered his defection from the scandal sheets.”
Even James found he could not stifle his wince. No wonder Lady Jillian had not relished his attention—she had been burned before.
“You cannot imagine,” Nick said, “how cruel the Ton can be to a woman in that position.”
Oh, he well could—because Gloriana would be subject to worse than idle gossip. And it was Jillian’s brother who had put her in her predicament. He ruthlessly shoved aside the sympathy that had welled up inside him. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change his plans.
“James,” Nick said. “For the love of God, she, of all people, does not deserve this.”
“Neither,” James said sharply, “did Gloriana.”
With a rumbled curse, Nick snagged the decanter of brandy and poured himself another measure—and poured. And poured, well past the point where a reasonable man would have called enough. He crammed the crystal stopper back in the decanter and set it aside, then reached for his glass, swilling it as if it were ale instead of liquor. “If you do this,” he said, “you will hate yourself. You might take satisfaction from it initially, but sooner or later the guilt will flay you alive. Can you truly live with yourself, treating an innocent woman as Westwood treated Gloriana?”
The conviction in Nick’s voice was compelling, but misguided. They’d been friends for half their lives; Nick ought to have known that James could not be swayed by anything so foolish as compassion.
When James gave no reply, Nick made a harsh sound in his throat. “Jesus, James. Have a heart for once in your miserable life.”
A man in James’ position couldn’t afford the luxury of a heart. Several castles, vast estates, hundreds of servants, and any material goods available for purchase, certainly—but a heart? No. A heart was a weakness, a liability. He had lost it long ago, as it had been made clear to him that his title was by far his greatest asset. Few cared for the man behind it. And so he had hardened himself, bit by bit, until his heart was only a shriveled thing in his chest, untouchable.
Perhaps Lady Jillian was undeserving of his wrath, but that didn’t matter. He hadn’t a heart left to bleed for her plight. There was no space left in him for mercy or pity. And if his scheme cost him whatever was left of anything noble or honorable in him, then it was a small price to pay.
Westwood had cost Gloriana her future, the happiness to which she had been entitled. James was not a man to let a wrong committed against him and his go unpunished.
Whatever the cost to himself.
∞∞∞
Unfortunately, his interest in her had been marked. Some openly wore their amusement, some were perplexed—a duke could generally expect his pick of any of the Season’s eligible women, and one who was both young and rich as Croesus would have them all but falling into his lap. Yet he barely spared the ambitious mothers or their pampered little darlings more than half a glance. Instead he saved all of his attention for her, and she bore just as much bewilderment as the rest of them.
She could see it in the face of her hostess, Lady Mayberry, who had two perfectly lovely and accomplished daughters newly out in society, both of whom had been paraded before His Grace, only to be politely but firmly rebuffed. His gaze had flickered over her two girls for only half a second in acknowledgement before it had returned, full force, to Jilly. And she knew that Lady Mayberry had to be wondering why the duke would set his sights on a woman half an inch from being firmly on the shelf when he might instead snap up any of the delectable little debutantes.
“Is he still staring?” Jilly asked, sotto voce.
“Of course he is,” Nora replied, her lips curving in a sly smile. “Do you really need to ask?”
No. No, she didn’t. Because she could still feel it. How his icy blue eyes could produce such heat was a mystery. It didn’t make a lick of sense. “I wish he would stop,” she said, aware of the resentful tone of her voice. “He is making a fool of himself.” And of her—she had once again become an object of much speculation.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Nora said. “Of course, society will always forgive men their foibles. I only wonder what has kept him from acting on his…fascination.”
Jilly didn’t have to wonder. With her studious efforts at ignoring him, he had to know that she would only refuse him if he approached her. Still, she almost wished he would—simply so she could give him a direct cut and humiliate him as he had mortified her this past week. Perhaps then he would give in and pursue some other lady—some lady who wanted his attentions.
She shifted her feet, turning enough so that he came into her peripheral vision, on the pretext of watching the dancers float by. Thus far she had managed to keep her back to him, giving the impression to all and sundry that she took no notice of the man who had been her constant shadow of late. As casually as she could manage she flicked her eyes toward him, lifting her glass of champagne.
His eyes met hers, bright, vivid, and utterly arresting. Good Lord—he looked hungry, devouring her with his gaze. She felt herself freeze, the glass halfway to her lips, as if she had been hypnotized by that intense stare, unable to break her gaze from his. Her cheeks heated; she knew her face had flooded with color, and she had never blushed prettily.
As if he had read an invitation in her eyes, he shouldered away from the wall and took a step toward her. Panic erupted. This man would not be deterred even by a direct cut.
Desperation had her reaching for Nora’s arm. “Take a turn with me about the garden, won’t you?” she asked, her voice high and tinny.
“But the next set—”
“Please.” She tugged Nora along, wending through the thick crowd. Still she could sense him watching her, but she hoped that he would at least give up the chase. Surely not even he would risk pursuing her out into the gardens, not with Nora at her side.
She deposited her glass upon a table, wrenched the knob of the terrace door, and yanked Nora out behind her into the cool night air.
“Good heavens, Jilly,” Nora gasped. “I was due for the next dance with my husband. Oh, Robert will be so upset—he does so love a waltz.”
