His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  She started as the carriage lurched into motion, baffled by the extent of her panic. With one simple touch, the duke had cracked the icy barrier she had built around herself, and she was terrified—terrified that he had seen past her pitiful camouflage, terrified that somehow he could sense how easy it had been to break through her meager defenses. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right. She had spent so long erecting that careful barrier, chasing people away with carefully-chosen words designed to deflect but not wound.

  She had never wanted to hurt someone else as she had been hurt, but she had been firm. No one before had succeeded in even thinning her ice. He had shattered it.

  He could so easily shatter her.

  She shuddered, shaken.

  “Would you care for your shawl, my lady?” Victoria’s voice was bewildered; the day was warm, sunny. She would not understand that her mistress’ shiver had been provoked by fear rather than a chill.

  “No,” she said, “I’m fine. We’re nearly home.” Her voice sounded raspy, throaty. She didn’t understand it at all, didn’t understand how he could fluster her so easily, cast her so off-balance. She had been surprised by Adrian’s interest, but it had been comfortable and pleasant. He had never elicited such an extreme reaction, never unsettled her, never made her nervous or anxious.

  The duke’s attentions were the very opposite of comfortable and pleasant. He elicited feelings that ought to have been shameful. That were shameful, she was certain. If anyone ever suspected what sort of thoughts had been going through her mind—

  “My lady, you look a bit flushed. Shall I open the window?” Victoria canted her head to the side, her brows drawn in utter confusion. Jilly was tempted to drop her head into her hands and groan. From shivering to feverish in mere minutes—what must she look like?

  “No, thank you,” she heard herself mutter, just as the carriage pulled to a stop before Kittridge House. Jilly scrambled out of the carriage even before the coachman could leap down to assist her, wanting only to flee up to her room and spend the rest of the afternoon hiding from the world.

  Instead she stumbled into an ambush. Both Aunt Marcheline and Eleanora were in the foyer awaiting her return. For once, Aunt Marcheline’s face was etched with compassion rather than exasperation. Something was wrong—something was dreadfully wrong.

  “What?” she asked, drawing up short. “What is it? My goodness, you look as though someone had died.”

  The two other women exchanged looks, and Eleanora pursed her lips into a flat line as if working up to speak some unpleasant truth.

  “Is it…is it David?” She felt her shoulders drawing tight and tense, bracing herself for the worst.

  “No! Oh, no, Jilly, it’s not that.” Eleanora took a step forward, reached out to take Jilly’s gloved hands in hers. Her dark eyes were sympathetic, brimming with a sort of vicarious pain.

  “Tell me. Please, just tell me.” There was nothing so bad as the waiting.

  “He’s back,” Eleanora blurted out. “Lord Kirkland. He’s back in London, Jilly.”

  Chapter Six

  She could hear the murmurs again, feel the stares. The news had traveled across London like wildfire, and now she suspected the entirety of the Ton was focused upon her, watching to see how she would react, waiting for any hint of some sort of melodrama to play out before their eyes.

  She did not intend to give them the satisfaction, and absolutely not at Lady Lennox’s ball. The past years had been beneficial to her in that regard; she pretended a calm she did not feel, let the whispers flow over her as if she did not hear them, and smiled with placid serenity at everyone who passed. All while she inwardly seethed, her emotions roiling.

  The duke was present, of course, in his usual position just a few feet away. She experienced a sharp stab of humiliation to realize that he could have hardly failed to catch the snippets of conversation, that he must know exactly why she was the talk of the Ton once again.

  Still, she sipped her champagne, ignored the pitying glances, the fascinated stares. It didn’t matter. Eventually the gossip would die down once again. She would simply have to brazen it out until the scandal faded once more to a distant memory.

  As she set her empty flute on a table, she heard a buzz sweep over the room, the fading strains of the music ending in a discordant note that set her teeth on edge. She turned to look, afraid of what she might find—and felt her stomach drop to her shoes. Somehow, by the very skin of her teeth, she kept herself from reacting. Her polite smile stayed frozen in place, her hands loosely knitted before her.

