A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (99 page)

Besides, Miss Matthews would make a
thoroughly unsuitable duchess. He couldn’t allow himself to think
of marriage with her, so he shouldn’t think of her in that way at
all. She deserved better than to become his mistress, and anything
less than was unthinkable.

Thankfully, the set had come to an
end. He escorted her back to his mother’s side where she could
await her next partner. “Miss Matthews, it was a pleasure.” Peter
bowed to her, and without waiting for her response, he fled to the
card room.

A drink. He needed a drink.

And maybe a dunk in a basin of cold
water.

Chapter Six

Lord Pottinger, an amiable and
rather-too-eligible-for-her-comfort baron with light brown hair,
escorted Jane back to Cousin Henrietta’s side. Sophie stood beside
her, flushed from dance and excitement.

“
Your Grace, I do thank you
for allowing me to dance with Miss Matthews this evening.” After
receiving a nod from the dowager, Pottinger gazed down into Jane’s
eyes. “I hope you might find it acceptable for me to call on you
tomorrow, Miss Matthews.”

Oh, blast. She didn’t want to
encourage the man, but how could she decline with Cousin Henrietta
looking on expectantly as she was? Perhaps the baron would have
more to discuss tomorrow than the soggy weather, though. She could
hope.

But then again, perhaps he would not.
Drat.

There was no graceful way she could
envision to refuse, however, and Jane had already displayed quite
enough social blunders and gaffes for her first evening in
society.

She did her best to school her
features into placidity. “Of course, Lord Pottinger. I’ll look
forward to your arrival.” Then she prayed God wouldn’t smote her
down for such a tiny little lie.

Sophie grabbed hold of Jane’s arm as
soon as Pottinger strode away from them. Somehow, he bore an even
wider smile than he had before leaving her. Jane wondered how such
a feat could be possible before she brushed the thought aside.
There would be ample time tomorrow while the baron was visiting to
debate the finer intricacies of the insufferably kind man’s
inordinately large mouth.

Sophie tugged impatiently on her arm,
commanding her attention. “Jane, do please pay attention. We only
have a moment!”

“
I’m sorry. What did you
say?” Double drat. Hopefully Sophie wouldn’t misinterpret her
inattention to having developed any sort of tendre for the
gratingly correct Lord Pottinger.

“
I
said
that the next dance is a
waltz.
And
it is
the dinner dance. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is the dance
you promised to Lord Utley. If you don’t find some way to back out
of this dance, you’ll be forced to eat your supper with him. You
need to pretend to turn your ankle or some other such infirmity.
Goodness, you simply
can’t
waltz with the man. And you absolutely can’t allow
him to escort you to supper. Your poor reputation will never
survive this—not on your come-out.”

“
Oh, fiddlesticks. Supper
and a dance with the man won’t hurt anyone, least of all me.” At
least, she hoped not. “And what do you mean by ‘my
poor
reputation,’
precisely?” Gracious, had word already spread about all of the
mistakes she was making? What a bind. But honestly, wouldn’t it be
worse to lie to the man?

“
Your reputation?
Er...well, since it
is
your debut, and you
are
virtually my age, there’s been a good deal of
gossip passing around about you from before the moment you stepped
foot inside Turnsley Hall.”

Drat, drat, drat.

“
The gossip has been
intensified by the rather large sum my imbecile of a brother has
supposedly promised as your dowry. I haven’t heard it from him for
myself, but Sybil Pullbrook and Oriana Mollineaux suggested he’s
offering forty thousand pounds!”

Jane’s jaw fell as low as the hem of
her gown. “He is not. That’s absurd.” Surely he couldn’t be so keen
to be rid of her that he would go to such lengths as that. She was
only a vicar’s daughter, for goodness’s sake.

A new thought struck Jane just
then.

“
Oh, dear.” The blood
rushed from her head and Jane reached out a hand for somewhere to
sit. “The gossips must be saying I’ve been ruined. Why else would
he settle such an amount upon me?”

Sophie pulled her onto a cushioned
bench and held tight to her hand, offering the small bit of
consolation she could give. She said nothing.

Perhaps Jane could work
such a rumor in her own favor though. Then maybe she could avoid
marriage altogether. Trying to keep the hope from sounding through
in her voice, she asked, “Do you think most eligible gentlemen
would turn away from rumors like those?” The corners of her mouth
were inching their way upward into a damning smile. Jane struggled
to contain it, but feared she was failing miserably. The absolute
last thing she needed was for Sophie, or anyone for that matter, to
discover she was trying
not
to end up married.

Sophie squeezed her hand and drew
Jane’s attention across the ballroom at where the duke was
surrounded, yet again, by a largish group of gentlemen—all of whom
were staring back across at them. A single auburn curl bounced
against Sophie’s shoulder as she turned her gaze to another corner
of the room, where Lord Utley could be found striding purposefully
toward them, his eyes locked on Jane.

“
I’m afraid, my dear, that
Peter’s offer is having quite the opposite effect. It seems you’re
one of the few ladies in the room that every gentleman here wishes
to meet.” Sophie locked her shrewd gaze on Jane, surely discovering
the dread in her eyes alongside a healthy dose of disappointment.
“But the question I have burning to be answered is why does that
scare you? Don’t you want to marry? I’d think that would ease your
worries, but it seems to be having the opposite effect.” Sophie’s
eyes narrowed. “Quite peculiar, indeed,” she murmured.

There was no time, however, for Jane
to respond, as Lord Utley was quickly approaching them. Thank God.
Blast it, couldn’t she conceal anything from Sophie? Apparently
not.

She pasted the brightest smile she
could manage upon her face and hoped she wouldn’t cause herself any
more blunders or set-backs. Utley bowed to her and took her hand in
his own, sending a course of shudders running across her
spine.

