A Ballroom Temptation

by Kimberly Bell

  “So what happened?” Brandon asked when they were on their way.

  “Hmm?” Adam watched the passing street, trying to pretend he didn’t know what Brandon meant.

  “One minute you’re looking for your Miss Bailey like she’s been kidnapped, and the next you’re buying drinks and looking for a fight.”

  “It’s private.”

  “Is it going to privately get my face bashed in when I back you up in a bar brawl?”

  Adam sighed. “Something happened. Jane was upset, and then . . . she kissed me.”

  “The nervous little blond one?”

  He nodded.

  “Just up and kissed you? Didn’t say anything?”

  “She said . . .”—he shouldn’t be talking about this, but who else could he discuss it with?—“that she didn’t regret it. That she’d do it again. And that I should spend some time considering that.”

  Brandon whistled. “It’s never the ones you expect.”

  “It’s completely out of character for her. I don’t know what happened, but I’m certain it’s my fault.”

  “Wesley. When women start behaving shamelessly in your company, you’re doing something right.”

  “Of course you think that.”

  “I don’t just think it, I know it.” The carriage arrived in Covent Garden. Brandon popped the door open. “Whatever you’ve unleashed in Miss Bailey—she’ll thank you for it the rest of her life.”

  Adam climbed down after him. The street was busy. Fallen doves and strolling gentleman abounded.

  “Unless you make her regret it, of course.”

  He didn’t intend to. “I’ve told her it can’t happen again.”

  “Wrong!” Brandon announced, drawing the attention of a few patrons as they entered an establishment constructed from three shacks joined together. “You can’t reject her. She’ll be devastated.”

  They found a table in the madness and wedged themselves in against the wall.

  “I can’t not reject her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a lady!”

  “Ladies have needs, just like everyone else.”

  Adam was obviously preaching to the wrong congregation. “I’m not going to marry her.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’d say everything is aboveboard and you’re both thinking adults. Where’s the harm?”

  The harm was in taking advantage of an innocent. The harm was in Jane not knowing her own mind. The harm was in . . . the fact that Adam really, really enjoyed kissing her. He didn’t have any experience with the kind of dalliance Brandon was talking about. He’d had a mistress for a time in the colonies, but she’d been a widow and it had been a quietly beneficial arrangement for them both.

  The things he felt for Jane were not quiet. Nor, given her penchant for outbursts and lectures, did he believe her forays into the sensual realm would be either. She’d obviously never been kissed before tonight—how was that possible?—but he already knew there was a very passionate nature lurking beneath the reserved face she put on for most people. If anyone found out what they were up to, they’d be forced to marry each other, which neither of them wanted.

  “She’s an innocent, Brandon.”

  “I’m not suggesting you bed her,” he scoffed. “Just indulge her curiosity.”

  That was an idea. Adam was hardly some sex-crazed monster. He could exhibit restraint. Jane was extremely sensitive. If he squashed her initiative now, she may be too hurt by the rejection to explore her passionate nature elsewhere. Adam ignored the acidic feeling in his gut at the concept of her not being too hurt to explore with someone else. Jane didn’t belong to him. If she wanted to kiss someone else, she would.

  But for now, she could kiss him.

  “Two pints,” he told the barmaid when she made it to their table. “And keep them coming, please.”

  • • •

  As soon as they got home, Jane dumped her cloak and tried to race upstairs. Mathilda hadn’t said a word on the carriage ride home, but the chances that Jane would be able to go to sleep without—

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To bed?” Jane smiled wide.

  “Very amusing.” Mathilda let Ambrose rid her of her cloak much more sedately. “We’ll have a nightcap in the drawing room if you don’t mind, Ambrose.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Charlie thudded his way down the stairs in stark white trousers and a jacket. “What are you two doing home so early? I was just on my way to meet you.”

  Aunt Matty kissed his cheek. “We decided to make it an early night. Don’t stay in for us, though.”

  “Well, I guess it’s the card tables for me then.”

  “Card tables?” Jane asked. She couldn’t help it. “Are you certain that’s wise?”

  “I’m certain it’s fun,” Charlie teased. “Don’t worry. I’ll just play with what I won off of Davenport and Maxwell last time. Your fortune is secure, Miss Bailey.”

  She might be better off if it weren’t. If she didn’t have any prospects, that would certainly change what sort of woman Adam saw her as.

  Charlie bid them both good evening and disappeared into the night. Where he went most of the time, Jane was sure she was better off not knowing. It would only cause her to worry.

  “Jane.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Drawing room, please.”

  Jane sighed. If it was going to be one of Aunt Matty’s outrageous discussions that eschewed her chaperone responsibilities, they would have had it in her bedroom. The formality of the drawing room implied she was about to be lectured. It was rare for Mathilda to take anything seriously, but it did happen on occasion.

  She sat down, accepting the brandy Ambrose poured for her.

  Mathilda accepted her whiskey and thanked him.

  Then it was just the two of them in the drawing room.

  “So, Lord Wesley kissed you. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m afraid we—”

  “I kissed him.”

  “What?”