  Adrian. Somehow, he had wrangled an invitation. Of course he had. Anyone would have wanted a front-row seat to the drama his attendance would provide. His dark eyes scanned the room as he proceeded down the steps, finally alighting on her. She felt herself blanch, wished for a moment that she could simply slip through the floor and disappear into nothingness. His jaw tightened with determination—and she knew he intended to approach her.

  She did not intend to give him the satisfaction.

  She held her head high despite the stares, turned on her heel, and walked directly toward the duke lingering not ten steps away.

  “Your Grace,” she said, in a low voice designed not to carry, “would you care to dance?”

  His golden brows arched in surprise, even as his eyes narrowed. That calculating blue gaze flitted past her, taking in the man who had just arrived, the titillated whispers of the crowd. Drawing in a steadying breath, she lifted her chin, unwilling to let this uncomfortable scene cow her.

  “You will attend the theatre with me,” he said, his voice a devious whisper.

  “You wanted a dance.” She hissed the reminder. “This is blackmail.”

  “Extortion,” he corrected blithely, giving her a ruthless half-grin. “Nevertheless, it is my price. If you were desperate enough to ask, you are desperate enough to agree.”

  “Fine,” she snapped, aware of the people sidling closer, hoping to eavesdrop on their hushed conversation.

  He favored her with a glorious smile. “Lady Jillian, would you honor me with a dance?” he asked, loudly enough to carry. The musicians recognized a cue when they heard one, and took up their instruments once again. The duke gathered her gloved hand in his, settled it in the crook of his elbow to lead her to the floor. This time he did not have to elbow his way through them; the sea of people parted to let them pass, their curious gazes burning.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jilly saw Nora dragging her husband onto the dance floor as well in a gesture of solidarity that warmed her heart. A few more couples followed suit, far fewer than would normally be expected, but enough that Jilly felt somehow less visible.

  Still she felt like some sort of prey animal. The instinct to turn her head, to ascertain Adrian’s location, was strong indeed.

  “Don’t,” the duke said in a low voice, as he settled his hand on her waist. “I won’t let him reach you. But if you look for him, you’ll give the impression that you want him to approach.”

  A searing pit of humiliation settled in her belly, and her stomach clenched and churned on it, pitching around the champagne she’d imbibed until she was no longer certain she would keep it down where it belonged.

  He bent his head to her ear. “Look only at me. Give them something else to talk about.” As the musicians struck the opening chords of the waltz, he carried her into the steps, supported her with only his hand at her waist. She was surprised she did not stumble, that her limbs did not creak with strain.

  “Relax, Jilly,” he murmured, and she did stumble—though he effortlessly stabilized her, sweeping her into the turn as if her tiny dip had been intentional. “You want to appear unaffected, don’t you? Smile, then. A laugh wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  Somehow she summoned a smile and kept her eyes fixated on his. “We are not friends, Your Grace. You should address me as Lady Jillian.”

  He shrugged, unruffled by her animosity. “Perhaps we’re not quite friends yet, but
I’m certainly the lesser of two evils right now.” His eyes seared hers, full of satisfaction. “You may call me James, if you like.”

  “That would be entirely inappropriate.” Only years of practice kept her smile from slipping. She soothed herself with the knowledge that any onlooker would see only her blithe, untroubled face, would never know how she inwardly trembled.

  “You asked me to dance. Are you truly going to quibble over propriety now?” He cast her a disarming smile, squeezed the hand that he held in his. “You’re doing well enough, but you still look a bit brittle about the eyes. Best to rectify that before the dance ends.”

  She drew in a harsh, offended breath. “I have no control over that, Your Grace,” she said in a crisp, annoyed tone.

  “Of course you do. He has only the power you give him.”

  She ground her teeth together. “I don’t require your pity, Your Grace.” Good lord, she had had enough of it to last a lifetime.

  “You think I pity you?” His voice was incredulous.

