“There’s no flower shop,” he had said. “James goes himself to the flower market. Gets himself up well before dawn to beat the rush, or he’d be left with whatever the shops wouldn’t take.”
And though she had made it as far as holding the bouquet over the rubbish bin in the kitchen, she hadn’t been able to force herself to let the stems go. Instead she had thrust them at Mary and requested they be put in a vase and set somewhere out of sight.
She hadn’t realized that Lord Clifton had followed her into the kitchen until his chuckle had burned her ears, and she had whirled on him with a flash of anger.
“And you!” she had snapped at him, unspeakably embarrassed to have been caught in an untoward display of sentimentality. “The next time you inform on me will be the last time you will be admitted!”
But he had only given her a crooked half-grin, and remarked, “You really ought to read the letters. I think they would do you good.” He had given a short bow and taken his leave of her, and she was left wondering why he had even come at all.
Then she had decided that he had probably come to make a case on his friend’s behalf and had thought it unnecessary, given her idiotic reaction over the flowers.
She resolved to throw the next bouquet out.
But when they arrived the next day…she didn’t.
Chapter Thirty Five
Though Jilly had initially stuck to the smaller events, over the weeks that had passed she had gathered her courage and plunged straight back into the social scene, as if she feared her place in it might altogether disappear if she did not claim it before she would once again be forced from it for the duration of her confinement. It was fortunate that the current fashion involved waists high enough to disguise an expanding waistline; her condition would not become obvious for a few more months at least.
James had allowed her the privacy of the smaller gatherings. He well knew she would not appreciate his attendance and it seemed the height of cruelty to force his presence upon her in a place that almost guaranteed they would rub elbows eventually. But the larger events—those were safer. He could drink in the sight of her from across a crowded ballroom, and stick to the sidelines where he could remain unseen. He knew he was only torturing himself, but if these few stolen glances were the most he would ever have of her, then he would take them and be glad of it. And if she noticed him, which she seldom did, he quietly took his leave.
All of London knew at this point that their hasty marriage had resulted in his wife’s defection. Though he had thought—he had truly thought—that the protection of his name would silence the gossip, it had not. It followed her through a room, cresting like a wave in her wake.
He had never overheard so much as a whisper of scandal breathed about himself.
The Atherton ball was no exception. He had watched from his corner of the room, where Jilly had yet to see him lurking. She seemed to have aged years since Windclere, clothing herself in a sort of severe dignity that made her appear utterly inapproachable. She was every inch a duchess, even if she did not lay claim to the title.
Even that had not stemmed the flow of gossip. He could see it follow her about, the people who simpered to her face and then turned and whispered to each other once she had moved on.
Robert, Lord Ravenhurst, had materialized beside him at some point, though for the life of him he couldn’t have pinpointed precisely when. Lady Ravenhurst would have nothing to do with him still, but she had ceased sending poisonous glances his way, at least.
“They’re disparaging her,” James said, keeping his voice low to avoid prying ears.
Robert heaved a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall. “Yes,” he acknowledged at last. “You know how it is. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. Jilly’s been an easy target for years.”
“But she’s done nothing. It’s not her fault.” It seemed such a hackneyed thing to say, such a useless, insipid defense.
“It never has been,” Robert replied. “But no one cares about a little thing like fault. The rumor mill doesn’t require it to keep producing their precious tidbits of gossip.” He made an impatient sound, a bit of a snarl. “It might not have been so bad, except for that bit of nastiness with Kirkland years ago. Of course it’s all come up again, and all that’s on anyone’s mind is what she’s done to put off two men.”
James felt a feral growl rising in his throat. “She left me,” he said. “And Kirkland would have had her if he could have got her—anyone who was paying the slightest bit of attention knows that.”
“But they don’t care,” Robert said. “Speculation is the game of the hour. At least you can reassure yourself that it’s better than it would be if you hadn’t married her.”
Cold comfort. Because he hadn’t been the one unwilling. It had been Jilly who could hardly bear to place her hand in his for the duration of the miserable ceremony, Jilly who had wed him only because she carried his child. He had trapped her into a marriage that she certainly would have refused, had she any other viable option.
He suspected that if Kirkland had been handy at the time, the man would have offered himself up, and Jilly would have jumped at the chance to be Lady Kirkland. She had, after all, espoused on numerous occasions that she had never aspired to be a duchess.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Robert said, a trifle ruthlessly. “There’s nothing you can do. She’s carrying on well. She always has. It might hurt her, but she’ll never let it show.”
She had shown him, once. She had dropped that serene façade and let him see the scars she bore, and in return he had only given her new ones to wear. He, more so than anyone else, had taught her the folly of trust.
“At least she’s got Nora,” Robert said. “I vow I’ve seen little of my own wife for nigh on a week now. But I suppose I can spare her. Jilly’s got few enough other women in her life. It must be difficult, given her condition. She’ll have to go to Kittridge Hall in a few months, I suppose.”
