One chin.
Slender arms and shoulders. Nothing beefy at all about Miss Whitehall. The large mound of flesh on her hips bouncing about as they strolled, now appeared to be situated in a different position. And her enormous buttocks were…slipping.
Mother adored dressing up. Costumes. The uses of makeup to alter one’s appearance.
A honeyed brown curl had escaped from beneath the hideous bonnet atop her head while she wobbled around the pond. No woman so repulsive should have a curl so lovely, Jordan decided. Nor be the owner of a sleek, pink tongue, which flashed when she pushed the tip against her rotted teeth.
A tiny black fleck was left behind on Miss Whitehall’ssurprisinglydelectable bottom lip after she did so.
There were plenty of rotted mouths and stumps of teeth in Spittal, something Miss Whitehall couldn’t possibly have guessed at. Some of the sailors who favored The Hen were missing so many teeth they were reduced to eating nothing that wasn’t boiled to a mushy softness. The smell of such decay was noticeable when they spoke.Nothingcovered it up.
Not a sprig of mint. Or ale. Or anonion.
Tar to make teeth appear rotted. That was what Miss Whitehall kept choking on. Padding to make herself rounded, wool he guessed, if her excessive itching in the heat was any indication. An onion to keep him at a distance. A bit of garlic in case the onion failed.
Miss Whitehall wasactivelyavoiding marriage.
The irony.
A bark of laughter left him as the carriage turned a corner.
There were several reasons why a young lady might not wish to wed. Defiance, for one, at having her life dictated. Jordan understood that reason completely. Perhaps chart her own course. Pursue a talent. Maybe Miss Whitehall wished to sculpt in wax as Madame Tussaud did. Or a young lady might not care for men in general, though the way Miss Whitehall continuously studied Jordan’s hands, cheeks blushing, led him to discard that possibility. Which left the obvious.
Her affections lay elsewhere with a man Whitehall didn’t approve of.
What a pity. Miss Whitehall, much like Jordan, must accept the inevitable. There was no escape for either of them, not until they were wed. After restoring the family coffers with her dowry and the debt to her father erased, Miss Whitehall would be free to live her life as she wished.
The rusewasclever. As was Miss Whitehall. It was a daring thing to do, defying a man like Angus Whitehall. But she likely didn’treallyknow her father. Jordan appreciated bold women. Determination. Intelligence. He even liked her strange hobby.
He’d deliberately challenged her with not consuming an onion, wondering what would happen if she didn’t. There was no mysterious affliction, Jordan was quite sure about that. What sight would greet him when he next called upon Miss Whitehall? He’d give her the better part of the week to decide her next move.
There was a slim chance Jordan was incorrect and Miss Whitehall really was a smelly troll, but if that turned out to be the case, he’d drink whiskey and focus on her dowry.
River Crest needed a great deal of repair.
And Jordan meant to buy some pigs.
Chapter Twelve
“You didn’t needto escort me, Jordy.”
The stoic, adoring, and slightly terrifying Holly would have only been too happy to follow Tamsin about, but Jordan hadn’t been inside a book shop in years. There were no book sellers in Spittal, only a peddler who came through every so often with a small box of used, tattered tomes. The books the peddler sold were half-falling apart and moth-eaten, but they had been a welcome addition to the small library at Dunnings all the same. Especially for Aurora, who adored books. Some would have questioned the wisdom of spendinganycoin on a battered copy ofGuy Manneringgiven the circumstances of the Sinclairs, but the joy on Aurora’s delicate features whenever Jordan handed her a book had been worth it.
“Aurora needs something new to read. Bentley’s library is woefully lacking in anything remotely entertaining. Now that we’ve sold that horrid statue, we’ve more than enough for some luxuries.”
The sum given for the hideous horse sculpture had been far more than Jordan expected, but he didn’t possess an eye for valuing expensive items, having had so few in the last decade. “And Holly is guarding our door like some large mastiff. She’s safe enough with him, even with Drew gone.”
Drew had wrangled an invitation to yet another house party, this one in Surrey.
“I told you Holly is a marvel.” Tamsin gave him a playful swat. “We simply could not have gotten on so well without him.”
“You were correct.” The butler, with his enormous, menacing physical presence stared down every unwelcome guest the Sinclairs received, which included a recent visit by Lady Longwood. Bentley’s aunt arrived unannounced again yesterday and forced her way past the new housemaid, who’d answered the door while Holly was down the hall instructing two of the recently acquired footmen. Lady Longwood barged into Jordan’s home, with one of her own footmen, pointing out everything she claimed was promised to her by Bentley, which the footman trailing her was instructed to gather up and take directly to her waiting carriage.
Holly, hearing the ruckus, interrupted the pillage of Emerson House.
Lady Longwood didn’t notice him immediately looming over her, too busy laying claim to two chairs covered in pale blue damask, a Grecian vase in the foyer, and a small figurine with wings gifted to Jordan’s mother after the birth of Aurora. Father had always insisted it was a fairy, since Mother had once played Titania inA Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Lady Longwood startled the entire household, and most of Bruton Street, when she shrieked out in horror at seeing that Bentley’s portrait no longer resided over the fireplace. She screamed again at the sight of Holly.