  “Everyone does. Why should you be any different?” She was glad for the protection of her gloves, for she could feel her fingers, frigid and clammy, slipping within them.

  “I don’t pity you,” he said. “Pity would imply some sort of regret regarding your broken engagement, and I have none.” His hand gripped her waist possessively, the heat of it searing her even through her gown and his glove. “If he had been more of a man, if he had honored his commitment to you, then you would not be here now. Available. In my arms.”

  His voice washed over her, a deep, low rumble of sound meant only for her ears. She heard the intent in it, the inherent threat lingering within the words, and felt like a helpless little rabbit—a rabbit that had fled from the fox only to be captured instead by a wolf.

  ∞∞∞

  As he watched a hot tide of color flood Jillian’s cheeks, James experienced a fierce surge of satisfaction. Good lord, he could not have planned better himself—her errant former fiancé had unwittingly done him a great service and chased the stubborn woman straight into his arms. Perhaps bargaining for more from her while she had clearly been under a great deal of stress had been unsporting, but who—aside from the lady herself—would blame him for pressing his advantage?

  He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes, felt the sudden tension that stole through her, as though she suspected he might fall upon her right then and there, in the middle of the ballroom, for all to see. He summoned his most charming smile in an attempt to set her at ease. He intended to play for higher stakes than those, although she could not possibly know it.

  Still, the dance was drawing to a close, and he needed to keep her at his side, lest she decide the faithless Lord Kirkland had, in fact, turned out to be the lesser of two evils.

  In the future, she would doubtless come to that conclusion on her own. Better a faithless suitor than a man who had contrived to ruin her as he had. And would.

  But damned if he wasn’t looking forward to it—she was delectable in her shimmering gown of jade silk, her breasts lush and full, her waist so narrow he suspected he could span it with his hands. Her hair glistened in the candlelight like a flame. He would always be able to pick her out in a crowded ballroom by that alone. The rest of the year’s crop of debutantes looked like unlit tapers, pale and bland. She was a glowing ember, alive and vibrant, and just as likely to singe.

  And staring at him as if she half-suspected him of some sort of villainy—which, of course, was more correct than she could know.

  The music flowed to an end, the last plaintive notes lingering on the air. A sort of pall hung over the ballroom, as if the whole of the Ton held its collective breath, awaiting the drama they were certain was soon to come. He glanced just over Jillian’s shoulder and saw Lord Kirkland waiting at the edge of the floor, his jaw tight and tense. James could not recall having met the man before, but he supposed he could see something in the man that might have appealed to her, at least years ago when she had surely been every bit as young and silly as the other girls.

  Lord Kirkland was handsome, a dark-haired, bronze-skinned man of roughly his own age. His eyes were a cloudy hazel, and his nose looked as if it had been broken at least once. There were lines on his face that spoke to a certain degree of strain, as if it had been many years since he had last been tempted to smile. Though he must have once been a suitable partner for Jillian, he looked now too dour, too given to moping. As if he’d lost something precious.

  And he had—if he were here now, if he intended, as James suspected, to make himself known once again to his former fiancée, the woman he’d thrown over three years prior, then it could almost certainly be said that he now knew exactly what it was he had given up. He had little fear that Jillian would wish to renew her acquaintance with him, that she would be inclined to listen to whatever explanation he chose to give her; not when she had suffered so, been gossiped about across all of London for his defection, not when it had cost her the happiness and the future that ought to have been hers. But neither would she wish to cause a scene.

  If he wanted to earn her trust, sway her opinion of him, he could do it right here, right now. It wouldn’t even be hard—he found a dark and possessive part of him was actually looking forward to it, blazed with a sort of smug superiority at the prospect of rubbing Lord Kirkland’s nose into what he’d lost. No, not lost—what he had carelessly tossed away.

  Jillian would have withdrawn from him, but he did not allow her to do so. Instead, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted her off the floor—straight toward Lord Kirkland.

  He heard her breath catch, felt tension seize her muscles, felt her slippered feet drag across the floor as he pulled her along.

  “No,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “No, please. I can’t.”

