Jemima exhaled in relief. Keeping Miss Galloway away from the liberally flowing champagne was her main objective, though she’d be disappointed at losing Lord Ruthcot’s company.
Still, that might be for the better.
“Isn’t this rather pleasant?” Lord Ruthcot asked with obvious understatement when he had his arm about Jemima’s waist, sweeping her about the room in a gentle waltz after Miss Galloway had been deposited on a chair and exhorted to drink nothing more so she’d be steady on her feet when she left the ball.
He squeezed Jemima’s hand. “Surely you are far more comfortable in my arms than you are in Lord Deveril’s? What must I do to persuade you to leave him to his lovely new wife and venture out on uncharted waters with me?”
“As your mistress?” she clarified softly.
For a long time he just looked at her. His hesitation and the obvious difficulty he had in giving her a direct answer was enough to make her heart give a surprising lurch. Strange, but she liked the idea of being legally bound to Lord Ruthcot more than she’d believed.
She’d dismissed his desire for her as nothing more than the need to acquire an object he wanted. As nothing more than Deveril’s feelings for her.
Initially, she’d written him off as a callow young man with little substance. Certainly, she’d warmed to him over time. She’d become intrigued. The more she came to know him, the more she felt he had hidden potential.
Everything had come so easily to him. It would be interesting to see how he dealt with a truly great challenge.
But of course he could not offer her what she wanted above all else: respectability.
Jemima shook her head, a plethora of feelings welling up in her chest. Sadness mingled with less outrage than resignation. And overlaying all were those confounded physical feelings she tried so hard to hold at bay in his company.
Lord Ruthcot’s touch evoked unsettling sensations. Not even kind Sir Richard had sent spears of heat and need through her womb. When Sir Richard had aided her, she’d experienced a similar reciprocity of spirit she’d felt when her father’s friends praised her helped her. It had been familiar and comforting.
By contrast, Lord Ruthcot’s touch made her want to press her body against his while she longed to feel his arms roaming over her body. Increasingly, these days, when Deveril made love to Jemima, she’d imagine it was Lord Ruthcot. Even thinking such a thought made her ears burn.
“Dear sweet Jemima, I would marry you if I could but…” He seemed more troubled than he usually was. Dropping his voice, he added, “I know how highly you consider respectability and I am deeply sorry that you’ve fallen so low when you were tricked—”
She gasped with outrage and jerked her chin up. “Yes, I was tricked and you’re like every other man who thinks that a fallen woman who’s been tricked is irredeemable.”
“I have never thought you irredeemable!”
“You just want to make me you
r mistress which is the same thing.”
“Really, Jemima, it is not, I assure you. I prize goodness and virtue.”
“Virtue?” She huffed out an ironic laugh. “I would trade all the gold in the world to have my virtue back. And I would have it had I not been betrayed by one man after being failed by another.”
“Who failed you, Jemima? This lover you speak of? Do you dream of his return? Do you wish it was his arms around you right now?”
Jemima sighed as the outrage seeped out of her. Lord Ruthcot was visibly upset and, besides, the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.
“Sir Richard is dead,” she muttered. “And he was never my lover. And, no, I don’t wish I was dancing in his arms for all that he promised to protect me and…well, I think had grown more than fond of me.”
She knew she would leave soon; that it was likely she’d never see Lord Ruthcot again, and the thought pained her. Knowing how distraught he would be, she added, “I like you very well, Lord Ruthcot. More, even, than I liked Sir Richard. But please understand that as Sir Richard’s wife I’d have had the respectability I assumed, until a year ago, was my lot in life. I could have been with my family.”
A deep furrow between his brow made it clear how much his words affected her. “Sir Richard was this man’s name?” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jemima. I spoke thoughtlessly. Your father is dead but of course you have family whom I gather have disowned you.”
“They haven’t disowned me. I simply couldn’t return to them. My cousin is being presented this year. Every time I go out in public I’m afraid I’ll come face to face with her. And that I might destroy her opportunities to make a good marriage.” It was the most revealing she’d ever been.
His grip on her shoulders tightened. Silence stretched between them before he whispered, “Who are you, Jemima?”
The music stopped suddenly. She was too frightened to answer in the relative quiet, and Lord Ruthcot dropped his hands.
He looked disturbed. And torn as he flicked a glance to his right, lowering his head slightly so that his mouth was close to her ear and Jemima felt a tug of longing that he lower it still further. To her lips. “Who is Sir Richard, Jemima?” Then, as he glanced towards Deveril, he went on, hurriedly, “Promise you will contrive to see me this evening.” His voice was soft and urgent. “Deveril is sending me very dark looks, but prepare yourself; his wife is pulling him in this direction. Oh my, but he looks reluctant.”
Before Jemima could slip away, the eager young Lady Deveril was in their midst exclaiming, “Why, I saw you at the theater, though it wasn’t due to the diamond comb and feathers you’re wearing that I recognized you. I think you must be the most beautiful woman here. And you’re Lord Daniel’s cousin who coincidentally lives in the neighborhood! I cannot believe it! I do hope you’ll return for we are here quite some days, are we not, Deveril?”