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“Betrothed?” sputtered Miss Milbourne and Miss Dament in horrified unison.

Each appeared to have swallowed wriggling spiders whole.

Jules quashed his laugh, but couldn’t contain the slow, satisfied upsweep of his mouth.

He bent his neck and murmured in Jemmah’s ear.

“I beg your pardon for announcing it this way.”

The Uncles stood slack-jawed and dazed, too.

Zounds, their expressions were priceless.

Jemmah dimpled and lifted a shoulder, whispering back, “I rather enjoyed the results.”

Jules did laugh then, a mirth-filled explosion from his middle, which drew the attention of two lads chasing a pug with a ball in its mouth.

God, he loved her unique perspective on things.

But so much for the romantic proposal he’d intended within the arched arbor facing yonder pond. Inside his coat pocket an emerald-cut, rare blue diamond, a shade darker than Jemmah’s eyes, lay nestled in its ivory velvet box.

He’d arranged a picnic luncheon complete with champagne in the quaint retreat. Damn his eyes, he’d even hired musicians to play in the background and a boatman to make sure the pond’s many swans paddled by in a timely fashion.

His precious Jem warranted such regal treatment.

“You can’t marry the duke, Jemmah.” The elder Miss Dament pointed a shaky finger at her sister, her voice wavering every bit as much as the wobbly digit extended toward her sister. “You must have Mama’s consent. And, she’ll never give it. Never.”

“Then I’ll wait until I’m of age. Or we’ll elope.” Jemmah’s quiet, confident reply sent her sister into high dudgeon.

Face puckered and turning the most spectacular shade of puce, Miss Adelinda fisted her hands and growled. Actually growled, before giving them her back and stomping across the green.

Perkins followed, but not before daring one last lewd appraisal of Jemmah.

He’d bamboozled Adelinda, the imprudent chit.

The club Perkins owned was nothing more than a low-end gaming hell and whorehouse. If the girl had taken up with the likes of him, she was thoroughly ruined. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be spreading her legs for his paying customers.

Jules couldn’t even buy her respectability now, which only made his case for winning Jemmah stronger. Mrs. Dament couldn’t count on her eldest daughter making a suitable match and directing funds her mother’s way.

He could, however, pay them a substantial sum to retire to the country.

Permanently.

If they agreed to never bother Jemmah again.

Yes, that was just what he’d do. As soon as he returned home. Mrs. Dament would have no choice but to agree now.

“Elope? Preposterous,” blustered Uncle Darius, finally finding his tongue, while Uncle Leopold waggled his head up and down like a marionette on a string.

“Utterly absurd. What would people say?” Leopold managed at last.

“Then I suggest you put your support behind Miss Dament and me, Uncles. And convince Mother to do the same. For I shall have no other, and all attempts to dissuade me will be met with swift recourse. Do I make myself clear?”

They nodded, albeit grudgingly. And then, mumbling something about needing to count cigars or some such rot, they departed, their tawny heads bent near. Every few steps, they tossed a befuddled and disgruntled glance at Jules.

He didn’t give a fig whether they approved or not.

He smiled down into Jemmah’s upturned, amazingly composed face. Lambasted thrice in ten minutes and here she stood, the epitome of grace and poise, beaming with love for him—for him!