“Why on earth would you—?”
“I was cudgeling my brain to suggest a gift so odious to you that it pained you to give it. And one that you could afford.”
“Of all the insufferable—”
“Never mind. I’ll think of something I would enjoy instead.” After a tense silence, she said, “An ell of silk ribbon, Delft blue, if you please.”
“Knowing you, I can’t afford the kind you’d expect,” Seelye said, still eyeing her lips.
“In that case, you looked so horrified just now, I’ll have a kiss. Might as well punish you for your behavior at dinner.” She crossed her slim arms over her chest and added, “Just one and don’t spend any time at it or you’re liable to make me queasy.”
“Queasy? You rag-mannered little snot, it’d serve you right if I stuck my tongue down your throat till you gagged on it.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” she hissed.
“Might as well be as punishing for you as for me,” he said and flicked his tongue at her like a lizard.
She shrank back with a squeak.
His point made, Seelye prepared to give her a dry peck on the cheek and have done with her infernal birthday for another twelve-month. The problem was, the tighter he gripped her shoulders, the more she twisted this way and that.
“For God’s sake, don’t squirm or I’m liable to miss,” he said.
“You’d better not.”
Her eyes flitted to his mouth before she averted her face again. He felt her glance burn its way from his lips down to his unmentionables. He hastened to kiss her chastely just as she turned back—most likely to tell him to get on with it—and their lips met, not squarely but with sufficient overlap that he instinctively adjusted to align her mouth to his.
Her lips softened slightly, encouraging him to deepen the kiss. She didn’t object when he teased her mouth open with the tip of his tongue. She explored his mouth with her own in turn. Her body relaxed into his, a welcome weight upon his chest.
Her sigh quickened his already pounding pulse: Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
Unfortunately, his brain raised the alarm too late. He had her hard against him, wrapped her tight in his arms. None of this occurred by conscious choice. He crushed her to him because he was a man and he had to. He took her mouth because he hungered for it. He feasted on her lips, her tongue, her sighs because she was sweet to taste, much sweeter than he’d supposed.
Slowly, he became aware of their imprudence and saved them both. He dropped his arms. When he released her and their lips finally separated, they both stumbled back a step.
Jane’s eyes were unfocused, and her mouth swollen from his passion, but she regained her composure first and frowned in mute accusation.
His own senses were still disordered by pleasure. Jolts of energy lashed through him and his heart skipped beats: Damn it-Damn it-Oh noooo-Damn it-Damn it-Oh noooo.
She flung a hand out imperiously and said, “May I?”
It took him a moment to understand. Once he did, he slapped at his coat to find his pocket square.
Snatching it from him, she scrubbed her mouth, corner to corner and completely around, all the while giving him a venomous look.
“I said no tongue, sir.”
“Yet you retaliated,” he said and stuck out his hand as she had.
She followed his glare and found his crumpled handkerchief in her fist.
“We wastrel lordlings haven’t an endless supply of clean linen,” he said.
She flung it down and stormed from the room without a backward glance. Despite her absence, the phantom sensations of contact persisted uncomfortably.
“Many happy returns, Pest,” he called after her.
“I hate you, too,” was her Parthian shot from down the hall.
Loath as he was to admit it, her kiss stunned him. Hard on the heels of that admission came confusion. Why had he done it? Jane was pretty but shrewish. And damned difficult. She wanted to make him suffer.
Well, job done.
A bout of blue balls served him right for his animal stupidity.
He snatched his handkerchief off the floor and swabbed his forehead.
It was nothing but animal stupidity.
* * *
After their kiss, Jane prayed that her own expression mirrored Lord Seelye’s—that of openmouthed, glassy-eyed horror.
Why demand a kiss?
Did I hope his kiss would feel like the others? Did I really believe an awkward, grudging kiss from the man I once loved would cure my infatuation?
She should’ve known better. A wise woman of one-and-twenty would’ve accepted his antipathy, not resented it. Or wished to punish him for it. And a wise woman wouldn’t have seen how punishing he found kissing her.
