“Courtship has no room for honesty, boy. By its very nature, it is a sly trick rooted in wishful thinking and self-delusion.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, after said gentleman’s dismal attempt at conversation with Lord Willoughby’s widow.
Three weeks after agreeing to spend more time with Lord Lacey, Jane was heartily confused. He had sent a note the morning after Lady Reedham’s musicale, requesting that she join him for a ride in Hyde Park. She had agreed, taking her maid, Estelle, along as chaperone. Remembering how excited she had been, the pains she had taken in choosing her riding gown—most uncharacteristic, she acknowledged—it had been rather disappointing that he’d behaved so … well, oddly. Instead of attempting to charm her, as he had seemed to do on their previous encounters, he had been quiet, distracted. Then he had asked her if she’d ever considered traveling abroad or doing something daring, something no one would expect. She, of course, had asked him if he was feeling quite right.
Two days after their ride, she met him at the British Museum, where they viewed the Elgin marbles and laughed together over further tales from the Duke of Blackmore’s boyhood. She should not relish quite so heartily Colin’s description of his brother’s breeches splitting after being thrown by his mount into a hedge. But she simply could not help herself.
Later in the afternoon, Colin had begun to tell a peculiar story about a missing necklace belonging to his mother, but they were interrupted by Genie, who, upon viewing the Greek statuary, declared that Athenians could not have been terribly civilized, as they had little to offer in the way of hats. With that, Jane had decided to take her leave, and Colin had bowed, looking rather pinched around the forehead.
The last time she had seen him, standing motionless just outside the British Museum, he had been staring after her and Genie and Estelle as they climbed into their carriage. She did not know what to make of his silence. Or of him, for that matter.
“Do you suppose I shall meet him this evening, Jane?”
Blinking, Jane turned from the window of the Berne carriage to her sister, Maureen, seated beside her. With soft brown eyes, rounded-yet-symmetrical features, and light-brown hair that always appeared lit by the sun, Maureen was indisputably the prettiest of the five Huxley daughters, so Jane answered easily, “If not this evening, dearest, it shall be another. Do not fret.”
Maureen nodded and gave her a wistful smile. Jane patted her arm. Since the previous summer, when their oldest sister, Annabelle, had married Lord Robert Conrad, Maureen had taken to spinning fantasies around finding her own true love. At two years younger than Jane and in her first season, she sometimes needed reassurance.
From the opposite side of the carriage came a tart admonishment from their mother. “You did not bring a book along, did you, Jane?”
Jane felt her mouth tighten. “No, Mama.”
“How do you expect to acquire a proper suitor in the pages of a novel? I daresay it is impossible.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“I should not need to remind you this is your third season.”
“No, Mama.”
“You must seize upon every opportunity. Goodness knows how much longer these occasions shall present themselves.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Their father, kindly man that he was, took Mama’s hand in his own and squeezed. “Let her be, Meredith. She agreed to come along, did she not?” He gave Jane a wink.
In truth, Jane had not precisely agreed to attend Lady Gilforth’s ball. Instead, she had been informed it was occurring, that she was expected to accompany her parents and Maureen, and that she was forbidden to bring the novel she’d been reading when Mama had entered the library. Before a protest had reached her lips, her mother had held up a hand and said, “I trust you understand fully,” with brows arched expectantly over wide brown eyes.
What else could Jane say, other than, “Yes, Mama”? For the last two seasons, she had disappointed her sweet, good-humored mother to the brink of desperation. The specter of spinsterhood for her second-oldest daughter had added more than a few strands of white to Meredith Huxley’s brunette coiffure.
Briefly, Jane had contemplated telling Mama about Colin Lacey, if only to ease concerns that she was incapable of cordial interaction with a gentleman. She had rejected that catastrophically bad idea an instant after it had occurred. Lord Lacey’s behavior, while charming, was not that of a suitor. He was kind and amusing but often distracted, as if his mind was preoccupied with other matters.
Having witnessed a number of love matches play out before her eyes, including those of her best friend and her sister, she understood the difference. She refused to raise her mother’s hopes when he obviously intended friendship, rather than romantic attachment. Fortunately, Genie had proven a rather clever ally in disguising the purpose of their outings. It had cost Jane nearly her entire allowance, of course, but she was learning much about her sister’s hidden talent for subterfuge.
She sighed and resumed staring out the carriage window at the bustling lane. Lady Gilforth lived across Mayfair from their London residence on Grosvenor Street. It was a tolerably brief carriage ride, she supposed, providing one was not required to listen to one’s mother worry aloud about otherwise sensible girls who chose “storybooks and poetry over securing a sound match.”
