Adam stopped. “You’re sleeping with that man’s wife?”
Brandon stopped with him, continuing to sample his cigar. “It’s more like she’s sleeping with me, but I suspect the difference would be lost on Lord Fairfax.”
The difference was lost on Adam. Infidelity was despicable—and yet, so were the actions of Fairfax and his cronies. Meanwhile, Lord Brandon seemed to be taking the evening’s events in stride.
“Have a drink with me?” Brandon asked.
Adam decided Lord Brandon’s romantic exploits were between him and Lady Fairfax. “Why not?”
They caused another stir returning to the terrace—this time all eyes were on Brandon. One set of eyes looked particularly murderous. Brandon veered left, steering Adam through a door that led to a dim hallway.
“Who was that?”
“Lord Weatherby.”
“And he . . .”
“Also has a very solicitous spouse.”
Adam shook his head in disbelief. “Is being friends with you going to be dangerous for me?”
“Very likely. Is that off-putting?”
The noise of the ballroom filtered out to the hall through an open door. Adam thought of a season’s worth of useless gatherings like this one, surrounded by men and women with nothing better to talk about than their clothes. “Actually, no.”
• • •
Jane was doing her best to avoid notice, sipping punch and staying near the wall on the side of the room. Despite being immediately waved over by a crowd of adoring friends, Mathilda was standing with her.
“It will go much faster if you talk to someone,” Mathilda suggested.
“The passage of time is not affected by how conversational one is.”
“I disagree. You would, too, if you ever tried it.”
“I’m only here to make Charlie happy,” Jane answered. Since her brother had promptly strode off to the card room to find his own circle, he wasn’t likely to notice her lack of socializing.
A woman with the largest set of hoops Jane had ever seen shoved through the crowd, sending Jane stumbling backward . . . straight into the tall, solid wall of a man’s chest. She spun around, gloved hand pressed to her mouth.
“I’m so sorry, I—Lord Wesley?”
He looked even more handsome in formal wear than he had moving their carriage. His stark black coat molded impeccably to his shoulders. The white of his cravat against his sun-browned skin . . .
“Good evening, Miss Bailey. Lady Hawthorne. Are you acquainted with Lord Brandon?”
Jane shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak or she might blurt out something inappropriate—like a request to touch the tiny divot in his chin.
Mathilda had no such difficulty. She smiled at Lord Brandon like a cat watching a mouse. “Only by reputation. What a delightful pleasure.”
“Aunt Matty,” Jane whispered.
“The pleasure is entirely mine.” Lord Brandon brought Mathilda’s offered hand to his lips, lingering a little long for Jane’s tastes.
Lord Wesley coughed. “Is Lord Hawthorne with you this evening?”
“My husband passed years ago,” Mathilda answered without looking away from Lord Brandon.
“How terribly sad.” Lord Brandon didn’t sound sad at all.
The entire situation was outrageous. Jane elbowed her aunt discreetly.
Mathilda frowned at her but retrieved her hand from Lord Wesley’s handsome friend. “Anyhow. What brings you two to our desolate end of the ballroom?”
“Illicit meetings in the garden,” Lord Brandon answered.
“My favorite kind,” Mathilda said, and they were off again. Jane lost count of the number of times her aunt said something outrageous.
She gave up following their conversation, deciding to brave small talk with Lord Wesley. “Are you enjoying the ball?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” Jane struggled for a new topic. “Did you get the arrangement I sent?”
“Arrangement?”
“Of flowers.” She’d worked all day yesterday getting them just right after the monkshood had arrived. Mary swore she’d hand delivered them this morning. If he hadn’t received them—
“Oh. I think so. Pink roses?”
Jane beamed. They had been delivered. Thank goodness. “Yes, but not just pink roses, which represent gratitude. Not everyone knows that. There was also French willow to represent your bravery and the sweet Williams were for gallantry—”
“Jane,” Mathilda laughed. “I think you’ve teased Lord Wesley enough. There’s no need continue with the whole list.”
She stopped her recitation and looked up. Lord Wesley wore a puzzled frown, like he didn’t quite understand what language she’d been speaking, and his friend was giving her one of those pitying smiles that Jane abhorred. Oh no. No, no, no. She’d made a complete fool of herself, and in front of him. “I’m sorry. I see someone I absolutely must say hello to.”
“Jane . . .”
Without looking back, Jane bolted for the opposite side of the ballroom. She spotted a large potted plant in front of an alcove and slipped behind it. Taking deep breaths, she bent at the waist—as much as her corset would allow—and tried to hold back the tears.
“I’m afraid this fern is taken.”
Jane snapped upright. She looked around.
A bespectacled brunette peered from her perch on a bench. There was an open book in her lap. “Hullo.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“That happens more often than you’d think. Are you all right?”
Oh God. She’d almost burst into tears in front of a complete stranger. “I’m fine. I just—”
“Because it seems like you’re not all right, and as someone who has hidden behind more than her fair share of ferns, I’m uniquely qualified to listen.” The girl blinked, giving the impression of a very alert bird. “If you wanted to talk.”