Of course. She certainly wouldn’t go to Windclere. But who would she have there with her, to offer comfort and companionship? “Go with her,” James said. “Take your termagant of a wife and go with her. I’ll give you every horse in my stables if you will.”
Ravenhurst gave him an approving clap on the shoulder. “Of course we’re going,” he said. “But I’ll relieve you of your horses just the same.”
∞∞∞
Though James had the good sense to keep out of her sight, Jilly always seemed to know when he was there anyway. It was like a curse, that bizarre sort of sixth sense that kept her intimately aware that her estranged husband was present.
At first it had annoyed her. She had, after all, made it exceptionally clear that she had no wish to see him. But he had not approached her, or sent any servants scurrying her way with beverages, nor, for any outward appearance, did he do anything but linger at the fringes of the crowd. And when she had first spotted him after that awful confrontation at the Everleigh ball and acknowledged with a frigid stare that she was aware of his presence, he had let his gaze fall away from hers and silently slipped from the room.
His immediate acquiescence had made her feel small and petty. She had chased him from the ballroom as surely as if she had run after him brandishing a pistol.
She had not understood why he continued to attend these social events. She couldn’t recall having seen him at one even once, before he had begun his ill-intentioned courtship. He did not dance; he left before dinner was served. He eschewed conversation as though it held little interest to him. He had yet to allow himself to be drawn into so much as a friendly game of cards.
Gradually she had understood that he had no desire to be part of the social whirl, that he attended these events only because she did. She would not have received him had he attempted to call upon her, after all. These events were the only places they might share the same space, the only times he might catch a glimpse of her.
But she would feel his eyes on her.
It was unnerving. It was frightening. It was oddly exhilarating, and she didn’t appreciate that particular feeling at all.
A catty whisper burned her ears as a small group of ladies sauntered by her, pulling her out of her reverie. It was hardly the first she’d heard this evening, but this one had been meant for her ears, intended to sting.
Jilly had never even contemplated causing a scene before now, though she had imagined, in her heart of hearts, casting the hateful words back at her detractors. Ladies did not do such things, of course. Men might call another fellow out, might name seconds and weapons and brawl over their honor or risk their lives in a duel over something of so little consequence as reckless words. Ladies were expected to be far more genteel than that.
And yet—and yet—where was the benefit in it? She had already been tarnished in their eyes, little better than a gilded whore for all that she wore a title as grand as any that could be found in society. She could be as elegant, as well-bred, as serene as she pleased and still she would be judged and found wanting. A woman who had, for all appearances, been abandoned by two men, two peers of faultless reputation. A woman scorned, and if the reason had not been made public, well, then, it was just as well to speculate upon it.
She could see the outcome so clearly in her mind, the invitations that would dry up, the cuts she would doubtless receive from those who had once been her peers. Ladies would turn from her if they chanced to encounter her in public. Gentlemen would ignore her, or worse—proposition her.
She would have to retire from society.
Yes. That would be good. That would be ideal. Perhaps it was what she should have done years ago. Certainly it would have saved her a good deal of heartache.
She took a deep breath and let it out, marveling on how it took her cares away with it, as if they had at once become light as air. She had held them so tightly to her that she had weighed them down, slung them upon her own neck like a millstone, and never considered that it had not been the weight of them that she had carried but the weight of her own tumultuous emotions about them.
And she said, in a voice that carried like the sweet trill of a nightingale, directed to the back of the woman who had passed her by, “Lady Beatrice. How ill-bred of you.”
∞∞∞
“Oh, lord,” Robert sighed, shouldering away from the wall. “Now she’s gone and done it.”
“Christ,” James said. The clear, direct statement that Jilly had issued had snapped across the ballroom with the force of a gunshot, and had hit with just as much, given how stiff the girl who had received it had gone. James had not recognized the girl immediately—she had the same sort of pale, milk-and-water look as every other young girl present, pretty in a bland, forgettable sort of way with her tightly-pinned golden curls and insipid blue eyes. Next to Jilly’s lush, vibrant beauty, she faded into obscurity altogether. James would never have recognized her if Jilly had not called her by name.
But now he did, and he recalled the impertinent bit of baggage that had fancied making a duchess of herself, fluttering her lashes in his direction every time the chance had presented itself. Some women were entirely too full of their own consequence, and Lady Beatrice was one of those unpleasant ladies who seemed to feel that she was entitled to whatever she pleased and was given to tantrums if what she desired was not immediately presented to her.
She had felt she had been entitled to James’ attention and had been beyond put out that he had given it elsewhere instead, to a woman she felt was beneath her. James had seen it often enough before.
“Duchess,” Lady Beatrice hissed, disgust dripping from her deliberately sultry voice. “Eavesdropping is so very common, wouldn’t you agree?” The room had gone so quiet that James fancied he could hear the pulse of his own heart in his chest.
