“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.
No fairy godmother to rescue her or a prince to sweep her away, either.
Merely Jemmah’s own haughty and proud mother, who hadn’t a qualm about voicing her partiality for Adelinda. And why shouldn’t she prefer the daughter who was practically a mirror image of herself, rather than the offspring resembling her detested, unfaithful spouse?
“I’ll teach you.” Dandridge stepped forward and lightly grasped her hand.
She’d forgotten to don her gloves, but he didn’t appear to notice her work-worn fingers, and Jemmah refused to be self-conscious about them. Not now anyway. Later she might examine the dry, reddened skin, the roughened cuticles, the overly-short nails, and her face would flame with renewed chagrin.
“I really shouldn’t. I’ll tromp your toes.”
But she would dance, for being in Jules’s arms, even for a few stolen minutes was worth Mama’s assured disapproval and Adelinda’s certain jealousy, as well as the resulting unpleasantness should they find out. The experience, committed to memory, was even worth the risk of scandal.
Never mind all that.
Jemmah melted into his embrace and placed her hand upon his firm shoulder, the muscles rippling beneath her fingertips.
His smile, broad and delighted, exposed straight, white teeth and ignited every plane of his rugged face with joy. Rarely had she seen him smile from sincere happiness, and the transformation in his visage, temporarily robbed Jemmah of her breath.
She managed to restart her lungs and ask, “What will we dance to?”
“Listen.” Jules tilted his tawny head, his hair the color of ripe wheat at sunset.
Lilting strains from the string quartet floated from the ballroom. The glorious music, enchanting and irresistible, almost fairytale like, nudged her few remaining, crumbling barriers aside.
“It’s a waltz.” Jules planted a broad palm on her spine—Oh, crumb cakes, what utter deliciousness—and cupped her hand in his other.
“Just follow my lead, Jem.”
A waltz was most risqué and hardly acceptable in proper circles, which was probably why Aunt Theo permitted the dance. She, too, liked to push acceptability’s limitations, one of the things Jemmah adored about her audacious aunt.
Jules proved an adroit partner, and in a few moments, Jemmah had caught on to the simple steps and the one-two-three rhythm.
Much too aware of the broad chest mere inches from her face, she rummaged around for something to say. “I had the privilege of meeting your charming niece, Lady Sabrina, in Green Park last month.”
“Out for her daily constitutional with her governess, no doubt. Sabrina likes to sketch the landscape. She’s asked to take lessons.” His palm pressed into Jemmah’s spine, sending her nerves jockeying. “I’ve been meaning to ask Theo if she could recommend someone.”
“I’m fond of drawing myself. Papa taught me.”
His thumb brushed the swell of her ribs, and a shiver—at least that was what she thought the melting, buttery feeling was—capered across her hips. Mentally schooling herself, she summoned her composure.
“I’m not gifted by any means, but I am fairly accomplished and would be happy to teach her what I know.”
“I think she’d like that.”
Jules edged Jemmah closer until his thighs brushed hers, and his hand upon her back induced the most tantalizing frisson down her spinal column—tiny tremors which sent delicious, warm sparks that slowly swirled outward, until her entire body came alive with the tingling sensation.
“I’ve missed our friendship—missed you—Jemmah. I didn’t realize how very much until just now.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
And she had.
Unbearably.
Particularly since Papa died and she hadn’t anyone to act as a buffer between Mama’s harshness and Adelinda’s cruelty.
Small wonder Jemmah hadn’t become bitter or hadn’t come to hate and resent her mother and sister. More than anything, their conduct saddened her.
How could they treat anyone, but most especially a family member, so spitefully?
Jules scent, crisp, slightly musky, perhaps even a suggestion of cloves, surrounded her.
She stood so near him, that even in the subdued candlelight, she could see the faintest shadow of his whiskers along his jaw, and when her gaze met his, slightly bewildered, simmering topaz eyes regarded her.
His regard sank to her mouth, and the peculiar stirrings of earlier burgeoned once more.
Only stronger, more insistent.
The faint music faded into the background as he dipped his head lower, than lower still, until his mouth—oh, his lovely, warm, soft, yet firm mouth—brushed hers.
In that instant, Jemmah was lost, utterly, irreversibly, and unreservedly.
She rose up on her toes, entwined her arms around Jules’s sturdy neck, and kissed him with the abandon of a desperate woman seizing her one and only chance to kiss the man she’d loved for years.
He groaned deep in his throat, the sound primitive and animalistic, and all the more arousing because of its baseness. Using his tongue, he trailed the seam between her lips, teasing her mouth open, and the headiest of sensations spiraled through every fiber of her being.
Their tongues danced together, mating in an age-old cadence, while thousands of moonbeams ignited behind her eyes.
“Jemmah, my sweet, precious Jem,” he murmured against her neck, his voice thick and husky, the sound sending delicious tremors to her toes. “Tell me I may call upon you, tomorrow.”
“Dandridge!”
Insistent scratching on the locked door had Jemmah springing away from him.
“I know you’re in there,” a feminine voice all but hissed. “We must talk. This is no way to treat the next Duchess of Dandridge.”
The next duchess?
But how could that be?
Jemmah touched her fingertips to her throbbing mouth and backed away from Jules.
She could still taste him on her tongue, feel his powerful arms encircling her, smell his manly scent yet in her nostrils. How glorious his kisses had been. And more fool she, for having allowed it, for now she craved more.
Intuition told her, she’d never, ever have enough of him.
“Dandridge. Answer me.”