“I . . .” Jane looked out through the fern leaves. Lord Wesley and his friend were still speaking with Mathilda. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“Eugenia Davenport.”
Bother. Now she must either tell Miss Davenport her name or leave the safety of the alcove. Introducing herself would be an unthinkable breach of protocol. Jane tried to step around the fern and go back to the party, but her feet refused to move.
Eugenia blinked at her, waiting.
To hell with it. “I’m Jane Bailey. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Miss Davenport scooted over, making room for Jane on the bench. “I don’t think you’ll be able to tell if it’s a pleasure or not for a while.”
What an odd girl. “What are you doing hiding behind a fern?”
She shrugged. “There’s always a good fern or statue to hide behind—at the balls, at least. Musicales are more difficult, but then, there’s less conversing.”
“But why? Do you not enjoy social gatherings?”
“Oh, I enjoy them just fine,” she explained. “But I don’t think people enjoy having me at them quite as much. Or at all. It’s easier for everyone if I stay out of the way.”
What a terrible way to feel. “I’m sure you must be mistaken. They wouldn’t invite you if they didn’t want you here.”
Eugenia shook her head. “They don’t. They’ve told me.”
How awful. “Then why—”
“My mother. She can be quite terrifying. They don’t dare snub me even though they abhor having me around.”
It was absolutely appalling. One of Jane’s deeper fears was that everyone was secretly wishing she would just go away. In Miss Davenport’s case, it wasn’t even a secret. And for what? Miss Davenport hardly seemed horrible. She’d expressed concern for a complete stranger. She’d been nothing but welcoming to Jane, and she didn’t ev
en seem to resent her tormentors. People were despicable.
“Well, I stand by what I said,” Jane declared. “It is a pleasure to meet you. And quite fortuitous.”
“How so?”
“I am trying to be invisible this season, and it sounds like you are an expert on navigating social events with minimal interaction.”
“Oh, I am.” Miss Davenport smiled, pushing her spectacles farther up on the bridge of her nose. “I can show you all of the good alcoves, plus the best facial expressions to keep people from feeling obligated to speak to you.”
“That sounds lovely.” Especially the part about not speaking to anyone. After her debacle with Lord Wesley, Jane would be perfectly happy to never speak with anyone again.
“So tell me why you were—” Miss Davenport stopped abruptly as a pair of voices approached from the other side of the fern. She sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Them.”
Two young men stepped into the alcove. They had the loose postures of youth and privilege.
“Ginny. Come out, come out wherever you—” They stopped when they saw Jane. “Ginny, did you make a friend?”
“Perhaps,” Miss Davenport answered evenly. “It’s too soon to tell.”
“Introduce us.”
“I’d rather not.”
Jane’s eyes flew to her new friend. Eugenia’s expression and tone were very calm, but her words were a shock.
One of the men narrowed his eyes. “Why are you being rude, Ginny?”
“She’s nice. She doesn’t need to know you.”
“We’re nice.”
“No,” Miss Davenport answered. “You’re not.”
Jane’s attention flew back and forth across the alcove.
The man’s mouth took on a cruel twist. “Introduce us to your friend, Ginny, or you’ll regret it.”
“Even so.”
She couldn’t let this go on any further. Undoubtedly Miss Davenport was correct and Jane did not want to know these men, but she couldn’t very well let Eugenia suffer for it. “My name is Jane Bailey.”
Both of the men’s heads turned in her direction. “The Miss Bailey?”
What the devil was that supposed to mean?
“You were engaged to Pembroke.”
Oh no. “Who might you be?”
The first man—the one with the cruel mouth—smiled. “Lord Quincy.”
His friend, who had been quiet up until that point, offered his name as well. “Sebastian Clairborne.”
Clairborne? He looked nothing like Lord Wesley—slim and dark where Adam was vital and fair—but the marquess did have another son. “I believe your father is my neighbor.”
“You live in St. James’s Square?” Lord Quincy’s skepticism was apparent.
“I do.” Now that she had the upper hand, it was time for Jane to change the subject. “Were you looking for Miss Davenport for any reason in particular?”
“We, um . . .”—Mr. Clairborne fidgeted—“were going to ask her to dance.”
Eugenia’s head tilted slightly to the side. “No, you weren’t.”
“Of course we were,” Lord Quincy said.
“They come to torment me when they get bored,” Miss Davenport explained.
Reprehensible. “Miss Davenport, why don’t we get some punch and I’ll introduce you to my aunt?”
“That would be nice.”
They stood to leave. Lord Quincy blocked their exit.
Fear rippled through her. Nonsense, Jane. You’re in a crowded ballroom. What could possibly happen? “Excuse me, Lord Quincy. Please move.”
He shook his head. “We’re still bored.”
• • •
Lord Brandon had finally released them from Lady Hawthorne’s incorrigible clutches to honor the drink he’d promised Adam. They were on their way to it when two men passed them. One of the men’s profiles caught Adam’s eye. Sebastian had been ten the last time Adam saw him, but still—it certainly looked like it could be him.
“Hold that thought, Brandon. I’ve got to look into something.”
