He arrived at Jenny’s home precisely at two the following day, book tucked under his arm. His navy coat and trousers were as immaculate as ever, and none of the three ladies and two gentlemen to whom she introduced him appeared to notice the dark circles under his eyes from staying up all night reading. They also failed to notice that he was sweating.

“So good of you to join us, Mr. Whattling,” a white-haired woman with double chins said as Jenny introduced her as Mrs. Bryce-Turner. “We so seldom get new blood these days.”

“And what exactly is wrong with old blood, I’d like to know?” Lord Davies, an equally elderly gentleman demanded. He thumped his attendant cane on the floor so hard that the vase rattled on the nearby credenza.

“I don’t think Mrs. Bryce-Turner was maligning us, Lord Davies,” the other gentleman, a younger man with sandy blond hair and a weak chin murmured. “I believe she was referring to the pleasant edition of another point of view, by your leave, of course, Mrs. B.”

She nodded graciously at him.

“An excellent encapsulation, Mr. Witherspoon,” agreed the dark-haired young lady who alone besides Jenny could make any claim to beauty. She turned expressive eyes an exotic shade of jade on him, and he tried not to flinch from the direct gaze as Jenny introduced her as Susan St. John. “Let us hope Mr. Whattling has come prepared to discuss the book in question.”

“Whyever would he not, Miss St. John?” Miss Tindale put in, offering Kevin an innocent smile that he could not return.

Jenny had directed him to the sofa, and he drew in his first true breath when she sat beside him. “I have come to appreciate the fact that Mr. Whattling is quite talented in many areas. I’m sure he will acquit himself well.”

The look from those hazel eyes did something to the center of his being, and he suddenly found he was capable of climbing mountains. “I can only say, Miss Welch,” he murmured, “that I perform in accordance with my inspiration.”

She blushed prettily.

Susan St. John snapped open the book. “Well said. And did you find the hero of this piece as well spoken, Mr. Whattling?”

“If by the hero, you mean the character of Edward, Miss St. John,” Kevin replied, leaning back against the sofa. “No, I did not.”

“I take it you didn’t like him,” Miss Bryce-Turner put in.

“It wasn’t so much that I didn’t like him, madam. He was a well-developed character, I thought. I simply would not approach life as he chose to do. In fact, I would not approach life like any of the gentlemen in this book.”

“Really, sir,” Lord Davies protested. “Did you not find Colonel Brandon the least heroic? Now, there was a gentleman.”

“A gentleman who allowed his sister to be led astray and then refused to acknowledge his love for Miss Marianne until she was at death’s door.” Kevin shook his head. “I hope I am never so foolish. Life is entirely too short.”

“I suppose you agree with the character of Willoughby, then,” Susan St. John put in, narrowing her exquisite eyes. “Live life and never mind the consequences.”

He looked down at his hands as they gripped the closed book. Could Jenny see the dents in the fine-tooled leather cover where his fingers had rested?

“I once thought that way,” he murmured. “It is a dangerous sport, more suited to the very young, I believe. A true man grows quickly beyond that. Live life, yes, but do not do so in a way that inhibits another’s ability to live.”

“Well said, sir, well said,” Lord Davies exclaimed, thumping his cane again. Mr. Witherspoon regarded him with worshipful eyes. Mrs. Bryce-Turner beamed. Even Miss Tindale grimaced in approval. Miss St. John nodded, leaning back against her chair as if satisfied.

But it was the look on Jenny’s face, all pride and delight, that made all his effort worthwhile.

 

–

 

It was all Jenny could do not to crow her delight. Why had she doubted that a Corinthian, her Corinthian, could rise to the task? It was a wonderful discussion, and all the members of her circle insisted that Kevin be included in the next reading. As she saw them out one by one, they let her know their personal approval as well.

“Quite kind on the eyes, that one,” Mrs. Bryce-Turner whispered behind her glove as Stevens helped her into her fur-trimmed pelisse. “If he offers, accept. If he doesn’t, would you mind if I introduced him to my niece?”

“Capital fellow,” Lord Davies proclaimed, after bowing over Jenny’s hand. “Welcome addition to the group, and to the family, eh, my dear?”

“A regular top-o-the-trees Corinthian,” Mr. Witherspoon confided, adjusting his top hat in the entry way mirror. “And bookish too. Such a find!”

“He’s too perfect,” Susan St. John told her, hugging her good-day. “I don’t know whether to envy you or worry for you. Be careful, dearest. This one could steal your heart.”

Jenny could only smile politely as Susan left. She turned to find Kevin eyeing her from the doorway to the sitting room.

“Am I to take it that my performance lived up to your expectations, Miss Welch?” he asked.

She frowned. “Twice now you have called it a performance, sir. I wonder, are you performing?”

“I am wounded,” he said, pressing his hand to the chest of his satin-striped waistcoat, but the twinkle in his indigo eyes belied his serious tone. “I’ll have you know I read every word on every page of this book, Miss Welch, no mean feat, let me assure you.”

“Yes,” she nodded, “but did you enjoy it?”

He looked thoughtful. “Yes, but not in the way I would have suspected. It was an interesting look at our society. It certainly made me think.”

She beamed at him. “That is precisely what good literature is supposed to do, Mr. Whattling. I’m very glad you enjoyed Miss Austen’s book. Dare I hope you will take us up on our offer to join the next discussion?”

He cocked his head. “What are we reading?”

“Nothing vile,” she promised with a laugh. “Susan would like to continue reading Miss Austen’s books. The next is Pride and Prejudice.”

“That could be interesting,” he replied. “Very well. When will this discussion take place?”

“Two weeks from today,” she told him.

