“Your hair is stunning.” Lady Felicity peered around the girl beside her and commented in Charley’s direction.
Seeing two pretty girls together, their blonde curls shining in the sunlight, had Charley feeling more than a little self-conscious.
“I’m positively jealous of both of you. And of Miss Jackson,” Lady Bethany piped up from beside her.
“But you have perfectly lovely hair, Lady Bethany,” Charley protested. It was a perfectly normal brown and could never displease anyone.
“Call me Bethany.”
“Then you must call me Charley.”
“Let’s none of us be formal, then. I’m Felicity.” The girl waved one hand through the air. “But only when we are not in mixed company.” A mischievous light lit her gaze as it shifted to the gentlemen approaching them from the manor.
Charley resented that her stomach lurched a little to see Lord Westerley among them. The others seemed to be the same lordly specimens who had been hiding behind the pianoforte and in the window seat yesterday afternoon.
“Surely, we are the luckiest fellows in all of England this afternoon.” A man with perfect features and long lashes on his pale blue eyes, who was not quite as tall as the earl, bowed in their direction. After sending a wink in Tabetha’s direction, he eyed Charley. “I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance yet, ma’am. Lady Bethany, won’t you be so kind as to present me to this vision of loveliness?”
Charley pinched her lips together, because even on her best day, she’d never consider herself any such thing.
Bethany scowled in his direction but nonetheless stepped forward dutifully. “Miss Jackson, may I present to you Baron Chaswick.” Up close, Charley thought this man was possibly the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
Bethany presented the other four gentlemen, all of whom were titled except one. “And His Grace, the Duke of Blackheart.” When she turned to the last of them, Charley held herself rigid as the darkest, most menacing man bowed over her hand. A duke! She would have been quite happy to live all of her life without meeting someone so haughty as this person.
“Shall we return to the manor then?” Mr. Spencer offered his arm to Lady Tabetha, who turned away in favor of the marquess. Lady Felicity—Felicity—paired up with Lord Westerley and Lady Bethany with Baron Chaswick.
“If it is true that your father is the American Whiskey King, then does that make you a princess?” Mr. Spencer offered his arm, and Charley easily took it. If anything, his lack of title made him the most attractive of the bunch.
“That’s ridiculous,” she responded as they strode around to the front entrance. “Are you fond of whiskey, Mr. Spencer?”
“Fond is a rather bland way to describe the emotions I have for it.” He laughed. As did those of the other gentlemen in earshot.
“Passion would be more apt.” Tabetha giggled. “Why, on one particular summer morning, Bethany and I rose early to go riding and found all of these bounders passed out on the front lawn. In their clothes. I swear we could smell the liquor on their breath all the way from the stables.”
“I don’t remember any such thing,” Lord Chaswick protested, looking back, although not very vehemently.
“Well, you wouldn’t.” Bethany shook her head.
“It must have been Lord Lucas,” Chaswick persisted.
“You only say that because he is away at war and is not here to defend himself,” Bethany answered without missing a beat.
“Any word on when your brother’s regiment returns?” The Marquess fellow spoke up, garnering the duke’s attention.
“He was back for a few weeks, before the holidays. His men suffered an ambush. Arthur Gilcrest was one of the casualties.”
The members of the group all made the appropriate sympathetic comments, but as she had no idea whom they were talking about, Charley only half-listened.
The group fell silent, seeming to observe a few steps of somber moments until Bethany changed the subject. She gestured meaningfully toward the couple that had managed to gain a lead on the rest. “What do you say, Chase, will my brother make his offer official this spring?”
“Mum’s the word from me. Would you be interested in making a wager, Lady Bethany?”
Charley sent the baron a sharp glance. Were they discussing Lord Westerley offering for Lady Felicity?
“Ladies do not wager.” Bethany dropped her gaze to the ground, looking almost sad. But in the very next instant, Charley thought she must have imagined the moment when the girl lifted her chin and smiled brightly. “Will you gentlemen be joining us for tea?”
“Westerley insists it’s our duty. If you’ve any of that whiskey on you this afternoon, Miss Jackson, I’d be most appreciative for a drop or two in my cup of tea later on. We gentlemen will require all the fortitude we can muster.”
“He’s already taken his sweet time about it,” Tabetha added. And then she met Charley’s eyes in a friendly manner. “He and Felicity are practically betrothed. We’re hopeful that he’ll make it official this year.”
But Charley hardly paid attention, her gaze pinned to the back of the finely dressed gentleman walking ahead who was also their host. If Lady Felicity was expecting an offer, how was it honorable for him to court Charley? Was this all just a game to him? Was everything a game to these people?
She dismissed the pinch of disappointment she felt upon realizing the earl wasn’t at all the man he’d portrayed himself to be.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so very difficult to resist Lord Westerley’s charm after all.
Chapter 6
TELL THAT TO YOUR SISTERS
“Felicity is looking particularly lovely; would you not agree?” Bethany sidled up next to Jules as several of the guests milled out of the drawing room after tea. Most of them would retire to their chambers to freshen up or take short naps before the evening’s festivities, but he doubted Miss Jackson would do any such thing.