He’d meant to peck her cheek. She was the one who wanted to look into those heavy-lidded green eyes and taste that wicked smile lingering on his lips. She wanted to kiss him, if only this once. But then the rest of her body somehow listed forward to follow her lips after they collided with his.
For that, she had no innocent explanation. It wasn’t as though her knees actually buckled. Something in her spine sagged after he clamped her to him. She hadn’t the strength to stand or the will to resist because he felt, well, perfect. It overwhelmed her to be held against the solid breadth of his chest and taste his tongue—though she did forbid it. She suffered another lift of gooseflesh at the recollection.
It thrilled her to be embraced by Lord Seelye as if he, too, could not help himself. He made her feel womanly and desired. That is, until he stopped kissing her and stumbled away with a look of abject horror.
His eyes nearly started from their sockets, for heaven’s sake.
She swept down the first floor hall, up the staircase to the second floor gallery encircling the central atrium. There, she heard footsteps and leaned over the balustrade.
Lord Seelye descended the stairs to cross the foyer looking unruffled. He accepted his cloak, hat and stick from Wymark and left.
Her lady’s maid, Sutter, leapt up from the dressing room cot when Jane flung herself into her bedroom. She stood vibrating with indignation and other sensations while Sutter plucked the diamonds from her and secured them in the velvet-lined case she would return to the strong box in the dressing room. Next, the maid liberated her from layers of gown, stays, and petticoat.
Jane sat at the vanity and Sutter deftly removed hair pins one at a time and dropped them into a petite cloisonné jar with a ‘plink!’
Jane’s mind collected and catalogued the evening’s mortifications, each punctuated by the ’plink’ of another steel pin landing. Lord Seelye’s grudging kiss, ‘plink,’ her embarrassing response, ‘plink,’ his recoiling from her, ‘plink,’ and her disappointment that it ended so soon, ‘plink, plink.’
A night rail slipped over her head, her hair was carefully drawn out.
For someone determined to put a man out of mind, that kiss was a miserable miscalculation. She would never forget it—not after all the nights she’d fantasized about it, and certainly not after discovering that his real kiss so far surpassed her imaginings, she would never kiss another man without comparing it to this one, wayward kiss of his.
Rhythmic strokes of the hairbrush calmed her. She kept her eyes closed lest Sutter perceive her turmoil.
A lady is never in turmoil.
While her hair was braided, she found herself nibbling a nail but quickly put her hand in her lap.
At least she’d stormed off in time. He would never know how much he affected her. And she had the rest of her life to forget it.
Chapter 7
In which were the best and worst of times.
Christmastime 1816
After Parliament adjourned, the Duke and Duchess of Bath were at home to callers in London for the rest of December.
The Serpentine froze over, with talk that the Thames might follow suit in coming weeks if it stayed as cold. Due to the weather, her grace
decided not to subject herself to the rigors of travel, preferring the family celebrate Our Lord’s birth at St. George’s midnight service.
In the meantime, Mayfair fairly emptied. Numerous calling cards with handwritten ‘PPC,’ or pour prendre congé, were left in the salver to mark the departures of the duke’s friends, political allies, and acquaintances as was customary.
Lord Seelye left his card before disappearing to the country. When Jane riffled through the pile and found it, her doldrums departed. The Babcocks to a person anticipated the holidays in high spirits.
Jane’s two closest friends also stayed in town, so she conceived a scheme to skate in Hyde Park rather than suffer through Christmas Eve day in a stuffy drawing room. She declared it a celebration of the betrothals of Lady Iphigenia Thornton, Lady Elizabeth Damagon, and Elizabeth’s friend, Miss Traviston.
Everyone welcomed her invitation. Lady Elizabeth accepted for herself but begged they make no mention of Lord Clun, as ‘their understanding was of a peculiar nature.’ Iphigenia’s Lord Holmsbury agreed to come and Constance Traviston volunteered her fiancé, Viscount Speare, to bring others to even their numbers.
