She extended them to Adelinda.
“I believe you are in more need of these than I am, if you think your sister is inferior to you in any way, but most especially in comeliness.”
In a soundless challenge, the dowager’s eyebrows crept upward as well.
They glared at each other, brows elevated and eyes shooting daggers in a silent battle.
At the imagery of Lady Lockhart’s and Adelinda’s eyebrows jousting, Jemmah muffled a giggle.
“I simply cannot believe this treachery.” Adelinda averted her gaze first, and in her typical harrying fashion, turned an accusatory scowl on Jemmah. “How long have you been scheming behind my back, Germ? Worming your way into her ladyship’s good graces so you could steal this opportunity from me?”
“You know as well as I, Adelinda, that I rarely am permitted to attend these functions, and I haven’t had the pleasure of Lady Lockhart’s company in months. And—”
“One year, two months, and ... ah ...” Lady Lockhart scrunched her eyes as she examined the ceiling, her mouth working silently. “...twelve days. Valentine’s Day last year, it was.”
She veered her knowing gaze at Jemmah. “You spent most of the afternoon hiding in the library.”
How on earth had she remembered that?
Mama seemed to rouse herself from her gawking stupor and touched Adelinda’s forearm. “We’ll discuss this later, darling.”
After taking a long pull from her teacup, God knew she needed it after a confrontation with Adelinda and Mama, the dowager bestowed a satisfied smile on Jemmah. “After tea tomorrow, we’ll need to see to acquiring you a wardrobe suitable for a young woman of your new station.”
“But... but…” Jealousy contorting her face, and seemingly oblivious to the small crowd that had gathered, hanging onto each recklessly-spoken word, Adelinda planted her hands on her hips and confronted their mother.
“Mama, tell Germ she can’t. You won’t allow it.”
Jemmah straightened.
No. No. No.
They would not steal this opportunity from her.
Mama opened her mouth, but before she could affirm Adelinda, Aunt Theo’s voice cut the air, firm and unrelenting.
“Oh, she’ll allow it, all right.”
They swung their attention to Aunt Theo, her approach having gone unnoticed due to Adelinda’s unbecoming show of temper and the semi-circle of intrigued spectators blocking their view.
Smiling at her guests, Aunt Theo angled her head before suggesting, “I’m sure you’ll allow me a moment for a private family conversation.”
As Aunt Theo cordially looped her arms in Mama’s and Adelinda’s elbows, the onlookers scattered like roaches in sunlight. Drawing her mother and sister nearer, Aunt Theo dipped her head, her face granite hard.
“You’ve overstepped the bounds, Theodora. I shall determine which of my daughters is most suited for the position.” Mama slid Adelinda a smug, sideway glance.
“As I said, Belinda, you will allow Jemmah this honor. Because if you refuse,” Aunt Theo directed her wrath squarely at Adelinda, “this selfish, spoiled bratling will feel the full effects of my displeasure, and I assure you, after I’m done, a haberdasher won’t consider Adelinda for his wife.”
Sighing, feeling more content than he had in—well, in months, perhaps years—Jules untied his cravat, and after tossing it atop the French baroque table behind the sofa, sank onto the charcoal damask-covered cushions.
He’d bid a sleepy-eyed Sabrina goodnight, then retreated to his study to contemplate the evening’s remarkable events.
One specific incident, that was.
Stumbling upon Miss Jemmah Dament, and in an instant his life had changed.
He touched two fingertips to his lips, not surprised to find a cock-eyed smile bending his mouth. In the last two hours, he’d smiled more than in the past two years, and his providential encounter with Jemmah had set him on a new course.
By all the chirping crickets playing a grand symphony beyond the study’s French window, a path he eagerly anticipated.
He’d found his diamond in the rough.
Perhaps not so rough, except for her humble attire.
Jemmah would polish up brilliantly, and then those who’d ignored her, overlooked her loveliness, would grind their teeth in vexation.
She’d blossomed into a remarkable and sensuous young woman. Tall, lithe, and boasting delightful, rounded womanly curves, two of which had taunted him unmercifully above her bodice, her features and form had embedded themselves in his memory.
A self-depreciatory, yet joy-filled chuckle, burgeoned in his chest then rumbled forth, filling the silent, fire-lit room.
Mere hours ago, he’d avowed himself indifferent to marriage, and now, he calculated just how soon he might take the charming, witty, a trifle shy and awkward, but wholly delectable and precious Jemmah Dament to wife.
If someone asked him how he could be so absolutely positive he should do so, he couldn’t have answered them with logic and reason, for neither had anything whatsoever to do with the giddiness—yes, by all the cigars at Whites’s, giddiness—humming through him.
He just knew.
Simple as that.
Not a damned lucid thing about it.
Like wild creatures recognize their offspring, a river discerns what course its waters must flow, wildfowls’ instincts urge them to fly south for the winter, or even the sun understanding that it must rise every morning and then slowly descend each eve—
He knew.
Drowsy, content, and resolute, Jules shut his eyes and daydreamed about when he’d see his precious, sky-eyed Jemmah again.
Was tomorrow too soon to propose?
“Miss Jemmah. You needs wake up. Now. The mistress wants you to run an errand.”
At the frantic whisper and Mary Pimble’s small hand insistently shaking her shoulder, Jemmah cracked an eye open. A bit of drool leaking from her mouth’s corner and her head resting on her forearms, she surveyed the assortment of papers, pens, and drawings scattered mere inches before her line of vision.
She must’ve fallen asleep over her sketches while trying to decide which to take with her to show Jules at tea today.
After wiping her mouth, she yawned and blinked sleepily.
By all the brandy in Britain, no one could fault her for her for dozing off.
After all, the clock had struck two before she’d managed to undress Mama and Adelinda, see their sheets warmed, and their chamber fires stoked, the whole while subjected to their rancorous litanies of why Adelinda ought to have reaped the dowager’s favor, not Jemmah.
Their mutual fury over Aunt Theo’s blunt threat to cease all monetary support had nearly sent Mama into apoplexy, and for the first time ever, Adelinda’s face had mottled bright red as she sobbed and ranted into her abused pillow.
Jemmah arched her stiff back and stretched her arms overhead, almost touching the slanting ceiling’s rough boards with her fingertips.
“A missive arrived for you, too. I hid it in my pocket.” Her eyes wide and curious, Pimble whispered, “It’s from a duke.”