Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The twins spilled into her bedroom, dressed in party frocks . “You aren’t dressed yet!” Horry, a vision in yellow, said accusingly.
“I’m not joining you for the dancing. You know perfectly well how to behave yourselves in company—you no longer need me looking over your shoulder.”
“But we want you there!” Penelope, in pale blue, said. “Besides, we heard Cousin Brat say he wanted the first dance.”
“I’m not going to dance with anybody,” Jenny said. “It’s not my place. If I come down, I’ll sit with the dowagers and watch, but it seems unnecessary.”
“Jenny.” Horry, the more strong-minded of the two, came over to her. “Don’t you realize Brat is attracted to you? I’ve never seen him like this. If you play your cards right, you might end up our cousin and we wouldn’t have to lose you.”
“Trust me, it’s not marriage your cousin has on his mind.”
“Well, then, have a fling with him!” she said impatiently. “Flirt with him, dance with him, and then leave him flat. You’ve always told us not to be prey to gentlemens’ whims, and you could do the same thing.”
“A governess has to be above reproach,” Jenny replied. “And where did you get such ideas? I thought I taught you better than that.”
“You taught us to use our brains and not be a slave to society,” Penelope piped up. “I would just die if Brat looked at me the way he looks at you.”
“I’m staying here tonight,” she said firmly.
But no, she wasn’t.
She could tell the girls a flat no, telling their mother was a different matter entirely. “You’ll just sit in the back and make certain the girls are behaving themselves. Not that I worry about my two precious babes, but I want to be sure they dance enough and I’m counting on you to see to it.”
Since Annis’s precious babes seldom caught their mother’s attention, Jenny took her orders with outward acquiescence and inward seething.
She dressed in a sober gown of deep maroon, a color she’d never particularly liked, and fastened her hair in a tight knot.
If she was to fade into the background, which she certainly hoped to do, she reminded herself, then she would dress the part.
The salon was crowded with the guests milling around, and the adjoining parlor was cleared for dancing.
She estimated there were about twelve or fifteen strangers, none of which should matter to her except that Miranda made sure to introduce her to every one of them, mostly elderly squires and their wives and offspring. Only one person stuck in her mind.
Miss Caroline Ridgely was, to put it bluntly, almost excessively beautiful.
She had a halo of blond curls, limpid blue eyes, a cupid bow’s mouth, and the kind of trim figure to make men drool.
There was no sign of Brat in the salon, but Jenny was content to wait.
He would take one look at the glorious Miss Ridgely and forget all about her, and she could enjoy the rest of her time here in peace and quiet.
Miss Ridgely seemed to have the same idea. She treated the introduction with disinterested politeness, then turned back to her hostess. “James will be here, won’t he?”
“He wouldn’t miss it.”
“Because he owes me a dance from last Christmas, and I intend to collect.”
Jenny decided then and there that she did not like Miss Ridgely, even if the girl was saving her from…what exactly was she saving her from? Brat’s flirtations. His sly innuendos. The look in his dark eyes when they turned in her direction.
But Miranda had turned back to Jenny, a sunny smile on her face. “You must dance as well, Miss Lancaster. I’m certain you won’t lack for partners.”
At least she’d lack for a certain black sheep. Let the divine Miss Ridgely see if she could handle him.
But the evening went on and there was no sign of the scion of the house, and Jenny’s agitation grew.
He was hardly going to be distracted if he didn’t even see Miss Ridgely, and she’d just about given up hope when he appeared at the end of the room at a little past ten.
His eyes were glued to Miss Ridgely as she waltzed divinely in the arms of a spotty young gentleman.
Jenny had danced a fair amount herself, with the spotty young gentleman, with the landowners and fathers and elderly widowers, one of which was even worse than Brat in his attentions.
She was dancing with an arthritic baron when the prickling on her skin told her Brat arrived, and she watched as his eyes devoured Miss Ridgely.
And then he pulled his gaze away and surveyed the rest of the room, seemingly bored.
Ducking her head, she let the wheezing old baron steer her around, doing her best to keep them lost in the crowd of dancers.
If Brat saw her, he would no longer be interested in a plain governess in a shabby maroon dress, but he already had his partner picked for the night.
She just hoped she wouldn’t have to listen to Miss Ridgeway’s high-pitched, annoying laugh.
