The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

Now, as she stared through the window and into the sunny piece of garden she could see beneath the plane tree, whose boughs seemed to reach out to her, she spoke honestly. “Your wife will have the security a mistress could only dream of. I wonder if you’d have married me had I been Mr. Graves’s legal wife. Or perhaps a respectable widow? Of would my lack of money or lineage have stood in the way?” The tree branch brushed against the window, and she fancied that if she were a wood sprite she could nimbly hop from the sill, scamper down the branches, and disappear into the undergrowth below. She fingered the small gold cross at her throat. In its place tonight would be a diamond choker. Deveril would want everyone to marvel at his wealth and generosity when she took her seat beside him in his box at the theater.

“My love, you mustn’t torment yourself with pointless speculation. You are what you are.” Deveril, looking every inch the sartorially elegant creature he was at such pains to present to the world, rose from his chair and came around to stand behind her. He turned her in his embrace, tilting her head with a finger beneath her chin as he affected a fond, chiding tone. “Now you are sulking, Jemima.” His warm brown eyes seemed to drink her in. She knew the power she had over him. As long as he remained in love with her. “It’s not like you, and nor do you have reason to doubt your security. Am I not generous enough with your wardrobe and your jewels? Why, the necklace you’ll wear tonight is worth a king’s ransom. I’ll give my wife paste, but you will wear the real thing. Are you not happy?”

As Jemima was in no position to leave him, she nodded. He was good to her as Roderick hadn’t been. Generous, affectionate, and attentive. In her way, she was as fond of him as she would have been had she been bound to him by way of the arranged marriages that were so common a generation before. “I am happy, but I would be more so with respectability.”

“Highly overrated!” He kissed the tip of her nose and tried to make a joke of it before becoming serious. “You pretend you’d only be satisfied if I made you my wife…” He raised one ironic eyebrow. “Yet you surely must know that you and I have a great deal more fun than we would if we were married. There, let that be your consolation together with the knowledge that you have bewitched me.”

It was no consolation to feel that her soul was blackened by sin. She fully expected she would go to Hell and spend eternity writhing in the fiery furnace. Sometimes she cried herself to sleep thinking of her loving father, her dear aunt and cousin; how it would destroy them if they could see her now.

Deveril kissed the top of her head, and said in brisk tones, “Come, my love; it’s time for you to dress for the theater.”

In a gown of gold tissue, Jemima drew admiring whispers from the other demimondaines, and covetous glances from their escorts as Deveril drew aside the

red velvet curtain of his box and settled her upon a seat. Even after so many months of feeling like a prize racehorse on show, she felt nervous. It was rare she was seen in the public arena, for she was naturally not invited into the homes of the respectable, and to the entertainments where she might rub shoulders with real ladies. Any possibility of being recognized was always traumatic. She feared seeing a member of her family. What if her niece should recognize her? On these evenings, she applied paint more liberally than she might otherwise have done, and was assiduous in covering half her face with her fan as she retired as far behind the curtains as she could.

Hamlet was the serious component of the evening, followed by a more frivolous pantomime which was light relief to Jemima, who’d been feeling anything but easy in her mind lately. The months had ticked by, and she was no closer to regaining what she’d lost. Not that it was within her power to regain her lost virtue; however, the lost tablet was another matter. If she could interpret the final letters of the script, she would have options. If wouldn’t matter if Deveril tired of her. She’d journey to find the treasure, and then she could retire into obscurity.

Occasionally, she’d contemplated telling Deveril of the clay tablet. The prospect of such a rare object and the rich rewards it pointed to might have persuaded him to marry her. Now, he was marrying the Honorable Miss Elizabeth Davenport. She came from a good family, her blood was blue, and her virtue intact.

She was sweet, if unformed, and not a great beauty, though with one slightly crooked front tooth, a pert little nose and dimples, Jemima thought her pleasant looking and under different circumstances wondered if they might have become friends. Her thoughts were idling in this direction when her eyes alighted on a familiar face in the audience, and she gasped.

