by Emily Royal
“For shame!”
“How unsightly…”
“My dear, Miss Elliott.” A masculine voice with an exotic timbre broke through the unpleasantries as Mister O’Reilly approached. Andrea stood with the fluidity of a well-schooled lady and took her betrothed’s hand for the first dance.
Jeanette’s chance to escape had come. Mama was nowhere to be seen, and Papa would be playing at cards somewhere. With nobody’s attention on her, she could go where she chose. The best remedy for an empty dance card was fresh air, and she moved toward the terrace doors and slipped outside.
The evening light cast a warm pink glow on the gardens, but the manicured lawn compared unfavorably to the meadows Jeanette had grown up with. The shrubs had been stifled into shapes deemed acceptable to society, constrained by clippers as much as Jeanette was restricted by the strips of bone in her corset. Did the shrubs also struggle to breathe?
The only asymmetrical shapes were the trees surrounding the garden. They had the audacity to sprout branches at irregular angles, Mother Nature flouting the mastery of man.
Good for her.
Voices filtered across the night air.
“He’s the greatest catch in London, Caroline. He must be looking for a wife. I hear he’s disposed of his mistress.”
“Very handsomely Lizzie, no doubt.”
“He’s a generous patron, even if they never last more than a few months.”
“Generous in coin?”
“And other matters. Imagine what it’d be like to snare him!”
“He’d not keep faith with his wife.”
“Who cares? He’s richer than Croesus and has a title. Felicia is to be envied having secured him for the first dance.”
“Hrumpf! Felicia Long must have played on his sympathy. Her face is so horse-like, she has to avoid the stallions when the mares at her Papa’s stable are in season.”
Jeanette smiled to herself, Ladies Caroline Sandton and Elizabeth De Witt, both unmarried. One more season and they’d qualify as wallflowers. Or rather, nettles.
Jeanette’s skin tightened on hearing her name.
“Did you see Miss Claybone? Or should I say, Smith. She has no shame!”
“What was Lady Darlington thinking of, inviting her sort! No amount of wealth or title bestowed on that family will remove the stench of trade.”
“I disapprove of these new titles. They encourage those of low birth to rub shoulders with their betters! What next? Must we take supper with the chambermaids?”
“And the mother! Fancies herself eligible for entry into Almack’s just because she’s an émigré, of which thousands roam the streets. I hear she worked as a seamstress before marrying.”
“How could she possibly snare a gentleman for a husband?”
“Hardly a gentleman, Caroline. Sir Robert’s nothing but a cattle farmer.”
“I wonder if he has a similar problem to Viscount Long and has to keep his daughter away from the cowshed?”
“I hear she has two sisters.”
“Oh Lord! You mean to say next season we’ll see more Smiths littering the place, trying to claim that a moderate accomplishment at the pianoforte makes up for an upbringing in the gutter?”
Their laughter resumed before they turned their attentions onto another—Lady Ashurst’s youngest daughter who, according to Lady Caroline, sang like a constipated crow.
Jeanette gritted her teeth. How dare those women laugh at her, and at Papa! He was a hard-working, kind man. All his employees and servants looked up to him. How many of those preening peacocks could say the same about their servants? Did they even know whose lives depended on them?
Fighting the urge to run and hide, she returned inside. Papa always said an obstacle must be faced and scaled, with a head held high.
A shape moved near the terrace doors. Jeanette blinked and it disappeared. A trick of the light, or shadow cast from within the ballroom where people were dancing. She slipped inside, bypassing the dancers until she reached her destination, a table laden with a punchbowl where a footman stood to attention.
Holding her hand up to deflect his offer of help, she filled a glass, a watered-down mixture of brandy and lemonade, and swallowed it in one gulp before taking another. The epitome of discretion, the footman remained still. After filling her glass a third time, she murmured under her breath, then drained the contents.
“Prize bloody bitches.”
She slammed the glass on the table. The footman continued to stare straight ahead and Jeanette let out a giggle.
A deep voice from behind made her jump.
“I’m sorry, madam, I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
Jeanette turned and came face to face with a broad chest. She tipped her head up and looked into the blue eyes of Lord Ravenwell.
Chapter Two
“I said, prize bloody bitches.”
Lord Ravenwell cocked an eyebrow toward the punchbowl.
“Perhaps you’ve had enough of that?”
“Not nearly enough.” Jeanette refilled her glass.
“Don’t you know a lady should never partake of more than three glasses of punch in an evening?”
The harsh words from the gossips on the terrace still stung.
“Then find a lady to bestow your words of wisdom on. They’re wasted on me.”
His eyes narrowed before he took the glass out of her hand.
“May I inquire if you’re engaged for the next dance?”
Jeanette snorted. “No, I’m not. Nor any other dance tonight.” She tried to retrieve her glass, but his hand curled around her wrist, an action which conveyed strength, purpose, and domination. They were the fingers of a man who knew what he wanted and took it. A man who women would willingly give themselves to.
He caressed her skin with his thumb. The casual gesture sent a flame through her body, awakening previously unknown sensations, and the breath caught in her throat.
