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Jules whistled as he strode the several blocks to Theo’s house, his boots clacking in a comfortable rhythm upon the damp pavement.
Given the cannon-gray clouds suspended across the horizon, perhaps not the wisest choice. A more sensible man might’ve ridden or taken his curricle, but not only did he enjoy the exercise, he had an ulterior motive for choosing to walk.
Theo had sent her carriage for Jemmah, which meant she’d return home the same way.
His conscience chastised him.
Conniving wretch.
Righto, indeed, I am, Jules agreed cheerily.
He intended to accompany her and ask her mother for permission to pay his addresses. The idea had taken root last night, and by this morning was firmly entrenched.
Most likely, in fact, he’d wager on it, Mrs. Dament would initially object. However, no caring parent would deny their daughter a duchy, for that was Jules’s eventual intent. And that he believed, was fairly certain, truth be told, he was halfway—all the way?— to being in love with Jemmah already, well ... that was just a tremendous bonus.
On the ride, he might very well hold Jemmah’s hand or even pinch another savory kiss or two. Or a dozen.
At the provocative notion, his nether regions twitched. Again.
Worse than a frog on August-heated pavement, by Jove.
Since last night, he’d been hard as the cast iron statues gracing the corner pillars of Theo’s grand house too. He hadn’t slept more than fifteen uninterrupted minutes without his aroused, disgruntled body pulling him from slumber, demanding release.
Touching his hat’s brim, he acknowledged acquaintances he encountered along the route, earning him several wide-eyed, stupefied expressions.
London was unaccustomed to the Duke of Dandridge sporting a Cheshire’s broad smile or tipping his hat in a cordial manner. The spring in his step and the idiotic grin carved on his face took even him by surprise.
Jemmah had done this.
In a twinkling, his childhood friend, now turned into a gloriously lovely woman, had unlocked his dormant heart. Had him casting off his melancholic shroud and regarding the world with a newfound, optimistic view.
Seeing her again last night...
Everything had become as clear to him as newly-polished crystal.
Jemmah was what he desired. She always had been.
That was why he’d been so drawn to Annabel. Blonde and blue-eyed, she’d resembled Jemmah, even boasting a similar temperament.
His spirit, his intuition, whatever part of him that acknowledged Jemmah had been branded upon his soul, had tried to tell him that very thing.
Only he’d been stupidly deaf and blind to the promptings—hadn’t recognized them, hadn’t even known what he craved until she’d drowsily smiled up at him, the full radiance of her smile tilting his world topsy-turvy.
Then as if the narrow crack in the doorway he’d been peering through with one eye suddenly sprang wide open, he could see everything, down to each perfect, minute detail.
And yes, by God, he savored the implausibility, relished the paradox, laughed out loud at the glorious coincidence that drove him to slip into the very room she slept within.
“You’re looking especially chipper today, Dandridge,” drawled a familiar bored voice. “Did you enjoy the ball after all?”
Pennington, blast his bunions.
Jules met Pennington’s and Sutcliffe’s amused gazes.
“I’m surprised to see either of you about. Thought you were off to the gaming hells after leaving Lady Lockhart’s last night.”
“We did.” Sutcliffe cocked his head, regarding Jules for a lengthy moment. “Pennington, did my eyes deceive me or was Dandridge smiling? You know that queer thing where his mouth twitches upward occasionally?”
He veered Pennington a falsely-confused glance. “The phenomenon occurs so rarely, I cannot be sure.”
