“You are out of your mind!” the blond countess cried.
“I am not out of my mind,” Lindley replied calmly. “What is the problem?”
“It’s the last minute! The party is tomorrow night!”
“You are a snob,” he said cruelly.
She groaned with frustration.
“Invite him,” Lindley said. “Invite Shelton. You can say that you only just learned of his arrival in London. Besides, it’s the truth.”
“Why must I be the one?” she cried. “You saw how it was tonight. Everyone cut him. John—”
“Have you no heart at all?” Lindley demanded. “He has not a single friend here!”
“And you have too much heart! After what he did to you! And you his only friend! How can you still harbor a kind thought toward him!”
“You must be the first to invite him.”
“It will be a disaster!”
“He is strong. He can handle it. Eventually the gossip will die and attitudes will change.”
His tone changed, softened, cajoled. “Please, Mary. Please invite Dragmore. Only do not mention that I am behind it, for then he would not come.”
She accepted defeat. “I will do it, but you are a fool. I cannot gain him acceptance in London. I am not powerful enough.”
“I will gain him acceptance,” Lindley said quietly. “I am powerful enough.” Then his face darkened, and as an afterthought, he added, “But damn you, Shelton, you almost broke my nose.”
The earl was no fool. He knew Lindley was behind his sister’s invitation to her house party that night. Was Lindley trying to apologize for the liberties he’d taken with Jane? Nick still felt that his friend had betrayed him by kissing his ward, but he judged him less harshly than he judged himself. Thinking of what Lindley had done only reminded him of what he had done—and there was certainly no comparison. Lindley had been a gentleman—he had been a brute.
He was pleased that Lindley was offering some sort of olive branch, but he was not quite ready to accept it.
They were going to the party, however. “I do not wish to go,” Jane informed him that afternoon.
“We are going,” the earl said, and that was that.
They were announced in the salon: “The Earl of Dragmore and Miss Jane Barclay.”
A hush greeted this, with every head turned toward them. The earl held Jane’s elbow and felt her trembling. His hand tightened in a reassuring squeeze, and he felt her relax slightly. They entered.
The countess came forth to greet them, dazzling in a black velvet gown and glittering diamonds. “Lord Shelton, how wonderful to see you again!” She smiled, but anxiety was written all over her face.
Nick bowed over her hand. “Countess. It’s nice to see you as well. This is my wife’s cousin, Jane Barclay.”
The women exchanged polite greetings, and the countess took them over to a small group. “I do believe you all know Lord Shelton, and this is his ward, his wife’s cousin. Lords Smythe-Paxton and Hubberly, Lady Edding and Lady Townsend.”
“Good evening,” the earl said, and the men nodded stiffly back. Their gazes were drawn to Jane like moths to a flame. She curtsied and managed her fragile smile. She looked like an angel in her gown of silver chiffon.
“Patricia Weston’s cousin, eh?” Hubberly asked. He was a big, plump gray-haired baron. “I do believe I see a resemblance. Although Patricia, quite the stunner, could not compare to you, my dear.”
Jane blushed, murmuring a thank you.
Lady Edding, dark and beautiful, stared rudely, first at Nick, then at Jane. “Barclay. Are you the actress’s daughter?”
“Yes,” Jane said proudly, lifting her chin. “My mother was Sandra Barclay, renowned throughout England.”
The earl winced. He was still holding Jane’s arm, and his grip tightened in warning. This was not the place in which to boast of such antecedents.
