Chapter 12

J o settled into the hack with her father, who was accompanying her to Sir Alfred Hightooth's rout. As they began moving along Coventry Street, he gave Jo an approving look.

"That ensemble is fabulous. The vibrant orange-red is perfect for you." He patted her hand.

"I was concerned it was too garish, but Min convinced me it would be striking." The style was simple, and the ivory trim helped to mellow the main color. Looking back, Jo probably chose the flame color because the Duchess of Henlow had wrinkled her nose at it.

His gaze flicked to her neck. "I see you are wearing the pearl-and-coral necklace I gave you for your eighteenth birthday. It's a lovely adornment."

Jo touched the necklace lying at the base of her throat. "I am glad to have occasion to wear it."

Her father rubbed his gloved hands together. "I'm so pleased to be escorting you tonight! I was hoping for an invitation to Sir Alfred's rout, but he can be somewhat discerning. It is my good fortune that you are now engaged to Shefford. You've likely received invitations to nearly everything." He looked at her expectantly, and she realized he was probing for information—and perhaps inclusion.

"I've received a great many, yes. However, I have declined most of them. I do not wish to attend more than two or three events each week." Three was excessive to her, particularly when she usually attended a salon on Mondays. "I am busy with the club."

"Oh, that gaming club is such a distraction," he said somewhat testily. "I was never enthused that your mother raised you in such a place."

Jo knew her father didn't particularly care for the Siren's Call. Her mother said it was because he envied its success, the rewards of which she did not share with him. "She didn't raise me in it."

"I would argue she did. You've lived above it as long as you can remember. You have never been able to escape the shadow of the club. But now you will. When you become the Countess of Shefford." He pierced her with a curious stare. "Why aren't you leaving your role there now? I should think you must."

"I can't, not with Mama leaving London this summer. I need to be at the club."

He cut his hand through the air before him. "Balderdash. Your mother needs to hire someone to manage the club if she isn't going to be here. That cannot be your role. Not any longer. I will speak to her."

"Please don't, Papa." She touched his arm. "I will transition to not working at the club, just not yet."

"I would ask that you do so in the near future. It does not help your status in Society to be perceived as unworthy of your soon-to-be husband. I don't think that, of course."

Was that what people were saying? Jo didn't care. She couldn't. But she also didn't want Sheff to be adversely affected by her behavior.

They arrived at Sir Alfred's house near Bloomsbury Square. Jo alighted from the hackney coach and made her way to the door, which was held open by a liveried footman.

Inside the entrance hall, she gave her cloak to another footman who directed her upstairs. Jo waited for her father then took his arm as they ascended the staircase.

Jo glanced over at him. "I know you will likely want to stay until the very end of the gathering, but I do not wish to stay that late."

"As you wish, my dear." His gaze fixed ahead of them as they reached the first floor and turned toward the drawing room. "There is your betrothed."

Sheff walked toward them, his brown hair artfully styled so a lock caressed his forehead. He wore black with a scarlet waistcoat, and a ruby pin sparkled in the pristine white folds of his cravat. "Good evening, my dearest," he said to Jo, a flash of heat in his gaze as he took her hand and bowed to brush a kiss against her glove. Straightening, he addressed her father, "Evening, Harker."

"And to you, Shefford. I shall leave my daughter in your capable hands for now. Behave yourselves," he added with a chuckle before taking himself off toward the drawing room.

"You look stunning," Sheff said as he slowly perused her from head to toe.

"I am not a selection of sweets you are contemplating," she murmured.

"No, you are far more enticing than that," he replied softly. He offered her his arm. "Do you wish to see what Sir Alfred brought back from South America?"

"Desperately." She smiled as she took his arm and ignored the rush of desire that claimed her for a moment. For several moments, really.

Inside the drawing room, she forced herself to focus on the curiosities placed about the room. Each had a card describing it, including where Sir Alfred had found it. There were dried flowers, leaves, insects, and wool from an alpaca.

"Come along and feel it," Sir Alfred said as they approached the white fluffy wool. "It's one of the few things here I'm encouraging people to touch. There is some wood on the other side of the room, I would suggest you feel as well."

Average in height and build, Sir Alfred wore thick spectacles that made his eyes seem larger than they were. He was in his middle fifties, probably, with thinning gray hair and an engaging smile.

"You'll have to remove your glove," Sir Alfred added with a chuckle.

Jo did so, as did Sheff, and she reached for a small ball of fluff. It was soft and springy. "I imagine this makes a beautiful blanket."

