His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  Haversham and Hastings both gasped at the deliberate aspersion to Jilly’s character. If Lady Beatrice had been a man, this would have been worthy of pistols at dawn, an offense so great that it was cause for a duel.

  “Please,” James said, his voice a dangerous slice across the silence that had fallen between them. “Tell us what you meant by that, Lady Beatrice.”

  She was either too stupid or too full of her own consequence to understand the dangerous path she walked, and she only tipped her chin up proudly and said, “Well, it certainly must be clear to everyone. Except you, Your Grace, having long been out of society.” Again, she gave a simpering flutter of her lashes, sidling forward to lay her hand gently upon his arm. “You can be forgiven, of course, for not having known. But it is common knowledge that three years ago, Lady Jillian’s betrothed eloped with another woman rather than wed her. Surely you must wonder what might possess a man to do such a thing?” She gave a little titter, as if she were imparting a juicy bit of gleaned gossip. “Of course, it was so long ago, before my time—but there were those that said he must have discovered some defect in her character. If she wasn’t worthy to be the wife of a viscount, Your Grace, surely you must see that she is unfit for our company.” A little snort of distaste. “Is it really any wonder that she would deign to befriend a commoner? A girl who stinks of trade?”

  Out of the corner of James’ eye, he saw a tremor run through Miss Prescott, saw Jilly’s hand run up and down her back in soothing strokes.

  “Lady Beatrice,” James said, “I believe I shall be having a word with your father about your lack of decorum,” James interjected harshly, and felt the satisfaction of Lady Beatrice’s hand freezing on his arm.

  “My lack of decorum?” she gasped. “I am perfectly—”

  “Rude,” James said, ruthlessly. “Unkind. Ill-mannered. Exactly what I’d expect from a young girl too soon removed from the school room.” He twisted the mallet from her grasp, tossing it aside. “You would be well served to return to your room and begin packing your things. You’ll be leaving before too long, I suspect. Your father will no doubt wish to reconsider your eligibility to be out in society until you can be relied upon to comport yourself as a lady.”

  Hot humiliation flooded Lady Beatrice’s cheeks, and a scowl etched itself between her brows. She looked toward Haversham and Hastings, as if expecting one of them to come to her defense, perhaps to salvage her honor by challenging James to a duel—but she had overplayed her hand in shooting for James’ title and scorning the lesser-titled men, and neither of them were inclined to offer either their assistance or argument. Instead they averted their eyes, as if they had not witnessed the scene at all. Lady Beatrice shrank back, clutching the skirt of her dress in her hands, a sob of offended dignity climbing in her throat. At last, sensing that she had come out the loser in the verbal skirmish that had ensued, she turned on her heel and fled back to the house as if the very hounds of hell were after her.

  And when James at last glanced over to Jilly, he saw that she was gazing at him as if he had slain a dragon rather than merely routed a selfish young girl. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheen of admiration in her glorious green eyes, just as nothing could have prepared him for the clench in his gut as he realized how badly he wanted her to look at him with that expression forever.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Miss Prescott had bloomed beneath Jilly’s gentle encouragement. By the time they had finished their game—James had narrowly snatched victory from Jilly’s fingers, though she had, in point of fact, given him quite a run for his money—the shy young woman had broken through her shell enough to speak in a voice a bit higher than a whisper.

  James rather thought she had made a conquest of Haversham, who had hung on her every word, first out of necessity because she spoke so softly, and then in genuine interest. It was clear that Miss Prescott, despite being a commoner, had been educated and instructed as befitted her father’s wealth. With Jilly’s continued guidance, she would no doubt make a fantastic match.

  But Jilly would not be present to guide her, he reminded himself, and felt his heart stabbed with a sliver of guilt which ruined an otherwise lovely day.

