by Mary Balogh
He had been taken aback by her outburst. She had been seriously upset with him. Not so much with his presumption in informing her that he intended to marry her as with the fact that it was not she he wished to marry, but rather the titled, wealthy Lady Jessica Archer, sister of the Duke of Netherby. Just as though they were two quite separate entities.
Were they?
Strangely, stupidly, the possible truth of that had not struck him until she said it. He had assumed that the Lady Jessica he saw was the whole person, that there was no more to her than the appearance she presented to the world, of beauty, elegance, poise, arrogance, and entitlement. She would perfectly suit his purpose, he had decided almost the first moment he saw her. Even her beauty would suit him. One of his first duties as Earl of Lyndale, after all, would be to produce sons. She would be an attractive bedfellow, he had thought, if perhaps a trifle cold.
Which of them, then, had been the arrogant one?
He had been taught by Cyrus and his own instincts to identify what he wanted and to go after it. He had been taught to expect success so that he could the more easily achieve it. What if those admirable traits in a businessman did not apply to a lover?
They almost certainly did not.
Gabriel drummed his fingers on the windowsill and called himself all sorts of an idiot.
Her outburst had dispelled any notion he had had that she was cold to the core. And it had done strange things to his resolve. It had not lessened it as it ought to. He had found himself wanting to waste time and energy romancing her, with no assurance of success. His fingers stopped drumming as he frowned in thought. I am not at all certain I want to marry you. Indeed, I am almost certain I do not. Those, he believed, had been her exact words. Would his time and effort be all for nothing, then? Was he willing to pin all his hopes upon that one little word—almost? She was almost certain. And what the devil did romancing a woman entail?
It is about the possibility of love, she had said when he had pressed her on the point. The possibility of friendship and laughter and . . . oh, and something more. Something bright and beautiful. Something that will transform life and fill it with color and . . .
She had been talking about love. Romantic love, though she would not admit it.
The Lady Jessica Archer he had thought he knew, because really there was not a great deal to know, had been transformed before his eyes into someone of mysterious depths. And he had promised that he would indeed consider the possibility she had spoken of. Very well, Lady Jessica. I will romance you. Not with a view to matrimony, but as an end in itself, to see where it leads.
Was he mad?
Would he keep that promise? Madness was something he did not indulge in. Madness cost time. And efficiency. And money. Time, in particular, was not something he could afford to waste in this instance. He needed a bride so that he could move on to the next stage of his homecoming.
Nevertheless he had sent her a rose this morning, wondering as he did so what she would make of it. Did she receive many gifts of a single rose? Would she be offended at the paltriness of it? Or would she be amused, as he hoped she would be, at the contrast with that ostentatious bouquet that she had seemed to find a bit objectionable? Would she make the connection?
Would she like it? Was pink her color? But she had worn it to the Parley ball.
He turned impatiently from the window. If he went now to call at Archer House, even assuming she was there, he would probably find himself having to make labored conversation with her mother and her sister-in-law and possibly Netherby himself. And perhaps other visitors too, members of her court, of which he would appear to be the newest addition. Perish the thought. He would not do it. Instead he snatched up the pile of invitations that had accumulated upon the table by the door and summoned Horbath to bring him outdoor garments suitable for London drizzle. He would see if Lady Vickers was at home instead. He would ask her advice upon which invitations he ought to accept. Invitations had always come singly in Boston, and not daily either.
Lady Vickers was at home, having decided not to proceed with the round of afternoon calls she had planned. “I hate rain, Gabriel,” she told him. “It makes me cross and lazy. But now I am glad I did not go out. I would have missed you, and that would have been a pity. Come and sit by the fire while we wait for the tea tray.”
They conversed amiably until she had poured their tea and handed him his cup and saucer with two generously buttered scones on a plate. Then she got down to the serious business of reading through all his invitations.