Jane did not fault her for her consternation. In looks, she and Mama were much the same: more plump than was permissible; a short, round nose most would describe as a pug; and coloring that blended nicely into wood paneling. But in every other way, Jane and her mother were a study in contrasts: Lady Berne was effusive, gracious, warm. Since her youth, Mama’s humor and kindness had shone from her, attracting numerous friendships and the eye of Jane’s father, the future Earl of Berne, in her first season. Annabelle, the oldest of the five girls, shared this disposition, as did Maureen and Genie and even young Kate, albeit to lesser degrees.
Jane, to put it simply, did not.
Little wonder Mama was confounded by Jane’s inability to attract even one suitor. She had never been consigned to dwell on the fringes of ballrooms with the old flowers and the wallflowers—or, as Jane had privately dubbed them, the Oddflowers.
She sniffed and shifted subtly in her seat, feeling the carriage slow as they approached Lady Gilforth’s town house. How was she to endure an entire ball without a book to keep her company? Was she expected to gaze out at the crowd, marveling at Sir Barnabus Malby’s ability to recall the steps of a dance while mesmerized by a passing bodice? Or perhaps she should admire Penelope Darling’s braying chortle at every tedious quip from Lord Mochrie.
Truthfully, it was enough to make any “otherwise sensible” girl dash out to the nearest terrace. Of course, Victoria had tried that, and she had been quite thoroughly ruined. So, perhaps not the best idea.
“Jane, are you coming?”
Her head swiveled back toward the open door of the carriage, through which she could see her mother, father, and sister staring at her expectantly.
“Of course,” she murmured, scrambling down from the carriage. Adjusting her Kashmiri shawl across her shoulders, she could not suppress a shiver of dread.
Maureen looped an arm through hers. “Imagine. This may be a night we remember for the rest of our lives.”
Casting her sister a sideways glance, Jane lifted a skeptical brow.
“I saw that,” came Mama’s customary reprimand, followed by a hushed warning. “Kindly demonstrate you are capable of being pleasant and agreeable, Jane. I will not have it said my daughter is a churl. Lady Gilforth’s influence is swiftly growing, and Lord Gilforth is much admired within the House of Lords. All of the finest gentlemen shall be in attendance.” The martial gleam in her eye was alarming, for Mama was typically a jolly sort. Soon, however, the reason behind her fervor was revealed: “I have it on good authority his grace is expected.”
Maureen’s gasp was echoed in Jane’s heart, though likely for different reasons.
“Wellington? I thought he was still in Paris,” their father interjected.
Mama’s fan tapped Papa’s arm as she tsked. “Not Wellington. Blackmore.”
The dawning realization on Papa’s face was followed swiftly by an amused twinkle. “In that case, you girls should be on your best behavior.”
“Precisely.” Mama directed her emphatic affirmation at Jane, who clutched her shawl a bit tighter as they waited for the other guests crowding Lady Gilforth’s door to move forward. This was shaping up to be a crush.
Sighing prettily, Maureen remarked, “He is very handsome. And distinguished.”
And insufferable, Jane added silently. A judgmental, pompous ice king who needs nothing so much as a sharp blow across his … pride.
“The fortune and title add a certain appeal as well, I daresay.”
Jane frowned at Papa, who grinned at her as if they shared a private joke, then held his arm out for Mama so they could enter Lady Gilforth’s foyer. Sometimes, she did not understand her father’s jests. To her mind, the Duke of Blackmore was the least amusing topic imaginable, unless one pictured him receiving a well-deserved comeuppance.
Last season, Blackmore had even dared reprimand Jane directly—in her own home, no less. It was only the second time they’d had occasion to speak. Granted, she and Genie had been squabbling, as sisters tended to do, but how was she to know the blasted eighth Duke of Blackmore would be lurking in the shadows of her family’s drawing room, awaiting a visit with Lord and Lady Berne? Only after she’d threatened to throw Genie bodily into the fireplace had he revealed himself, hands clasped behind a rigid back, jaw locked tight against possible cracking—wouldn’t want a shred of emotion to escape, after all. Had he been anyone else, she would have described him as bristling with disapproval. But Blackmore did not bristle. He was like a blade—merciless and precise. It had taken mere seconds for him to reduce Jane to feeling all of ten years old, caught nipping Papa’s cognac or stashing a toad in Mama’s silver teapot.
Taking a deep breath, Jane reminded herself that, even if he deigned to attend Lady Gilforth’s ball, he would be too busy fending off marriage-minded young ladies and their voracious mothers to take any notice of her. Certainly, for politeness’ sake, he would greet Mama and Papa, probably even bow to her and Maureen, but that was likely to be the extent of their interaction.