“He will understand. You know he would forgive you anything.” Despite Nora’s attempts to break her hand free of Jilly’s hold, Jilly persisted, dragging her friend along the hedgerows until they parted, revealing a stone path into the garden proper, a little secluded bower out of sight of the house.
Nora released an amused trill of laughter as Jilly at last came to a stop, collapsing wearily onto the stone bench beneath the shelter of the hedges.
“It’s not amusing,” Jilly grumbled, pushing back a curl that had come loose during her frantic flight.
“I beg to differ,” Nora said, “I haven’t seen you have such a visceral reaction to a man since—”
“I beg you, don’t.” Jilly cast out her hand in entreaty. She flinched as Nora laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Dearest Jilly,” she sighed. “You’ve just fled from a man like a scalded cat before half the Ton. I wonder if it is truly him you wish to escape.” Nora smoothed at her skirts as she took a seat on the bench. “Do you know, you’ve exhibited more genuine emotion this past week than you have in the past few years.”
The prickly leaves of the hedges jabbed Jilly’s neck as she tipped her head back, and she knew that her artfully arranged hair would be all but ruined, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “Distaste,” she said sullenly. “Anxiety. Horror.”
“Hmm,” Nora said, unconvinced. “But not for him, I think. You did like him.” Again, a comforting pat, like a mother would give a child. “I think you only dislike that he makes you feel. If he were like the other gentlemen of the Ton, you would be safe, unthreatened. You could sleep snug in your lonely bed, knowing that he had no designs upon your person, and posed no risk to your heart.”
Her heart, that treacherous organ, gave a fierce beat in her chest as if in confirmation of Nora’s cruel words. “I’m not lonely,” she said defensively. “I like my life as it is. I do.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be so upset by the duke,” Nora chided. “You would simply rebuff him and move on. But you liked him, and that frightens you—perhaps because he could induce you not to rebuff him.” Nora nudged Jilly with her shoulder. “You’ve held yourself at a distance for so long. Don’t you think it’s time that you let yourself feel again? Let yourself love?”
“No.” The word was dragged out of her, wrenched from the part of her that was still raw and aching. It was colored with fear and pain, the keening cry of the woman she had once been, longing to retreat back into the shadows that she had been pulled from. “No—I can’t. I truly can’t, Nora.”
“You could, if you would only let yourself,” Nora said. “You deserve better, Jilly. You deserve more than to be standing at the edge of life, watching the world pass you by. I vow I’ve never seen a man look at any woman quite the way the duke looks at you. You could have him eating from the palm of your hand in a fortnight if you set your mind to it.”
“I don’t want him eating from my hand! I don’t want any part of him!” But the words sounded hollow even to her, and Nora’s light laugh stung with its gentle mockery. She scrubbed her gloved hands over her face, hoping to erase the traces of her anxiety. “I might be lonely,” she confessed in a low voice. “But that doesn’t mean I wish to encourage him.”
Nora shrugged, unconcerned. “There’s no reason you ought not enjoy his attention, either. I’m not saying you ought to marry him out of hand,” she said. “But there’s no harm in a bit of flirtation.”
“Nora!” Jilly said, shocked. “You cannot be suggesting such a thing!”
“I am an old married lady now; of course I could.” Her teasing smile held all the vivacity that had captured her a titled husband and held him in her thrall for the past two years. “You might surprise yourself and actually enjoy it. If a man that handsome—and a duke besides—wishes to pay court to you, my advice is to let him.”
“You are no help at all,” Jilly sniffled. “Some friend you turned o
ut to be.”
“Dearest, I am your best friend,” Nora said. “And that means that I have earned the right to tell you when you are being foolish. And right now you are being foolish.” Her voice softened. “Not every man is like Adrian,” she said. “It would be such a shame to let the right man slip through your fingers simply because the wrong one broke your heart.”
∞∞∞
On the other side of the hedges, James battled an unexpected surge of guilt as he eavesdropped upon their conversation. He had known that his scheme would make a villain of him, had been prepared to wear the title openly. He was still prepared to wear it openly.
Only now he would bear it with equal parts shame and self-righteousness. He could make Lady Jillian fall in love with him—he doubted it would even prove difficult. He had heard, from her own lips, her admission of loneliness. Heard in her trembling inflection the anguish she yet suffered over her faithless former fiancé. He wouldn’t leave her shamed and enraged—he would destroy her.
It changed nothing. He would still sacrifice her on the altar of revenge, strike out at Westwood in the only way he could to avenge Gloriana—sweet, innocent Gloriana, who had had to be sent away from London in the middle of the Season, where she would bear her child in secrecy. Because of Westwood’s selfishness, two lives would be ruined.
And James would lose what remained of his soul in the process.
Lady Ravenhurst had been half right. Not all men were like Lord Kirkland.
Some were far, far worse.
Chapter Four
The weather in early spring was unpredictable at best. Only last evening Jillian had shivered in the snapping wind that had swept through, leaving her chilled to the bone beneath her thin gown. This morning the sun blazed overhead and the last of the cold snap had been vanquished. Larks and starlings chirped merrily, their joyful cries echoing down the quiet Mayfair lane where Kittridge House was situated in its cozy corner.
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