“I won't,” she shook her head vehemently. “I promise.”
Jane reached out briefly and held her mother's hand, and then she turned and looked around the room until she found Reuben – who was, as she had expected, at Thomas' elbow, solemnly accepting the attention of several guests.
He had blatantly refused to retire for the evening, insisting on staying with his parents, regardless of how many times they had begged or coaxed him. Inevitably, his nanny had to watch him in a corner so he would not bother the guests, but it seemed as though that plan had failed eventually, like they expected it to.
“Come,” Jane said to her mother with a small smile. “I would like you to meet him.”
She brought Harriet across the room and felt the moment Reuben noticed her approach, the way his small face lit up as she drew close, as it always did.
“Sweetheart, there is someone I would like you to meet,” Jane told him. “This is my mother, Harriet. She very much wanted the opportunity to know you.”
She glanced at Harriet. “This is Reuben Wetherby, our son.”
Harriet's face crumpled just slightly at the sight of him, and she took his hand very carefully, as though he were something precious and easily startled.
“Good evening, Lady –” Reuben faltered, looking to his parents for assistance.
“Oh, goodness, no dear. You may call me grandmama,” Harriet urged gently.
Reuben’s face lit up again and he nodded.
“Good evening, grandmother. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Harriet laughed, the sound coming out watery and weak.
“The honour is mine, dear.”
And for once, Jane believed that she meant it entirely.
Soon after the introductions had passed and Harriet had become utterly smitten with her grandson, Thomas approached Jane held out his hand.
She took it without hesitation and followed eagerly as he led her to the floor.
They danced slowly, her hand in his, his other hand warm at the small of her back, and the room moved around them in a pleasant blur of candlelight and distant music. She was aware, in a comfortable and peripheral way, of all the people in that room – her friends, her mother, Edward, Reuben tucked close to Mrs Greene and watching them dance with wide and bright eyes – and she was aware that all of it was hers.
Not because it had been assigned to her, or bartered for, or taken. Because she had chosen it, freely and with full knowledge of what she was doing.
“You arranged a magnificent ball,” Thomas commented.
“I did,” she agreed pleasantly.
“Excellent work, duchess. And might I add that you look rather breathtaking tonight.”
“Why, thank you, kind duke. You look quite dashing yourself.”
He smiled. “I love you.”
“I love you,” she echoed easily. “Immensely.”
“Good.” He turned her gently, then drew her a fraction closer. “I have a request.”
She looked up at him. “Oh?”
“I should like,” he said, perfectly seriously, “To paint you again.”
Jane blinked, her cheeks growing warm, just like she knew he would like.
“Thomas, again?” she sighed in a teasing manner. “My love – what will you do with all of those paintings? You are building quite the collection.”
