Page 22 of A Diamond for a Duke

Sighing, feeling more content than he had in—well, in months, perhaps years—Jules untied his cravat, and after tossing it atop the French baroque table behind the sofa, sank onto the charcoal damask-covered cushions.

He’d bid a sleepy-eyed Sabrina goodnight, then retreated to his study to contemplate the evening’s remarkable events.

One specific incident, that was.

Stumbling upon Miss Jemmah Dament, and in an instant his life had changed.

He touched two fingertips to his lips, not surprised to find a cock-eyed smile bending his mouth. In the last two hours, he’d smiled more than in the past two years, and his providential encounter with Jemmah had set him on a new course.

By all the chirping crickets playing a grand symphony beyond the study’s French window, a path he eagerly anticipated.

He’d found his diamond in the rough.

Perhaps not so rough, except for her humble attire.

Jemmah would polish up brilliantly, and then those who’d ignored her, overlooked her loveliness, would grind their teeth in vexation.

She’d blossomed into a remarkable and sensuous young woman. Tall, lithe, and boasting delightful, rounded womanly curves, two of which had taunted him unmercifully above her bodice, her features and form had embedded themselves in his memory.

A self-depreciatory, yet joy-filled chuckle, burgeoned in his chest then rumbled forth, filling the silent, fire-lit room.

Mere hours ago, he’d avowed himself indifferent to marriage, and now, he calculated just how soon he might take the charming, witty, a trifle shy and awkward, but wholly delectable and precious Jemmah Dament to wife.

If someone asked him how he could be so absolutely positive he should do so, he couldn’t have answered them with logic and reason, for neither had anything whatsoever to do with the giddiness—yes, by all the cigars at Whites’s, giddiness—humming through him.

He just knew.

Simple as that.

Not a damned lucid thing about it.

Like wild creatures recognize their offspring, a river discerns what course its waters must flow, wildfowls’ instincts urge them to fly south for the winter, or even the sun understanding that it must rise every morning and then slowly descend each eve—

He knew.

Drowsy, content, and resolute, Jules shut his eyes and daydreamed about when he’d see his precious, sky-eyed Jemmah again.

Was tomorrow too soon to propose?

“Miss Jemmah. You needs wake up. Now. The mistress wants you to run an errand.”

At the frantic whisper and Mary Pimble’s small hand insistently shaking her shoulder, Jemmah cracked an eye open. A bit of drool leaking from her mouth’s corner and her head resting on her forearms, she surveyed the assortment of papers, pens, and drawings scattered mere inches before her line of vision.

She must’ve fallen asleep over her sketches while trying to decide which to take with her to show Jules at tea today.

After wiping her mouth, she yawned and blinked sleepily.

By all the brandy in Britain, no one could fault her for her for dozing off.

After all, the clock had struck two before she’d managed to undress Mama and Adelinda, see their sheets warmed, and their chamber fires stoked, the whole while subjected to their rancorous litanies of why Adelinda ought to have reaped the dowager’s favor, not Jemmah.

Their mutual fury over Aunt Theo’s blunt threat to cease all monetary support had nearly sent Mama into apoplexy, and for the first time ever, Adelinda’s face had mottled bright red as she sobbed and ranted into her abused pillow.

Jemmah arched her stiff back and stretched her arms overhead, almost touching the slanting ceiling’s rough boards with her fingertips.

“A missive arrived for you, too. I hid it in my pocket.” Her eyes wide and curious, Pimble whispered, “It’s from a duke.”

A thrill fluttered Jemmah’s tummy.