“
Miss Matthews, I believe
this is my dance. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for the
whole of the evening…” His fingers were cold, even through her
gloves, and the way he trailed off left her feeling something had
been left unsaid. The look in his eye was one she couldn’t quite
place, but it left her thoroughly unsettled.

Hopefully he wouldn’t discover how
uneasy she was at his proximity.

“
Thank you, my lord. Shall
we move to the dance floor then?” Looking over her shoulder, she
caught Sophie’s eye to signal she was fine and there was no reason
to worry. Since another gentleman had already arrived to fetch her
friend, they couldn’t speak.

As Lord Utley deftly moved Jane
through the throng of dancers, he placed a hand against her waist.
His fingers curled toward her in a manner that gave her pause.
Goodness, the man was indiscreet. She tried to maneuver herself
into a position that would give her some distance from him without
drawing his attention to her activity. She failed, however. Quite
miserably, actually. His grip tightened and her entire side drew up
against him. His heat radiated against her, and a sick roiling of
dread built in her stomach.

Just before they came to a stop on the
dance floor, Jane caught Somerton staring at her, his fury boring
through her skin. On a second, more cautious inspection, she tried
to decipher whether his rage was directed toward herself or toward
her choice of dance partner—or perhaps toward them both. She
couldn’t really make it out, though, other than the fact he was
furious enough to cause someone bodily harm, if the shade spreading
over his ears was any indication. Drat.

But he had sent Utley to
his mother to obtain an introduction, hadn’t he? Blast the man.
Sorting out
His Grace’s
expectations would be the death of her, so she
might as well just not bother trying.

She pushed all thoughts of the duke
from her mind, or at least made an attempt to do so, and flashed
Lord Utley a smile. She hoped it came across as rather sunny, but
she feared it might look more like she had swallowed spoiled
fish.

Utley drew her startlingly close to
his sharp, angular body—too close even for a waltz. Such audacity!
As he took her hand in his own and placed her other atop his
shoulder, he leered down into her eyes with what could be mistaken
for nothing other than lascivious intent. His other hand slid into
place against her waist and pulled her even closer than before. “So
lovely,” he whispered close to her ear. His breath itched against
her skin and sent a clammy prickle down her spine.

She could smell him—a sickening, sweet
scent, unfamiliar and unpleasant, and altogether
unsettling.

Blessedly, the music started before
any more time passed, and he swept her across the floor, gliding
along with the rise and fall of the steps. His eyes never left
hers.

She prayed he could not feel her
trembling, but when had she ever been known for such fortune? The
candlelight swirled around, blurring in the fading background. The
perfume of the flowers in the hall became strangling to her lungs.
His arms felt like a vise about her, trapping her.

“
Miss Matthews, are you all
right?” His voice slithered across her, too smooth, bereft of any
true concern or empathy. “Can I assist you in any way?” He slowed
their movements and maneuvered them toward the outer edges of the
dance floor, close to one of the open sets of double-doors leading
out to the veranda and gardens.

Jane needed air. She
needed...something. Perhaps it would be a good idea step outside so
she could breathe a bit more freely. Oh, dear. Going out alone with
Utley—with no chaperone—couldn’t possibly her best course of
action, but otherwise she might have a fainting spell. Certainly
not what she had envisioned for her first ball of the Season.
Double drat, and
why
could she not think clearly, when it was quite possibly the
most imperative time in all her life to know exactly what she
should and shouldn’t do?

Before she answered him, he
repositioned her closer the doors outside, almost leading her
through them before she could gather her wits about her and decide
what to do. “You must forgive my impertinence, ma’am, but I believe
some fresh air will do you some good. I fear you’re unwell.” He
slipped an arm about her waist to support her and virtually dragged
her outside.

Her legs were moving beneath her, but
she had seemingly lost all control over them.

Lord Utley directed her toward a bench
and pressed her until she sat. “There you are, Miss Matthews. Take
some air. You’ll feel better in no time.” He sat next to her, again
closer than her comfort allowed. Her trembling subsided, but still,
her skin crawled like thousands of tiny fingers were sliding over
it at his proximity. “Your color is starting to return.” His voice
was merely a whisper. Then he trailed a finger along her cheek,
brushing a stray wisp of hair back from her face.

Drat, drat, drat. How had she gotten
herself into such a scrape? The man was entirely too close to her
and touching her in a most inappropriate manner.

She squirmed away from his arm that
was draped across the back of the bench, almost touching her
shoulders and causing goose flesh to rise all over. “My lord,
you’ve been most kind to see to my comforts. Thank you.” She said
all of this with as much emphatic force as she could muster, so as
not to leave anything in doubt.

With her faculties about her yet
again, Jane started to rise—only to have him grasp her arm and pull
her down next to him.

She flashed a scowl at him. “I do
believe we should return to the ballroom, sir, as my chaperone will
be anxious if she cannot find me.”

But he didn’t release her. His fingers
trailed up her gloved arm, up to the bare skin above the gloves, up
still further to her shoulder to wander over her neck, leaving her
a shuddering, convulsing mess as she fought to keep the roiling
contents of her stomach under control.

“
You are quite lovely, you
know.” His voice sliced through her like a sword, leaving the
impression that he thought anything but what his words
implied.

Jane ought to have listened to Sophie.
She should have heeded her friend’s instincts about this man and
rejected him out of hand. Failing that, she ought to have found a
way—any way—to stay out of his grasp.

Blast her naiveté.

Jane’s eyes darted about the garden,
hoping to land on another couple out for a bit of air, or a random
gentleman strolling about alone who might act as her champion
against this leering blackguard. But no one else was near. She
looked back to the main house. Her voice would never carry far
enough, not with all the hubbub of the revelries inside. No one
would be able to hear her distress, should she cry out.