Chapter Six

J ess gratefully snatched a fresh glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and took a long glance around Lord Fitzsimmon’s ballroom.

She would have staked her life that nothing had changed since the last time she glanced around the room a few minutes ago. No new arrivals. No scandalous behavior. No fashion mistakes from either the gentlemen or the ladies. Nothing interesting whatsoever. Of course, interesting might be expecting too much, given that the ballroom wasn’t at all crowded. The entire party, in fact, was as barren as a stony field. But then, that was to be expected so late in the year when the season was nearly over.

She sighed in boredom as she raised her glass to take a sip. Oh, what she wouldn’t have given for someone to cause a scene on the dance floor! Or for a lady to slap a gentleman with her fan for being too forward. Anything to enliven the evening.

She would have done so herself if it meant being able to leave early for home.

Instead, she was trapped by a group of Aunt Matilda’s friends. The gray-haired matrons chattered on endlessly about distant relations, redecorated townhouses, and St George’s new vicar who was far too handsome for his own good…and a bachelor. One of them dared to slide a hopeful look in Jess’s direction, which Jess returned with wide eyes, like a doe caught by hounds.

Auntie’s friends wanted to marry her off to a vicar! Good Lord.

Still unwed at four and twenty, Jess might be teetering on the edge of spinsterhood, but she wasn’t desperate enough to wed just any man who happened along. Certainly not one who came with his own church, for heaven’s sake! Oh, she wanted a husband and family, of course, and a home she could fill with love and laughter. But she also wanted an equal partnership and mutual respect, and most of all, she wanted trust. The last thing Jess wanted to do was repeat her mother’s mistake in choosing a husband. If that meant remaining unmarried, so be it. She would have her art and the small income it generated, and that was more than most women of her station possessed.

She glanced around again, this time searching for an excuse to separate herself from the matrons. Not that she could have spent the evening with any other company, she glumly realized. All her friends had already departed for their families’ country homes as soon as Parliament ended a fortnight ago. She no longer had Amanda with her, either, which was the worst blow of all. The most she could hope for from the evening were a couple of dances by men who had no one else to ask and a promise or two to come calling from those few acquaintances who still remained in town.

“And so I said to Iphigenia—‘Iphy,’ I said,” Mrs. Peterson prattled off a story about her unfortunate niece who was too intelligent for her own good and seemed unlikely to ever catch a husband because of it, based upon Mrs. Peterson’s faint tsking in disapproval, “‘it’s impossible for you to go to Brighton for the season when every eligible young man in England is here in London. There’ll be no one there to marry,’ I said, ‘except soldiers and sailors, and you know how those sorts are.’”

Bored out of her mind, Jess answered without thinking, “Disciplined and wet?”

Every matron in the group turned to gape at her, including Aunt Matilda, who narrowed a chastising glare on her.

Jess pulled in a deep breath and forced out a smile. “Brighton has a perfectly lovely set of assembly rooms. The dancing there is unparalleled, no matter who’s in attendance, and I hear the Prince Regent often drops by without notice. I’m certain she’ll find several men there who prick her interest.”

Mrs. Peterson frowned, although at Jess’s assessment of Brighton or at her defense of soldiers and sailors Jess would never be able to say.

She quickly raised her glass to her lips and took a large mouthful of champagne before she had to explain that a commanding officer or ship’s captain would be a perfectly good match for any woman who found one of them interesting, kind, good-hearted…all the things lacking in too many of the so-called quality. All she had to do was glance around the ballroom right now to be reminded that all the money in the world couldn’t buy intelligence, taste, or the gift of witty conversation.

Poor Iphigenia. Jess’s heart went out to her. She understood the niece far more than Mrs. Peterson ever would.

“Good evening, ladies.” Archibald Caulderfield stepped smartly up to the group of women. The low-level Whitehall official sketched a bow in general to the matrons before his smile landed firmly on Jess. “Ah, Miss St Claire! So good to see you again. Lady Fitzsimmon said you were in attendance.”

“Yes.” Her smile faltered, but she found the resolve not to take a step back in self-defense against his excitement at seeing her. After all, they barely knew each other. “Lovely party, isn’t it?”

If he suspected she’d just lied, his expression didn’t register it. In fact, from the way his spine snapped straight and his heels clicked together as he came to attention, he seemed beyond happy that she’d engaged him in conversation.

“Grand,” he agreed. Then he held out his hand to her. “May I have this dance?”

Jess hesitated. “Well, I—” Her eyes landed on her glass. “I really should stay here and finish my champagne.”

Yes! That was a good excuse. It would give her ten minutes of peace at least. Maybe, if she nursed her glass long enough or was fortunate enough to snag a fresh glass or two from the footmen without being seen, she could make it all the way through to midnight, when she could claim a headache—most likely from all that champagne—and beg off for home.