A week before the event, Jane went to Number 181 Piccadilly with Sutter to order Fortnum’s hampers filled with prepared foods, sweetmeats, Scotch eggs, hot tea, mulled wine and champagne for everyone’s refreshment that day. She arranged when and where to deliver the bounty and with great satisfaction put it on account.
She’d established her own account shortly after her birthday because she could not in good conscience allow her brother to support her.
It had been a simple thing to arrange as she had no need to prove her solvency to Mr. Fortnum. Her inheritance was common knowledge among London’s best merchants and her credit as sound as the Bank of England’s.
Exercising her independence pleased her; however, the real joy in planning the party was knowing how much her friends would enjoy themselves. Elizabeth, Iphigenia and she were ladies who relished outings that let them walk, ride, or otherwise exert themselves. This would be a perfect opportunity to take advantage of the cold spell.
Come the day, ladies gathered at Bath’s townhouse, dressed sumptuously in furs and warm wool layers.
The gentleman arrived promptly to convey the party into the park. Lord Speare, a dashing blade in a redingote, settled Constance first into his open carriage, then helped Elizabeth, who was unaccompanied.
“It’ll be a squeeze, ladies,” he cried, “but only for a short distance. Be brave.”
He flung a fur rug over their laps and snapped the reins to be off.
Other young men bowed young ladies into their open carriages. The Duke of Bath’s town carriage waited for Jane.
Once the commotion was over, she spied Iphigenia standing out of the way and cried, “Phidge, where is Holmsbury?”
“He has the grippe, silly man,” Iphigenia said wistfully. “I will make him sorry to miss our sport when next I see him. He sent word to Lower John Street only yesterday to let my brother know he was indisposed.”
“Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”
“I hoped he would come after all,” she said. “But I shall have a wonderful time and tease him later.”
“Join me. I’ll bring you home, too. But first, let’s send a note to ask after him.”
Iphigenia balked, “But we cannot.”
“Of course we can’t. The duke will,” Jane confided and pantomimed writing in the air.
“Won’t your brother object?”
“Why should he, if it puts your mind at ease?”
“I could enjoy myself more,” Iphigenia allowed, “knowing he was on the mend.”
“Come then,” Jane said before bustling her friend inside to the duke’s study.
She knocked on the closed door. No answer. She cracked it open to peek before striding in. At the ducal desk, she dashed off a quick note, sanded and sealed it, and wrote Holmsbury’s direction in an excellent imitation of her brother’s scrawl.
“Shall I have the footman wait for reply?”
“Yes, please,” Iphigenia said.
In the hall, Jane called to the butler, “Wymark, Bath forgot this note to one of the lords supporting his something-or-other in Parliament, would you send Malcolm to me immediately. We are late for our skating party.”
The butler looked reproachful but did her bidding. In the meantime, John Coachman the younger drew up the carriage.
Malcolm approached, “Milady?”
Holding out the sealed note, she said, “Take this to Lord Holmsbury and wait for reply. Bring it to me at the Serpentine.”
He hesitated.
“Don’t look so worried, his lordship is ill and my brother wishes to know his condition.”
The footman looked dubious but accepted the note. “Shouldn’t I bring the reply to his grace?”
“Don’t complicate things, Malcolm. The duke has a great deal on his mind, I’ll see that he’s informed,” she said and pressed a shilling into his gloved palm.
After he helped the ladies into the carriage, Malcolm left on her errand.
“John, to the Serpentine, if you please,” Jane directed through the trap in the roof. She closed it with a snap and turned to Iphigenia in triumph. “There, Phidge, it’s done.”
“My, how commanding you are,” her friend said.
“Was I toplofty?” Jane asked, suddenly self-conscious. “Bossy to a fault?”
“Who could ever consider your ability to get things done a fault?” Iphigenia asked with a gurgle of laughter. “It’s a gift!”
“My brother-in-law despises me for it, among other things.”
“Stuff. Let him stew.”
