Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

J asper lounged against the terrace railing, a glass of whisky in hand, the cool night breeze a welcome contrast to the stuffy air inside the ballroom. He surveyed the scene before him, only half-listening to the muted sounds of laughter and music drifting from within. Balls had become a tedious affair for him lately. If not for the show he would put on with Honor, he would not have attended.

He took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, his thoughts wandering until something—or rather someone—caught his attention.

His heart halted in his chest.

Honor had just stepped into the ballroom, and she was an absolute vision of loveliness. She wore a dark emerald gown that clung to her graceful yet voluptuous figure. The gown shimmered as she moved, the rich fabric accentuating her every curve with an almost sinful sensuality. Her hair, usually understated, was pinned up in a riot of artfully arranged curls, with delicate strands of pearls threaded throughout, catching the light and framing her face in a halo of elegance.

But what struck him most was the look in her eyes—nervous but defiant, as if she knew what the whispers would be but had decided to face them anyway. Her chin lifted proudly as she walked further into the room with her sister and mother. Ignoring the stares and hushed murmurs from those who whispered from behind their fans, she snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman.

Lorgnettes and quizzing glasses were raised as if they needed to inspect her every detail to decipher what audacity had granted her the right to attend. Given the scandal hanging over Honor's head, Lady Tilby had been reluctant to extend an invitation. Still, Jasper had persuaded her and promised the marchioness use of his box at the races. Delighted by the exchange of favors, Lady Tilby had relented.

Jasper watched intently, curious to see how Honor would handle the weight of the attention fixed upon her. He already knew her strength—after all, she had been bold enough to deliver a punch to Whitby's face—but society's judgment could be far crueler. The ton was slow to forgive anyone caught in the web of scandal, and winning back their favor would not be easy.

But then, Honor raised her chin in an unconsciously regal gesture, her eyes sweeping over the crowd with quiet defiance. She peered down her elegant nose at those scrutinizing her as if to say that their approval meant nothing to her.

Jasper chuckled. The dancing continued, and all the gentlemen ignored the Misses Shelton. The younger Miss Shelton's confidence wavered as she remained unnoticed by the gentlemen in the room. Honor consumed two glasses of champagne, and she reached for a third. Her mother said something, and she waved the footman away.

Honor was acutely nervous and doing her best to hide it. A fierce wave of protectiveness rose within him. Jasper set his glass down on the balcony's ledge and walked back into the ballroom. A ripple went through several ladies who had not realized he was at the ball. A few friends nodded at him, and Hollybrook arched a brow in question. His mother was conversing with her companions but was fanning herself and looking about the crowded ballroom.

Jasper affixed his regard on Honor, watching as her gaze flicked up and met his. There was a spark of something in her eyes—perhaps anticipation.

Jasper approached the hostess, Lady Tilby, who greeted him with all the gracious charm society demanded.

She curtsied deeply. "Your Grace, how delighted I am that you have graced my home this evening."

Jasper smiled politely and inclined his head. "Introduce me to Miss Shelton, my lady."

Lady Tilby hesitated, her smile faltering for the briefest moment. "I believe there are younger ladies, far more handsome, who would suit you better, Your Grace. Your mother is a dear friend, and I fear she will be quite put out with me."

Jasper's expression remained impassive, his gaze cool and unyielding. "Yet you will present me as I have requested," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Her smile became strained, but she nodded. "Very well, Your Grace."

She affixed a practiced smile back on her face and led him toward Honor. As they made their way across the ballroom, the path they took drew the attention of nearly everyone present. Whispers rippled through the crowd, necks craned in astonishment, and a palpable buzz of curiosity filled the room.

Honor seemed to hold her breath, standing perfectly still as they neared.

Jasper stopped before Lady Shelton, ignoring the shocked gasps and whispers that erupted around them.