“Go on and have a bit of fun,” Aunt Matilda encouraged her with a soft jab of her elbow to her ribs, jostling the sparkling wine as Jess raised it to her lips to reinforce her excuse to Mr. Caulderfield.

She smiled tightly and muttered in a low voice, “Auntie, I really don’t think—”

“Oh look! You’ve finished.” Matilda snatched away the still half-filled glass and quickly handed it to the Fitzsimmon’s butler, who halted as he passed from having a champagne flute shoved at his nose.

The butler gave a dutiful nod and hurried on, glass firmly in hand.

Jess resisted the urge to run after it.

“Miss St Claire?” Mr. Caulderfield once more held out his hand to her. “A dance?”

This time, blast it, she had no choice but to accept. Based on the excited whispers from the matrons rising behind a flurry of fans, they would never let her live down a refusal. Yet her shoulders still slumped in defeat. “All right.”

He took her hand and placed it on his arm to lead her to the dance floor.

“I’m surprised Fitzsimmon is holding such a soiree so late in the season,” Caulderfield commented in a low voice, although Jess suspected he did it more as an excuse to lean in closer than to keep from being overheard in the sparsely filled room. “Most of London has already left for the country. Hardly anyone remains.”

“The city seems perfectly busy to me,” she countered and leaned away. “All kinds of people still fill the houses and streets, and they still go to work every day.”

“I meant society .” He gave her a smile that did little to alleviate his patronizing tone. “Not the rest of those Cits and riffraff.”

Jess took a deep breath of patience and bit back the angry retort he deserved.

“Hardly anyone of worth is left,” Caulderfield amended. Then added flirtatiously, “Except for you, of course.”

“Of course.” She cast a desperate look across the dance floor, hoping against hope that one of the couples would trip and go flying, giving Jess the chance to flee in the ensuing mayhem.

No such luck. The couples all looked perfectly capable of dancing, drat them.

Maybe there was a bright spot in all this, though. She’d planned to wait until midnight before she feigned a headache and convinced Aunt Matilda to leave. Perhaps this dance with Caulderfield could speed things along. After all, the man certainly made her head hurt.

They reached a vacant spot on the floor just as a waltz was called out.

A waltz! She was saved! Jess seized on the new excuse with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at waltzing.”

“Too scandalous for you?” Caulderfield laughingly mocked as he tried to take her into position in his arms.

“Actually, I simply prefer not to waltz.” Prefer? Ha! She simply didn’t know how, but her pride wouldn’t let her admit it. She tried to step away, but he tightened his hold on her. “Please—let’s just sit out for this dance. It will be over in a few minutes, and we can join the next one.”

“You can do this.” His smile was as bright as ever, but he refused to let her go. “The floor’s not at all crowded, and I’m a good partner. Everyone says so.”

“No. Please—let’s wait.”

His smile faded. “I insist.”

“And I heard the lady say no,” a deep voice interjected from behind her. “Respect that, and release her.”

Jess knew before she glanced over her shoulder—

Lucien Grenier.

The duke’s hard gaze remained fixed on Caulderfield, while everyone else in the room had paused to watch him, including couples on the opposite side of the floor who craned their necks to snag a better look. They were all wondering the exact same thing as Jess… What the devil was that rake doing here?

“Our dance is none of your business, Crewe.” Caulderfield took Jess by the elbow to keep her with him. “But if you ask politely enough, perhaps one of the other ladies would consent to partner with you.” He added with a dark laugh, “For a dance, that is. No one here tonight would be scandalous enough to consent to anything else with you!”

“Mr. Caulderfield, please.” Embarrassment flashed through Jess. A gentleman didn’t say that kind of improper thing in front of a lady. Even if it were true.

“Anything else?” Lucien repeated with a smile, but his eyes remained steely cold. “Well then. I suppose that means Miss St Claire would refuse a turn about the room with me.” Finally, his gaze darted to her. “After all, she’s far too proper to engage in scandalous activities, or she would have caused a scene by now by giving you the slap you deserve.”

Jess’s lips parted in surprise. He was…coming to her defense?

“But I am not nearly as kind as Miss St Claire,” Lucien continued, “and if you don’t release her right now, I will give you far more than a slap.”

Caulderfield’s face turned red. “Crewe, how dare you—”

“ His Grace to you,” Lucien corrected as the musicians launched into the waltz despite all the couples still frozen in place, staring at them and whispering. Contrary to his amused tone, Jess felt the chill of his anger lying just below the surface. It was the same anger she’d felt in the carriage yesterday afternoon. “But please, do go on. Say something else to offend me.”

“Why?” Caulderfield foolishly shot back. “So you can call me out at dawn?”