  Jilly’s small hand in the crook of his arm seared him with shame. He forced himself to smile regardless, willing it away—just a few hours of forgetfulness, a few hours where he could pretend he was courting her with noble intentions, that they would be happy together for the rest of their lives. Just a few hours where he could lie to both of them and enjoy her company.

  As they ambled back toward the sprawling manor house, he patted her hand and said, “I beg you to excuse me; I must go in search of the Marquess of Colridge.”

  “Lady Beatrice’s father?” Jilly inquired. “Oh—you were serious?”

  “Quite serious.” He was aware that his voice had dropped to a rumble, remembered fury climbing up his spine. “I do not tolerate that sort of spite.”

  She shrugged—shrugged, as if it made little difference to her. “She is not the first cruel girl to cast her claws in my direction, and I daresay she won’t be the last.”

  James found he could not quite suppress his wince. No; Lady Beatrice would not be the last. In short order, most of society would be casting their claws at her. The very least he could do was protect her now.

  “She should have been put in her place long ago,” he said. “Is her behavior typical?”

  Jilly shrugged again, an awkward little lift of her left shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said. “Quite honestly, it’s generally only the matrons who will have anything to do with me. I fear my past has made me somewhat notorious.”

  “Notorious?” He wrenched his head around to stare at her. “For a scandal that was not of your making?”

  Her lips curved in a wry smile. “How easily you forget, Your Grace. It is always the woman’s fault, is it not? It will never matter who truly caused the scandal; I am the one that must live with its consequences. Whereas Adrian, titled and eligible once again, will escape censure.”

  James hissed something beneath his breath that make Jilly’s brows lift in surprise. “You could thumb your nose at all of them if you wed a duke,” he said. “You’d be beyond reproach. No one would dare slight you again.”

  “But what an inauspicious start to a marriage,” she sighed. As they crossed the lawn and approached the house once more, she asked, “Should I assume that you have something to do with Aunt Marcheline having been relegated to the opposite wing?”

  James coughed into his fist. “Was she, then?” But his tone lacked the surprise necessary for Jilly to believe that he hadn’t had a hand in it, and so her mind drifted to the connecting door and the mystery of whose room lay beyond it. Somehow, she suspected that if she unlocked it and poked her head through, she might very well find His Grace, the Duke of Rushton on the other side of it.

  “I don’t suppose,” James said, his free hand patting hers, nestled in the crook of his arm, “that you are the sort of lady to engage in a midnight rendezvous?”

  “I am not,” she said, as primly as she could manage, though she had to resist the fierce temptation to smile.

  “Would you like to be?” He paused, just a few steps away from the terrace door that would convey them inside and force them to part ways. The warmth in his gaze imparted its heat to her cheeks, and she was struck by the realization that, yes, indeed, she was very much the sort of woman who would like to engage in a midnight rendezvous—only not with just any man. With him. Only with him, this strange and unusual man who had somehow managed to coax her out of her frosty shell, who encouraged her to bloom beneath the warmth of his affection, who could charm her into rushing recklessly into actions that would leave her reputation in tatters were they ever discovered.

  She didn’t care. She adored him. That part of her that she had long thought dead had in fact only been dormant, and now, like a tiny sapling newly emerged from beneath a crust of snow, it unfurled itself toward the
sun that was his presence, stretching for that glorious warmth.

  And she said, “I suppose I would.”

  His smile held all the glory of a star. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Midnight, then. I’ll come for you.”

  ∞∞∞

  The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Jilly vaguely recalled the dinner party, the long table occupied by two dozen people, all decked out in their finery. She recalled adjourning to the parlor after dinner, sipping sweet sherry with the rest of the ladies and noting the absence of Lady Beatrice with satisfaction. Aunt Marcheline had retired to her room shortly thereafter, saying she was too old to have the patience to visit with young girls for very long, and the rest of the ladies present—Miss Prescott included—had attempted to draw her into conversation about James, which Jilly had stalwartly resisted, demurring that she couldn’t possibly know the duke’s mind, and couldn’t possibly say what he intended.

