He could never esteem her brothers as he once had. Not after all of this. But for her sake, for both their sakes, he would learn to tolerate them as brothers-in-law.
He simply needed proof to convince Lucas to call off the official investigation he’d set into motion through the War Office.
“I’d suggest we go for a drink, but Clarissa will want me home early,” Baxter said, smiling in satisfaction. “She tends to get this way every time we host a dinner party. You are coming, aren’t you?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
There were six other investors and, from what the earl told him, his wife had invited them all: Baxter’s brother, Devonshire—or Bash as he called him—the Earl of Goldthwaite, the Earl of Westerley, Baron Chaswick, and the Marquess of Greystone. It wouldn’t look good for Jeremy to forgo the event, as much as he’d like to.
“It seems you’re finally learning, Tempest,” Baxter observed as Jeremy’s carriage appeared.
Blasted Baxter—his notions regarding amiability were wearing Jeremy down.
And yet, his mouth tipped up in a sly smile. Because Lydia, who he had not seen for three days, was going to be in attendance as well.
After denying himself her company for four months with every intention of doing so indefinitely, he could now barely go three days without her.
Without tasting her. Or kissing her. Or participating in other undignified, unmentionable, satisfying, yet unsatisfying exploits with her.
She’d been dismayed over the broken vase. Beyond dismayed when she’d learned that it had been produced in China sometime during the Tang Dynasty. Jeremy had refused to confirm that it had been almost a thousand years old, but she’d nearly collapsed with the vapors anyway.
His mother, on the other hand, might have something else to say about it once she was recovered. He would have to purchase a replica.
But then he paused. When was the last time he’d bothered to care about something so mundane? It really shouldn’t have surprised him that Lydia would be the one to drag him out of the clawing darkness he’d muddled through all year.
Suddenly, everything in his life seemed to revolve around her. And it felt right.
It felt righter than anything had in a very long time.
Seated in the forward-facing bench, Baxter stared out the window, his arms crossed and his legs sprawled between them.
Jeremy would relay the earl to his Mayfair home first, so the man could settle his wife’s nerves before her dinner party, and then he would have his driver return him to Bond Street. The decision to visit Rundell and Bridge’s—the jewelers—was an impulsive one.
He would be prepared when all of this worked out.Ifall of this worked out.
If the original records had not been destroyed.
If his brother’s name wasn’t listed amongst the other blackguards.
And if the proof was enough to convince Lucas and Blackheart to stand down.
Jeremy inhaled a shaky breath. That was a long list of ifs.
But despite all of the obstacles before him, for the first time in over a year, Jeremy was beginning to believe his future held something other than grief and hopelessness.
Because when Lydia had stepped into his life again, she’d brought hope along with her.
Hope.
It was a terrifying thing.
Lydia trailedher gaze around the elegant but crowded drawing room. Clarissa’s dinner party was not the intimate gathering Lydia had assumed it would be. With all of Jeremy’s investors present, as well as their respective wives, the evening promised to be more of a grand celebration. Apparently, the purchase of Ludwig Bros. Shipping had gone better than planned.
“This Season promises to be considerably quieter than last spring, what with the Ravensdale brothers married off, as well as… a few other handsome rogues.” Lady Greystone’s gaze drifted across the room, and she smiled over her glass. Lydia decided that the well dressed and very handsome man she stared at must be her husband, the Marquess of Greystone.
If Lydia realized nothing else that evening, the couples among Clarissa’s guests ought to be sufficient to convince her that happy endings were indeed possible. Every single lady here appeared beyond content, and their lordly husbands seemed quite taken with their wives.
One of them, Lady Westerley, a pretty American with startling red hair who was obviously with child, hardly went more than ten minutes without her husband crossing the room to inquire as to her health. Such behavior would normally be frowned upon—for Lady Westerly’s husband, an earl, to be so unashamedly living in her pocket like this—but Lydia thought it was rather sweet that he cared so much.