But then he was there, directly in front of her, with no visions of Miss Ridgely dancing in his eyes.
“My turn, I believe,” he murmured, and deftly snatched her from the baron, who muttered something like “whippersnapper” as she was pulled into Brat’s arms. And they were out of the dance floor, away from the corners and the shadows, and she felt as if she were flying.
She should have known Brat would be an impeccable dancer—too often had she watched his grace and the way he held himself.
He whirled her among the dancers, his hand on her back, burning a hole through the dark red wool, and as she twirled by she saw Annis Rohan’s face stiff with outrage.
This wasn’t being immured among the dowagers, she thought, and smiled.
She had no idea why Brat had sought her out, not when she had such a glorious rival, but she wasn’t going to think about it, she was going to simply let go and enjoy moving through the crowds, floating, his body so dangerously close to hers, as he steered her toward the door at the end of the room.
And the mistletoe. She’d been acutely aware of it, and had survived a number of hearty kisses on her cheek by her elderly admirers, but surely Brat wouldn’t dare. He probably wasn’t even aware of the tiny berries hanging over the entrance.
She was wrong. He danced her through the portal, so quickly and smoothly that she was scarcely aware of it, and to her shock, she felt his lips brush her forehead. “Mistletoe,” he murmured, and waltzed her into the candlelit hallway.
She couldn’t very well protest—it was over even before she realized it was happening. The music came into the hallway quite clearly, and he spun her around, shifting her a little closer to his body, as they moved to the windows overlooking the gardens.
His lips brushed her cheek. “Mistletoe,” he said, and kept on dancing.
Miranda had filled the place with mistletoe—she’d been lucky she’d avoided it so far. Her luck had run out. Or maybe the very opposite. He kissed her eyelids as they fluttered closed. “Mistletoe,” he whispered, and moved on.
She should protest, pull herself out of his arms, but she was entranced, breathless, unable to do more than move to the music guided by the gentle touch of his hand as he led her through the steps.
They danced through the hallway, the music a little farther away, and his mouth brushed hers, a touch so light it was like a bird’s wing, but her heart leapt inside her.
“Mistletoe,” he whispered, and moved her onward, through the candlelit corridors as the music faded away and there was nothing but the darkness and his arms around her.
He stopped in a doorway, and put his hand under her chin. “Mistletoe,” he said, one last time, and kissed her.
His mouth was surprisingly gentle on hers, a slow exploration of her breathlessly parted lips.
She was trembling in his arms, and couldn’t hide it, but she remained still for his kiss, acquiescent, and then his kiss deepened, and her strange lassitude vanished.
She put her arms around his neck and moved into the shelter of his body, opening her mouth for him at his silent command.
It was a wonder. His lips were hard but his mouth was soft, and he turned her, pushing her up against the wall as he kissed her. She closed her eyes, lost in sensation, but she knew who was kissing her—the man who fascinated and infuriated her, Brat de Malheur.
“Ahem.” The strong, drawling voice broke through her haze, and she froze, pulling her arms away from Brat’s neck, but he simply grabbed them and put them back, continuing the kiss until he was ready to release her. And then he turned to face his saturnine father.
“You’re a bit de trop, father,” he said, but she noticed he was somewhat breathless. “I was showing Mrs. Lancaster the decorations.”
“I’m sure you were. Your mother went overboard with the mistletoe, but then, she was ever the romantic. May I escort you back to the ballroom, Mrs. Lancaster?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said in a strangled voice, her face flaming, moving past Brat to take his arm.
“We’re not finished,” Brat called after them, and to her surprise, he didn’t sound angry or frustrated. Simply determined.
He could hardly compromise her in the weapon-strewn halls of his father’s house.
Well, he had compromised her, but only slightly, and she suspected his awe-inspiring father wouldn’t mention her indiscretion to anyone.
But it had only been a kiss, a long, soul-satisfying kiss and she wanted more, she wanted to cry, she wanted…
“I suppose I should warn you about my son,” the earl said casually as they moved back through the hallways, the music growing louder once more. “He is not what he seems.”
“I’m perfectly aware of his reputation,” Jenny said stiffly. “I do beg pardon for my momentary—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted her. “Any lapse was on Brat’s part. I must say I’m quite encouraged.”
She halted, staring at him in shock. “Encouraged?”
“Brat does not waste his time with proper young ladies,” he said.