“I’d happily let him, if all he did was stew. He sermonizes on my shortcomings like a missionary converting cannibals,” Jane said. “It’s as if rehabilitating me were a matter of life or death to him.”
“Fudge, you’re awe-inspiring,” Iphigenia replied. “Who but you could’ve planned such a wonderful diversion to mark our engagements? And who but you would think to put my mind at ease? So generous and thoughtful, Jane, and so like you. May I send Holmsbury some sweetmeats?”
“And champagne. I’ll have Malcolm deliver them in one of the hampers we’ve unpacked.”
They arrived to find the group laughing and gliding over the winding, frozen surface of the picturesque pond. She and Iphigenia joined the party and enjoyed themselves until Malcolm arrived.
Jane spied the liveried footman standing awkwardly on the bank in his buckled shoes and skated over. The reply he delivered did nothing to allay worries. Iphigenia reached them in time to hear why herself.
According to his lordship’s distraught mother who attended him, Holmsbury was out-of-his-head feverish with the sweats. He’d been bled and cupped to draw the illness from his chest after mustard plasters proved ineffectual. Still, the doctor remained optimistic, for he was a strong, young man.
Iphigenia struggled to hide her anguish before the servant, so Jane dismissed him. No hamper was sent.
While the rest of the party skated, the two friends removed their blades and walked around a hedge to a bench out of sight.
“Phidge, remember, he’s young and strong,” Jane told her. “The doctor believes he’ll recover.”
“If he doesn’t, Jane,” she whispered, “what will become of me?”
“You needn’t worry, I’ll help you, Phidge. You have my word.”
Jane learned of Holmsbury’s death in a black-edged note delivered two days after Christmas. It read: ‘Lady Iphigenia will observe full mourning for her fiancé, the late Alfred Tilton, Lord Holmsbury. She will not be at home to callers.”
What went unmentioned was that she intended to mourn her loss out of sight for six full months. That might be considered admirable in some circles, but it would not do.
The next day, Jane went to Lower John Street at 11 o’clock, hours earlier than acceptable for even closest friends making morning calls. Iphigen
ia lived with her brother, Richard, Earl of Theydon, just off Golden Square on the less fashionable side of Piccadilly.
Theydon’s housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, answered Jane’s insistent application of the black crape-draped knocker. She had a dour, pinched expression. “Her ladyship is not at home to callers. May I take your card, milady?”
“No, you may not, Mrs. Fairfax.” She brushed past the older woman with a firm dismissal, “No need to announce me, I know my way. You may go.”
Jane went briskly to the staircase.
“Milady, I— You—” the servant stuttered, “But—” She trotted upstairs behind Jane and remained on her heels all the way to the morning room.
Iphigenia wore a black gown Jane recognized. It had once been a pretty figured wool crepe. Her friend would wear black till spring if she had her way.
“One wears lavender for a fiancé and it would suit you better, Phidge,” Jane said conversationally and closed the door on the housekeeper. “You have an extraordinary complexion, black is much too harsh.”
She yanked at each finger of her gloves with one eye on her friend.
“I’m not receiving anyone, Jane,” Iphigenia replied quietly.
“Pooh! I am not anyone. Everyone complains about my sense of exceptionalism, but there it is.”
With that, Jane sat beside her friend on the settee, gathered her into her arms, and gave her a crushing hug. Iphigenia wilted against her. Jane heard sniffles and felt her friend shudder with repressed sobs.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she soothed. “Don’t hold back on my account. It feels better to let yourself cry.”
These were Lady Abingdon’s words to her on more than one occasion, and Jane knew the relief such permission afforded.
For a quarter hour, Jane never relaxed her grip. Her own eyes welled up in sympathy but, with sufficient blinking, she brought herself to order before Iphigenia noticed.
“Thank you for coming. I am quite alone,” Iphigenia said, her voice clotted with grief. “Female emotions have always made Theydon uncomfortable. I don’t doubt he’ll stay at his club or some gaming hell till I’m out of mourning.”
His Lordship's Last Wager Page 6
