Jessica nodded. She refused to skulk out in disgrace. “I’ll wear the blue gown.”
She’d brought the dress on a whim, fueled by fantasies of dancing with Simon. Now she would wear it as she retreated to her personal purgatory. Once she was fastened in the gown without her usual padding or powders, she had Abby pin her hair into a loose twist, tendrils escaping to frame her face.
A footman arrived to claim her trunk, and Abby trailed him out. Jessica took a moment to take stock of her changed appearance in the looking glass. Her color was high and her eyes glittered with fury and grief. The blue of the gown sparked the red in her hair and the cut displayed her figure to its best advantage.
She wasn’t a maid or a wallflower. She was a woman whose mettle had been tempered in the fire. The battle was lost, but there was a war to be waged. Lady Drummond’s advice came to mind. She had weapons, and she would have to learn to master them before the season got underway. All was not lost.
All except for her heart. That would always belong to Simon.
Chapter 16
Simon paced the study. Sipping on a brandy, Rafe half sat on the front of his desk, his leg swinging, pity and sympathy playing equally across his face. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”
“How could I be so blind?” Simon muttered to himself.
Rafe took his nonanswer for an affirmative and pressed a tumbler with three fingers of brandy into Simon’s hand. “In the shadows, I would never have guessed she was Miss Tremaine either, if it’s any consolation. Did you always meet at night?”
“Yes. It was the only time she was free.” Simon cursed internally. She had been busy not because she’d had to see to her mistress, but because she had been committed to the same social niceties he’d been caught up in. “I’m an imbecile.”
“If you are interested in my opinion, I don’t think she intended to play you for a fool. She seemed rather devastated by the turn of events.”
Simon turned to glare at his brother-in-law. “She lied to me. She tried to trap me.”
“She did lie, I’ll grant you that, but she had you trapped and released you anyway. If Miss Danforth had been in the same position, the banns would be read this Sunday.”
That was much true, at least. “Still, she is a deceiver.”
“May I ask how the mix-up between Miss Tremaine and her maid occurred?”
The story showed Simon in a poor light, but Rafe had seen him through worse humiliations. Once he was done with the telling, Rafe said, “Minerva did wonder at your sudden interest in Miss Tremaine.”
“I can’t believe I never suspected…” But he had, hadn’t he? At least subconsciously. Their waltzing lesson had devolved into a kiss. A kiss Miss Tremaine had welcomed. Simon had put the literal slip of his tongue down to her scent, but it had been more than that. He recalled the glittering defiance in her eyes when he’d confronted her about the bruises Goforth had left.
“Miss Tremaine has taken great pains to disguise her beauty, and from what I inferred from Goforth’s comments, this little deception has been going on long before this house party.” Rafe raised a brow and took a sip.
Shock had held Simon in its grasp for most of the exchange, and he’d been focused more on his own grievances and hurts. “Tell me your impression of the situation.”
“Goforth was as surprised as you at Miss Tremaine’s transformation. After everyone agreed to hush up the indiscretion, he turned almost gleeful. He is planning to use her, which is exactly what she was attempting to avoid, if you ask me.” Rafe peered at Simon from under his lashes with a wry smile. “And indeed, I predict the transformed Miss Tremaine will attract much notice in London during the upcoming season. The right match will garner Goforth a foothold plus power.”
Simon tried not to care Miss Blackwell—no, Miss Tremaine—would be bartered off for Goforth’s gain. She had lied to him. Lied. It was a sin he could not forgive.
A commotion came from outside the library. Simon put his brandy glass down and went to investigate, Rafe on his heels.
Minerva was pacing Goforth down the stairs, a flower-patterned brocade dressing gown cinched tightly about her waist. “But, my good sir, it would make more sense to wait until morning. Travel will be slow in the dark.”
“The moon is full and high. I expect we’ll make it back to the manor house before dawn breaks.” Goforth caught sight of Simon. “I refuse to spend another night under the same roof as that devil.”