She recommended that he attend all the balls. “You have told us one of your principal purposes in remaining in town is to select a bride,” she said. “Where else are you to see all the most eligible young ladies in one place? Though Bertie reported that you did not show any particular interest in any of the young ladies I recommended for the first ball. Next time I will have to be sure to be there myself to oversee your choices. On the evening of the Parley ball I felt obliged to attend a very tedious political dinner with Trevor.”
She also advised him on which soirees and garden parties and Venetian breakfasts and such like he ought to attend and which invitations he would be better off declining. “For one cannot go to everything,” she said. “One must be discerning.”
“And that one?” he asked. She was getting toward the bottom of the pile.
“An evening party at the home of Lord and Lady Hodges,” she read aloud. “In honor of the arrival in town of the Earl and Countess of Riverdale—Lady Hodges’s brother and sister-in-law. Ah, and Lord Hodges’s sister and brother-in-law. A brother and sister married a brother and sister. I see the party is described as a select one. That means it will not be a great squeeze. I daresay most of the guests will be family. The Westcotts are a sizable and close lot.”
“You believe I ought to refuse the invitation, then?” he asked her.
“Oh, by no means,” she said. “This is one you must definitely accept, Gabriel. Lady Hodges is paying you a considerable compliment, given the fact that it is a small party and she does not know your full identity.” She tapped the invitation card with the back of one knuckle. “The Westcotts are extremely well connected—Lord Molenor, the Marquess of Dorchester, the Duke of Netherby, Viscount Dirkson, Lord Hodges. And the Earl of Riverdale himself, of course—head of the family and a very handsome and distinguished gentleman. Let me think. There must be some young, unwed ladies among them too. It might be a good thing to meet them in a more intimate setting than a ball. Yes, of course. Lady Estelle Lamarr is Dorchester’s daughter. Bertie told me you danced with her at the ball. A waltz, I believe? You do not need me to tell you that she is very eligible. Ah! And Lady Jessica Archer is the duke’s sister. Her mother was a Westcott. So were Lady Molenor and Lady Dirkson and Lady Hodges herself. The marchioness was once married to . . .”
But Gabriel was no longer paying full attention. The party was in two days’ time, and the invitation, he remembered Horbath explaining to him when he returned to his hotel from White’s this morning, had not come in the post but had been delivered by hand. The messenger had even wanted to take a reply back with him but had been persuaded to leave without one when he was warned his wait might be a lengthy one. A select party. And Lady Jessica Archer, whose mother was a Westcott, was almost certain to be one of the select persons.
“Thank you for the advice,” he said. “I will certainly go.”
“Lady Estelle would be a very good match for you,” Lady Vickers said. “So would Lady Jessica. In the years since they left the schoolroom, however, neither young lady has shown any inclination to choose a husband. They do not need to be in any hurry, of course, as so many young ladies do. They have the wealth and the connections—and the beauty too—to marry whenever they choose. Now there is a challenge for you, Gabriel, especially if you insist upon remaining stubborn and not making it known that you are the Earl of Lyndale.” She
looked hopefully at him.
“I would rather it not be known yet,” he said, and picked up one of the remaining invitations from the pile. “This one is for a masquerade. A costume party. Ought I to attend? And must I acquire some sort of costume if I do?”
She read it. “Ah,” she said. “Yes, this will be a respectable one. Some masquerades are not, you know, but are merely an excuse for vulgarity or worse. But everyone loves a masquerade. This is bound to be well attended. And you must certainly dress up. You will stand out like a sore thumb if you do not.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “I can go as a sore thumb?”
Lady Vickers laughed heartily. “You would certainly be noticed,” she said. “Let me put another scone on your plate.”
* * *
* * *
Jessica was looking forward to Elizabeth and Colin’s party, which they had arranged to welcome Alexander and Wren back to London. She expected that it would be a small gathering, primarily for the Westcott family and their close connections. But it would be a pleasant change from the rather hectic pace of the more crowded social events she had been attending almost daily since the Parley ball. There would probably be a few other guests from outside the family, otherwise the event would hardly be called a party, but they would be friends, people with whom she would almost certainly be familiar and comfortable.
