Self-pity clawed at Jessica’s insides. And she had no one but herself to blame. She gave herself a mental shake and joined in the burst of laughter that followed something marvelously witty Boris had said, though she had not heard what it was.
Aunt Viola and the Marquess of Dorchester were already sitting in the open box they had reserved on the lower level of the rotunda, close to the orchestra and overlooking the dancing area. So were Estelle and Bertrand and Miss Keithley, the sister of Bertrand’s friend, and another young lady whom Jessica believed to be Miss Keithley’s younger sister. And . . . Mr. Rochford.
But of course,she thought the instant her eyes alit upon him and he got to his feet, having spied her at the same moment. He made her an elegant bow while he smiled dazzlingly at her. Of course he was here. Aunt Viola was one of the Westcott aunts, was she not? And in the few days since Avery had withheld his blessing on Mr. Rochford’s suit, her mother had gone visiting twice without Jessica—once to Grandmama’s and once to Aunt Mildred’s. To rally the troops, no doubt.
Well, she was not going to let his presence spoil her evening, Jessica decided as they all exchanged effusive greetings and she succeeded in seating herself between Bertrand and his father. She would just be very careful not to allow him to monopolize her company. Let Estelle entertain him or Miss Keithley or someone else.
So there were six ladies and five gentlemen. That was unusually careless of Aunt Viola. But of course again! This party at Vauxhall had been planned more than a week ago. She had probably invited Mr. Thorne too, for the family committee had a two-pronged matchmaking goal. Perhaps Aunt Viola had not yet realized that he had disappeared, apparently without a trace. Or, if she had realized it, maybe it had been too late to invite another gentleman in his place.
But then . . .
Well, but then he came, tall and broad shouldered and immaculately elegant as he strode purposefully toward the box. He bowed to Aunt Viola, shook hands with the marquess, and nodded to everyone else, Jessica included.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said to Aunt Viola. “A cart had overturned on the bridge, completely blocking it, and it took several minutes to clear the roadway after it became evident that all the shouting and gesticulating was not going to accomplish the task.”
Jessica wished the cart had been full of rotten cabbages and that it had overturned onto his head.
Since he had not warned the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester that he might not be able to attend their gathering at Vauxhall Gardens and undoubtedly they had arranged it so that there would be an equal number of ladies and gentlemen, Gabriel had made a push to be back in London in time. He had made it with three hours to spare, just time enough to bathe the grime of the road from his person and to dress appropriately for such an evening. Then had come the frustration of the spill on the bridge across the river Thames that had made him late arriving after all. It vexed him, as he had long made it a habit never to be late for appointments or social events to which he had been specifically invited.
Lady Jessica Archer looked very lovely and very haughty indeed, though she unbent sufficiently to joke with her cousins while they dined upon a meal that included the thin slices of ham and the strawberries for which Vauxhall was famous, according to Lady Vickers. Lady Jessica also played gracious hostess to a steady stream of men who came to pay homage after they had finished eating. She came close to flirting with a few of them. She danced with Dorchester and with her cousin, the elder of the two Wayne brothers.
She studiously ignored Gabriel. He might have thought he was invisible to her except that she had a way of not looking at him that involved a raised chin and a supercilious expression that disappeared as soon as she looked at someone else.
So she was annoyed with him. Because he had left town for almost a week without telling her? If that was the reason, it was encouraging.
She was doing her best to ignore Rochford too. That was not always easy to do. When the man was going through all the motions that indicated he was about to ask her to dance, she turned pointedly to the other of her young cousins and informed him that this was the dance for which he had asked earlier. Young Peter Wayne looked a bit surprised, as well he might, as undoubtedly this was the first he was hearing of it. But he jumped to his feet, the perfect gentleman, and actually thanked her for remembering.
And when the marchioness suggested after that dance that they all take a walk along the main avenue in order to work off some of the effects of the rich foods they had eaten and had begun to suggest that her niece take Rochford’s arm, Lady Estelle jumped in with an objection.
“Oh,” she said, “but I am about to tell Mr. Rochford about that bonnet I almost purchased yesterday, Mother—the one that had what looked very much like a bird’s nest perched upon the crown. Do you remember it? It is such a funny story. You will laugh, Mr. Rochford.” And she threw a mischievous glance Gabriel’s way, smiled engagingly at Rochford, and slid an arm through his while her stepmother half frowned at her and glanced almost apologetically at her niece.
“Lady Jessica,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps you will give me the pleasure of your company.”
By then her young cousins had paired up with the Misses Keithley, and Bertrand Lamarr had taken the wide-eyed little girl on his arm—she was apparently a cousin of the Wayne boys and must surely be eighteen if she was at such a party, though she could easily pass for fourteen. Short of grabbing her uncle’s arm, Lady Jessica had no choice but to take his.
A small crowd had gathered to watch the dancing. They had to weave their way through it to reach the avenue beyond. By the time Gabriel got there with Lady Jessica, the others were already walking ahead.
“I was told when I first arrived in town that I absolutely must not miss spending an evening at Vauxhall,” he said. “I was told there was something particularly lovely about the combination of trees and avenues and colored lamps swaying from the branches and the good food and music and dancing. And fireworks. The person who told me did not exaggerate.”
“It is a pleasant place at which to spend a few hours,” she said.
“We are particularly fortunate to have been invited on an evening when the weather conditions are perfect,” he said.
“Yes, indeed,” she agreed.
“Cool but not cold,” he said. “Not windy but with enough of a gentle breeze to set the lanterns moving in the branches and their colors to forming patterns that are a feast for the eyes.”
“It is a pleasant evening,” she conceded.
“You are cross with me,” he told her.
She raised her eyebrows but kept her eyes on the avenue ahead, while all around them revelers moved at different paces and in both directions, talking, laughing, calling ahead or behind to others. The music was still quite audible.
“Cross, Mr. Thorne?” she said. “Whyever would I be cross with you?”
“For apparently abandoning you,” he said. “It was not real abandonment, you know. I had every intention of coming back. I came as soon as I possibly could.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “You have overestimated your importance.Haveyou been gone somewhere? I had not noticed.”