Minerva shot them a questioning, exasperated look. Rafe slipped his arm around Minerva’s waist and drew her out of the way of the footman who was carrying down a trunk, his wig askew from being roused to duty.
“Let them depart,” Rafe said quietly.
“But what about—” Minerva gasped. “Is that Miss Tremaine?”
The woman descending the staircase was indeed Miss Tremaine, but she looked nothing like the dour-faced oddity skirting the edges of the party. Neither did she embody the Miss Blackwell Simon had come to know. She was both of those women, and yet someone else entirely.
She had molted and emerged as a butterfly. No, not a butterfly. Her spine was steel and her aura that of a warrior princess sans her sword.
Her frock was a cornflower blue with a scooped neckline edged in white. The thin cotton emphasized the curve of her bosom and trim figure. Her brown hair glinted red and was pinned up in a style popular with the ton ladies. He’d sifted his fingers through her hair and grasped it as a lover would. He caught glimpses of her well-turned ankles. Ankles he had grasped in his hands as she writhed on his lap.
Goforth waited at the door, impatience and aggression his calling cards. Cuthbertson, Wintermarsh’s elderly butler, wisely gave Goforth wide berth and stood to the side in his dressing gown and with his white hair standing on end.
Miss Tremaine paused for a moment in front of Simon, Rafe, and Minerva, but she didn’t face them. Her profile was strong and her chin firm. She had even altered her features to play the wallflower. Simon shook his head, attempting to square her motivation with his resentment.
It wasn’t to him but Minerva she directed her words. “I apologize for the uproar of our departure, Lady Drummond. I hope you’ll forgive me. For everything.”
“My dear, there is nothing to forgive.” Minerva stepped forward to take Jessica’s hand. “I’m not sure what has happened this evening. I presume a great deal that I’m unaware of, but I hope you know you can count me as a friend.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lady Drummond, but you should speak with your brother before offering such a boon.” Jessica extricated her hand and swept her gaze to Simon.
The spin of his world slowed. He forgot about his sister and Goforth and the hovering servants. Jessica. Her name sifted through his head, taking the place of any other. In her eyes, he saw his own pain reflected. He recognized the woman he’d wooed every evening, but he could also see her veneer of awkwardness wasn’t fake.
The vulnerability unpinning her undeniable strength distracted him from climbing onto his high horse, and he had a difficult time remembering why he was angry.
“Be well, Si—Your Grace. You shan’t be troubled by me again. I would ask you to forget me and seek happiness elsewhere.” She walked away and didn’t look back, disappearing into the night, dragging his heart in her wake whether she wanted it or not.
The door closed behind Jessica and Goforth, but no one moved or said a word until the crunch of gravel under carriage wheels faded.
Minerva whirled on Simon. “What on earth happened?”
Rafe gestured for them to repair to the study for a modicum of privacy. “Get yourself to bed, Bertie,” Rafe called to the butler. “I don’t expect any more nighttime exits.”
Minerva paced in front of the desk, and Simon took up his half-finished brandy glass to down the contents in one swallow. The burn did little to cauterize the wound inside his chest where his heart formerly resided.
“Someone start talking.” Minerva stopped,
propped her hands on her hips, and darted searing glances between him and Rafe.
Rafe, the coward, retreated to the sideboard and presented his back to pour another drink.
Simon opened his mouth, closed it, and then settled on a vague truth. “It’s complicated.”
Rafe returned, pressed the drink into Minerva’s hand, and guided her to a chair. “Sit, listen, and don’t judge, love.”
Simon almost apologized for thinking Rafe a coward. His brother-in-law was a saint among men. In a halting voice, Simon laid out the story from the moment he spotted Jessica in the pond earlier in the summer to her closing the door with a painful finality.
When he was finished, Minerva blinked and sipped at the brandy. “Everything makes much more sense now.”
“How so?” Simon asked.
“There were moments I saw flashes of a very pretty woman under Miss Tremaine’s costume. She put on the act of a dullard and mostly succeeded unless one looked closely. You sensed she wasn’t as staid and dour as she put on too, didn’t you, Simon?”