"Indeed. I brought several home with me. One is hanging over there." He gestured toward the wall, where a vibrantly dyed blanket hung. "But I do ask that you not touch that. This here is what an alpaca looks like." He lightly touched the edge of a framed drawing that stood on the table with the wool.

"Did you sketch that, Sir Alfred?" Sheff asked.

"Indeed, I did. I'm compiling a book of my drawings and descriptions. It should be available later this year."

"How splendid," Jo said with enthusiasm. "I look forward to purchasing a copy. Will you be giving any lectures about your experiences there?"

"I will indeed. I shall ensure you receive an invitation," Sir Alfred said jovially before turning his attention to someone else who'd arrived at the table.

"Did you feel it?" Jo asked Sheff.

He touched the wool she still held, his fingers grazing hers. "Very soft. And so is the wool." He gave her a crooked smile, and Jo smirked as she rolled her eyes.

"You are a terrible flirt."

"I can't help myself with you," he said with a light laugh, his head tilting toward hers.

She set the wool back on the table but did not draw on her glove just yet. "Shall we go find the wood he mentioned?"

"We'll make our way in that direction."

Tucking her hand around his arm once more, Jo realized the folly in not putting her glove back on. It was far more intimate to touch him with her bare hand. And tantalizing.

As they moved to the next table, they encountered Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, who'd hosted the literary salon on Monday. "How pleasant to see you here," Mrs. Davenport said.

Jo looked toward Sheff. "Do you know Mrs. Davenport?"

"I think we have met at some point," Sheff said with a smile. "You host the literary salons Jo is so fond of."

"Yes. We look forward to when she joins us as a hostess in her own right," Mrs. Davenport said with considerable glee. "I do hope you enjoy literature, my lord."

"I do, indeed. I look forward to my wife's salons and hope you will come. Perhaps you'd even see fit to invite me to one of yours," he added with a flirtatious wink.

Jo squeezed his arm provoking him to glance at her. She gave him an exasperated look. His lips twitched in response.

"I most certainly will," Mrs. Davenport said.

They chatted a bit longer before continuing on their separate ways.

"I wanted to ask if you liked to read," Jo said to Sheff. "What type of literature is your favorite?"

"I enjoy reading historical accounts. I haven't ever been terribly fond of novels."

"What about poetry?" she asked.

"The more risqué the better," he said with a laugh.

"You would have appreciated Lady Standish's offerings the other night. She had one poem in particular that was rather…stirring."

He arched a brow. "As in, it aroused you?"

"It spoke of arousal. She compared the ocean to having an orgasm." Too late, Jo realized this was not a good topic for them to converse about. "Shall we go feel the wood?"

And that was somehow better?

Sheff choked out a laugh. "If you are trying to arouse me , you are doing a fine job. But then, all you need do, really, is exist."

How had that happened? She didn't think she'd aroused him before they'd launched this scheme. If so, he'd never shown it. "What has changed to make you feel that way?" She should not be asking him such things in a place like this. Or anywhere. "Never mind."

He pulled her to the side of the room. They'd been speaking softly, but now he lowered his voice even more. "I don't really know what has changed, but something has. And I know you feel it too."

Jo said nothing, but she absolutely felt it—deep in her core. Standing here with him, her bare hand on his sleeve, their bodies close, she wanted nothing more than to give in to that something.

His eyes locked with hers. "But we aren't going to do anything about it."

She managed to exhale despite the stranglehold that desire had placed on her ability to breathe. They took a step away from the wall, and two ladies crossed their path.

"Pardon," Sheff said.

They both looked at him, then flicked glances toward Jo. Without a word, they turned and strode in the other direction.

Jo had never received the cut direct, but she believed that might have been it.

"Bloody prigs," Sheff breathed. His eyes had darkened with anger, and his features were pulled into a furious glower as he stared after the two women.

"Who cares what they think?" Jo said.

"I do."

"Do you?" Jo thought of what her father had said to her just before they'd arrived. "I don't want to cause problems for you," she said softly.

"You aren't. At all. I care what they think about you ."

"You shouldn't. I'm a temporary accessory." Regardless, she couldn't deny she felt a prick of agitation at the ladies' reactions. She would not share that with Sheff, however.

He turned his gaze toward her, and she saw the fury there. "You are not an accessory. And I will ensure those women are excluded from every Society event for the rest of the Season."

Jo moved to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the women who'd scorned her. "No, you will not." How would he even do that anyway?

"Their behavior cannot go unpunished," he said fiercely.

"What an arrogant thing to say. As if you are the arbiter of their actions."

His expression gentled—slightly. "I won't allow them to be rude to you."

"Even if it doesn't bother me?"

