Page 56 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

The plain fact was that nothing would come of it. He did not want to marry her. He wanted to find Laura, and once she was home safe, he would probably pay no attention at all to Thalia ever again. Why should he? He was not interested in matrimony. And if he was, he would not be interested in a woman like her.

Getting her hopes up would only result in hurt. Worse still, if Christian suspected she was growing over-fond of him, he might choose to pull back, terrified of being trapped into marriage.

Not that anybody could trap a man like him into doing something he did not want to do.

“I suppose so,” Thalia whispered.

Augusta’s face relaxed a little. “Well, that is a fine start. We shall wait and see what happens. Your brother has certainly noticed, and I suspect he is letting Mr. Pembroke’s suit fall by the wayside a little. There’s no comparing a man like that with the Duke of Thornhill. However,” she added with a wince, “tonight is Lady Pembroke’s party, so I daresay there’ll be no avoiding him. But if you have a man to consider, then—” She broke off as footsteps echoed along the hall.

Jonathan shouldered open the door, not bothering to knock. He glanced at each of them, visibly annoyed.

“Are you taking tea? We have to leave at once! We shall be late. Come along, Augusta, I expected better of you. And you, Thalia, you had better hurry. And don’t wear that ugly lemon shawl. Wear the thin blue silk.”

“I recommended the lemon,” Augusta murmured softly.

“The blue will look better,” Jonathan decreed.

Turning on his heel, he stamped out of the room, leaving the ladies to follow.

CHAPTER 16

The party was to take place mostly outside. Somehow, that made it more claustrophobic, not less. Any escape would be more noticeable with people more spread out.

Pembroke Abbey, a crumbling old structure which was said to have more ghosts than any other house in London—including Lady Pembroke herself—loomed behind them. Christian had attended several parties there, and they were not often pleasant. Still, as a fixture in London Society, Lady Pembroke’s invitations were not to be snubbed.

Nor was her son.

Mr. Pembroke slunk around the garden, squinting up at the sky as if he expected the fireworks to begin at any moment. A few brave women approached him, and one determined—or desperate—mama.

Most of them, however, seemed keen to make a beeline for Christian.

“Your Grace, Your Grace, are you fond of watercolors?” chirped a beribboned young lady at his elbow.

He blinked down at her, trying desperately to recall her name. Was it Miss Polly Patterson, or was it Petunia? There were two Miss Pattersons with barely a year between them. The wretched girls looked almost identical with their spanieleque flaxen-blonde ringlets and their profusion of colored ribbons, but they flew into a rage if they were addressed incorrectly.

With their flat, childish faces, lisps, and boxy figures, they could easily have been taken for many years younger. The girls were twenty, he had been told by somebody, but they appeared no older than fourteen or fifteen.

Well, some gentlemen might like such childish looks, but Christian was not one of them.

He discreetly shifted his arm, dislodging what he assumed was Miss Polly’s grip on his elbow. “I… I have no strong opinions on watercolors,” he managed.

Mrs. Patterson, who looked like an aged version of her daughters, lingered a little way off, watching him with sharp eyes. A gnarled old woman, Mrs. Drummer, stood beside her daughter, watching with resignation.

“Well, I should show you mine sometimes,” Miss Polly lisped, blinking her doll-blue eyes.

“He doesn’t want to see your daubings, Poll!” Miss Petunia sniffed, tossing her bright blue ribbons. “Yours are so very ugly. My paintings, on the other hand, are quite something. You’ll understand when you see them. She only paints landscapes, but I paint seascapes. They’re entirely more elevated.”

“Ugh!” Miss Polly huffed. “Not at all. Your Grace, her paintings are just ugly blue-and-white waves. No depth, nothing interesting. If you would pay us a call, you’ll see.”

Ah, to the meat of the matter, then.

On cue, Mrs. Patterson surged forward, seizing at his wrist. “Yes, Your Grace, you really must pay us a call!” she urged, beaming. “Shall we set a date?”

Time to pull back.

Christian cleared his throat, keeping a smile on his face, and disentangled his arm from Mrs. Patterson’s grasping hands.

“I am afraid that you have me mistaken for somebody else, madam,” he said gently. “We have not been introduced. Perhaps this is simply a case of mistaken identity, do you think?”