Page 10

What possible harm was there in that?

They were much like a diamond and a lump of coal.

He the former; she the latter.

The gem’s polished radiance and brilliance, its innate and intricate beauty, drew attention without trying, while the grubby fuel was only noticed and needed if a room or stove grew cool.

Speaking of cool, the parlor had grown quite nippy, and Jemmah rubbed her bare arms.

How long had she slept anyway?

She examined the mantel clock.

Only two hours?

Surely it has been longer.

She’d needed the rest after staying awake until a quarter past four this morning finishing Adelinda’s gown. But now, she truly must go. Even if Mama and Adelinda hadn’t wondered where she’d got off to, Aunt Theo might.

“Please forgive my churlishness, Your Grace. I assure you, it’s not typical. I didn’t sleep much last night, and I find these sorts of assemblies trying, even under the best of circumstances.”

Dressed in castoffs, unqualified to dance with any degree of skill, and aware she sorely lacked her sister’s grace and beauty, social events proved excruciating.

Dandridge didn’t respond, and to cover the awkward silence, Jemmah bent and tidied the pillows she’d mussed. Satisfied the room appeared as it had when she entered, and that she’d done whatever she could to apologize for her peevish behavior, she swiveled toward the door.

Eager to escape, she hoped to find another cranny to lurk in until Mama deemed it time to depart.

Likely hours from now.

“Would you like to dance?”

His soft request halted her mid-step, and jaw slack, she flung an are-you-serious-or-mocking-me-glance over her shoulder.

He extended his hand, the movement pulling his black tailcoat taut over enticingly broad shoulders and a rounded bicep. The gold signet ring upon his little finger gleamed, as did the jeweled lion’s head cuff link at his wrist.

His unbearably tender smile caused Jemmah’s blood to sidle through her veins rather like honey-sweetened tea—rich and warm and strong—even as another sensation embedded behind her ribs, slowly burrowing its way deeper—and dangerously deeper, yet.

Dandridge was dangerous for her peace of mind.

Dangerous for the life she’d resigned herself to.

Staring hard into his eyes’ unfathomable depths, Jemmah tried to gauge his sincerity and motives.

“One dance, Miss Jemmah. I’ve never had the honor of partnering you.”

More pity directed her way, or a genuinely kind, if somewhat irregular gift?

She might be able to manage an English country dance with reasonable finesse, but a cotillion or quadrille?

Utterly impossible.

“Your Grace, I told you, I don’t know how.”

More shame scorched her cheeks—probably red as crushed cherries—but she wouldn’t break eye contact.

There hadn’t been funds for both her and Adelinda to learn. Though Jemmah had begged to be permitted to watch her sister’s instruction, Mama refused her even that. She’d taken to peeking through the drawing room window until her mother caught her one day.

Ever after, Jemmah had been confined to her room during dance lessons, rather like in the tale of Cendrillon, except in her situation, there was no evil stepmother.