for she will find more in an hour
than we men could think of in a century.
— Pierre de Bourdeille, Abbe de Brantome, c.1530-1614
"Sarah." Only one person had ever had the temerity to call him Jays. He breathed her name as his heart began to beat in staccato rhythm. He hadn't seen her since Lady Harralson's ball last season. And he'd been trying to put her out of his mind ever since. Theirs had been a brief encounter — an exchange of conversation and one dance — yet Jarrod still vividly recalled each detail. Jarrod had accompanied Colin to Lady Harralson's. He had been standing near the refreshment table watching Gillian Davies — the same Gillian who was now Colin's bride — when someone spoke.
"Why didn't you ask her to dance?"
Jarrod had turned at the sound of the softly spoken question and discovered a pretty, brown-eyed redhead looking up at him. "Whom?"
"Gillian," she answered. "Gillian Davies, the woman
dancing with Lord Grantham. The woman at whom you've been staring for the better part of a quarter hour."
"Davies?" Jarrod had asked, frowning in concentration. "Any relation to — "
The young woman nodded. "Baron Carter Davies is her father. And despite the fact that her father is richer than Croesus, Gillian is quite nice. Unfortunately, she seems to be in disgrace."
Jarrod lifted his eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Yes," she answered, lowering her voice to make certain no one could overhear. "The story is that she's been visiting relatives in the country for the past month. But there's a nasty rumor circulating around town that she wasn't in the country at all, but that she eloped to Scotland with a bounder who left her there."
"Do you believe the story or the rumor?" he asked, staring at Gillian Davies once again.
She hesitated, chewing her bottom lip for a moment. "I find it difficult to believe that Gillian would ever do anything to disgrace her family. But then again, no one goes to visit relatives in the country at the beginning of the season." She looked up at him. "I'm sure it's just a rumor. I'm sure Gillian's reputation is beyond reproach." Her voice quavered. "She'll make you a wonderful marchioness."
Jarrod whipped around, focusing his full attention on the young woman standing at his side. "What makes you think I'm interested in making Miss Davies my marchioness?"
"Because you're the Marquess of Shepherdston and because you've been staring at her most of the evening."
"I only noticed her because she wasn't dancing," Jarrod answered honestly.
"And you were trying to summon the courage to ask her to dance with you…"
"Not at all," he argued.
She arched one pale reddish blonde brow in disbelief. "Then you're staring at Gillian because she's beautiful."
Jarrod frowned. He wasn't accustomed to being contradicted and his brown eyes flashed fire as he turned his gaze on her. "Not true."
"Gillian isn't beautiful?" she asked hopefully.
Jarrod shook his head. "She's quite beautiful, but so are a great many other ladies here tonight. I noticed Miss Davies because I found it strange that she wasn't dancing."
"Lucky Gillian," the young woman muttered. "Because I haven't been dancing, Jarrod, and you didn't pay me the slightest bit of attention until I spoke to you."
She'd broken the rules of etiquette by speaking to him and by daring to call him by his given name. But Sarah had always been good at breaking rules and that daring finally captured his full attention.
"Are we acquainted?" he remembered asking.
She presented him with a mysterious smile. "I'm well acquainted with you, my lord. But apparently, you are unable to say the same." She looked him up and down, and then gave him a dismissive glance. "I apologize for interrupting your search for a marchioness, Jays. And when you dance with her, please, give my best to Gillian."
Jarrod frowned as she turned to walk away. Only one person in the world had ever had the temerity to call him Jays. And she had been a scrawny, knock-kneed, flame-haired, precocious five-year-old girl named Sarah Eckersley. "Sarah? Is it you?"
She turned on her heels and beamed at him. "All grown up and in the flesh."
Jarrod had eyed the creamy expanse of flesh displayed above the fashionably squared neck of her evening gown and agreed. She had certainly grown up and, from the looks of it, quite beautifully. The shockingly bright orange-colored hair she'd despaired of as a child had darkened over the years, mellowing into the soft, rich color of burnished copper, and the freckles that dotted her pale skin had all but disappeared, leaving a scant few paler freckles to decorate the bridge of her nose. Only her eyes were the same. He should have recognized them if nothing else, for Sarah Eckersley's big, almond-shaped eyes had always been more gold than brown and had always seemed much too large for her face. Years ago, she had been a funny little kitten with full-grown cat eyes. But now, it seemed, the kitten had filled out and grown into a breathtakingly lovely queen. "How long has it been?"