More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (45 page)

Oh, odious, odious man! He knew very well that white was almost obligatory for any lady making her come-out.

“Your grace,”
she murmured, emphasizing the words slightly in retaliation for his calling her Lady Sara. She dipped him a curtsy.

He did not linger but proceeded on into the ballroom. Jane turned her thoughts away from him. It was not easy to do but must be done. Tonight was for Aunt Harriet more than for herself.

Five minutes later Lord Lansdowne led her into the opening set of country dances. Jane relished the moment to the full. She was dancing at a grand London ball for the first time, and it was her own ball. It was a vigorous
and intricate dance, one that had her flushed and laughing before it was over. Other couples had joined them on the dance floor, enough in fact to make it quite clear that tomorrow Aunt Harriet would be able to boast that the event had been a squeeze.

Jocelyn did not dance. Jane did not once look directly at him, but every moment she was aware of him, standing alone on the sidelines, dark and handsome, watching the dancing. At the end of the set, after Lord Lansdowne had returned her to Lady Webb's side and a few prospective partners had approached her, including Lord Ferdinand, she saw him turn and leave the ballroom.

J
OCELYN PROWLED
. T
HERE WAS
no other word to describe his movements. Even he was aware of it as he moved from the ballroom to the card room to the refreshment room to the landing that connected all three rooms and back to the ballroom again. He could not settle anywhere, even though Pottier invited him to join a table of card players and Lady Webb offered to present him with a dancing partner. There was Ferdinand to deal with, of course. And Angeline.

“I do not know why you bothered to come, Tresh,” the former said disapprovingly when they ran against each another on the landing while Ferdinand was on his way to the refreshment room and Jocelyn was about to enter the card room for the third time. “All you have done since you arrived is look damned morose and toplofty. If you have come to spoil the evening for her, I am here to tell you that I will not have it.”

Jocelyn looked at his brother with pleased approval. Then he raised his quizzing glass to his eye. “You still
have the same valet, Ferdinand?” he asked. “Despite the fact that he is still attempting to slice your throat? You are braver than I, my dear fellow.”

Ferdinand frowned and fingered the small nick beneath his jaw on the right side while Jocelyn prowled off in the direction of the card room.

Angeline was a little more garrulous—but then, when was she not? It seemed that she applauded Jane for looking so radiantly happy when it was clear that Tresham must have quarreled with her. She hoped Jane would lead him a merry dance and never forgive him for whatever he had said to offend her. And he was no brother of hers if he did not immediately sweep Jane off her feet and make her an offer and positively refuse to take no for an answer.

“That is what I goaded Heyward into doing,” she told him. She fanned her face while her brother looked at her with distaste.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you are color blind, Angeline. It is the kindest explanation I can think of to account for your appalling choice of red and pink plumes to be worn side by side in your hair.”

She ignored him. “You are going to marry Lady Sara in St. George's, Hanover Square, before the Season is over,” she told him. “With all the
ton
in attendance. I absolutely insist upon it, Tresham. I shall plan it all myself.”

“Heaven defend us,” he murmured before bowing politely to her and continuing on his way into the ballroom.

It was almost time. A cotillion was coming to an end. A waltz was next. He stood close to the doors, his prowling forgotten, and watched Brougham lead a flushed and smiling Jane off the dance floor and return her to Lady
Webb's side. The inevitable court of hopefuls gathered around. It looked as if Kimble had won the race. He was smiling and saying something to Jane. Jocelyn strolled forward.

“This,” he said firmly when he was close enough, “is my dance, I believe, ma'am.”

“Too late, too late,” Kimble said flippantly. “I spoke first, Tresham.”

Jocelyn regarded his friend with haughtily raised eyebrows as the fingers of one hand grasped the handle of his quizzing glass.

“Congratulations, my dear fellow,” he said. “But the lady's hand is mine nonetheless. Of course, if you care to argue the point—”

“Your grace,” Jane began, sounding more embarrassed than angry. Jocelyn lifted his glass all the way to his eye and swung it in her direction. All the other bucks in attendance on her had frozen in place, he noticed, as if they were expecting fisticuffs to break out at any moment and were terrified that they might be involved.