"His Grace has requested the honor of an introduction," Lady Tilby announced with a smile. "Your Grace, may I present Viscountess Shelton, Miss Shelton, and Miss Moriah."

The ladies lowered into graceful curtsies, their movements perfectly polished. After exchanging the obligatory pleasantries, Jasper turned his full attention to Honor.

"Miss Shelton," he said, his voice low, "may I have the honor of this dance?"

The younger Miss Shelton gasped, darting a shocked glance at her mother.

Honor's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she nodded. "Yes ... I would be honored, Your Grace."

He extended his hand, and she placed hers gently in his, her fingers trembling slightly. Jasper led her onto the dance floor, feeling the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes on them as they moved. He could sense the shock from the crowd—especially from his mother, whose wide-eyed gaze met his for the briefest moments before she quickly turned to whisper something to the lady beside her. Jasper couldn't care less about the reactions, even the duchess's. All that mattered was Honor and how her nervousness melted into something more tender.

"This is happening," she said with a little nervous laugh.

"It is."

The strains of the waltz started, and Jasper pulled Honor closer, his hand resting lightly on her waist as they moved in time with the rhythm. She followed his lead effortlessly, and he couldn't help but marvel at how graceful she looked, how lovely and radiant she was under the ballroom's soft glow. Her emerald gown shimmered with every step, the pearls in her hair glinting as they swayed to the music. Her silver eyes gleamed. They were surely the most beautiful features in a remarkably lovely face. Not for the first time, Jasper wondered why no one had made an offer for the three seasons she experienced.

"You're lovely tonight," Jasper murmured as they moved effortlessly across the dance floor. "I want you to work on keeping your nervousness at bay. Be haughty. Let your eyes and a slight quirk of your lips convey that everyone here is beneath you. You are not afraid of their whispers or judgment. Though you are petite and most ladies stand above you, peer down your nose when you glance over them."

Honor looked up at him, her eyes widening in surprise, her lips parting as if to respond, but instead, she smiled—a genuine, radiant smile that lit up her entire face. It looked so sincere and beautiful that it made Jasper's chest tighten unexpectedly. He pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to let himself be too affected.

"Ah, that look of enamored delight works just as well," he said, smiling. "It will strike envy into the hearts of many."

"You presume many ladies would wish to be in my place," she said, amusement dancing in her gaze.

"Of course," he drawled. "I am, after all, one of the most eligible men in this room. Not to mention charmingly debonair and wealthy as they whisper in their drawing rooms. They are now wondering what alchemy you performed over me."

Honor laughed; the sound was soft but utterly endearing. It pierced his chest with warmth.

"I thought you were above such vanity."

"I shamelessly own to a bit of self-conceit." Jasper twirled her with a fluid grace. His body moved with hers as if they had been dancing together for years.

"I will endeavor not to let their judgment pierce me."

"Good. Don't punish yourself for other people's faults. The more indifferent you are to the gossipmongers, the more they will want to shatter your mask. There is another side to that coin: some will admire your mettle and want to know you. You will be a mystery they'll be dying to solve."

"And where, Your Grace, do you gain such experience?"

Jasper's lips curved into a slow smile. "It's all part of the charm—and, of course, the arrogance—of being a duke."

Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "I wonder, if I flatter your vanity enough, could I make you malleable in my hands? I once heard a friend say flattery is part of the art of seduction."

His brow lifted at her boldness, a hint of amusement wafting through him. "You want me in the palm of your hands?"

"Oh, yes," she all but purred, her voice dropping into a low, playful tone. "Such a notion is vastly appealing."

Her wicked and far too alluring gaze caught him off guard. She blinked, her lashes lowering as if to shield her surprise at the words that had escaped her. When she met his eyes again, her expression was sweet and deceptively innocent.

But Jasper knew better. There was a vixen lurking beneath that charming fa?ade of a wallflower, and bloody hell, the realization made his heart hammer in his chest.