“No.” Lucien casually rocked back on his heels with a confident grin. “So I can beat you to a pulp right here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jess interrupted, fearing fisticuffs would break out at any moment. She’d wanted an incident to enliven the evening, but she never thought she’d be part of it. “You’re both too finely dressed tonight for such nonsense. Besides, Lord Fitzsimmon would never allow blood to be spilled across his beautiful dance floor.” She arched a brow at Caulderfield. “ Your blood, that is. I doubt you’d land a single blow against His Grace. But if you decide you want to fight over me anyway, then by all means, I’ll let you.” She paused to glance between the two men as if judging them, then let her shoulders slump as she muttered to Caulderfield, “But I do hope you keep a physician on retainer.”

Lucien grinned as if she’d just called him the most spectacular man in the world.

Caulderfield paled and released her arm.

She took a quick step to Lucien’s side. The Duke of Crewe might be the unlikeliest of knights in shining armor, but at that moment, she didn’t have a choice. Better the devil she knew than the devil she didn’t. Sort of.

Lucien ignored Caulderfield and turned toward Jess, holding out his hand and sketching a bow. “Miss St Claire, I would be honored to escort you on a turn about the room.”

She knew enough to accept help when it was offered. “Thank you,” she rasped out and gave him her hand.

Without another look at Caulderfield, Lucien placed her hand on his arm and slowly led her off the dance floor.

Whispers went up around them as the thin crowd parted to let them pass. Now that the would-be spectacle was over—acute disappointment filled the room that fisticuffs hadn’t broken out after all—the couples launched into the waltz as if nothing had been amiss. But even from across the room, she could see Aunt Matilda’s curious stare and knew the carriage ride home would be nothing but a barrage of questions. About Lucien.

At that moment, Jess had no answers to give…including why she was still letting him lead her around the room.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Mr. Caulderfield is more bluster than blows.” She let out a long sigh. “You didn’t have to interfere like that. He would have released me when he finally figured out that I truly cannot waltz.”

“When you stomped repeatedly on his toes, you mean?”

“And kicked his shins.” She slanted him a glance as he led her toward the far end of the ballroom. “So why did you do that?”

“Because Caulderfield was being an arse.” His muscles flexed beneath her fingers, and she could still feel the anger coursing through him. She didn’t doubt how much he would have enjoyed beating the daylights out of Caulderfield if she hadn’t spoken up. “Any gentleman would have done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t have. So why did you do that?” She arched a brow. “You’re certainly not a gentleman.”

“It’s not enough to think I might have simply wanted to help you?”

“No.”

The cold bluntness of her answer made him chuckle. “Then how about so I could ask if you wanted to attend the annual art and book exhibition with me at Somerset House? After all, I hear I’m sponsoring it this year.”

Jess tripped over her own feet. She would have landed on her face if Lucien hadn’t grabbed her arm to catch her and hold her upright, yet anyone watching would barely have noticed a bobble in her gait.

But she noticed that when they walked on, he stood closer than before.

She pulled in a deep breath to gather herself. “Yes, you are,” she said with a broad—if forced—smile. “How generous of you.”

“Rehabilitating my reputation must be costing you a small fortune.”

More than you realize. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help my sister.”

“I admire that, I truly do. Siblings should take care of each other. Always.”

“Good. Then you—”

“But in this, you’re wrong.”

They reached the long row of French doors that opened onto the garden terrace. Instead of continuing their circuit of the room, he guided her toward the outdoors.

She stopped. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Finding a spot where we can talk without being overhead.” The look he cast over her was one of warning, even if it tingled the bare skin of her upper arms. “You and I have a great deal to discuss, Jessamyn.”

“Stop calling me that. And I am not going into the darkness with you.”

“It’s not dark. The terrace is lit with lamps.” He cast a crestfallen glance through the door. “Sadly.”

“Everyone is watching.” A lie. The partygoers had grown bored already with the two of them and returned to dancing, gossiping, and drinking. Only Aunt Matilda continued to watch them from the other side of the room with a peculiar expression on her face. But Jess had a ready excuse. “They’ll think you’ve returned to your old rakish ways if I walk off with you, and all my hard work will be undone.”

“How awful.”

Jess glared at him.

“Actually,” he said with faint consternation as he wrapped her arm around his, “with your wholly proper reputation, everyone will think better of me for associating with you. You can’t deny that doesn’t play into your devious scheme.”

No, she couldn’t. But she wasn’t at all happy about it either. The blasted man had completely twisted the situation around on her.

“Fine. We’ll talk on the terrace,” she conceded, only to raise a finger in protest. “But we stay in the lamplight the entire time, and you keep your distance.”

“All right.” His slow, self-assured smile reminded her of a lion…right before it devoured a gazelle. “I do love a challenge.”

He led her through the French doors and out onto the terrace.

Only when her slippers touched the sandstone and the cool night air rushed over her skin did she realize she’d made a terrible mistake.