“You have fought enough duels to last for the next decade or so, Tresh,” Kimble said. “And I have no wish whatsoever to peer down the wrong end of your pistol, even if I know very well that you will shoot into the air when it comes to the point.”

He bowed, had the temerity to wink at Jane, and strolled away.

“I cannot waltz, your grace,” Jane reminded Jocelyn. “This is my come-out ball, and I have not yet had the nod of approval from any of the patronesses of Almack's to waltz at a public ball.”

“Poppycock!” he said. “This is
your
ball, and you will waltz if you wish to.
Do
you?”

Lady Webb, who might have spoken up in protest, did not do so. The decision was Jane's. Did she have the courage? He looked directly into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, setting her hand on his sleeve. “Of course I do.”

And so they took the floor together for the waltz, a move that drew considerable attention from most if not all of the gathered guests, Jocelyn noticed. He and Jane were an
ondit
, he realized, despite his efforts to see to it that they were not. And now he had goaded her into waltzing in defiance of the prevailing custom.

He did not care a tinker's damn what anyone thought. But she did, of course. This was her come-out ball, which Lady Webb had prepared for her with such selfless enthusiasm. He gazed intently at her as he took her in his arms. How could he possibly behave himself as a gentleman ought and act as if she meant nothing at all to him? How could he possibly disguise what he felt for this woman? Even just touching her, like this … But he held her the regulation distance from his body and concentrated on keeping the heat he was feeling out of his gaze.

“It was quite odious of you,” she said, “to say what you did when you arrived.”

“Lady Sara?” he said. “But you are. And I was on my best behavior. Besides, you retaliated without a blink, Jane.”

“Not that,” she said. “The other thing.”

“About your looking like a bride?” he said. “You do. All white lace and satin and blushes.”

“Flushes,”
she said. “I have been dancing.”

“With all your most loyal and persistent beaux,” he agreed.

“Jealous?”

He raised his eyebrows and did not deign to answer. Instead, he drew her closer. Scandalously close, in fact. He could sense the gossips murmuring and muttering behind fans and lorgnettes and gloved hands. Jane made no protest at all.

They did not talk after that. It was a spirited waltz tune that the orchestra played, and the dance floor was larger than the drawing room at Dudley House, where they had last waltzed together. He moved her about the perimeter of the floor, twirling her to the rhythm, his eyes locked on hers the whole while, their bodies almost touching.

There was no need of words. They had spoken plenty during the weeks of their acquaintance. Enough that they could sometimes converse quite eloquently without a single sound issuing from their lips. Despite good intentions, he made love to her with his eyes, heedless of any audience they might still have. She pressed her lips together, but she did not once look away. He was not going to spoil the evening, her eyes told him. For Lady Webb's sake he was not. She might have been goaded into possible scandal by waltzing with him, but she would not be persuaded into looking back at him as he was looking at her. Or into quarreling with him. And yet her eyes said other things too. They were far more expressive than she realized.

“Well, Jane,” he asked her when he knew the waltz was drawing to an end, “what is your assessment? Is this the happiest day of your life?”

“Of course.” She smiled slowly at him. “How could it not be? Are
you
happy?” she asked him.

“Bedamned,” he told her.

There was a stranger with Lady Webb, he saw as he took Jane's arm to lead her back to her godmother. A
young man who was dressed with perfect decency and propriety but with not the slightest flair of elegance or fashion. Someone who lived almost exclusively in the country, it would appear. The milksop and country bumpkin, if his guess was not quite wide of the mark.

It was a suspicion that was confirmed almost immediately, as soon as Jane's attention was drawn away from someone who said something to her in passing. She looked ahead to Lady Webb, her hand stiffened on his arm, and she hurried forward.

“Charles!” she exclaimed, holding out both her hands to the bumpkin, who was glaring at him, Jocelyn, as if he would dearly like to take him apart limb from limb.