“My dear, are you all right?”

Jemima tried to water down her shock and pretend she’d seen a mouse, when, in fact, it was her lovely cousin’s daughter she spied among the audience.

How grown up young Lucy looked. And how beautiful. Jemima knew she was likely to be at a multitude of balls and assemblies that she herself couldn’t attend, but she hadn’t thought of the theater.

As she quickly looked away, her eye was caught by that of another interested admirer. One who clearly knew Deveril’s box, which was perhaps the reason he trained his gaze upon her now.

When would Lord Ruthcot give up hope there might be anything between them? It would never come to pass, but the irritation was that she found herself not entirely insensible to his presence. The mild surge of pleasure she had experienced when seeing him at the British Museum, had resulted in her rashly asking him to accompany her back to Lord Deveril’s home. Of course, he’d then insulted her; she mustn’t forget that. But only by revealing he thought just as Deveril did—she was good for dalliance. Beyond the realms of marriageability, as if that went without saying.

Well, arrogance and attraction aside, Jemima could and would give him no reason to hope. With a cool nod in Lord Ruthcot’s direction, she held up her fan and thereafter refused to look in his direction again. In fact, she made an even greater pretence of finding Deveril incredibly amusing company, so that when the actors came on stage for their bows, he put his hand on her thigh, gave it a squeeze, and told her she was utterly irresistible and that instead of the after-theater supper he’d promised her, he intended taking her directly to bed.

Hiding her resignation, Jemima smiled but said nothing. A body. A beautiful shell. That’s what she’d been reduced to.

She was shocked out of these reflections by a gathering of gentlemen who clustered at the curtained alcove, and loudly evinced their desire to pay their respects to Lord Deveril and their compliments to her. The greatest shock, however, came when Lord Ruthcot appeared among them, and taking advantage of the one moment Deveril didn’t have her in his sights, whispered that he had something for her.

She shook her head reprovingly and darted a warning look in Deveril’s direction. “I can’t accept tokens from other admirers, though I do thank you.” Foolish young man, she thought, growing fearful. It would not augur well if Deveril got wind of Lord Ruthcot’s especial interest. And Jemima must curb any tendencies toward romanticizing the situation when Lord Ruthcot’s interest in her was the same as Deveril’s—a pretty face and a body to lose himself in.

“I think it won’t displease his lordship, especially.” His breath was like a sweet caress upon her cheek as he lowered his head. “I’ve merely done a rubbing of the Rosetta Stone, rather than copy it and risk mistakes when I know nothing of hieroglyphics.”

Nothing on earth could have pleased her more, except for the return of her clay tablet.

Clapping her hand to her mouth to cover her excited squeal, she was relieved to see Deveril was still too occupied with the cluster of other gentlemen, before exhaling in gratitude, “Oh, what a wonderful surprise.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have it here with me.” Smiling, he shook his head when she held out her hand. “You see, I’m not so lacking in strategy, for how else will I get you to meet me, alone?”

Her pleasure turned to anger. Refusing to look at him, she instead gazed over the top of her fan at the multitude below. “Do not expect gratitude beyond my thanks. Verbal thanks,” she amended quickly. “How foolish of me to imagine anything comes without cost.”

“Please don’t take it amiss.” He looked crestfallen. “I only wanted to see you again.”

“You should have known that wouldn’t be possible,” she muttered, turning back with a smile for Deveril, who had addressed her in jovial tones but who now raised an eyebrow at Lord Ruthcot.

“You are very attentive these days, Miles. I believe you accompanied Miss Mordaunt home in my carriage. Still, I thank you for the service you rendered me. Now, Jemima…” He slid his hand from her knee to around her waist in a daring display of public affection. Or ownership. “Let’s return home.”

“You’re not staying for supper?” one of the gentlemen asked in surprise.

“Change of plans.” Deveril offered him a salacious smile. “I find I am far more desirous of my bed than your company, gentlemen.”