Chapter 13

Acouple of days later, James descended the grand staircase of his mother's townhouse with a hint of amusement playing on his lips as he took in the sight before him. His mother stood in the hallway, dressed in an exquisite gown perfectly embodying the latest fashion trends. Despite her fifty-three years and that silver-peppered auburn hair, she carried an air of undeniable elegance and vigor that belied her age. Over the last five years, she had received three marriage proposals but had dismissed each one, preferring to maintain her esteemed status as the formidable Duchess of Basil.

"How peculiar," James drawled as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his brow arching in mild disbelief. "The note I received a few hours ago claimed you had fainted from a dreadful megrim. And now here you are, dressed for a ball?"

"James," his mother replied with a warm smile, seemingly unfazed by his skepticism. "I thought you had left."

He chuckled lightly. "I was reading in your library, madam, waiting for the physician to arrive before I take my leave. However, given that Dr. Barnet has yet to arrive you did not summon him."

"In the library?" She turned a quelling look toward the butler, her tone one of reprimand. "I was not informed you were still here."

"Hmm," James murmured, stepping closer to press a kiss on her cheek. "If you wish for me to visit, Mother, a note without melodramatics would also suffice."

"Would it?" she countered, her eyes narrowing.

"Yes. I confess I would not have patiently sat and listened to you bemoan that you might die without meeting my children if I knew you were perfectly hale and hearty."

His mother's cheeks tinged with color, and she brushed away an imaginary speck of lint from his jacket, her gesture a deft blend of embarrassment and affection. "You should be ashamed I had to resort to such tricks."

James knew his mother's tactics well—her blend of affection and manipulation finely honed over the years. Yet, her concern for his future and her desire for grandchildren always lay at the heart of her schemes.

"My dear friend Amelia told me that her son has decided to find a bride this season," she continued, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that bordered on pleading. "You need to think about the future, about the family's name and reputation. It's not just about you, James. There are traditions and legacies that need to be honored."

"Hmm," he responded noncommittally, offering his arm to help her toward the carriage. "Allow me to escort you to the carriage."

She harrumphed softly, a sound of resigned acceptance. "I suppose you are going to White's?"

James frowned. When the urgent note arrived, he hadn't given a second thought to his previously scheduled commitments. Indeed, his friend Lord Bainbridge had extended an invitation to a private card party. His mother's hopeful gaze met his, and rather than the usual annoyance, something inside of him softened. "I shall accompany you for a few hours."

She gasped, her hand fluttering to her chest in feigned shock. "Heavens! What have I done to receive this good fortune?"

"Pretended that you were ill and then sent me a note about it," he said dryly.

His mother's laughter rang out, echoing warmly. She took his proffered arm, and together, they made their way to the waiting carriage. As they settled inside, he could not help but feel a rush of affection for her relentless pursuit of what she presumed would enhance his happiness, even if it meant resorting to theatrical nonsense. The carriage rolled away, the streets of London passing by as they chatted about the latest antics of her granddaughters.

Several minutes later, James and his mother arrived at the stately townhouse of the Marchioness of Dawson in Belgrave Square. As they stepped into the grand entryway and joined the receiving line, a few surprise stares followed. The quiet murmur of the guests rose slightly, and predictably, several ladies whispered behind their fans, their eyes darting between him and their companions.

James was well accustomed to this attention and silently acknowledged that his attendance would likely spark more rumors and be featured in the scandal sheets by the next morning, with speculation about his intentions and possible courtship. After all, it was unprecedented for him to attend so many society balls in a short span of time.

They progressed into the grand ballroom, the opulent space adorned with glittering chandeliers and sweeping floral arrangements that perfumed the air. James discreetly scanned the overcrowded room as they walked, noting several familiar faces and the usual suspects of the season's social elite.

His gaze collided with Elizabeth's. Her eyes lit up with unmistakable pleasure, and James felt an involuntary response as his heartbeat quickened. He accompanied his mother around the room, who was visibly thrilled to have him by her side for the evening. She took the opportunity to point out various eligible young ladies whom she found suitable.