  “You won’t have to,” he whispered back. “Trust me, Jilly.” But she couldn’t, and he ought to be sent straight to hell for those words alone.

  The fight went out of her. He had no illusions that his plea for her trust had swayed her; probably she had only despaired of causing a scene. But she let him pull her off the floor, and together they swept right past Lord Kirkland without even the briefest hint of acknowledgment.

  James heard the scandalized murmur sweep the room, slanted a glance at Jillian’s suddenly pale face, and felt her hand tighten on his arm.

  “Jilly.” The word emerged as a pained whisper from the man who had so slighted her years before. He didn’t deserve to whisper her name in that tone, didn’t deserve her acknowledgment, had no right to expect her attention. How dared he come here seeking it? How dared he present himself before her as if he had some sort of right to it?

  James rounded on the man, enjoyed the fact that his superior height enabled him to look down his elegant, patrician nose at Lord Kirkland. He let all of his antipathy show clearly in the icy depths of his eyes, freed the sneer that had lurked at the corners of his mouth. “Lady Jillian,” he corrected sharply, cuttingly. “That is Lady Jillian to you, Kirkland.” With a show of casual affection, he patted Jillian’s hand where it lay snug in the crook of his arm. “Come, my dear—we must secure Lady Ravenhurst’s company for a turn about the garden.”

  He sensed her desire to turn, to see what his commanding voice had wrought from Lord Kirkland, and urged her ahead instead. Eleanora, Lady Ravenhurst, elbowed her way through the thick of the crowd, her dark hair shining in the candlelight.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I’m happy to act as chaperone,” she said breathlessly, half elated, half concerned. Her eyes slid over Jillian’s face, her brows drawing to see the barely-masked anxiety written there. She took her place at Jillian’s side, lending the propriety she had as a matron to his company as James led Jillian away from the murmuring crowd and toward the doors leading out into the garden.

  The instant the night air washed over them, he felt Jillian release the breath that had been trapped within her lungs on a shuddering sigh. She e
xtracted her hand from his arm, rubbed the both of them over her face in a futile attempt to exorcise the distress etched across her fine features.

  “Jilly,” Eleanora said, her voice soft and comforting. “Are you…all right?”

  “Yes,” Jillian said immediately. “Yes, I am quite all right. It is only that I did not expect—I never thought—”

  “I don’t think anyone did,” Eleanora replied. “How could he show his face here? How could Lady Lennox invite him? And without any warning to you? It is most unseemly.” She touched her hand to Jillian’s arm in a show of sisterly solidarity. “You were so brave,” she said. “So composed—if I did not know you, I would have said you were utterly unaffected.”

  Jillian’s eyes flitted to James, as if embarrassed once again that he had caught her in such a state. “I’m quite all right, Nora,” she said once again. “Really, I am.”

  “Thank goodness. Well, then—I’ll just be along here. Guard the door, you know. Someone’s bound to try to sneak out here.” Her voice lowered to a dangerous lilt. “If it’s Lord Kirkland, I swear I shall hit him with my reticule.”

  James smothered a laugh in his gloved hand at the thought of Lady Ravenhurst attempting to do the man an injury with so trifling an object. “I thank you, my lady,” he said. “I promise Lady Jillian will come to no harm from me.” Yet.

  She fluttered her fingers at him. “Ten minutes,” she said. “That’s all I can allot you, you understand.”

  He seized Jillian’s hand in his, turning about to drag her off into the gardens.

  “Wait!” she squeaked. “I cannot go off alone with you!”

  “Oh, yes you can,” he said. “And you will. We have things to discuss.” Heedless of her efforts to shake his iron grip on her hand, he dragged her along behind him. They passed a row of hedges, boxes of flowers which had closed up in the night, and finally came to the pergola buried in the heart of the garden, where a small, wrought-iron bench rested beneath a bower of climbing tea roses. The night air was fragrant, redolent with the lingering scent of the flowers, and he eased her over to the bench, settling his hands on her shoulders to push her down onto it.