“What do you think of Miss Jackson?” he asked without any preamble.
“Charley?” His sister lowered her brows thoughtfully. “Very different. Not at all as I’d expected she would be.”
“Which was?”
“Silly. Grasping. Somewhat desperate.”
Her glance shifted toward the window, and he followed her gaze. Sure enough, the young American woman was walking outside. She was too industrious to do something so lazy as rest for a few hours during the day. For an instant, Jules imagined other activities that could be undertaken on a lazy afternoon in one’s bedchamber. With her fiery red hair splayed about his pillow.
An inappropriate shot of lust had him bringing himself up short. Where the devil had that thought come from? He straightened his shoulders.
“No, not the grasping sort,” he agreed.
“Initially, I felt sorry for her. She seemed terribly out of place. From what I was able to garner, her grandparents disapprove of her. They didn’t want her to attend the house party as she hadn’t completed the etiquette lessons they’d arranged. I think they are sorely mistaken if they think to turn her into an English Miss before the Season rolls around.”
“Lessons?”
“Ah, yes. Comportment, dancing, manners, and such. And they hate her hair.”
Jules nodded. Indeed, Miss Jackson’s hair wasn’t something that evoked milk toast opinions. Nor was the young woman herself. Hell, on and off all day, he had found himself contemplating their unusual conversation from earlier that morning. “Who are her grandparents?”
“Lord and Lady Thornton.”
Jules raised his brows at such irony. He’d met Lady Thornton on a few occasions—one of London’s highest sticklers. Even if Lord Thornton appreciated his American granddaughter as she was, it was likely the countess would squash it immediately.
He had less faith in Lady Thornton’s ability to affect much change with Miss Jackson.
No wonder she wasn’t all that fond of England. Since she’d arrived, her father had gambled her away in
a game of chance, and her grandparents would erase her Americanisms, her very essence, if at all possible. “I imagine they were sorely disappointed.”
“That is my impression.” Bethany shot him a curious glance. “Why do you ask, anyway?”
Jules didn’t intend to tell either of his sisters about his wager. “I might do some business with her father. Important to be certain she won’t give rise to any... difficulties.” Both statements contained a seed of truth.
Jules rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Miss Jackson had been elusive over tea. Was she playing some sort of game with him or had she simply been distracted by the other guests? He’d made a few attempts to catch her gaze across the room, and she’d seemed to deliberately frustrate his efforts.
It was a disconcerting sensation. He was usually the one being watched.
“You said you initially felt sorry for her. But you no longer do?”
“Not really. She’s clever in the most unusual ways. And she doesn’t seem to care all that much about what people think about her. She gets this faraway look in her eyes as though she’s somewhere else completely. I must confess to wishing I could feel the same, at least occasionally.”
Jules smiled down at the eldest of his two sisters. Unlike Tabetha, Bethany was proper in all things and never gave him cause to worry. “There was no chance of that for any of us.”
In addition to the expectations of their parents, they must always comport themselves properly and with dignity. Virtues they never questioned and had drilled into them by nannies, their governesses, and tutors.
It wasn’t something they did, rather, it was who they were.
Miss Jackson might very well someday learn to behave in a manner acceptable to the Ton but it would not change who she was.
“I don’t imagine she enjoys those lessons,” Jules commented thoughtfully.
“She hates them.” Bethany laughed. “I like her. I hope she doesn’t have too much difficulty in London though. Although I doubt the dragons at Almacks will approve of her as she is now.”
Wandering through the halls a few minutes later, Jules couldn’t help but agree. Of course, those old crows would never approve of her. She didn’t blend in. In a sea of two-dimensional pastel misses, Miss Jackson’s striking character, not to mention her bright red hair, would disrupt the calming image of gentle perfection.
Blackheart came into view just as Jules rounded the corner. A deep scowl etched a line in the duke’s forehead, and he wore traveling clothes.
Something must be remiss. “Lucas?” There would always be worry when any of them were involved in a military conflict.
“No.” Blackheart straightened his shoulders. “To my knowledge, his unit is still camped on the coast.” Blackheart rarely was kept in the dark on anything, so Jules exhaled a sigh of relief.
Blackheart turned his head and stared down the foyer, grimaced, and then turned his black eyes on Jules again. “Lost a wager to deuced Greys and now I need to set my affairs in order.”
Jules raised his brows. Wagers placed by the lofty marquess were never insignificant ones. “Your affairs?”
“It seems I’ll be inconveniently occupied until the Season concludes.”
“What about your sisters?” If Blackheart was inconveniently occupied, how would the twins make their come-out?
Tabetha had kept Jules informed of far more details for the coming Season than he had ever wished to know.
“Lady Ravensdale and Lady Hawthorne are sponsoring them, so I have no worries there. They’ll return to Crescent Park with me today, however, and they’re none too happy about that.” Black’s annoyance had Jules even more curious as to what he and Greystone had wagered.
Jules didn’t press. He’d learn of the wager soon enough from the others. “Give Tempest and his mother my condolences, if you speak with them.” Arthur Gilcrest’s family’s property bordered Crescent Park.