She sniffed and adjusted her spectacles, then lightly smoothed the yellow primrose silk of her gown along one hip. You need only curtsy, Jane. Give him a “your grace,” and nothing more. Feeling the tightness in her belly ease, she waited for Lady Gilforth’s butler to announce them, her eyes quickly examining the edges of the long, spacious drawing room. Along one pale-blue wall sat a row of cream-colored settees and dark-blue velvet chairs, already half-populated by familiar figures: Sallow, thin Miss Sutherland, now in her fifth (and probably last) season. The aged Lady Darnham, whose face appeared to be formed entirely of smile-shaped creases. The alarmingly tall, redheaded Miss Lancaster, with her unfortunate tendency to crush gentlemen’s feet while dancing … and walking … and, oddly enough, while dining.
Ah, yes. A wry grin tugged. The Oddflowers are well represented this evening. Her eyes drifted to a pair of open doors on the far wall, through which lay the dining room where Lady Gilforth had set up the refreshments. Hmm. If she were to sit at the near end of the Oddflower wall, she could occupy herself with an occasional trip to the refreshment tables. Hardly a thrilling journey, but an acceptable way to distract oneself and help time pass more quickly. Yes, indeed. A sound plan.
A sharp nudge in her ribs brought Jane’s eyes around to Maureen.
“Mama was right,” her sister whispered theatrically behind her fan. “He is here. Do you suppose he is seeking a wife?”
Jane followed Maureen’s gaze. He was not difficult to spot—taller than John, their brother, who was an even six feet, Blackmore stood half a head above most other gentlemen. She also had to admit—grudgingly—that Maureen had not exaggerated when she’d called him handsome.
He was. Quite so.
The jaw that favored a locked position was strong and square and lean. A straight, refined nose acted as a symmetrical anchor between lofty cheekbones, which sat beneath a piercing pair of blue-gray eyes. On the whole, if she was bound by honesty, his blond male beauty was undeniable, in much the same way as the Elgin marbles were objectively masterful. Jane imagined if the English nobility possessed a pantheon of gods like that of the ancient Greeks, he might be considered their Apollo, except Apollo had never been as powerful as the Duke of Blackmore, nor as intimidating.
“Well, whether he is here to find a duchess or not,” Jane finally answered, “I recommend keeping your distance. I understand frostbite is rather painful.”
An hour later, Jane was thankful for her strategy of making occasional trips to the refreshment tables. Lady Gilforth had outdone herself. To quench revelers’ appetites until supper, two long sideboards were strewn with a wide variety of tidbits, from tiny cheesecakes to flaky biscuits. Anyone who had attended a ton ball knew how it felt to be famished by the time supper was announced. Such interim offerings were most welcome. Additionally, at the center of each sideboard sat a silver bowl of delicious punch—sweet, tangy, and a bit spicy.
Jane poured her fourth cup, wondering if this time, she might place that elusive spice. Cinnamon? She shook her head. No. Not cinnamon. But perhaps it was a blend of orange and mulled wine. That made more sense. Clove, cinnamon, and nutmeg might together produce the heady flavor. Perhaps even with a dash of peppercorn.
Peering through the doors into the drawing room, she watched dancers swirl around the center of the floor in a quadrille. How many quadrilles had she witnessed over the past three seasons? Too many. Waltzes? Too many. The motions of every season were the same, and Jane had grown deeply weary of each and every one.
Sighing, she took another sip and longed for a nice, distracting novel.
Being an Oddflower gave one a unique perspective on the spectacle of the standard ton event, as she was able to observe the motions and repetitions without direct participation. Her brother, who was on his grand tour of the continent, had recently sent a crate full of treasures to Berne House, including a fascinating clock that, when striking the hour, extended a tiny bird on a branch from a crevice above the clock face. The bird, having no will of its own, was controlled solely by the regular movement of the clockwork mechanism.
That was how she regarded the motions of the London season: rote gestures orchestrated by an apparatus immune to its objects. Curtsy, whirl, bow, titter, fan, smile, tilt, and again. And again. The same motions. The same routine. She supposed there was a point to it all. Ladies must find husbands and gentlemen must find wives. But, being all but locked outside the process, she could not help noting its monotony.
Inside her mind, she began a letter to Annabelle, who was now blessedly free of such obligations, having married last August. Of course, Annabelle had adored the season with all its trappings, insisting on enjoying two of her own before marrying Lord Conrad, whom she had loved devotedly since childhood.
Dearest Annabelle, Jane would write. Lady Gilforth’s refreshments are magnificent. For nearly two minutes in every twenty, I cease pining for a novel that will allow me to forget my misery, and simply relish her ingeniously spiced punch. I suspect it contains more than a minor quantity of wine.
She glanced down, seeing the remnants of her fourth cup. Feeling pleasantly warm, she placed it on a tray and braced herself for the long journey back to her seat along the Oddflower wall. As she entered the drawing room, a masculine shout of pain arose from the center of the quadrille dancers, drawing her attention.