  Although she did. Of course she did. And now, at exactly ten minutes to midnight, she sat alone in her room, wondering what one was meant to wear on a midnight rendezvous. Should she have chosen a gown? Was there an appropriate gown for a midnight rendezvous? She rather regretted that Nora and Robert had declined this particular invitation—she suspected that Nora would have been more than happy to supply her with the answers to all of her questions.

  And more to the point, she suspected that James would as well. Though the rest of the house had long since grown quiet for the evening, she heard a flutter of movement from next door, through the connecting room. He had not seen fit to confirm or deny that he was located next door, and she had not seen him go up to his room, so there was a chance that she was wrong, but—she didn’t think she was. She crossed the carpeted floor, slid free the lock, and rapped lightly on the connecting door.

  Movement within stilled. A moment later, the door opened and James appeared in the doorway, somehow managing to look both abashed and pleased.

  “I was just wondering,” Jilly said, “what one wears to a midnight assignation?”

  He grinned. “Whatever one pleases, I expect.” He braced one shoulder against the doorframe, tilting his head to the side. “I rather like that.”

  “My nightgown?” She glanced down at it, the soft white voluminous fabric that fluttered past her ankles, just over her bare feet. “Are you mad? I can’t go out in my nightgown.”

  “Who’s going to see?”

  “You!” she whispered low.

  “I’m seeing now.”

  Of course he was. He was standing in the doorway between their two rooms, his arms folded across his chest, a half-grin tugging up the left corner of his lips. She had braided up her hair already and was all too aware that her nightgown had been designed for nothing more than sleeping; it was just shapeless linen.

  “What if someone happens by?” she asked.

  “They won’t,” he said. “But if they should, then we’ll run and hope they’ve not got a good look at us.” He unfolded himself enough to stretch one hand out to her. “Brave enough to risk it?”

  She caught her breath. Never before had she so thoroughly understood what could entice a woman to cast caution to the wind, to throw herself into the waiting arms of a lover, and ruin herself—but now, at this moment, the mystery was gone. It was men like him, with their rakish smiles, their promises of adventure and wickedness. She was a silly young girl after all, even after everything she had experienced—because she would follow him anywhere for merely the suggestion of one of those smiles tossed her way. It didn’t seem possible that mere weeks ago she had been a woman on the edge of society, just waiting for the moment when she would have her dowry in her hands and could at last free herself from the strictures of society. Now, all she wanted was to take his hand and let him lead her into a new world that she had never before experienced even the slightest inclination to discover.

  How often did near-spinsters capture the attention of handsome dukes? She stretched out her fingers and set her hand in his.

  ∞∞∞

  As they traversed the silent corridors, Jilly was struck with the strangest urge to giggle. She had never been the giggling sort of female, not even in her younger days, but something about this evening, this strange, perfect evening, made her want to. She could feel it rising in her throat and clapped her free hand over her mouth to stifle it.

  James was, kindly, leading her—that way, if someone spotted them, they would spot him first, and she would have an opportunity to flee before she was seen. It charmed her, how careful he was with her reputation—that despite the fact that he had enticed her into a bit of wickedness, he had also made every effort not to bring her to ruin in the eyes of society…even if that possibility would deliver to him that which he said he wanted. That he didn’t want to win her that way spoke to his honor, his chivalry.

  They had made it down the stairs unnoticed, and James poked his head into the library, checking for any sign of lingering guests or staff. Having found none, he ushered her inside and slipped in after her, closing the door soundlessly behind them. Then it was across the wood floor and to the door leading out onto the lawn, and then they were both running out into the night.

  Jilly hiked up the skirt of her nightgown with one hand and released a flutter of laughter as she stumbled after James, whose long-legged strides ate up the ground much more quickly.

  “Sh!” he warned. “We’re still too close to the house!”

