Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

Jenny averted her gaze. Miles had noticed her eyes. He’d said they were lovely.

She couldn’t have said why, but she didn’t tell Amy this either.

“Why do you look so funny?” Amy asked.

Jenny made an excuse and changed the subject, determined to enjoy her afternoon with her friend. But she was aware every moment of Hatherleigh’s presence behind her. She even fancied she felt his gaze, as if it were a physical touch tripping lightly along her spine. She scoffed off the notion, quite put out with herself for such flight of fancy. Really, she could usually be depended upon to be sensible and solid at all times.

But she wasn’t feeling herself at all of late.

Chapter Five

Miles tried for the fifth time to tie his cravat, still doing a bad job of it. He looked at his fob watch, checking his growing irritation.

He was to fetch the women in three-quarters of an hour to escort them to a ball. He had been pleased Iris had wan gled an invitation so quickly to a major event of the ton. It was an excellent opportunity to look over the young girls of marriageable age.

Rather like the horse auction at Tattersall’s, Jenny had said. An image of Jenny, her cheeks flushed, her eyes snapping, made him smile. The impertinent chit!

The exasperating woman deserved to be throttled. He might

have indulged the impulse, except he had an irritating suspicion that if he got her in his arms, it would be quite a different thing that would end up happening.

He wanted to kiss her. He almost had, and his imagination played the scene out in his mind, taunting him with irascible curiosity of what her mouth would feel like, how she would react.

It was a rather remarkable reaction to an insignificant ingenue without a ha’penny to her name. And a tart tongue to boot. He’d never been partial to snappish women, preferring the tractable, worldly types who knew just what he was about and accepted his terms. After his lustful folly with Marianne had brought about such dire consequences, he’d kept his liaisons simple and direct.

Miss Alt might amuse, but he would do best to keep far away from her tonight. He didn’t really trust himself, although he wasn’t sure why. The idea of a dalliance had, of course, occurred to him, but it was entirely out of the question. One simply couldn’t go about despoiling innocent creatures like Miss Alt and still be welcomed in the homes of decent folk.

An affair with a young lady of the ton would brand him a rogue and dash all hopes of fulfilling his destiny as Earl of Hatherleigh. That was that.

But, yes, he was tempted, never so much than when he saw her that evening, dressed in pale silk, her color high with excitement. She seemed to infuse the room, the carriage, with her presence, setting his teeth on edge. He didn’t know what it was about her that made his skin feel too tight for his body.

He focused his attentions on Cassandra. “You are breathtaking,” he said to her, taking her hand. “That shade of your gown is the perfect complement to your eyes.”

She beamed, exalted at the compliment. He liked that she was so responsive to his attention. What man would not be flattered? She was a beauty. He was toying with the idea of offering for her. He knew she wanted him to, and Cassandra was lively, very attractive, and brought up in a respectable home. But something kept him from returning her interest.

“Miles, aren’t you the cut,” Iris said. She was resplendent in purple, glittering jets dangling from her large bosom and sprayed across her skirts. Her hair sported a large peacock feather.

“How privileged I am to be escorting such attractive women,” he said. He turned to Jenny, standing with her hands folded. He did not take particular note of women’s fashions, but this dress was the epitome of Jenny. The color was soft, and the feminine touches were just right.

She still wore her spectacles, he saw. Like a barrier between her and the world. Until she took them off, he would know she wished to remain hiding.

So be it, he thought with irritation. “If you ladies are ready, we should be under way.”

It suited him to give Miss Alt little of his attention. He left her to the coachman and spoke only in the general conversation, never to her directly. It was better this way, he told himself.

He had business to attend to, so he could return home, wife in tow, and escape this brewing discontentment that plagued him since he had set foot in this damnable city.

When they arrived at the posh residence in Belgrave Square, they had to wait in the receiving line. Cassandra demanded all of his attention, pulling him along so as to introduce him to her friends, a tight knot of smug-looking youngsters who clamored together in an exclusionary circle and immediately fell to whispering among themselves.

He glanced back at Jenny and saw her stroll through the room, pausing to exchange pleasantries with those she knew. A few moments later, she left the ballroom.

Cassandra was giggling with her friends. Gentlemen approached, scribbled on her card and bowed, going away to await their turn.

“I best take my dance before you have none left,” he said, and he wrote his name on one of the few remaining spots. Handing it back to her, he said, “It seems you will have a busy evening.”

Her friends giggled and nudged her with their elbows. One of them said, “She always has a full dance card.”

“I am not surprised,” he replied.