“No more so than spreading uncouth gossip where anyone might hear you,” Jilly replied. “If you choose to lower yourself to such an ill-mannered pastime, you ought to take care that you are not overheard.” Her voice was light and airy, as if she merely passed along the wisdom of her experience with a younger, less knowledgeable soul. “There are those who would think poorly of you. I should hate to think that you would take no more care with your reputation than that.”
Crack! A dozen fans snapped open, fluttering vigorously to disguise avid stares.
Lady Beatrice narrowed her eyes until she resembled nothing so much as a snake awaiting its chance to strike. “One would think, duchess, that you would know better than to remark upon someone else’s reputation given the state of your own.” With a haughty toss of her perfect curls, she added, “My own reputation is quite without blemish. It is well known that you cannot say the same.”
Their audience breathed as one, a sudden indrawn breath that threatened to gutter out the lamps. At once horrified and delighted, the crowd thickened, elbows flying as the people vied for better positions.
“Lady Beatrice, you forget yourself,” Jilly murmured. As if the younger woman deserved no more notice than she would give an ant, Jilly casually tugged at her gloves. “I beg you to recall your station and let no further unworthy remarks pass.”
Lady Beatrice flushed an unbecoming red, which clashed dreadfully with the delicate pink of her gown. Shaking with rage, she made an ugly sound in her throat, a primitive snarl that had several of the nearest people inching backward as if they feared she might have gone rabid. Before anyone would react, she drew back her arm and let her hand fly. The sound of the slap was softened by her evening glove, but the force of it had been enough to snap Jilly’s head to the side.
James was moving before he was even aware of it, wading through the crowd, uncaring who he had had to elbow aside in his single-minded progress across the floor.
How Jilly had maintained her serenity, James could only guess. But between them, Lady Beatrice was by far the most rattled. Perhaps she was simply unaccustomed to her victims striking back. But it could not be said that Jillian looked anything less than a lady, while Lady Beatrice stood stiff with indignation. She had cast off her pretense of civility; her lips curled in antipathy, revealing more of her teeth than any true lady ever ought to do. Her color was high, her peaches and cream complexion mottled with glowing spots of red.
“How dare you,” Lady Beatrice spat at Jilly. “How dare you presume to condescend to me. My father—”
“Will be informed of your behavior tonight.” Lord Atherton, a gentleman of some sixty years, appeared off to the right. He paused beside his wife, who had unfortunately had the dubious pleasure of a front-row spot for the debacle still unfolding. Lady Atherton looked a bit shaken by the occurrence, but she managed a weak smile for her husband, whom she plainly adored. “I’m afraid I must insist that you remove yourself from my house,” Lord Atherton continued. “I won’t have such coarse behavior directed at my guests. Though my wife does enjoy guiding young ladies into their first Season, I am certain she is regretting her decision to invite you.”
Lady Beatrice took a step back in the face of such condemnation, her blue eyes widening at the blandly delivered insult. “Coarse?” she inquired, somewhat stridently, having evidently forgotten that a lady’s voice ought to remain modulated. “I spoke only the truth. And—and she deserved to be struck. She puts on airs as though she’s any better than she is, when everyone knows she trapped her husband into marriage. A duke, when she couldn’t even get a viscount to the altar. There’s some mischief in that.”
By God, James was going to do murder. And yet even as he made it at last through the throng of people, he felt a firm tug o
n his arm and looked down to see Lady Ravenhurst, her color high, holding him back.
“Be very careful,” she said, sotto voce. “If you act rashly, you’ll only humiliate Jilly. She has some pride left, Your Grace. Do not strip her of it.” She released him after that warning, and gave him a firm stare, absent its usual spite. While she might not approve of him, he thought perhaps she had been heartened by his desire to come to Jilly’s defense. As if she were putting him through his paces, testing his devotion to her dearest friend.
He cleared his throat, attracting attention at last. “Lady Beatrice,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn, “anyone who believes I married my wife for any reason other than love is an idiot.” He let his icy gaze slide over the ring of avid observers. “My wife has never been anything other than a lady. Her behavior has always been beyond reproach, and she has never taken the slightest action that would merit the treatment she has received.” Beneath the quelling stare he leveled over the crowd, he had noticed more than a few who did not meet his gaze, but had instead looked away in shame. “I would take it ill to hear my wife so maligned, and I am not a man to cross.” He imbued the words with every shred of threat he could summon, every ounce of ducal arrogance to which he had ever laid claim.
Even Lady Beatrice had enough sense to quail beneath it. “But you don’t—you don’t reside together,” she whispered. “Everyone knows it. You repudiated her.”
“I cannot imagine,” James said, in a rather bored tone, “in what way my marriage is any concern of yours. I hold my wife in the highest regard, and I certainly have not repudiated her. If my duchess prefers to have her own household, it is not for you to speak ill of her.” Very carefully he took Jilly’s hand and nestled it into the crook of his elbow, a blatant display of solidarity. Though she did not pull away, she had given a tiny start, as if the touch of his hand had singed her flesh even through her glove.
His Favorite Mistake Page 27
