More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (44 page)

“Are you nervous, Sara?” Lady Lansdowne asked.

Jane turned to her with eyes that were tear-filled, despite herself. “Only insofar as I want everything to go well for Aunt Harriet’s sake,” she said.

“You look as fine as fivepence, I must say, my dear,” Lord Lansdowne told her. “Now, if only I can disguise the fact that I have two left feet …” He laughed heartily.

Jane turned to Lady Webb, who was regarding her with a maternal eye. “Thank you so very much for all this, Aunt Harriet,” she said. “My own mama could not have done better for me.”

“Well, my dear. What can I say?” Lady Webb looked suspiciously dewy-eyed.

Fortunately, perhaps, there were some early guests arriving.
The four of them hurried to form a receiving line outside the ballroom doors.

The next hour sped by in a blur for Jane as she was formally presented at long last—at the advanced age of twenty—to her peers in the
ton
. There were familiar faces among those of strangers. Some people she felt she already knew quite well. There was the very handsome and charming Viscount Kimble, who Aunt Harriet seemed to believe was a prospective suitor for her hand. There was the amiable Sir Conan Brougham, and a few more of Jocelyn’s friends, who had visited him at Dudley House while Jane was there. There was Lord Ferdinand Dudley, who bowed over her hand, raised it to his lips, and grinned at her with his attractive boyish charm. And there were Lord and Lady Heyward. The former bowed courteously, said all that was correct, and would have moved on into the ballroom if his wife had not had other ideas.

“Oh, Sara,” she said, hugging Jane tightly at risk of grave damage to both their appearances, “you
do
look lovely. I am
so
envious of your ability to wear white. I look like a ghost in it myself and simply must wear brighter colors. Though Tresham and Ferdie are forever criticizing my taste, odious creatures. Is Tresham coming tonight? He would not give me a direct answer when I met him in the park this afternoon. Have the two of you had words? How splendid of you actually to quarrel with him. No one has ever been able to stand up to him before. I do hope you will not forgive him too readily but will make him suffer. But tomorrow, you know—”

But Lord Heyward had grasped her firmly by the elbow. “Come, my love,” he said. “The line will be stretched down the stairs and across the hall and out to the pavement if we stand here talking any longer.”

“
Have
you quarreled with the duke, Sara?” Lady Webb asked as they turned away. “You had so little to say for yourself after he called on you last week. Do you know if he intends to come tonight?”

But there really was a line of people waiting to be presented. There was no chance for further private talk.

He did come. Of course he came. He was late, but not
too
late. Jane and Lady Webb were still standing outside the ballroom doors with Lord and Lady Lansdowne while all was abuzz inside and the members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments. He was dressed in a tailed black, form-fitting evening coat with gray silk knee breeches, silver-embroidered waistcoat, sparkling white linen, lace, and stockings, and black dancing shoes. He was looking formal and correct and haughty as he bowed in turn to everyone in the receiving line.

“Lady Sara,” he murmured when he came to Jane. He grasped the handle of his jeweled quizzing glass but did not raise it quite to his eye as he looked her over slowly from head to toe. “Dear me. Looking almost like a bride.”

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.