His mouth curled into a knowing smile. She was no match for him, a connoisseur of seduction.
“Sweeting, is that how you offer yourself to a man, by playing his sympathies?”
She snatched her hand away, her cheeks flaming. Insufferable, conceited man! That pristine waistcoat of his needed a little dousing.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “I’ll offer you a glass of punch, though perhaps not in the manner in which a lady would bestow it.”
A smile of amusement danced in his eyes. “I prefer to taste my punch rather than wear it. At least my valet would prefer it. Perhaps you’ve had one glass too many.”
“I doubt that. If a real drink were available, I could match you glass for glass.”
“I only wish to match you step for step on the dance floor.”
Now he was teasing her.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“No, Miss Claybone,” he said, his tongue curling round her name as if savoring a sweetmeat. “And my name is…”
“Ravenwell,” she interrupted. “I know who and what you are.”
The warmth in his eyes turned to frost.
“Are you ashamed to dance with me, Miss Claybone?”
She held his gaze. “I’m ashamed of nothing.”
“Then prove it.”
He led her onto the dance floor where couples were lining up. Whispers fluttered through the company like leaves in the breeze. Any moment, Mama’s voice would bluster through them, dissipating the leaves in a whirlwind of desperation.
A few steps into the dance, he broke the silence between them.
“Are you enjoying the dance? You seem accomplished, considering…”
“…my lack of breeding?”
“I meant no disrespect.”
Arrogant man! Did he think her a fool?
“For the past two years I’ve endured lessons in deportment,” she said. “A silly word which describes nothing more complex than the placing of one foot in front of the other in an acceptable fashion.”
&n
bsp; “You must admit, it would be ridiculous to call it a lesson in foot placement, Miss Claybone.”
“I would rather call it what it is.”
“Yes, I believe you would.” His mouth twitched into a smile.
“In that case,” she said saucily, “we should rename all the lessons ladies are subjected to. ‘Eyelash fluttering’, ‘fan waving’, and worst of all…”
Jeanette’s voice broke off as they were separated in the dance for a few steps. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Mama’s excited gestures which almost knocked the feathers off her neighbor’s headdress.
“You were saying?”
Interrupted from her thoughts, she saw he was looking directly at her.
“Worst of all is the lesson in husband-catching. We’re taught that tongues and brains are not required, merely a large dowry and a small mind. So, we prance around in neatly aligned rows while the real world is outside. Why this is called le bon ton, I’ve no idea. It should be called le ton terrible. For if a woman fails to succeed, Heaven help her.”
“Are you sure you want to see the world outside, Miss Claybone? It can be unpleasant.”
“What would you know of unpleasantness? Where were you educated?”
He arched an eyebrow. “I had a tutor, then progressed to Eton and Oxford.”
“My education took place in Papa’s office until two years ago it regressed into the parlor to learn the accomplishments of a lady.”
“A fine education for a young woman.”
“Music, perhaps, but mathematics was denied me. Before, I could put myself to use helping Papa with his accounts.”
“A job for servants! I wouldn’t sully my hands with it. My steward sees to mine.”
“Which confirms my view that an education is wasted on a gentleman when others could put it to better use.”
“Others such as yourself?”
“Why not? I’ll wager you can’t perform a simple mathematical sum on paper, let alone in your head.”
“And you can?” he laughed.
How dare he mock her! “Of course.”
“All right then, Miss Claybone. I have seventeen staff in my townhouse. If I paid them each twelve guineas, how much would that be?”
“Two hundred and four guineas. Can’t you think of a better challenge?”
“That was too quick. How do I know you’ve answered correctly?”
“Surely your Oxford education equips you to work it out.”
“Do you enjoy this kind of challenge? Hardly ladylike.”
His smile had disappeared. How many times had Mama told her men didn’t like women who were too clever for their own good?
She shook her head. What did she care for the opinion of a rake who would doubtless be seducing several women to their ruin tonight?
Well, none of them will be me.
She sighed. “For the greater part of my life, Lord Ravenwell, I’ve been free. I have only recently been confined to the prison while society awaits my incarceration in the cage.
“You’re talking in riddles again.”
“Freedom is the life I had at home,” she explained. “The prison is the ton. Surely, I don’t have to explain what the cage represents. Of course, you wouldn’t see it as such, given what little difference it would make to your life.”
“You mean matrimony?”
“Men call it ‘the parson’s noose’ yet your lives are hardly affected. You’ll continue to indulge in your exploits.”
“Exploits?”
“Come, sir! As a rakehell, you understand me, and as a gentleman, you wouldn’t embarrass me by asking me to elaborate on the details.”
The urge to break through his aristocratic expression got the better of her, and she threw him a wicked smile. “Be careful what you ask, Lord Ravenwell. I grew up on a farm, as I’m sure the gossips have told you.”
“Details?”
He squeezed her hand and his eyes darkened with a predatory look. He drew out his tongue and licked his lips, those full, sensual lips. Her chest tightened, and she looked away.
“Your methods won’t work on me, Lord Ravenwell.”
“Is that another challenge, sweeting?”