"It bothers me ," he grumbled. "I won't permit people to denigrate my future wife. Even if you aren't actually going to be my future wife. They don't know that." He sounded possessive and…hurt. Jo couldn't find fault in either of those things. Indeed, she couldn't help feeling flattered.

She took her hand from his arm and drew on her glove. "I'm going to the retiring room. If you want to have words with those women while I am gone, I can't stop you. But I don't want any part of it."

She turned on her heel and strode from the drawing room, passing the women who'd cut her without sparing them a glance. In the corridor, she stopped to ask a footman where the retiring room was located.

"I can show you," a woman said. She was petite and curvaceous, her blonde hair streaked with white. "I am Sir Alfred's sister, Miss Hightooth."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Jo said. "I'm Miss Josephine Harker."

"Ah, the Earl of Shefford's betrothed," Miss Hightooth said with a knowing smile. "You are a courageous woman. I don't know you at all, but I admire your spirit." She led Jo along the corridor to the back of the house.

"Why, because I am marrying an earl?" Jo asked with a chuckle.

"Yes, of course! That is not for the faint of heart. I declined to wed a viscount in my youth. My mother was horrified, but I realized I was not meant for that sort of marriage. Or any marriage, as it turned out. I am a happy spinster."

Based on her smile and enthusiasm, Jo could see that. "What is it about spinsterhood that you love?"

"Freedom, mostly. I am fortunate to have a brother who cares for me financially. In return, I manage his household and take care of things while he's traveling." She opened the door to a small sitting room that had been made into the ladies' retiring room. "Alf wasn't meant for marriage either, but that is because he is wed to his studies and exploration."

"It's nice that you have one another." Sometimes Jo wished she had a sibling. Especially now that she had friends her age and saw the relationships Gwen and Min had with their brothers.

"It is, but sometimes I wonder if it might be nice to have a romantic partner," Miss Hightooth said. "But then I scoff and remind myself that I never wanted that, nor do I need it." She turned toward the door. "I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you." Jo looked about the empty space wondering how long she should linger. The only reason she'd left was to give Sheff time to do whatever he planned with those two women.

Was that the only reason?

She was also perhaps seeking a respite from being in his presence. Particularly from the desire growing between them. The end to their ruse—or his departure from town—could not come soon enough.

Satisfied she'd been gone long enough, she started for the door. A woman in her forties stepped inside, her gaze falling on Jo. She pursed her lips and jerked her focus away, moving past Jo with alacrity.

Another cut direct. Or almost.

Jo caught the door before it closed, but before she could leave the room, she heard the woman say, "A title will not make you welcome. There are people in Society who will never accept you. Think about that before you saddle a highly respected family with your presence."

Shock mingled with anger as Jo gripped the edge of the door. She ought to keep going and find her father to tell him that she was ready to leave. But she hadn't yet finished looking at Sir Alfred's objects.

Turning, she released the door and let it swing shut.

"Unrepentant strumpet," the woman muttered as she gazed at her reflection in a mirror in the corner.

"I'm still here," Jo said.

The woman turned around sharply, her jaw dropping.

Jo curled her lips into a malevolent smile. "A title doesn't make anyone anything. Their character does. You and your ilk willingly accept rogues and rakes—men who are ‘highly respected' but should not be. How dare you judge me when you don't even know me?"

The woman sniffed. Her cheeks flooded dark pink. "You are not from our class. You should know better than to mingle with us."

"So far, I have been most fortunate. Perhaps the best thing about being a countess—and a duchess someday—is that I will choose with whom I mingle. You may rest assured it will not be with you." Jo returned to the door and opened it. "Enjoy the rest of your evening," she called before slipping from the room.

Her hands were shaking as she made her way back to the drawing room. She heard her father laugh and saw him standing to one side with a small group of people, a glass of wine dangling from his fingertips. Did anyone ever give him the cut direct? She'd never witnessed it. But then, he wasn't welcomed everywhere. He hadn't even received his own invitation to this rout.

What was Jo doing here?

It was a stupid, rhetorical question. She had a lucrative reason for being here, and she could suffer the ignorant and judgmental harpies of the ton. They'd be relieved when she cried off and didn't marry one of their precious members. Part of Jo wanted to wed him out of spite.

Sheff joined her. "You'll be happy to know I didn't say anything to those horrible women. But I still plan to cut them at every opportunity. It's the least I can do."

"That seems fair," she said, deciding she wouldn't tell him about the woman in the retiring room. What would be the point? "Let's finish our perusal of Sir Alfred's items."

"We still need to stroke the wood," he said with a comical leer.

