She was borne off toward the dining room on Ferdinand’s arm, with Heyward walking at her other side, engaging her in an earnest discussion of Handel’sMessiah. Jocelyn turned his attention to his other guests.
HER VOICE TEACHER, WHOMher father had brought to Cornwall at considerable expense, had given it as his opinion that she could sing professionally if she chose, that she could hold her own in Milan, in Vienna, at Covent Garden—anywhere she liked. That she could be an international star.
Her father had pointed out gently but firmly that a career, even such an illustrious one, was out of the question for the daughter of an earl. Jane had not minded. She had never felt the need to win public acclaim or fame. She sang because she loved to sing and because she liked to entertain friends and relatives.
But this evening’s success at Dudley House was seductive, she had to admit. The house itself had been transformed into a splendid wonderland with every candle in every chandelier and candleholder lit and vases of lavish and expertly arranged flowers everywhere. Everyone was flatteringly kind. Almost all the guests approached her in the dining room, some just to smile and tell her how much they had enjoyed her performance, many to talk with her at greater length.
She had never been to London before. She had never moved in exalted circles. But there was a wonderful feeling ofrightnessabout being with this company. These were her people. This was the world to which she belonged. If her mother had lived longer, if her father had retained his health, she would as a matter of course have come to London for a Season. She would have been brought to the great marriage mart for the serious business of selecting a suitable husband. She felt at home with the Duke of Tresham’s guests.
She had to make a deliberate effort to remind herself that she was not really one of them. Not any longer. There was a huge obstacle between herself and them, put there when Sidney, drunk and offensive, had decided to try to seduce her as an inducement to persuade her to marry him. He had been going to ravish her—with the full connivance of his equally drunken friends. But she had never been one to endure bullying meekly. She had swung a book at his head.
And so had begun the string of events that had made a fugitive of her. But some fugitive! Here she was in the very midst of a select gathering of the ton, behaving as if she had not a care in the world.
“You must excuse me,” she murmured, smiling and getting to her feet.
“Excuse you?” Lady Heyward regarded her with gracious surprise. “Absolutely not, Miss Ingleby. Can you not see that you have become the guest of honor? Heyward will persuade you to stay, will you not, my love?”
But Lord Heyward was deep in earnest conversation with a dowager in purple topped by a matching plumed turban.
“Allow me,” Viscount Kimble said, taking Jane by the elbow and gesturing to the chair she had just vacated. “You are the mystery of the hour, Miss Ingleby. One moment hurrying to work across Hyde Park, the next nursing Tresh like a gray shadow, and now singing like a trained nightingale. Permit me to interrogate you.” He smiled with practiced charm, softening the effect of his words.
Lady Heyward, still on her feet, was clapping her hands to draw all attention her way.
“I absolutely refuse to allow everyone to drift away after supper,” she said, “when it is scarce past midnight. I refuse to allow Tresham to be the laughingstock tomorrow. We are going to have dancing in the drawing room. Mrs. Marsh will play for us, will you not, ma’am? Shall I give the order for the carpet to be rolled back, Tresham, or will you?”
“Dear me,” his grace said, his fingers curling about the handle of his quizzing glass. “How extraordinarily kind of you to be so solicitous of my reputation, Angeline. I shall give the order.” He left the room.
“You really must excuse me,” Jane said firmly a few minutes later, after giving vague answers to the questions Lord Kimble had asked her. “Good night, my lord.”
“I shall have a new reason for calling upon Tresham during the next few days,” he told her, bowing over her hand, which he raised to his lips. His eyes looked appreciatively into her own.
Another dangerous gentleman, Jane thought as she hurried from the room, bidding several people good night as she went. And one who must surely know how devastatingly attractive pale blue and silver evening clothes looked with his blond hair.
But slipping off to the privacy of her room was not to be easy at all tonight, she saw as she approached the drawing room. The Duke of Tresham was coming out, leaning on his cane. Several of his guests were already back there, she could see through the open door. More were coming from the supper room.
“Going to bed, Jane?” he asked her. “When it is not even an hour past midnight?”
“Yes, your grace,” she said. “Good night.”
“Poppycock!” he told her. “You heard Angeline. In her estimation you have become the guest of honor. And despite her appalling taste in dress—shocking pink, you will have observed, does not become her, especially when accompanied by frills and flounces and those unfortunate blue plumes she has in her hair—despite all that, Jane, there is no higher stickler than my sister. You will come into the drawing room.”
“No,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Insubordination? You will dance, Jane. With me.”
She laughed. “And your cane too?”
“Now, that, Jane,” he said, lifting it and pointing it at her, “is a low blow. I shall dance without my cane. A waltz, in fact. You will waltz with me.”
He had moved to stand between her and the route to the staircase. She could tell from a glance at his face that he was in one of those moods that would not brook denial. Not that she would not put up a good fight on that account. He could not force her to dance, after all.
“You never waltz,” she told him.
“Now who told you that?” he asked her.
“You did,” she reminded him. “In my hearing. When someone mentioned Almack’s one day.”
“I will make an exception tonight,” he said. “Do you waltz, Jane? Do you know the steps?”