  She’d actually managed to shock her aunt. There was a first time for everything—many of them occurring that evening, apparently. “I kissed him. He kissed me back, and he feels guilty about it, but I don’t.”

  “Oh.” Mathilda took a healthy swallow from her glass. “Do you . . . have any questions?”

  “No.” Jane was certain she would have some eventually, but for right now she just wanted to be alone to consider the events of the evening. “May I go to bed?”

  “I suppose you may.”

  Jane stood up to leave. At the door she turned back. “Aunt Matty?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it possible I’m not as clumsy as I think I am?”

  “You’re not clumsy at all, dear. Why do you ask?”

  Jane frowned. “Tonight, Geoffrey blamed Drusilla for a drink that spilled, but it wasn’t her fault. And then Adam said something about Geoffrey being angry not making me wrong. I just wondered . . .”

  “You’re not clumsy. You’re one of the most graceful people I know,” Mathilda said very evenly.

  Jane nodded. “Good night, Aunt Matty.”

  “Good night, Jane.”

  Chapter 11

  Jane sipped tea and forcibly restrained herself from appearing impatient. Of all the days for Mathilda to decide they must go visiting, rather than be visited.

  “Do you see much of the late Lord Hawthorne’s children?” a kind gray-haired lady asked Mathilda.

  “Not since he died,” her aunt answered. “They were away at school when he proposed, and I didn’t see much of them while he was alive.”

  Another silver-haired widow made a noise, indicating that she found the
state of affairs very sad. “And you, Miss Bailey? You’re never in contact with your cousins?”

  Jane blinked. “We spent even less time with them than Mathilda did.”

  Mathilda jumped to her rescue. “Harold’s son is a lovely boy. He makes an excellent Lord Hawthorne, and he’s very close with his mother’s family.”

  That sentiment was received with approvals all around. It wasn’t that Uncle Harry’s son was an unkind abandoner of widows. It was just that he already had a mother.

  The entire visit was a farce. These women were not Mathilda’s friends—they were just women who required social sacrifices in exchange for invitations to fetes. Usually, Jane would be kinder. She would accept, and even applaud, Mathilda’s adherence to societal expectation. But today Jane was hoping to see Adam and find out if he’d thought more about what she said.

  Jane was changed. In what manner, she was not yet sure, but the change was evident. Most mornings after one of her fits, traditionally Jane would be filled with regret. It would feel like the entire episode happened to someone else. There were elements of that, but there were elements that were sticking with her this time. She did not regret the kiss. She would like to do it again. And she had a strong suspicion that Geoffrey had never had her best interests at heart.

  She wasn’t sure what to do with that last piece of information, but she knew what she needed to do with the first two.

  “Aunt Matty, I hate to rush you, but—”

  “Of course, of course.” Mathilda smiled beatifically at her companions. “I would stay all day if my schedule allowed it, but you’re quite right.”

  “What’s all this?” one of the women asked.

  Jane had a moment of horror. She didn’t have an excuse beyond wanting to find out if the man she’d kissed wanted to kiss her again.

  “Charity work,” Mathilda explained.

  “During visiting hours?”

  Her aunt’s face fell into a frown. “I know. So inconsiderate. But we felt it unchristian to lecture the unfortunate about their timing.”

  Another hum of agreement from the assembled ladies.

  “We’ll just grab our cloaks and go. Thank you ladies so much for a lovely visit.”

  “Thank you,” Jane rushed. “Truly lovely.”

  Outside, Mathilda raised an eyebrow at Jane’s tapping toe. “In a hurry?”

  “You just lied about charity.”

  “You just let me.”

  The ride home was quick, and full of thoughts on her inevitable downfall and damnation.

  The foyer of Number Fourteen greeted them with the post. Lord Rhone’s seal stood out against the white of one of the letters.

  “Read it and tell me what the news is while I pour a drink, Jane,” Mathilda said.

  “It’s half past twelve.”

  “I just spent the morning staring my bleak future in the face. Whiskey is required.”

  They went into the drawing room, where Jane sat on the settee and Mathilda visited the sideboard. Jane pulled apart the seal, unfolding the letter.

  Dear Ladies of the Bailey Clan,

  I have been asked to serve as my wife’s proxy in writing this letter. She apologizes for not writing you sooner, but our offspring very recently clawed its way free of her womb and immediately began destroying our lives. Never have children, Miss Bailey. You will never sleep again. I know Mathilda is far too sensible to fall for a trap she has already avoided.

  “Hannah had her baby! The letter is from Lord Rhone. She wasn’t feeling well enough to write us, so she asked him to.” Jane’s eyes welled up with tears.

  “Is she well?”

  “I haven’t gotten there yet.”

  Seamus Charles Dalreoch entered the world with an excessively dramatic flair on January twenty-second, year of our Lord seventeen hundred and twenty-eight. He made his imminent arrival known in the midst of the evening meal, at which time my mentally unsound wife attempted to pretend absolutely nothing was amiss.

  “It’s a boy. A perfect little boy.” She would have to send them a gift immediately.

  “And Hannah?”