Mr. Rochford was already showing a marked preference for her. He had stayed by her side for rather longer than was strictly polite at a soiree she had attended two evenings ago, the day after the visit to Richmond Park. He had engaged her in exclusive conversation almost the whole time, making it difficult for anyone else to join them and form a group. He had come to Avery’s box at the theater during the intermission last evening to pay his respects and had ended up paying them almost exclusively to her, though he had bowed to everyone else first and had kissed both her mother’s hand and Anna’s. He had remained until the play was actually resuming. Avery had got to his feet with all the appearance of indolence and held the door of the box open as a hint for him to depart. He was handsome, charming, and . . . oh, and all those other things she had noticed from the start. She ought to be delighted by his attentions, given the fact that this year she was supposedly looking in earnest for a husband. She was delighted. She just wished he would not try quite so hard.
Which was totally illogical of her. Had she not accused Mr. Thorne of not trying hard enough? She had not set eyes upon that gentleman since he handed her down from his curricle outside Archer House on their return from Richmond and she had swept inside without a backward glance. She had embarrassing memories of that afternoon and was quite happy not to have seen him again since. What on earth had possessed her to challenge him to romance her if he wished to have a chance with her? He was obviously not going to accept the challenge—thank heaven. Except that each morning since, he had sent her a single long-stemmed pink rose.
She had laughed aloud the first time. The rose had been lying across her linen napkin when she arrived for breakfast, a small card tucked beneath it with the single word Thorne scrawled boldly across it.
“Oh, do not laugh at the poor man, Jessica,” Anna had urged, though she had been laughing too. “There is something impossibly romantic about a single rose.”
And that, of course, had been the whole point. But it was a sort of ironic romantic gesture, for of course it was meant to be compared with the gigantic bouquet Mr. Rochford had sent her the morning after the Parley ball.
“The man has a sense of humor,” Avery had commented—though he had seemed not to make the connection with the bouquet. “He is drawing attention to the fact that he is the thorn to your rose, Jess. I hope you are suitably affected.”
“Oh, I am,” Jessica had assured him, picking up the rose by the stem, careful to avoid the thorns, and bringing the bud to her nose. She closed her eyes briefly as she inhaled the heady summer scent of it.
She had not expected him to have a sense of humor. Except that there had been that smile . . .
“Mr. Thorne is said to be a wealthy man,” her mother had commented. “He must also be a miserly man, Jessica, if all he can send after you honored him with several hours of your time yesterday is one rose.” But she had been laughing too.
When the second rose arrived the day after and the third this morning, Jessica had taken them to her room without comment. She had already pressed the first one between two heavy books without waiting for it to bloom fully. It was too perfect to be allowed simply to bloom and die.
He had not come to the house again or been at either the soiree or the theater. She wondered how long he would keep sending her pink roses. Why was he doing it? Was this his idea of romancing her? Was it working? She would be very happy to learn that he had left London. It would be embarrassing to meet him again.
In the meanwhile there was the family party, at which she would be safe from the determined courtship of Mr. Rochford and the elusive romancing—if that indeed was his motive in sending the roses—of Mr. Thorne. Goodness, life had not been this complicated for years.
Elizabeth and Colin’s large drawing room was already half full when Jessica arrived with her mother and Anna and Avery. She greeted them with hugs, hugged Alexander, and took both Wren’s hands in her own and squeezed them.
“Every time I hear of you going to Staffordshire to check on your glassworks, I am inspired,” she said. “And envious. It is why you were late coming to London, Elizabeth told us. You look wonderful. The work must agree with you.”
“It is lovely to be back here,” Wren told her, “and to see everyone again. Christmas seems forever ago.”