The man Adam had marked as possibly-Sebastian slipped into an alcove. Adam threaded his way through the crowd to follow him. Regina’s words about her son getting involved with something awful kept echoing through his head. When he made it to the alcove, they still hadn’t reappeared. Against his better judgment, Adam leaned close to listen.
“Excuse me, Lord Quincy. Please move.”
“We’re still bored.”
Sebastian or not, Adam wasn’t about to stand by and let this Lord Quincy terrorize an innocent woman. That the woman sounded suspiciously like Miss Bailey complicated matters slightly—their encounters were strange and far more frequent than he’d have liked—but not enough not to keep him from acting.
He stepped around the fern. “Excuse me.”
Miss Bailey held the arm of a slim brunette. The frown that creased her forehead eased immediately when she saw him. Before he knew it, she was looking at him with the same adoring expression from the apothecary’s shop.
“Adam?” So it was Sebastian. His brother clapped him on the shoulder. “When did you get back?”
Adam was in no mood. He’d suffered through this ball so he could find his brother, confirm Regina’s fears were unfounded, and go back to the Carolinas where he belonged. Instead, he finds his brother trailing after some pompous jackass, helping him harass respectable young women. Not only did it mean his brother was an idiot, it also meant Adam had to stay. “More pressing, when did you decide it was acceptable to hold women against their will?”
“I didn’t—”
He glared every ounce of his irritation at Sebastian.
Sebastian’s companion—Lord Quincy, presumably—sneered. “Who are you?”
If Adam could have pummeled the man into the marble floor without causing a scene, he would have. Instead, he did the next best thing for a man like Quincy. “Lord Wesley, future Marquess of Clairborne.”
The sneer fell away. “It’s an honor. I am—”
“I don’t care who you are, and I don’t wish to be in your company. I suggest you leave.”
Lord Quincy puffed up with self-importance. “I beg your pardon—”
“You have my pardon—to leave. My brother and I have a great deal to discuss.”
His brother’s affronted idol stomped back to the rest of the ball with a venomous look over his shoulder.
“Adam,” Sebastian complained. “You can’t just show up after ten years away and start insulting my friends. You don’t know anything about him.”
“If Lord Quincy is the sort of person you’re calling friend these days, I can see why your mother is concerned about you.” If you had even a lick of sense, we would be catching up over a drink and then I would be packing to go home.
Next to them, Miss Bailey cleared her throat. “We should probably—”
“And you!” Adam had forgotten she was there. Now that he remembered, he was angry with her as well. She was everywhere, like some sort of ghost haunting him. He didn’t want to be thinking of her all the time, with her wide eyes and her helplessness, but she was bloody everywhere. “Can you not go an hour without being in some sort of distress? Honestly, how have you managed till now?”
Her mouth dropped open. The bottom lip quivered as she whispered, “I’m sorry,” and pushed past him on her way out of the alcove. The brunette tilted her head to look at him for a moment before she followed.
Damn. Well, it would be better in the long run for both of them if she stopped looking at him like he made the sun rise and set. Adam wasn’t interested in being her hero.
“And are you planning on being my example for how to behave?” Sebastian asked.
“That wasn’t—”
“Quincy
might tease Miss Davenport sometimes, but he’s never made her cry. Why don’t you go back the colonies, Adam? I don’t need your help—or my mother’s.” His brother left, too, shaking his head.
As he stood alone in the alcove, having accomplished nothing and likely having become worse off than when he’d started, a dull ache started in Adam’s temples. Fulfilling his promise was going to be more difficult than he’d initially anticipated.
Chapter 5
“Jane, dear.”
“Go away!” Jane yelled under the pillow she had pulled over her head.
The handle on her bedroom door rattled as Mathilda tried it. “Jane, open the door.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart, I know you were embarrassed last night . . .”
Embarrassed? A new word would have to be created to describe the level of humiliation Jane had undergone at the Rockfords’ ball.
“But you can’t hide in your room for the rest of your life.”
“Yes, I can!” Besides, she just had to stay in here until the end of the season.
“I’m not leaving until you open this door, Jane.”
Then she could very well stand out in the hall all season, too.
Honestly, how have you managed till now? Jane groaned. He’d actually said that. In front of his brother and Miss Davenport! How could he? How could he be so helpful and gallant, and then be such an unmitigated ass? It wasn’t as if she had ever once asked for his help.
There was an exchange of murmurs in the hall.
A new voice sounded on the other side of the door. “I don’t understand why you want me to do this . . . All right . . . Miss Bailey?”
“Miss Davenport?” Oh, that was low. Jane threw the covers back. She put on her dressing robe and unlocked her door. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to visit. They said you weren’t receiving. I thought you just didn’t want to see me—that happens sometimes—but your aunt insisted I stay.”
Jane’s shoulders fell. She couldn’t very well let Eugenia think she was trying to avoid her. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, I’m just—”
“Feeling sorry for yourself. Your aunt told me that, too.” Eugenia smiled.
The gratitude Jane was feeling toward Mathilda for sparing her new friend’s feelings dissipated slightly. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”
A Ballroom Temptation Page 5