“Yes, but I didn’t connect her to the woman I thought was her maid. I’m a fool.”
Minerva shrugged. “Every man—and woman—in love is sometimes a fool, brother.”
“I’m not— I can’t be— The woman lied to me.” Not only had she lied about her name and circumstances, but now Simon was questioning the tales about her father and mother and brother. Was any of it true?
“A sin, yes, but is it so unforgiveable considering her circumstances? Her path crossing with you in such a way was probably more than she could resist. You would have never paid her any attention whatsoever as the Miss Tremaine you met in the glare of my drawing room. As a simple maid, however, she could enchant you in the moonlight.”
His confusion was an unusual and uncomfortable state of being. Even as he longed for what his sister and Rafe enjoyed, he had avoided messy entanglements. Until now. “There’s something I neglected to confess. Quite full of smug benevolence, I offered to make her my mistress.”
Minerva groaned and covered her face. “Did she plant you a facer?”
“Shockingly, no. In fact, she seemed to consider my offer with the seriousness in which it was delivered.”
Minerva dropped her hand to her lap. “That’s interesting.”
“Is it?”
“It means her situation is more dire than we are crediting. Goforth has a temper and could do something rash.” Minerva twisted in her seat. “What do you think, Rafe?”
“Goforth may be a brute, but he is an ambitious one. Now she has been revealed to possess beauty, her worth has risen exponentially, and he will want to keep her hale for her debut.”
“What do you wish to do, Simon?” Minerva asked gently.
“I wish to go to sleep and forget this blasted night ever happened.” He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “And then tomorrow, I’ll ride for Penhaven and offer my hand to Jessica once more.”
Chapter 17
Six Months Later…
Jessica sipped on a glass of lemonade and swayed slightly to the music being played by an eight-piece orchestra from a squat balcony over the ballroom. A quadrille was in progress, and after her dancing lessons, Jessica could complete the steps with her eyes closed. She could also waltz and reel and perform any number of country dances.
Her frock was made of sheer white muslin heavily embroidered around the bodice and hem with looping flowers and vines in a matching white. The neckline was low, and the sleeves puffs of the same shear white. The only color breaking the unrelenting white was a dark blue ribbon under her bosom to add emphasis to the display of flesh above it. The dichotomy of the virginal white with the expanse of her décolletage had given her pause, but as all the young women were on similar display, she didn’t feel out of sorts.
In fact, she was so like all the other young debutantes, it was a simple thing to hide herself among them. If it weren’t for her stepfather, that is. He was determined to see her on display like she was a mare to bid on at Tattersalls.
For the moment though, she had escaped and taken refuge behind a faux pillar. A white-wigged butler in black-and-yellow silk livery stood at the entrance of the ballroom and announced new arrivals. The crush had grown to the point where the volume of voices layered on top of the music made it difficult to hear him, but she could see all the entrance.
When Lord and Lady Drummond stepped through the door, she wearing a smile, he a scowl, Jessica’s heart pounded faster. Would Simon accompany them? She ducked behind the pillar until her sense came back. It was foolish to become excited by the thought.
Simon had no desire to see her. She’d seen to that. It had been months since the debacle at the Drummond’s house party. While Simon had made a determined effort to see her afterward, she’d rebuffed him just as determinedly. Her final note had been more than brusque. It had been heartbreakingly rude, in fact. She’d had to rewrite it twice, because her tears had smudged the ink and spotted the paper.
Her note had worked. Simon’s visits ceased. She spent the winter reassembling her heart and focused on navigating her London debut. The game had changed, and she had to adjust her strategy.
Blake had come home at the end of Michaelmas term. While his company had been welcome, Goforth had used the visit to remind Jessica exactly what her cooperation was buying—a continued education for Blake at Eton away from Goforth. If she balked at his plans, Goforth threatened to pull Blake home and personally take him under his wing.