James indulged with a listening ear but made no comment.

"Look how lovely Lord Dawson's daughter is! She has the grace and airs of the marchioness," his mother said, nodding toward a young woman who moved through the dance with effortless elegance.

His mother snagged a glass of champagne from a passing servant and continued her matchmaking monologue.

"Also, Lady Payne's daughter is demure and so lovely. I had the pleasure of listening to her play the pianoforte at a musicale last week, and I daresay even you would be impressed, James."

She went on to praise a few more ladies, each commendation laden with hope, then, turning to him with an air of expectation.

"What are your thoughts on Miss Elizabeth Armstrong?" James did not understand which madness prompted him to ask.

"The American?" his mother asked, her tone laced with surprise and disapproval as if the mere idea of Elizabeth's existence was somewhat scandalous.

"The young lady from New York," he corrected with cool civility.

His mother's eyes widened momentarily before she managed to recompose her expression into a thoughtful frown.

"I have not given Miss Armstrong any thoughts. She is not of our society and would never be," she declared, somewhat dismissively. "Oh, I do believe Lady Dawson is coming over. I implore you to dance with her darling daughter tonight, James."

"Hmm," he responded noncommittally.

After exchanging mild pleasantries with their hostess, James excused himself. As the delicate strains of the waltz began to fill the air, he walked over to Elizabeth, drawn to her by an irresistible force that he did not wish to deny. He bowed and extended his hand toward her. "Miss Armstrong, would you honor me with this dance?"

The surprised gasp from her mother and the delighted smile exchanged with Viscountess Barnaby were evident, but James paid them no mind. His attention was entirely on Elizabeth. In truth, wariness filled him, for he found her too captivating.

"Yes," she responded, her voice a soft murmur as she lowered into a curtsy, her cheeks coloring.

Tender amusement wafted through him at that blush. It belied the quiet strength, sweet wantonness, and reckless impetuosity he knew she possessed. Taking her hand, he led her to the dance floor, expertly sweeping her into his arms. Together, they soared across the floor, moving fluidly to the rhythm of the waltz.

"You are staring at my mouth, James."

He snapped his gaze upward, his heart kicking against his chest when he saw an answering need and dancing amusement in her eyes. James's heart lurched. He was suddenly keenly aware of the longing in her stare.

Reach for methat steady gaze seemed to silently implore him.

As they danced, an unexpected impulse seized him, and the words tumbled out before he could restrain them. "Come to me tonight."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "To your home?"

James had never had a lover in his home. "Yes. I live alone in Grosvenor Square."

Her gaze was soft and luminous. "I will plead a headache and inform my mother and aunt I will return home early."

"I will follow in my carriage and collect you once you send the coachman away."

As the dance ended and he watched her walk away, an odd sensation of longing pierced through him. He stood frozen for a moment, trying to understand the surge of emotions within him.

What the hell exactly am I longing for?

His reverie was broken when he noticed Lord Prescot approaching Elizabeth, bowing over her hand with a charming smile before leading her back to the dance floor. A twisting feeling surged through James as he observed them together. Elizabeth's smile, radiant and free, as she was twirled gracefully by another man, sparked a raw emotion he hadn't anticipated.

"Ah, my friend, it is jealousy," Ambrose's voice came from beside him, his tone light and amused.

James turned sharply. "What do you speak about?"

"You have the look of a man who wants to run through another for touching what is his," his friend said, the provoking quirk of his mouth signaling he found some amusement in James's predicament.

Hell. Was he this transparent with his hunger?

"You like her," Oliver said.

"Of course I do."

"You like her more than you are willing to admit."

James had nothing to say to that and deftly changed the conversation despite his friend's smile. He was tempted to cancel the arrangement they had just made because it felt as if he was falling into something he hardly understood. His heart trembled.

Nonsense, he coolly argued with himself. So what if I like her? There is no deeper meaning to it.