Page 17 of The Duke of Deceit

Jess gratefully snatcheda fresh glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and took a long glance around Lord Fitzsimmon’s ballroom.

She would have staked her life that nothing had changed since the last time she glanced around the room a few minutes ago. No new arrivals. No scandalous behavior. No fashion mistakes from either the gentlemen or the ladies. Nothing interesting whatsoever. Of course,interestingmight be expecting too much, given that the ballroom wasn’t at all crowded. The entire party, in fact, was as barren as a stony field. But then, that was to be expected so late in the year when the season was nearly over.

She sighed in boredom as she raised her glass to take a sip. Oh, what she wouldn’t have given for someone to cause a scene on the dance floor! Or for a lady to slap a gentleman with her fan for being too forward.Anythingto enliven the evening.

She would have done so herself if it meant being able to leave early for home.

Instead, she was trapped by a group of Aunt Matilda’s friends. The gray-haired matrons chattered on endlessly about distant relations, redecorated townhouses, and St George’s new vicar who was far too handsome for his own good…and a bachelor. One of them dared to slide a hopeful look in Jess’sdirection, which Jess returned with wide eyes, like a doe caught by hounds.

Auntie’s friends wanted to marry her off to a vicar!Good Lord.

Still unwed at four and twenty, Jess might be teetering on the edge of spinsterhood, but she wasn’t desperate enough to wed just any man who happened along. Certainly not one who came with his own church, for heaven’s sake! Oh, she wanted a husband and family, of course, and a home she could fill with love and laughter. But she also wanted an equal partnership and mutual respect, and most of all, she wanted trust. The last thing Jess wanted to do was repeat her mother’s mistake in choosing a husband. If that meant remaining unmarried, so be it. She would have her art and the small income it generated, and that was more than most women of her station possessed.

She glanced around again, this time searching for an excuse to separate herself from the matrons. Not that she could have spent the evening with any other company, she glumly realized. All her friends had already departed for their families’ country homes as soon as Parliament ended a fortnight ago. She no longer had Amanda with her, either, which was the worst blow of all. The most she could hope for from the evening were a couple of dances by men who had no one else to ask and a promise or two to come calling from those few acquaintances who still remained in town.

“And so I said to Iphigenia—‘Iphy,’ I said,” Mrs. Peterson prattled off a story about her unfortunate niece who was too intelligent for her own good and seemed unlikely to ever catch a husband because of it, based upon Mrs. Peterson’s faint tsking in disapproval, “‘it’s impossible for you to go to Brighton for the season when every eligible young man in England is here in London. There’ll be no one there to marry,’ I said, ‘except soldiers and sailors, and you know how those sorts are.’”

Bored out of her mind, Jess answered without thinking, “Disciplined and wet?”

Every matron in the group turned to gape at her, including Aunt Matilda, who narrowed a chastising glare on her.

Jess pulled in a deep breath and forced out a smile. “Brighton has a perfectly lovely set of assembly rooms. The dancing there is unparalleled, no matter who’s in attendance, and I hear the Prince Regent often drops by without notice. I’m certain she’ll find several men there who prick her interest.”

Mrs. Peterson frowned, although at Jess’s assessment of Brighton or at her defense of soldiers and sailors Jess would never be able to say.

She quickly raised her glass to her lips and took a large mouthful of champagne before she had to explain that a commanding officer or ship’s captain would be a perfectly good match for any woman who found one of them interesting, kind, good-hearted…all the things lacking in too many of the so-called quality. All she had to do was glance around the ballroom right now to be reminded that all the money in the world couldn’t buy intelligence, taste, or the gift of witty conversation.

Poor Iphigenia. Jess’s heart went out to her. She understood the niece far more than Mrs. Peterson ever would.

“Good evening, ladies.” Archibald Caulderfield stepped smartly up to the group of women. The low-level Whitehall official sketched a bow in general to the matrons before his smile landed firmly on Jess. “Ah, Miss St Claire! So good to see you again. Lady Fitzsimmon said you were in attendance.”

“Yes.” Her smile faltered, but she found the resolve not to take a step back in self-defense against his excitement at seeing her. After all, they barely knew each other. “Lovely party, isn’t it?”

If he suspected she’d just lied, his expression didn’t register it. In fact, from the way his spine snapped straight and his heelsclicked together as he came to attention, he seemed beyond happy that she’d engaged him in conversation.

“Grand,” he agreed. Then he held out his hand to her. “May I have this dance?”

Jess hesitated. “Well, I—” Her eyes landed on her glass. “I really should stay here and finish my champagne.”

Yes! That was a good excuse. It would give her ten minutes of peace at least. Maybe, if she nursed her glass long enough or was fortunate enough to snag a fresh glass or two from the footmen without being seen, she could make it all the way through to midnight, when she could claim a headache—most likely from all that champagne—and beg off for home.

“Go on and have a bit of fun,” Aunt Matilda encouraged her with a soft jab of her elbow to her ribs, jostling the sparkling wine as Jess raised it to her lips to reinforce her excuse to Mr. Caulderfield.

She smiled tightly and muttered in a low voice, “Auntie, I really don’t think—”

“Oh look! You’ve finished.” Matilda snatched away the still half-filled glass and quickly handed it to the Fitzsimmon’s butler, who halted as he passed from having a champagne flute shoved at his nose.

The butler gave a dutiful nod and hurried on, glass firmly in hand.

Jess resisted the urge to run after it.

“Miss St Claire?” Mr. Caulderfield once more held out his hand to her. “A dance?”

This time, blast it, she had no choice but to accept. Based on the excited whispers from the matrons rising behind a flurry of fans, they would never let her live down a refusal. Yet her shoulders still slumped in defeat. “All right.”

He took her hand and placed it on his arm to lead her to the dance floor.

“I’m surprised Fitzsimmon is holding such a soiree so late in the season,” Caulderfield commented in a low voice, although Jess suspected he did it more as an excuse to lean in closer than to keep from being overheard in the sparsely filled room. “Most of London has already left for the country. Hardly anyone remains.”