No doubt Goforth’s education would include corporal punishment for any slight or infraction. Blake was a sweet boy, with their mother’s dreamy disposition. His interests ran toward poetry and literature over political aspirations. Jessica would not allow Goforth to corrupt him as he had their mother.
A throat cleared behind her, and she whirled around. Sir Benedict Pennington stood awkwardly, his eyes wide and blinking. “I believe I have claimed the next dance, Miss Tremaine. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“Oh yes. Of course. I mean of course I didn’t forget.” She tried to imagine the man as her husband and shuddered.
Sir Benedict was one of Goforth’s cronies and thirty years her senior. His figure was gusseted and corseted to disguise the creep of middle age. Thinning hair couldn’t hide the shine of his pate under the glow of the hundreds of candles lighting the room.
She put her hand in his, thankful for the barrier of their gloves. The last time she had received him in their drawing room, he had taken her bare hand in his sweaty palm and pressed a sloppy kiss on the back before she could react.
Jessica lay a hand lightly on Sir Benedict’s forearm and allowed him to lead her to the floor. She took her spot across from him in a line of similarly white-clad young ladies. While the first strains of music lilted from overhead, Jessica’s gaze clashed with Lady Drummond’s.
All her lessons flew out of her head, and she stumbled over the first steps of the dance. Instead of looking at her partner like she’d been taught, she stared at the Drummonds. Were they furious with her? Not only had she brought embarrassment down on their house party, but she’d treated Simon terribly. She deserved to be given the cut direct.
But that’s not what she saw in Lady Drummond’s expression. She wore a slight smile and regarded Jessica with a warmth she didn’t deserve. She snapped her attention back to Sir Benedict. Apparently, he had asked her something and was currently expecting a reply.
“Erm… Yes, of course,” she said, hoping it was something about the weather.
“Excellent! I’m happy to hear it.” Sir Benedict broke into a grin that highlighted gaps where teeth had once resided.
Thankfully, the dance spun her out of his immediate sphere, and she made trite conversation with a gentleman who briefly claimed her hand before she was returned to Sir Benedict. She spent the remaining long minutes of the dance smiling and nodding and wondering what she had agreed with. Nothing so serious as her hand in marriage, she pra
yed. At the conclusion of the dance, she dipped into a curtsey.
Between the last strains of music and the start of chatter, the butler intoned from the doorway, “His Grace, the Duke of Bellingham.”
Simon stood on the threshold, adjusting his cuffs and scanning the crush. The sea of young debutantes on the dance floor seemed to take a coordinated step toward him. Except for Jessica. She was desperate for an escape.
Could she plead a megrim or a tummy ache? Goforth would never allow her to leave early. Not at her very first ball. The musicales and routs she’d attended thus far had been practice for tonight. He expected her to expand her connections through dancing and flirting. Neither of which she could do from behind her faux pillar. Yet that’s where she headed.
Simon looked exceedingly handsome in a dark green velvet jacket, silver striped waistcoat, and black breeches. His shoulders were as broad as ever and his hair burnished to the same gold. Yet he did look different somehow. It took several minutes of furtive study to decide where there used to be a spark of humor was only a dull coldness.
Damien Northcutt approached Simon from the crowd and drew him into the scrum and out of sight. She took a step back and trod on a foot.
“Oh dear. Pardon me.” Jessica made her apology while turning, freezing when she saw who she’d stepped on.
Lady Drummond smiled through a slight wince. “It is I who should apologize. I sneaked up behind you to see who the object of your attention might be.”
The heat rushing into Jessica’s face was like running up the flag of surrender. Any denial now would look foolish. “I hope your brother is doing well.”
“He is barely tolerable.” Lady Drummond cocked her head, her voice warmly sympathetic. “And how are you?”
“I am… barely tolerable as well.” Jessica blinked hard to stave off the rising tears. She thought she’d prepared herself for the eventuality of seeing Simon again, but the reality was a punch to the chest.
A Daring Deception Page 18
