Scrape. Scrape.
“I saw that Dament chit batting her stubby eyelashes at you. The duchess and your uncles won’t approve. I don’t know how the Daments are even permitted in respectable circles. They smell of the shop.”
The scorching glower Jules hurled at the voice behind the door would’ve ignited wet wood.
“Insufferable, long-winded baggage,” he muttered, hardly above a whisper.
Sacred sausages, Mama would fly into a dudgeon if she ever learned Jules had kissed Jemmah. And she’d kissed him back. And it had been the most wonderful of things. And she’d do it again without compunction or remorse.
And by horse feathers, she would let him call on her.
She would.
Well, she’d suggest he meet her here for tea. She daren’t risk no more.
But, if he was truly to marry Miss Milbourne...
No, something smelled to high heaven, even if she didn’t know exactly what it was, like the time a creature of some sort had died in her attic bedchamber wall.
No man who’d shown such honor, even as a reserved child, grew into an unscrupulous lout. Jules was loyal to his impressive backbone.
She’d bet on it. If she had anything of worth to wager.
The least she could do was to hear his explanation, especially since Aunt Theo had happily shared—actually clapped her hands and tittered, and Aunt Theo did not titter—that he had refused the match with Miss Milbourne, despite the furor it caused within his family.
Truly, his availability was the only reason Mama agreed to come tonight, and had kept Jemmah up to the wee hours sewing—to thrust Adelinda beneath Jules’s nose in hopes of garnering his attention.
And how could he not notice Adelinda’s outward loveliness?
However, her beauty masked an entirely different woman inwardly, and Jemmah ought to know. More often than not, she was the recipient of her sister’s calculated unkindness.
Nothing, nevertheless, would deter Mama from assuring Adelinda make a brilliant match before Season’s end, and dear Jules had a giant target on his broad back they’d set their conniving sights on.
Jemmah ought to warn him, but surely a man of his station was aware the Marriage Mart considered him prime cattle. A somewhat degrading analogy, but accurate in its crudeness, nonetheless.
With his aristocratic profile yet angled toward the creature scratching at the door, Jemmah permitted herself a leisurely perusal. From his gleaming shoes to his neatly trimmed side whiskers, several shades darker than his hair, he emanated pure masculine beauty.
True, his nose might be slightly too prominent and his forehead and chin a trifle too bold to be considered classically handsome, but his was a strong face—an honorable, trustworthy countenance.
All the more reason she couldn’t allow Mama or Adelinda to sink their talons into him.
Jemmah just couldn’t.
He deserved someone as kind and thoughtful as he.
Not a selfish, vain girl who cared nothing for him, and who would—Jemmah didn’t harbor the slightest doubt—make him wretchedly miserable.
As unpleasant a miss as she was, Miss Milbourne was preferable to Adelinda.
Jemmah’s stomach flopped sickeningly, and she swallowed. What a nauseating notion, rather like eating moldy, maggoty pudding.
Adelinda and Miss Milbourne didn’t merit him, and somehow, instinct perhaps, or because Jemmah had loved Jules so long—couldn’t remember when she hadn’t, truth to tell—she simply knew, neither woman would make him happy.
His Annabel Bright might have, for she seemed gentle and kind the one time Jemmah met her.
That awful, unforgettable day her heart had splintered into pieces like stomped upon eggshells when Jemmah learned Jules was to marry the doll-like in her perfection, dainty, and altogether exquisite young lady.
And when Annabel had died, Jemmah had wept, great gasping sobs into her pillow at night—cried for Jules’s devastation and heartache.
She couldn’t fathom weeping like that if Miss Milbourne, or even Adelinda had been the one to die, and Jemmah winced inwardly at her uncharacteristic spite.
Thank goodness, to her knowledge, Aunt Theo’s invitation to tea didn’t include Miss Milbourne, and because Mama barely tolerated her sister-in-law, more often than not, she turned down the invitations as well.
Adelinda seldom rose before noon and had no more interest in taking tea with their aunt than cleaning grates or chamber pots.
Neither of which she’d ever done, unlike Jemmah.
She couldn’t help but observe that her aunt’s feelings toward Mama seemed quite mutual. In fact, Jemmah had suspected for years, but most especially since Papa’s death, that her Aunt Theo’s cordial mien and continued hospitable offers were for Jemmah’s benefit.
That, and also so Mama wouldn’t put an end to Jemmah’s visits.
Which was as unlikely as Mama suddenly favoring Jemmah.
She also knew full well that Aunt Theo paid Mama a monthly allowance intended to assist with the girls’ needs.
Jemmah never saw any of it, not a shilling.
In fact, when she’d asked for new stockings for tonight, she’d received a resounding slap for her impertinence. The nubby, mended stockings rubbing against her toes, as well her tender cheek were other reasons she’d sought sanctuary in Aunt Theo’s parlor.
For certain, Jemmah’s toes would sport blisters by morning.
Some weeks, tea with Aunt Theo’s and hearing her aunt’s encouragements were all that kept Jemmah from wallowing in self-pity or having a fit of the blue devils.
Treated scarcely better at home than the Daments’ maid-of-all work, Mary Pimble, Jemmah treasured the time at Aunt Theo’s. They were the only hours free from insults or demands that she perform some chore or task for Mama or Adelinda.
“Dandridge.” The voice rose to an irritated screech on the last syllable.
Tap, tap, tappety-tap.
“Open this door!”
TAP
“I must insist.”
Miss Milbourne might be admired for her persistence.
If it didn’t border on unhinged.
Jemmah dipped her head in the entrance’s direction, and her voice, a mere vestige of sound, asked, “Have you an arrangement with her?”
No need to ask who her was, since Miss Milbourne continued to hiss and scratch like a feral cat sealed in a whisky barrel.
“I most emphatically do not. Miss Milbourne has convinced herself that I shall concede to my mother’s and uncles’ preference, but she’s gravely mistaken.” Jules grasped Jemmah’s hand, gently yet firmly enough she couldn’t pull away without some effort. With the forefinger of his other hand, he traced her jaw. “I mean what I said, dear one. Please allow me to call upon you tomorrow. I’ve missed you more than I can say.”
“Your Grace—”
“Might you address me as Jules, or Dandridge if you prefer, when we are alone? Please?”
He quirked his mouth boyishly, and she couldn’t resist an answering bend of her lips.
It had always been so. She was clay, soft and malleable, in his hands.
“Precious, Jemmah, perhaps you’d prefer a ride in Hyde Park tomorrow?”