“I will.” Blackheart swallowed hard. Jules presumed that Blackheart’s brother was never far from his worries. “Has Jackson’s chit accepted you?”
The question surprised him. “She will.” Failure was never an option.
Blackheart nodded. “I won’t commiserate with you quite yet.” He reached out a hand, apparently eager to make his departure. “I thank you for your hospitality. Will you extend my gratitude to your mother as well? I imagine I’ll run into you soon enough.”
Jules laughed, curious about the bet, but just as he went to bid his friend safe travels, a flash of femininity dressed in evergreen muslin came rushing around the corner, nearly careening into them.
“Pardon me.” Miss Jackson’s eyes widened when she caught sight of Blackheart. “Your Grace.” And to Jules. “Sir.”
Blackheart laughed under his breath and tipped his hat, stepping backward. “No worries, Miss Jackson. But I’m afraid I must be on my way. Good day, Madam. Best of luck to you, Westerley.”
At the same time Blackheart began striding away, Jules’ little American moved to skirt quietly around him.
“Miss Jackson.”
She halted and turned a cool gaze in his direction. “Yes?”
He had not been mistaken, then. She had been avoiding him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am.” She seemed a little startled by her admission.
Jules stepped tentatively in her direction, feeling rather as though she might take flight if he approached her too quickly.
“You don’t look as though you are enjoying yourself presently. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that you are annoyed at something in particular.” Jules tilted his head and peered into bright green eyes. “Or someone?”
She lifted one hand in the air, pointing a single finger upward, and then lowered it toward him. “You.”
He’d sensed as much and yet her very deliberate answer jolted him. Earlier, she had declared her intent to refuse him, but she’d tolerated him well enough. His heart rate kicked up a notch, and his fingers tingled. “Because I intend to court you?”
“Because you are a phony. That is why.”
Her answer ought to enrage him, but it was mostly… confusing. “I have been perfectly honest with you.”
Her eyes narrowed and pink spots appeared on her cheeks. Her fiery tresses had been knotted behind her head into what ought to have been a tidy chignon, but enough tendrils had escaped to lend her a somewhat harried appearance.
“My honor this, my honor that. And yet I learn that you are promised to another lady? How will Lady Felicity feel when she sees you with me?”
Jules could almost believe she was jealous—if he didn’t know better, that was.
She was wrong about this, however, and it irritated him that she’d been led to believe otherwise. “I am not promised to Lady Felicity.”
“Tell that to your sisters.” Miss Jackson frowned.
Jules inhaled a deep breath and then slowly let it out. His meddling younger siblings hadn’t been lying outright, and yet, their assumptions were incorrect.
“It’s complicated.” And before she could interrupt him, he asked, “Will you walk with me?”
In some things, Miss Jackson was quite adept at shuttering her thoughts, but in that moment, he could almost read them word for word. She was practically vibrating in her disgust of him, expecting him to make up some convoluted excuses.
And—he supposed—that was precisely what he was going to do.
But she had not told him to go to Hades, so some part of her obviously wanted to hear them.
He winged his elbow. “Let’s walk this way and I will give you the grand tour of the Westerley galleries.”
She stared at him, at his arm, and then capitulated without an argument. “Either a person is promised to a woman or he is not.”
“That isn’t necessarily true.”
As Jules walked them past a long wall of terrace doors, the plaster walls gave way to aged brick and a cobbled floor. Despite a few high up windows for light, the gallery corridor was dimly lit, and t
he temperature dropped immediately.
Their surroundings easily distracted her. “Where are you taking me, exactly? Are you going to lock me away in one of your dungeons? Feed me to your dragons, perhaps?” Her lips tilted up slightly. “Do you store wine down here? Or perhaps something more interesting?”
“Yes. To all of it.” He bit back a grin at her irreverence. “But I’ll show you the gallery first.”
Feeling a shiver run through her frame, Jules drew her closer. He could have sent for her wrap before taking her down here, but in her present mood, he hadn’t wanted to give her any excuse not to listen to him.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m fine.” Had she leaned into his warmth, though? Regardless, he’d not complain. “Now tell me how you came to be promised but not promised.”
They had arrived at the first painting, and Jules halted their progress so she could study it.
“Your father?”
“Yes.” Jules swallowed the many emotions that never failed to assault him when he stared into the eyes of his father’s portrait.
“You look just like him.”
He’d known this for a very long time and he’d always been proud of the fact. Same brown hair—minus the grey his father’s had had in the last years of his life. Same eyes, but most importantly, the same build. The same posture. His father had been a great earl in a long succession of those who’d held the title before him. But he’d been an even greater man.
As Westerley, Jules’ father had never once failed to live up to his title, his birthright, his code of honor as a gentleman. If Jules had done the same, his father would still be here.
Shame, which ought to be familiar by now, squeezed his chest.
“Lady Felicity is not only lovely but kind. Your sisters like her very much.” Her words cut off his thoughts, and Jules just barely stopped himself from cracking his neck.
“The friendship between Lady Felicity’s father and mine goes back longer than I have been alive. It wasn’t unusual for our families to spend the holidays together.”
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