Tonight, the feeling would be given free rein. Tonight, he was a man with a purpose, and no one would stand in his way.
“St. Alban!” His name emerged crystalline and bright through the dull, monotone roar of the ball.
He braced himself and turned toward the Dowager. Avoidance would be futile. He bowed at her approach, and she placed her palm on his forearm. “Take a turn with me.” As their feet found a pace conducive to conversation, she said, “Do not cut out early tonight. There will be an announcement later, and I’m requesting the presence of all my family.”
“Whatever you require, Your Grace.”
“Speaking of marriage”—She squeezed his arm—“how goes your courtship of Miss Fox?”
“We found that we don’t suit,” he replied in a carefully neutral tone.
“Oh? I’m so rarely wrong about that sort of thing. Take Nathaniel and me, for instance.”
“Nathaniel?”
“The Duke of Arundel, of course.”
Jake’s brow lifted, and a smile worthy of the Sphinx softened the Dowager’s features. He intuited in an instant the subject of tonight’s announcement. “May I be the first to congratulate you?”
“I accept your congratulation, my dear, but you are not the first to congratulate me. I have congratulated myself aplenty.” Her smile transformed into one triumphant and not a little self-satisfied. “The Duke of Arundel is quite a catch. And I know of, at least, one other lady who’d set her cap at him. ButIlanded him.”
No one could accuse the Dowager of false humility.
She began twirling a string of pearls with her free hand, a signal that she was about to state her business. “Now, let us discuss your marriage prospects. Even if Miss Fox won’t do, you’ve made a splash this Season. If you play your hand capably, you could be married by Michaelmas, or, at the very least, engaged.”
“I shall take that under advisement.”
“What sort of bride would you like?” The Dowager pointed in the direction of a girl dressed in pale pink muslin. “One who blushes for the first year of your marriage?”
A note of alarm clanged inside Jake’s head. “I’m not certain Mina would be well-served by a mother so near her own age.”
“You’re seeking an older woman?” A tiny frown of concentration pulled at the Dowager’s mouth. “Not many men in your position show that sort of fortitude when presented the array of possibilities that lie at your hand.”
A snort escaped him. It wasn’t fortitude guiding his choice of wife, but the Dowager needn’t know that. What he felt for Lady Olivia Montfort had naught to do with strength of character. It was its very opposite, in fact.
Weakness. . .Powerlessness. . . Something deeper, too . . . Something they must discuss tonight, privately, away from the prying, knowing eyes of theton.
“How about”—The Dowager pointed toward a lady seated next to the punch bowl, blissfully unaware of their scrutiny—“a lady who has been on the shelf for a few years?” Her fingers stopped mid-twirl. “I know what you’re thinking, St. Alban, and you couldn’t be further from the truth. Certain ladies are like fine wines, and the shelf only enhances their flavor. Take my dear friend, Miss Dunfrey, never married, poor dear, but the details that woman knows . . .” the Dowager trailed off, her countenance taking on a dreamy cast. She gave her head a shake and resumed twirling her pearls. “Suffice it to say, she let me in on a few secrets the Duke will appreciate on our wedding night.”
Jake fought to keep his gaze expressionless and trained ahead of him, all gentlemanly concern for the safety of their progress. He wouldn’t betray a thought on that particular matter, not even to himself.
“Or how about a respectable widow?” the Dowager persisted. “One with children of her own, but safely within childbearing years, of course. The viscountcy must be secured, St. Alban. Now don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I don’t begrudge you the fact that the viscountcy fell out of my branch of the family tree. I made my peace with that turn of events a year ago. But if you die heirless, the title will revert to the Crown. Not a felicitous state of affairs, not in the least.”
He nodded, pretending to seriously consider the matter. In truth, he didn’t give a fig about the security of the viscountcy. However, a widow did coincide precisely with his intentions. Well, a former widow. An outrightunrespectable, former widow.
“Ah, here we are,” said the Dowager, her tone grown soft and very unlike itself. Jake glanced up to find they were approaching the Duke. “Your Grace, St. Alban and I are discussing his prospects for an advantageous marriage, and we are agreed that a respectable widow is exactly what he needs.”
Jake couldn’t help noticing that wives and husbands were nothing more or less to the Dowager than commodities on the marriage market. A wife waswhathe needed, notwhohe needed.
Not so very long ago, he’d been in agreement with her. No longer. A wife must be more than a thing. She was ashe, a person. A person with no value on the open market as she would be invaluable . . . priceless. Only one woman lived up to that standard.
The Duke’s piercing blue gaze lit upon Jake and turned hard and assessing. “A widow, you say? I think I can see exactly the sort of widow Lord St. Alban wants.”
Jake held his peace. The wordwantcould mean lacking. It might have even sounded that way to the Dowager, but he caught the Duke’s true meaning. The man was speaking of desire. Specifically, Jake’s desire for Olivia.
The Dowager clapped her hands together and held them clasped before her. “Now that’s settled, whispers are floating about that the champagne may be running dry, and I must see to its resolution. There is no happiness at a ball where there is no champagne.”
With that, the Dowager flounced away and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jake and the Duke alone.