"Never say I've rattled a man of your ... varied experience," she said, her voice soft, but there was a huskiness in her words that made his pulse spike.

"I merely wonder if the wicked thoughts of being malleable in your hands that fill my mind are the same as yours."

"Oh?" she said, feigning innocence as she tilted her head. "And what did you imagine?"

"I'd be a scoundrel to admit it." He could feel the phantom caress of her fingers trailing down his jaw, lower, tracing his chest with a teasing slowness that made his body stir in response. The tension between them grew taut, and he clenched his jaw, fighting the rush of desire that surged within him.

Conversations like this, laden with barely veiled temptation, could not be had with Honor —not if he intended to keep his control. He was tempted to assert boundaries, yet the look of delight in her eyes stopped him. She seemed to relish the freedom in her boldness, a freedom he couldn't bring himself to crush. Then, a sharp realization struck him—she was practicing her art of flirtation on him. Jasper was responsible for his own reactions, and he would master them. He would allow whatever she wished to explore—within respectable limits, of course.

"Flirt, entice, and practice your wicked charms on me," he murmured, his voice low. "I'll tell you just how successful you are each time."

Honor's eyes widened, and then laughed, the sound soft and full of life, and Jasper felt a strange sense of relief wash over him. Her laughter was beautiful, light and melodic, starkly contrasting to the raw, broken sobs he had witnessed not long ago. It mattered to him that she was not broken by the ghastly way she was treated.

The music eventually slowed, drawing to a stop, but Jasper barely noticed the change. His attention was entirely on Honor—her cheeks flushed with the thrill of their dance and bantering, and her breath came just a little quicker.

"The waltz has ended," she said, her eyes luminous as she peered at him.

He escorted her off the dance floor, guiding her toward her mother and sister. The viscountess greeted him with a look of pure satisfaction, like a cat who had gotten into the cream, while the younger Miss Shelton appeared bemused but intrigued, her pale blue eyes glittering with excitement.

Jasper exchanged a few more polite pleasantries with the viscountess, aware that those standing nearby had fallen unusually quiet. The earlier whispers had faded, replaced by a palpable sense of curiosity as they watched him, who was presumably one of the most sought-after men in society, dance with a woman who had, only days ago, been at the heart of a scandal and stood on the cusp of being exiled from their set.

Honor's eyes were bright with triumph, her earlier tension seemingly gone.

"Keep that smile, Miss Shelton," Jasper said as he prepared to take his leave. "It suits you far better than the mask of nervousness."

Honor's lips quirked, the corners lifting ever so slightly. "I'll do my best to awe," she drawled.

A part of him heard a silent challenge that he was involved in those she wished to astonish. He smiled, tipping his head ever so slightly. With a final nod to the viscountess and the younger Miss Shelton, Jasper turned and walked away from the ballroom, stepping outside and inhaling the cool night air into his lungs.

"Ah, there you are," came the familiar voice of Hollybrook. His friend strolled up, looking amused. "You seemed rather preoccupied with your dance partner."

Jasper smiled faintly but made no reply.

Hollybrook clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes gleaming. "There is a small, intimate soiree tonight at the house of a certain widowed countess. Quite the decadent affair, I assure you. You should come. You look like you could use some unwinding."

Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Decadent?"

"Very much so. Lady Beckingsale will be there," he added, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial smirk. "And if I'm not mistaken, she has been rather ... eager for your company. It's been too long since you indulged yourself, Jasper. You need a night off from brooding."

It had indeed been months since he'd taken a woman to his bed. The realization struck him with an odd sense of bemusement, for he hadn't noticed the passing of time. He had been too preoccupied with other matters—his responsibilities in the House of Lords, his estate, and now, Honor.

He looked at Hollybrook, then gave a nod. "Fine. Let's go."

Within minutes, they were riding in Jasper's carriage, the dark streets of London passing by in a blur. The destination? The home of the Countess of Ellsworth, a widow with a reputation for hosting the most scandalous and intimate gatherings. Jasper leaned back in his seat, trying to clear his mind of the lingering image of Honor's bright smile and radiant presence on the dance floor.

