“Your grace?”
The woman flapped her hand. “I told you, call me Elizabeth.”
Her sister turned matching chocolate eyes on Netta. Both sisters were tall and slender, with wavy, dark hair. But where the duchess sparkled with vivacity, the countess was quieter, although no less friendly.
“We have been curious to speak to you about John,” Amanda said. “It is much easier to do so without him present.”
Netta grinned. They wanted gossip. Women after her own heart. “What is it you wish to know?” She wouldn’t spill all John’s secrets, of course. But enough to discomfit him. He deserved no less, leaving her alone and desperate with curiosity.
“Colleen told us that you’re assisting him to recover his property,” Elizabeth said.
Netta blinked, then covered her surprise by side-stepping out of the way of guests filing from the room. She’d forgotten how close of a relationship John had with his friends, and subsequently their wives. There didn’t seem to be any secrets in the group.
Unlike with her. Her stomach clenched. But that was a thought for later tonight. After the game.
“But,” Amanda said, sidling closer, “his attentiveness to you all night has us wondering if there is more between you two than business.”
Netta knitted her brow. “Surely you’ve seen John with other women on his arm? A romantic attachment cannot be such an anomaly.” Not for a man as engaging as John.
“Of course not.” Elizabeth nodded at a viscountess across the room. “But the other women he’s introduced us to have seemed mere accessories, a pretty face and dress to match his outfit.” She looked Netta up and down. “And while you are as pretty as any, you most certainly aren’t a mindless adornment.”
“Thank you?” While everyone liked to hear themselves distinguished, she wasn’t certain how she felt about John’s past lovers. Accessories? Sadly, she could well believe it. He focused so much on appearances at times, he could easily forget the humanity of his companions.
She rubbed at the pinch behind her breastbone. How capricious life was. One incident in childhood could transform an entire personality.
Netta dipped her head. “I thank you for the compliment, but whatever attachment you imagine does not exist. John and I have become good friends, but neither of us are constituted for a relationship of any length.” She swallowed. “I have not domesticated him, and he certainly has not me.”
The sisters shared a look. “Are you certain?” Elizabeth asked. “If ever a man looked ready to be domesticated, it was Summerset this evening.”
The idea was absurd. Her belly fluttered. Someone like her and someone like John forming a lasting union? One shameless person in a relationship made it hard enough to maintain. But two was a recipe for heartache.
“Sister,” Amanda chided, “you should know better than anyone that marriage and domesticity have naught to do with the other. Some marriages are very untamed indeed.”
Marriage. Netta ignored the duchess’s blush and focused on keeping her breathing even. Her lungs wanted to inflate like a bellows. After her one broken betrothal, she’d never, not once, considered entering into such a union. She wasn’t constituted for it; John certainly wasn’t.
But…to the right person, someone extraordinary enough to recompense for the loss of freedom, someone who brought her joy, challenged her, excited her, mayhap—
“My stomach tells me I am ready for dinner.” She cleared her throat, hoping to rid her voice of its panicked quality. Best to put a stop to that outlandish thought before it began. “I must look for Summerset. If you’ll excuse me.”
She dipped a curtsy and fled from the women like they were Shakespeare’s Weird Sisters instead of mild-mannered aristocrats. She searched for John, almost afraid to find him when absurd thoughts of marriage were darting through her mind, but eventually had to admit defeat and enter the large dining room alone.
She was seated next to an Italian contessa on her left, who’s English was as good as Netta’s Italian. No conversation was possible there. The man seated to her right was young, the son of a distant marquess, and the black sheep of the family according to his chatter. He wanted to be a poet.
“I’ll never be able to thank the duke and duchess enough for their patronage of my efforts.” The boy flicked out his napkin, settled it on his lap, and buried his nose in his wineglass to inhale deeply. “Without their support, I’d have been forced to enter the clergy.” He shuddered. “Or become a barrister. Those were my father’s only options when telling me how to live my life. But I told him—”
“Could you pass the salt, please?” She didn’t mean to be rude, but his endless prattle acted like a tiny hammer tapping at her brain. Distracting her from her one burning question. Her gaze flitted to the empty chair three seats down on the opposite side of the table. It was the only chair missing a body. John’s body. Where the devil was he?
The woman on the poet’s other side proved a much more attentive listener, and the boy turned his conversation to her.
Netta blew out a breath as a footman removed her soup bowl and replaced it with a plate of squab, root vegetables, and a flaky roll. She was no longer hungry, but she picked up her fork in any case.
And put it back down. She frowned. There it was again. Something brushing against her leg. She moved to pull her foot back, and a large hand wrapped around her ankle.
Between the second of fright and the moment she understood it was John’s hand on her body, she almost shrieked. It would have served him right if she had. She would enjoy watching him try to explain his way out of hiding under the table.
But she would enjoy whatever he was up to even more.
He skimmed his palm up her calf, the motion soothing. Sweet almost.