“Yes, Sara,” the young idiot said, finally looking at the woman who was reputed to be the love of his heart and taking her hands in his own. “I have come. You are quite safe now.”

“I
HAVE COME,”
C
HARLES
said again. “And in the very nick of time, it would appear, Sara. I found that fellow offensive.”

Jane had her arm linked through his and was leading him in the direction of the refreshment room. Yes, Jocelyn really had behaved rather annoyingly. He had become the Duke of Tresham even before she had introduced the two men, all haughty ennui, his quizzing glass to his eye. And when she
had
introduced them, he had spoken with faint hauteur.

“Indeed?” he had said, looking Charles over. “Lady Sara's champion, I gather? Her trusty knight, who rode at a gallop to her rescue when she was within the very jaws of the dragon?”

Charles had swelled up almost visibly with indignation, but he had found nothing better to say than that he had been away from home at the time and that when he had arrived back it was to learn that even a Bow Street Runner had been unable to find her.

“Yes, quite so,” Jocelyn had agreed with an audible sigh before inclining his head to Jane and Lady Webb and strolling away.

To her shame Jane had wanted to laugh. She had felt nothing but dismay and chagrin at seeing Charles in Aunt Harriet's ballroom. Surely he must have received her letter before leaving Cornwall. But he had come anyway.

“Yes, you have come,” she said. “But why, Charles, when I wrote and told you not to?”

“How could I stay away?” he asked her.

“And yet,” she said quietly, accepting the glass of lemonade he had taken off a tray for her, “you did not come when I most needed you, Charles. Oh, yes, I know.” She held up a staying hand when he would have spoken. “You did not see the point in coming when you did not know where to look. It was sensible to remain at home.”

“Yes, exactly,” he agreed. “I have come now when I can do some good. I am happy that Lady Webb has arranged this ball for you. It is only fitting that Lady Sara Illingsworth be presented to the ton. But it is unfortunate that an event such as this exposes you to every rake and fortune hunter who cares to ask a dance of you.”

“The guest list was prepared by Aunt Harriet,” Jane explained. “And every partner I have had tonight has been approved by her. You insult her by saying such a thing, Charles.”

“Well,” he said, “you were waltzing with the Duke of
Tresham, Sara, and he was taking inappropriate liberties with his eyes. Besides which, he had no business leading you into a waltz of all things. He will be causing you to be called fast. I know that he had a hand in finding you and bringing you here, so I suppose Lady Webb had no choice but to invite him. But he must not be encouraged. A man such as he has no honorable intentions toward any decent woman, believe me.”

Jane sighed and sipped her drink. “Charles,” she said, “I will not quarrel with you. We have always been friends, and I am grateful that you have cared enough to come all this way. But you really must not pass judgment on people you have not even met before, you know.”

“His reputation is enough for me,” he said. “Pardon me, Sara, but you have been gently nurtured and have lived a sheltered life far from places like London. I can understand that an experience like this tonight is exciting for you. But you must not abandon your roots. You belong in the country. You would not be happy here forever.”

“No,” she agreed, smiling softly into her glass. “You are right.”

“Come home with me, then,” he urged her. “Tomorrow or the next day or next week. Just come.”

“Oh, Charles,” she said, “I do wish you had read the letter I sent. I cannot go back to Cornwall. That phase of my life is over. I hope we can remain friends, but there—”

“He is not the one for you, Sara,” he said urgently, interrupting her. “Believe me, he is not. He could bring you nothing but unhappiness.”

“Which is exactly what I would bring you, Charles,” she told him gently. “I feel a deep affection for you. But I do not love you.”

“Love is something that grows between two married people,” he said. “Affection is enough on which to start.”

She set a hand on his arm. “This is neither the time nor the place, Charles,” she said. “I have already missed one set of dances. If I do not return to the ballroom soon, I will miss another, and I would hate that.”

“We will speak tomorrow, then,” he said.