Jessica spotted her grandmother and Great-aunt Edith sitting side by side across the room and went to hug them both. She smiled at Miss Boniface, Great-aunt Edith’s companion, who went everywhere with her on the strength of the fact that she was a relative of Great-aunt Edith’s late husband. Cousin Boris was chatting with them too, as was Adrian Sawyer, Viscount Dirkson’s son. Jessica hugged her cousin and greeted Mr. Sawyer with a warm smile. She hugged Peter, Boris’s younger brother, when he joined them and asked him if he had had any waltzing lessons lately. Estelle, she saw when she looked around, was over by one of the windows in a group of young people that included Bertrand, Estelle’s twin brother, and Charlotte Overleigh, formerly Charlotte Rigg, Estelle’s friend, and . . .
Oh.
And Mr. Thorne.
Oh dear.
Whoever had thought of inviting him? Elizabeth? He was still being talked about wherever one went, of course, though Jessica was not quite sure why. Yes, he was a kinsman of Lady Vickers and also her godson and Sir Trevor’s. But did anyone know for sure that he really had acquired wealth during his years in America and was not in reality a lying adventurer? From whom exactly had he recently inherited property and fortune here in England? And where in England? In retrospect, Jessica realized he had been very vague in his answers to her questions. Or perhaps she had not asked the right questions or enough of them. Nevertheless, the ton appeared to be accepting him at his word even though everyone was also still intrigued by the mystery surrounding his sudden appearance in London. They were enchanted by him.
And he was here. At Elizabeth and Colin’s supposedly select party. He caught her eye across the room and inclined his head in greeting.
Her evening was ruined.
But if you want a chance with me, then you will . . . romance me.
If her cheeks turned any hotter, they would surely burst into flames.
Fortunately Cousin Althea, Elizabeth and Alexander’s mother, moved into her line of vision and cut out Mr. Thorne. She was smiling as she kissed Jessica’s cheek. “You do look lovely in that particular shade of green, Jessica,” she said. And it was only at that moment that Jessica noticed she had a young gentleman with her. “You know Mr. Rochford, I believe?”
Oh. Oh, oh, and o
h again. An evening doubly ruined—which was a strange thought to be having under the circumstances.
“I do.” She smiled. “How do you do, Mr. Rochford?”
“Considerably better than I did a minute ago,” he said, making her his usual elegant bow and favoring her with the full force of his dazzling smile. “And Mrs. Westcott took the words out of my mouth. You should always wear green.”
“Thank you,” she said. She would gain fame as a walking tree.
“I see that Matilda and Charles have arrived,” Cousin Althea said. “Do please excuse me.”
And Jessica was left alone with Mr. Rochford. Again.
“I was exceedingly gratified when Lady Hodges invited me to her party,” he said. “The invitation card described it as a select gathering to welcome the return to town of the Earl and Countess of Riverdale. You would not have received a formal invitation, of course, Lady Jessica. You are a Westcott through the Dowager Duchess of Netherby, your mother, I understand. I believe most of the guests here this evening are either Westcotts or have a direct familial connection to them. I am deeply honored to have been included among those who are neither. I wonder to whom I am indebted.” He gave her an arch look that was clearly meant to be significant.
Jessica could hazard a guess. He was a young and handsome man. He was about to be very well connected indeed. Before the summer was out his father would almost certainly be the Earl of Lyndale, all the formality of declaring the incumbent earl officially deceased over with. He had been determinedly singling her out for attention. The Westcotts, many of whom she knew were concerned about her continued single state, could always be depended upon to intervene whenever it occurred to them that one of their number might need a helping hand. She would almost wager upon it that they had decided to do some active matchmaking. She could just picture the usual committee—Grandmama, Aunt Matilda, Aunt Mildred, her mother, Cousin Althea, possibly Aunt Viola and Great-aunt Edith—convening over tea somewhere and putting their heads together to decide what could be done to prod dear Jessica into marriage with this extremely eligible and personable young future earl who would surely turn his attentions elsewhere if she did not snatch him up before it could happen.