“Ah, that is a shame. I hope to be otherwise engaged at that time.”

She fought not to look disappointed. “Oh? You have something scheduled so far in advance?”

He smiled at her. “I understand it is necessary to plan at least a little ahead for one’s wedding, Miss Welch.”

She could feel her face burning in a blush and had to look away. “I do not believe we have decided we have anything to plan, sir.”

“Miss Welch,” he murmured, taking her hand. “You cannot keep me dangling forever, you know. While I would gladly wait an eternity for your answer, my creditors, alas, are not so smitten. I have been courting you rather assiduously for nearly a fortnight now. Can you say you feel nothing for me?”

She knew she could say nothing of the kind. His solicitous attention, his flirtatious conversation, his brilliant literary insights, and his amazing kiss stirred her heart as nothing ever had. She would have loved to accept his offer, but she still could not credit that it was not her fortune that motivated him. Would he still be the wonderful man he seemed once he knew he had the money? Or was he simply more adept at play-acting than George Safton? Would she find herself married to some horrible creature? If only there were some way to be sure. She raised her head to tell him her fears, but one look in those deep blue eyes sealed her lips. She simply wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

His smile said her thoughts were all too transparent. Surely he knew he had all but won. “You do not have to answer that,” he told her.

She started to relax.

“At least, not now,” he finished with a grin. “Until tomorrow, Miss Welch.” He bowed over her hand and pressed a kiss on her wrist. Jenny shivered despite herself.

Fiching recovered himself sufficiently to whisk open the door for him. Kevin nearly collided with a liveried footman. Fiching took the proffered cards and waved the man off. Kevin turned to Jenny.

“I recognize that handwriting,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, those are your promised vouchers for Almack’s and an invitation to the upcoming ball.”

Jenny refused to so much as touch them as Fiching held them out to her hopefully. “Yes, they look very like the last one that came. I’ll have Miss Tindale express my gratitude again, but I still cannot accept.”

Kevin stepped back into the entry hall, frowning. “You turned Countess Lieven down? Are you bent on suicide?”

Jenny tossed her head with far more bravery than she felt. “I told you, I have no interest in going to anything associated with Almack’s.”

“Whyever not?” his frown deepened. “Isn’t that the pinnacle to which all London ladies aspire?”

“Perhaps some London ladies with nothing more interesting to do than primp before their looking glasses,” Jenny replied scornfully. “They only want me there because I’m an oddity. I have no interest in being the evening’s entertainment, I assure you.”

He took her hand again and looked down at her. “I would never let them use you so.”

Could he see the fear behind her scorn? “You have a high regard for your own abilities, Mr. Whattling.”

He grinned. “Yes, Miss Welch, I do.”

She fought to answer the grin. “I thank you for your concern. But I’m not going to Almack’s, even for the countess’ special ball, so you may save your breath.”

“I cannot believe you are truly afraid of them,” he persisted. “And I know you are perfectly able to carry a conversation. Your natural curiosity must have been piqued. What exactly is it about Almack’s that you think will be so horrid that you refuse to go?”

She scowled at him for several seconds, then threw up her hands. “Oh, very well, if you must know. I can’t dance.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t dance. And they will all expect it of me, especially if I show up on your arm. Oh, I can manage a country dance or two, but nothing beyond it. I will stand there, the epitome of the spinster, exactly the prudish bluestocking they expect me to be, and I cannot bear it!” She could feel the tears welling and turned away from him to hide it.

“Miss Welch,” he murmured, stepping closer. He bent his head to her ear. “Jenny, please don’t distress yourself. If that is all that is stopping you, let me help. I would be delighted to teach you to dance.”

She sniffed, brushing him away from her hair with a movement of her hand. “Why would I want you to do that?”

“Because it would be educational, my dear,” he replied, and she could tell he was trying to lighten her mood. “And I do believe that is one area in which you excel, is it not?”

That won a reluctant smile. “You know very well it is.”

“Excellent. Then I suggest we start tomorrow and continue until next Wednesday, when it will be my pleasure to escort you to Almack’s.”

 

–

     

George Safton traced figures on the mahogany table with the base of the crystal wine goblet. Anyone watching him would have thought him an idiot or drunk to be so easily amused. He was neither. He was highly frustrated, and the simple act was all he could manage without betraying himself.

Wagers were being placed. Several had already been recorded in the famed betting book at White’s. Kevin Whattling was moments away from becoming engaged to Eugennia Welch. There didn’t seem to be a thing Safton could do to stop it.

The matter was becoming urgent. Twice in the last week he had attempted to arrange fights, but no one was willing to put up the purse. In fact, he hadn’t found many willing to play cards or interest themselves in his newest thoroughbred either. If he didn’t find a willing body soon, his pockets would be as empty as Kevin Whattling’s.

He was still sure that discrediting Whattling was the best approach, but each attempt to involve himself in Whattling’s or Miss Welch’s affairs had been thwarted. Whattling hadn’t taken her out in public for days (not that he blamed Whattling in that regard), he hadn’t been able to catch them in the park even though it seemed he haunted its lanes, and she was avoiding Curzon Street altogether. Cloistered as they were, he had no opportunity to observe them and hence none to make his mark.

The one small bit of information he had heard was the Miss Welch had evinced a sudden interest in boxers. He would have loved to have taken her money for one of his pugilists, but he didn’t think even going through her solicitor would hide his involvement, and she was hardly likely to put money into anything connected with him. So far, he had not been able to think of a way around the difficulties. He just needed to give it more thought.

It was ironic, but perhaps the very sport that had made him suspect would serve to clear his name. He would simply have to wait and see.