At that moment, they were separated again. Elizabeth De Witt walked past Jeanette and turned her back. Whether or not Jeanette had secured the attention of the most desirable man in the room, she was still an outsider in this little circle of the wealthy and titled.
How long would it take for this charade to play out for Mama to realize she had no hope of securing a position in society? In the meantime, Jeanette must suffer their sneers.
“So, sir,” she said, coming into contact with her dance partner again, “do you think I belong in society?”
“No,” he said shortly, “you lack the characteristics.”
“Such as?”
“Wealth, breeding, classic beauty.”
She pressed her lips together. Though insulting, he spoke the truth.
“You also lack stupidity,” he added.
“A quality I’ll manage without.”
They continued the dance in silence. Conversation would serve no purpose other than to confirm the vast distinction of rank between them. Lord Ravenwell possessed a wealth of opportunities which were denied her; opportunities he’d squander as a member of the idle rich.
The dance concluded and he bowed.
“Tell me, Miss Claybone, how did you perform that calculation so quickly?”
“As with anything, the observation of human behavior for example, one must look for patterns,” she replied. “Three seventeens are fifty-one. Twelve seventeens are therefore the same as four fifty-ones, hence two-hundred-and-four.”
“I’m impressed.”
“If you’re impressed by a woman’s intelligence, Lord Ravenwell, I’d suggest you lack the qualities society expects in a gentleman.”
Declining his offer to escort her to her seat, Jeanette curtsied and left him on the floor. She had no intention of dancing again. Lord Ravenwell had humiliated her beyond recall, and though she had enjoyed some sport with him, she’d felt her inferiority keenly. She would never fit in. Heaven help her if anyone asked her for her hand.
She must never secure the attention of a man of the ton.
*
Henry sauntered over to join Rupert by the terrace doors, ignoring the expectant expressions on the faces of the ladies he passed on the way.
“Where’s Dominic?”
“Leading Felicia Long out for the next dance.”
“The premier heiress of the Season.”
“Is that why you snagged her for the first dance, Dray?”
Henry shrugged and reached for a glass of champagne from a passing footman.
“Talking of dancing, Dray, what on earth were you doing with Miss Claybone?”
Jeanette Claybone. That pink gown had done nothing to flatter her figure, but she’d proved a surprisingly engaging dance partner.
He should have left her to her punch, but anger had gripped him when he’d heard those gossipmongers belittling her. Her eyes had been dulled by pain when she’d brushed past him on the terrace.
A sense of pride had warmed his blood at her lively responses to him. Most ladies would have retreated to a corner in floods of tears. But not her. She’d drunk enough to floor every woman and half the men in the room, then matched him in a duel of wits.
Such a pity she was so far beneath him! She might prove an interesting prospect for a dalliance, but she struck him as a virtuous woman, though she cursed like a man. Henry only carried on with dissatisfied wives who understood the rules. No attachments or love, only pleasure.
Father’s foolish exploits had taught Henry that to love a woman led to financial ruin. Father had made no secret of the love he bore Henry’s mother who had possessed that soulless beauty which defined perfection among society. On realizing that love was unrequited, Father had tried to buy love elsewhere. But the courtesans he’d lavished his wealth on on
ly traded their bodies; their hearts were not for sale.
Father had been weak by letting his heart rule his head. And Henry had to live with the consequences. He would never let a woman rule his heart. There was no room in his world for that particular organ, not even for a woman as intriguing as Jeanette Claybone.
“I suspect there’s a delectable, ripe peach-of-a-body underneath that pink gown,” Rupert continued. “I’ve a mind to take a bite.”
Rupert licked his lips, and a familiar hungry look deepened in his eyes. In his desperation to keep pace with Henry’s own conquests, Rupert had entered the life of a rake with too much relish and too little discretion. Many angry fathers’ pockets had been lined as a result, and others injured in duels fighting for their daughters’ honor.
“Rupe, leave Miss Claybone alone. There are better sweetmeats to savor.”
Rupert lifted his eyebrows. “You’re surely not interested, Dray?”
Henry took a gulp of his champagne. “Of course not. Besides, I’m more than accommodated tonight.”
“Betty’s?”
“No, not a bawdy house. But I must visit Betty’s at some point. I hear another of her women have gone missing.”
“There are whores aplenty, Dray. Hundreds of women fallen on hard times. Let the runners deal with it.”
Women fallen on hard times…
A month ago, he might have agreed with Rupert. But the image of the dead girl had haunted his dreams.
And his conscience. After all, he enjoyed the services women such as her provided, as did his friends. But what of the women themselves? What of their happiness?
What had she said? If a woman fails to succeed, then Heaven help her.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Lady Darlington smiling at him. The diversion of half an hour between Sophia’s thighs would restore his spirits.
*
Straightening his cravat, Henry closed the study door and blew Sophia a kiss. The noise in the dining room was, thankfully, enough to mask Sophia’s shrieks of pleasure as he’d taken her on Lord Darlington’s polished mahogany desk. In Henry’s eyes he was performing a service to Darlington, and the other husbands he cuckolded. Thanks to his attentions, their wives were content.