When they arrived at the countess's house in Russell Square, Jasper and Hollybrook entered through a side entrance, discreet and unassuming, though the low hum of laughter and music was unmistakable. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with sensuality, an intimate gathering of less than fifty guests. The low lighting, combined with the soft strains of a violin, created a heady ambiance. Masked ladies lounged in the laps of gentlemen, their laughter mingling with the clink of glasses. The touch between men and women was bold and familiar, far removed from the restraint of the polite ton .

Jasper observed the scene with detached curiosity. It wasn't the first time he had attended such an event, but tonight, the decadence of it all didn't stir the same excitement within him. Hollybrook, however, wasted no time, crossing the room to greet a woman he recognized as his mistress. They disappeared into a corner, lost in whispered conversation. Jasper accepted a drink from a passing footman; emptying the glass, he drifted toward the terrace. The night air called to him again, offering a reprieve from the charged atmosphere. He stood there, gazing into the night when a soft, familiar voice broke his thoughts.

"Windermere," Lady Beckingsale purred as she joined him on the terrace, her silhouette illuminated by the moonlight.

She was beautiful—undeniably so—with blonde hair that fell in loose waves over her shoulders and a smile that promised far more than polite conversation. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight."

Jasper gave her a brief smile. "Vivienne, it is lovely to see you. It has been months."

She stepped closer, her fingers grazing his arm as she looked up at him with a sultry gleam. "Why don't we make this night more interesting?"

"I am listening."

She pressed her mouth to his ear. "I missed your cock in me. I missed how long you would ride me. Join me in my boudoir. I promise it will be worth your while."

Vivienne stepped back and arched an elegant brow as she awaited his reply. Under normal circumstances, he might have been tempted. But as he stared into the wicked gleam in her gaze, something strange and unsettling hit him.

The only woman he wanted to kiss was Honor.

The shock of that realization nearly made him drop his glass. He frowned, his thoughts scrambling to make sense of it. What nonsense was this? How had she wormed her way into his mind, overshadowing women like Lady Beckingsale, whose charms had once been more than enough to captivate him?

Sensing his hesitation, Vivienne stepped closer, her body pressing lightly against his. Jasper's instinct was to respond, to lower his head and draw her against him. And yet, even as his hands moved to her waist, he could not follow through. The desire that usually accompanied such encounters simply wasn't there.

Frustrated, he drew back slightly, an apology forming on his lips. "I'm sorry, Vivienne, but tonight isn't the night."

Her expression faltered, confusion and a touch of disappointment crossing her face. "Jasper ...?"

"You are a ravishing woman, and I am sure many here will accept your delightful offer."

"But not you," she said softly.

He finished his drink in a swift gulp, handed the empty glass to a nearby footman, and gave her a respectful nod. "Not me. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Jasper walked away from the intimate gathering, the temptation of the night falling flat against the persistent thoughts of Honor's kisses.

As he rode back to his townhouse, a single thought echoed: no other woman would do.

Bloody nonsense. It was merely a fleeting attraction, an aberration that would soon fade .

An hour later, he was in bed, drifting off to sleep. Honor invaded his dreams, her silver eyes gleaming with desire. She kissed him, laughing and dancing out of his reach whenever he tried to pull her closer. Then she would dart back, pressing those sweet, almost shy kisses to his mouth—each one more stirring than the last.

She drove him to distraction, teasing him with her laughter, until finally, he caught her about the waist and tumbled her onto the bed. But before he could claim her, Jasper jerked awake, his body aching with need, his fingers tightly gripping the sheets.

It hit him then, with startling clarity, that the plan he thought so simple—dance with her a few times, stroll through Hyde Park, perhaps a picnic in Hampstead Heath—had just become dangerously complicated.