Page 32 of The Mistletoe Duke

“But you didn’t want me to settle on one of them, did you?”

Her innocent look intensified. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Jonathan, you are talking in riddles.”

“Am I? Who is the woman you really want me to consider. Just tell me. It will save some time.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shifted her intense attention to the pleats in her skirt.

“Is it the Malbury girl? What’s her name? Portico?”

“Portia. And no. She’s spotty.”

“Drake’s daughter? Petunia?”

“Priscilla. And no. She’s mannish.”

“All right. Who then?”

The dowager sniffed. “I have no intention of choosing your wife for you, and frankly, I am insulted at the allusion that I do. You’re a grown man and you can choose your own wife. Now, come back to the party. You’re going to play cards and you’re going to like it.”

With a command like that, he could hardly disobey.

But he took his whisky with him.

* * *

Truth be told, once the card games started, the party was tolerable. Probably because a lot of the guests left at that time to go to bed. And probably because Jonathan managed to be seated with Mattingly, St. Clare, and Everton. And, as they all knew, Everton was an easy mark.

Pity they weren’t playing for money.

For her part, Meg sat with Susana and Christian and Hisdick. There was far too much laughter coming from that side of the room. It almost ruined his concentration.

But at least, from this vantage point, he could keep his eye on her, and he found, as long as he could keep his eye on her, he could remain calm.

It wasn’t until very late that Meg stood, Susana with her, and said their good nights.

Jonathan wanted, quite desperately, to follow. But he could hardly do that, so he stayed where he was and finished his hand. Christian and Hisdick wandered over to their table and co-opted some empty chairs, and the men—the only ones left in the room—gave up on cards and settled for a nice conversation. With whisky.

Oh, it was all so pleasant.

Until Mattingly said, “I say, Devon. Thank you for inviting me. I can’t tell you how taken I am with Miss Chalmers. Arsy yarsey, head over heels.”

And something bitter shifted in Jonathan’s gut.

“Oh, yes,” St. Clare said, with a glint in his eye. “She is lovely. Her brother was George Chalmers, yes? I remember him from Eton. Good sort.”

His glass was empty. He cast around for a fresh bottle.

“A shame what the new baron did to her,” Mattingly continued. “The least he could have done was see her settled.”

St. Clare grinned. “Not that I’m complaining. She’s here for us now.”

No. No, she wasn’t.

“I plan to ask her for a waltz tomorrow night.” Mattingly was an annoying arse.