“Oh, dear, Sir Barnabus, was that your nose?” Charlotte Lancaster’s flame-red hair was visible above most of the other ladies’ heads, and even those of many gentlemen. “I do beg your forgiveness. I fear my elbow has a mind of its own. Are you quite all right?” Jane had heard her apologize for habitual clumsiness before, but Miss Lancaster ordinarily sounded more sincere. Sir Barnabus Malby’s misplaced nose was probably less to blame than his wandering eyes. Miss Lancaster had rather modern notions about such things. Come to that, so did Jane. But even the portly, malodorous Sir Barnabus did not ask Plain Jane Huxley to dance. Well, she decided, there are benefits to being ignored, after all.
Tucking her lip between her teeth, she rose up on her toes to see if she could get a glimpse of the man’s face. Perhaps Miss Lancaster had bloodied his nose. Now, that would be interesting. A black lapel appeared in front of her. She moved to her left, but so did the masculine wall wearing the black coat and white cravat. And now it was closer, so it obscured even more of her line of sight. She scooted to her right. Again, the gentleman glided in the same direction. Huffing in exasperation, she looked up to see who was so blasted determined to place himself between her and the commotion.
“One might have hoped for improved comportment in a lady entering her third season,” the precise, clipped, unmistakable voice of her nemesis intoned from his lofty height. “Perhaps I expect too much.”
Eyes widening, heart thudding hard against bone, Jane felt the hated heat of embarrassment burn through her in a wave. Blackmore. The great, golden god of ton propriety was reprimanding her for having simple, natural curiosity. The last time he had done something similar, they had been standing in her family’s drawing room. She and Genie had been arguing over a book Genie had stolen. Jane had made an empty threat about throwing her sister into the fireplace.
“What book is so precious, I wonder, that it draws threats of burning one’s sibling?” She remembered his voice, slicing flinty and cold across the room. “Nothing to say for yourself, then?” And she had been struck dumb, frozen by the shame of the accusation, never mind how unfair it might be.
It was the same now, as if an entire year had not passed, as if, instead, her only task had been to continuously stand before him, awaiting his harsh assessment. How dared he? Not even her father or brother, either of whom would be within his rights, would castigate her so. Who was the bloody Duke of Blackmore to her? No one. He was Victoria’s brother, not hers. Therefore, he is Victoria’s problem. Not mine.
Backing away one step, she cleared her throat, gathering herself to deliver an equally icy greeting before escaping back to her Oddflower seat. But the “your grace” that she intended refused to emerge. Her mouth worked, but her voice did not. She swallowed, feeling the crimson fire beneath her skin intrude like another presence.
She felt his blue-gray eyes travel over her gown, then back up, pausing at the modest neckline and returning to her face. Cool and remote, they seemed to be cataloging her features as a stable master might note the condition of a mare. “Have you danced yet this evening?”
Blinking slowly, she wondered at the question, which had sounded grudging, like he did not wish to be there at all. What in heaven’s name was he doing? Why was he continuing to speak with her? This was the sort of thing a gentleman might say if he was trying to persuade a lady to … no. It was impossible. She needed to provide him an acceptable opportunity to withdraw. That was all.
She shook her head and swallowed, eyes darting between him and the doorway to the dining room. “I—I’m afraid the heat has caused a frightful thirst. I was just going to retrieve another cup of punch when you arrived.”
A single aristocratic brow elevated. “Again? Is this not the fifth such venture?”
For the second time that evening, Jane was struck straight down to her slippers by a statement from the Duke of Blackmore. Had he been watching her? A strange shiver burned over her skin, different than the flush that had engulfed her earlier, but just as heated.
“No one should require so much refreshing,” he stated assuredly. “Perhaps if you were to dance, you would not be inclined to consume in such quantity.”
And the Ice King returns, she thought. Well, at least he is predictable.
Blackmore’s shoulders straightened further, his jaw tilting to an arrogant angle. “A waltz shall begin soon. Will you consent to dance it with me?”
Upon further consideration, perhaps not so predictable.
She would have gasped, but she couldn’t seem to find her breath. Or the ability to move. He had just asked her to dance. He, the unanimously agreed-upon Catch of the Season—every season—had asked her, the quintessential Oddflower, to dance a waltz.
Growing visibly disgruntled by her silence, the tall, blond Apollo of the aristocracy, bit out, “When a lady is asked to dance, it is customary to answer.”
He was right. She must answer him. And she would. Clenching her teeth, Jane marshaled every scintilla of courage to be found inside her plain, round, Oddflower body, and gave him the answer he richly deserved.
“No.” It emerged as a whisper. Swallowing past all trepidation, she repeated the word in her normal voice, pinched though it might be. “No. I don’t believe I shall dance with you, your grace.”
*~*~*