  But she wasn’t moving quickly enough for him. In a blur of movement she could only half-see in the moon-veiled darkness, he turned and snatched her up into his arms. With a tiny squeal she draped her arms around his neck, and then he was running again, and the grass rustled beneath his feet as he carried her along into the shelter of the drooping branches of the willow tree on the bank of the lake.

  “James,” she gasped. “You can put me down now.”

  The night was cool and soft around them. The heat of the day had mellowed to a brisk, fresh night, and crickets chirped their songs in the grass by the bank of the lake. The grass beneath the tree chilled her bare feet, and a little shiver coursed through her as James set her down gently. She hadn’t looked at him before, really looked—he had left his feet bare, too, and he wore only his breeches and a white lawn shirt, half-buttoned. She’d never seen a man in such a state of undress before, had never been seen by one in anything less than full dress. She was covered from neck to wrists to ankles in gauzy fabric and yet she had never felt less clothed in her life, with the way he was looking down at her in the darkness, as if she could not have been more revealed had she stood before him without a stitch of clothing on.

  He reached out a hand, tugged the ribbon binding her braid, and released it so that he could thrust his fingers into the mass of her hair and shake it free. “I have wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you,” he murmured.

  The night breeze caressed the back of her neck, sent a couple of loose curls tumbling on the wind across her cheek. “I don’t know why. It’s just hair, even if it is such a strange color.”

  “It’s not strange,” he said. “It’s lovely. Bright. At that last ball, you were wearing an ivory gown, and I thought you looked like a candle.”

  She released a mocking trill of laughter. “That’s flattering.”

  “It should be,” he said. “All the other women, they were ordinary, boring. You were unique—a lit candle in a room of tedious tapers, guiding me through the darkness.”

  A pit of warmth settled in her belly, comforting and gentle. Even Adrian had not spouted anything approximating poetry to her. And while she was certain that James was rusty at it, having never before found it necessary to spout such trite nonsense to a woman, she felt the warmth of those sweet words clear down to her toes. Maybe every woman dreamed of romance, but she had long thought all those possibilities had been vanquished for her.

  His warm fingers slipped through her hair in slow strokes, then cupped the back of her head, her nape. Outlined
by the full, round moon, she saw his head descend, felt his breath flutter over her cheek. On unsteady legs she sidled closer, pressed her palms against his chest, and felt the heat of his skin searing her through his thin shirt. The hand cupping her head slipped down her back, blazing a trail of fire as it skated over her shoulder blades, down her spine, and pressed itself to the small of her back, urging her closer still.

  “Jilly,” he said, her name little more than a tortured groan. “Kiss me.”

  She had to lift onto her toes to do it, had to drape her arms around his neck once more, press herself against his chest, but she thrilled to the heat of him, the strength evident in the hard muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. She touched her lips to the corner of his, felt more than heard the growl of satisfaction that rumbled in his throat. His arms banded around her, banishing the chill of the night as if it had never been. She no longer felt the blades of grass beneath her feet, or the breeze winding around them. She didn’t hear the soft lapping of the water at the edge of the lake, didn’t hear the sway of the willow branches. There was only James and the heat of his mouth on hers, the thrill of a quiet night settling around them as she lost herself in the pleasure of his arms, of his kiss.

  It was sinful, her behavior—shameful, even, but she couldn’t regret it. It seemed somehow fitting that James had been the only man who had ever even tempted her to scandal. Though it didn’t seem so scandalous to her—it simply seemed right. As if she had finally arrived where she belonged, here, in James’ arms.

  She was going to marry him, she realized. She had thought she could resist him, resist the terrible lure he offered—but somehow, without her even realizing it, she had fallen in love with him. She was going to marry him after all.

  He was working the buttons of her nightgown, trying to slip it over her shoulders and bare her skin to the moonlight. And she would have let him, she realized, but she didn’t quite trust herself that far. So she broke free of his kiss and asked, “Have you got it with you?”