Jo giggled, glad for his humor. She shook off the lingering irritation from her encounter with the obnoxious woman in the retiring room and hoped she wouldn't come face to face with her again.

"Lead the way," Jo said.

"I thought we might promenade in the park tomorrow," Sheff suggested. "I spoke with Somerton about it the other night, and he said that he and his wife would chaperone."

Jo was always amused that a woman younger than her could serve as a chaperone—married or not. "All right. I'll send Gwen a note in the morning. Then we have a ball to attend on Saturday." She resisted the urge to make a face. How many more cuts would she have to endure?

"Yes, but we needn't stay long. In fact, you can be back at the Siren's Call to work just after midnight, I should think."

His support of her obligations warmed her. Would he do the same if they were actually betrothed? Of course not. There was no way he could endorse such behavior from his future wife. He was able to do it now because it didn't really matter.

Soon enough, she wouldn't have to endure any of this. And it would all be worth the freedom she would earn.

T he following evening, Sheff found himself at the Siren's Call. He hadn't had to escort his mother and sister anywhere, and there wasn't anywhere else he wanted to be. He found himself increasingly seeking Jo's company and missing her when he didn't see her.

When he thought about what that could mean, he decided it was due to their unresolved mutual attraction. If they could put that behind them somehow, perhaps he would not feel as though something was absent. Something almost viscerally important.

Jo was not in the common room when he arrived. Becky said she was dealing vingt-et-un in the cardroom. Sheff made his way there, a tankard of ale in hand, and stood near the doorway to watch her work.

In the past, he would have joined the game, but now it would be odd, for she was his betrothed. Or perceived to be anyway.

So, he observed instead. He noted her mischievous smile as she turned over the dealer's card, her laugh when one of the players lost melodramatically, her genuine glee for the player who won.

She reset the table, her gaze moving about until she met his. Her brows arched briefly in surprise. He lifted his tankard in a silent toast.

Then she dealt the cards, and Sheff watched another hand. Then another. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails neatly trimmed. She was not wearing her betrothal ring.

That made him frown slightly. He liked seeing it on her hand. Because it was the only physical claim he could make on her.

That afternoon, they'd enjoyed a wonderful promenade in Hyde Park. The weather had finally been slightly warm, with the sun making a prolonged appearance. But then the wind had picked up and rain clouds had moved in, prompting them to hasten their departure.

But for a time, he'd enjoyed laughter and ease with Jo and their friends. He began to see how a man like Somerton had traded his bachelorhood for marriage. Not just any marriage, but a lifetime with a woman he clearly adored. Sheff had never seen Somerton so happy. Giddy, even. And it was obvious his wife felt the same. What would happen when one of them inevitably stopped feeling that way?

What would happen when neither of them did?

The voice came from the depths of Sheff's mind, and he wanted to shove it right back where it had come from. Love like that was rare. What were the odds that three of his friends—Somerton, Droxford, and Wellesbourne—were fortunate enough to have found that?

And what about Bane? Sheff didn't even know if his friend had loved his wife. Bane had been caught in a compromising position with Pandora Barclay, and his reaction had been to say he was already betrothed to the woman he'd ended up marrying. The woman who had recently died in childbirth. Had Bane loved her? Was he, like Keele, grieving the loss of something that was already nearly impossible? How cruel to have that only for it to be ripped away.

That alone was enough to warn one away from love and marriage. Better to just avoid those entirely. Then there would be no hurt. Not like the humiliation his mother endured. Or the emptiness Keele sometimes spoke of.

Sheff took a long drink of ale. He needed to stop thinking of love. Especially in relation to Jo. He wanted her. Desperately. And that was not the same thing.

"How delightful to see a man unabashedly enamored of his betrothed."

Startled, Sheff turned to address the man who'd walked up beside him. In his midforties, Allard was a regular patron of the Siren's Call. Sheff knew him fairly well. He was an MP for some constituency on the outskirts of London.

"Evening, Allard." Sheff couldn't think of a single thing to say in response to the man's initial observation. He couldn't very well tell him he was dead wrong about what he thought he was seeing.

"Do you plan to move the wedding up? I hear you haven't even set a date."

"We have no plans to do so. Marry soon, I mean," Sheff clarified, though the latter part was also not happening.

Allard cocked his head. "Why not? Judging by the way you look at her, I must wonder why you'd want to wait." He chuckled, then sobered. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to be indelicate."

"But you are being intrusive." Sheff realized he sounded like an ass, but he didn't like what Allard was saying.

And why not?