  “Still doesn’t say.”

  “Leave it to Rhone.” Mathilda sat down next to her, reading over her shoulder.

  My wife is insisting, on threat of divorce, that I inform you that nothing was amiss and the traitor Morag assured her the birth would take a great deal of time and it was not worth getting excited about too early. That information proved to be a lie, as my son was screaming and disturbing the peace well before the proposed time for the dessert. (I will be exiling Morag from Dalreoch lands just as soon as I can find a man brave enough to remove her.)

  Jane wiped her eyes, laughing. “She’s fine. Oh, I miss them dreadfully.”

  Mathilda patted her hand. “We’ll go back, don’t worry.”

  I welcome you to return as soon as possible and relish your civilizing influence upon the ungrateful pack of heathens I am surrounded by, so that I might finally know an hour’s peace.

  Yrs,

  Gavan Dalreoch, Earl of Rhone

  (And Hannah, even though she selfishly chose to lay abed dictating instead of writing you herself.)

  “We’ll have to get them a gift here in London,” Jane said. “Something spectacular.”

  “I’ll talk to Charlie,” Mathilda promised.

  “Tell him we’re using his gambling money.”

  Her aunt laughed. “And ruin all his fun?”

  “Yes. Before it turns into another family catastrophe.”

  “He’ll think they’ve named the baby after him.”

  Jane groaned. “Lord Rhone was a terrible influence on him.”

  Mathilda grinned. She settled into a comfortable position on the settee, sipping her drink. “I take it we are waiting to see if your young man comes to call?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh, so we can go visit more of my acquaintances?”

  “No!” Jane shouted. “I mean . . . you despise visiting. I would hate to make you suffer through it.”

  “Perhaps I love visiting. Perhaps, in my old age, I’m learning to love the mundanities of societal life.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “We’re staying here.”

  “To not wait for Lord Wesley.”

  “Exactly.”

  • • •

  “Wake up.” A boot nudged him.

  Adam groaned. “Go away.”

  “Can’t do it.” Brandon nudged him again. “You told me to make sure you made it to Miss Bailey’s. You had some very important things to tell her.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “But very clear.”

  Adam opened his eyes. Rough wood filled the space above his head. “Am I . . .”

  “Sleeping under your dining table? Indeed you are.”

  He turned his head to the side, staring directly at the toe of Brandon’s boots. Adam climbed out from under the table, full of regret and not a few questions. Brandon was sitting at the table with a plate full of breakfast.

  Adam squinted at it.

  “Your landlady brought it up. Apparently you’d arranged it already.”

  For himself, but just now the idea of food seemed especially heinous. “I feel like I died. Why are you fine?”

  “Practice.” Brandon shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

  Adam sat down hard in one of the dining chairs. “Why did I sleep under the table?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Your guest room was lovely, by the way. I’ve never slept better.”

  “Your spirits are far too high. I feel like whatever happened to me was your fault.”

  Brandon stopped eating long enough to raise his eyebrows and make Adam feel like a cad. “I was content to stay at the ball. The coffeehouse was your idea.”


  “Do they actually serve coffee?”

  “Among other things.”

  Adam looked down at his hands, which were scraped across the knuckles and sore. “Did I get into a fight?”

  “A brawl. You’re actually rather handy. Comported yourself very admirably.”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “Sometimes big men are bad fighters. They rely too much on size.”

  “You’ve seen me fight. I saved you the day we met.”

  Brandon shook his head. “Element of surprise. That’s hardly definitive.”

  What was hardly definitive was which particular breed of insanity had infected him. He hadn’t been in a bar brawl in . . . ever? Maybe ever. Scuffles, certainly, but not an all-out brawl. Why had he . . . “I need to talk to Jane.”

  “I know.”

  “I really need to talk to Jane. Last night—”

  “You told me all about it. Clean yourself up. I’ll finish your breakfast.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “I’m a kind man.”

  Adam left the dining room, shaking his head. He immediately regretted it when his temples throbbed in protest.

  • • •

  They didn’t wait for Lord Wesley all afternoon. Jane finished the handkerchief she was embroidering and made it a good way through another one before the knocker sounded on the door. Still, late was better than never, and Jane waited with anticipation for Ambrose to announce him.

  “Miss Bailey, Miss Davenport is here to see you.”

  Surely not. It had to be Adam, because . . . because Jane wanted it to be Adam, that’s why. Not that she was unhappy to see Eugenia; she just needed to see Adam, and if Eugenia was there when he arrived, that would complicate matters quite a bit.

  Eugenia came through the door and smiled. “You’re better.”

  “I am.”

  “You were very peculiar last night.”

  “I was,” Jane agreed. She hoped to retain some of the peculiar feelings indefinitely, but not the ones Eugenia had been privy to.

  “I can’t stay long. Mother is visiting a friend in the square, and I asked if I could come check in on you instead.”

  “And she let you?”

  “Oh yes.” Eugenia’s smile spread wide. “She’s very pleased I have a friend—even if your family reputation is a little tarnished. A brush with poverty can be accepted under the circumstances.”