Because it was true. Sheff looked at Jo the way a child looked at a sweet or a toy they'd been denied. No, it was more than that. He yearned for her in a way that went beyond simple want or even desire. He ached for her.

"I didn't mean to offend," Allard said, turning slightly as if he would leave.

"My apologies, Allard. As you can imagine, many people ask me about when we will wed, particularly my mother."

Allard smiled. "I can imagine. You must do what you wish, though. Even if that means escaping to Gretna Green," he added with a laugh. "That's what my wife and I did."

Sheff turned his head toward the other man. "Really, why?"

"My mother-in-law was perhaps like your mother. She wanted to manage every aspect of the wedding, and a week before it was scheduled, my wife asked me to whisk her away to Scotland instead." He shrugged. "So I did."

"You've been married how long?" Sheff asked.

"Twenty-one years. I love her more today than I did yesterday, and I shall love her even more tomorrow." Allard's green gaze turned wistful. "That kind of love is the reason I asked why you wanted to wait to marry. I can see you have that for Miss Harker, and in my experience, once you've fallen in love and know you want to spend forever with someone, you can't wait to begin."

"You are not the first gentleman to tell me that," Sheff said wryly. "However, I don't know that I truly feel the kind of love you are referencing."

"Indeed?" Allard sounded surprised. "You appear, to me, to be a man far gone, but perhaps I am wrong." He blew out a breath. "I have had too much ale tonight. You must ignore me. I'm waxing romantic and offering unsolicited advice. Have a good evening." He nodded at Sheff, then departed the cardroom.

Sheff frowned after him, then returned his attention to Jo. But she was gone. Another employee had taken her place.

Scanning the cardroom, Sheff didn't see Jo anywhere else either. He returned to the common room, his heart beating faster than he would like—it wasn't as if Jo had gone missing, for heaven's sake.

There she was, standing at the bar, talking to the woman behind it who was dispensing ale. Sheff exhaled, relieved to have found her. Warmth spread in his chest. He wanted to go to her, to spend the rest of the evening in her company.

He turned away and brought the tankard to his lips, his hand shaking. What was wrong with him?

Allard's observations flooded Sheff's mind. He realized there might be truth in them. He could very well be in love with his make-believe betrothed. But why would that even matter? It wouldn't last, and—anyway—she would never marry him.

A touch on his arm sent heat racing through his body. He didn't have to turn or hear her voice to know it was Jo.

"Sheff?"

Taking a deep breath to steady his raging pulse, he turned to face her. "Evening, Jo."

She wore one of her "regular" working gowns, something between a day dress and an evening gown. "I saw you in the cardroom, but then you were speaking with Allard, and I had things to check on."

"You're a busy woman. It's surprisingly attractive."

She arched a brow at him. "Can we have just one conversation without your blatant flirting?"

"I wasn't flirting. I was being honest." He sighed. "Perhaps I shouldn't be that either, though."

"Just keep your feelings of attraction to yourself. It would be…best. Is now a bad time to ask how your vow of celibacy is going?"

Sheff couldn't help his shout of laughter. "Now you're just being cruel." He laughed some more. "It's progressing without incident. And I wouldn't call it a vow. It's a requirement of our arrangement."

She put her hand to her chest. " I didn't make it one."

"I did."

"Who said you could make rules?" she asked saucily, her eyes glinting with humor.

"I'm only making them when they apply to me. I would never presume to make a rule for you."

"I appreciate that," she said softly. "Just as I appreciate your…protective nature. I was thinking about what happened last night at the rout, and I should not have prevented you from doing what you wanted with those busybodies."

"That is too kind a term for them. You were only trying to save me from my baser, vengeful nature. I must thank you for that. I'm afraid I became rather primally defensive of you."

Her gaze met his, and Sheff felt a connection that stole his breath. "You should not be, but I thank you," she murmured. "It's disconcerting to think of someone wanting to protect you in that way. But also exhilarating."

God, this dance they kept doing was going to kill him. They flirted. They admonished each other for flirting. They acknowledged their mutual attraction. They dismissed that attraction.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take. It seemed he was going to have to leave London as a matter of self-preservation.

Sheff took a long drink of ale, finishing the tankard. "I should go."

She took the empty vessel from him. Their fingers did not touch, and he was incredibly disappointed.

"I'll see you at the ball Saturday. Ten o'clock?"

He nodded. "Thank you."

She gave him a quizzical look. "For what?"

"For agreeing to this silly scheme. For putting up with what other people say and do. For suffering my ceaseless roguery."

"You're making it very worth my while," she said, her eyes gleaming with things he couldn't discern and decided he was better off not knowing.