Chapter Two
Following the humiliation of Jerome’s rejection, Ava threw herself into the pleasures of the season with feverish gusto, determined that no one, least of all Jerome, would know how devastated she was. Her five-year dream was shattered.
She took consolation in her many admirers, their compliments and warm glances a balm to her bruised pride.
But her heart remained a bleeding thing in her breast. If she had followed its dictates, her eyes would have continued to follow Jerome around the room, her body would have drifted without volition in his direction, but in this, her pride came to her rescue.
She stiffened her backbone and refused to give into such weakness.
He had rejected her, thought of her only as a silly girl.
Well, she would show him she wasn’t any such thing.
So she kept her distance and concentrated all her attention on the various suitors who sought her hand for a dance, who invited her for a drive in the park, to a picnic, the theatre, a concert, the myriad enjoyments offered by a London season.
And she tried very hard to find pleasure in them and put Jerome DeVere out of her mind.
But there was a part of her that bled a little every time he entered a room where she was and didn’t approach her.
A part of her that ached when, on the few occasions they stood in the same circle of company, he bowed to her formally and asked stiffly after her health.
This cold, indifferent man wasn’t her Jerome, and she wanted to corner him and shake him.
But somehow the opportunity never presented itself.
He was careful never to be alone with her. He didn’t ask her to dance, and if they should chance across each other in the street, or in Hyde Park, or at the theater, he exchanged the merest commonplace and moved on.
His behavior frustrated and annoyed her and drove her to flirt outrageously with whomever of her suitors offered her the opportunity, whenever he was in her vicinity.
But nothing she did provoked any reaction in him and she began to realize that nothing would.
Eventually she stopped trying and genuinely tried to bury her feelings for him.
Over the summer break, she was spared the sight of him as neither of them went to The Castle this year. She went with Mama to Brighton and he, she discovered through a bit of detective work, went to stay with friends in Wales.
*
London, October 1819
Ava stretched up her hand, standing on tiptoe, to reach the book on the shelf above her head in Hatchards Bookshop and almost lost her balance when a deep familiar voice said from the other side of the shelves, “Countess, you have quite a pile there. Let me help you.”
“Ravenshaw!” The Countess of Esberry’s smooth contralto responded with a warmth that set Ava’s teeth on edge.
The countess was a widow, probably around twenty-eight years of age, and possessed of a considerable fortune left to her by her husband.
The lady was poised, elegant, sophisticated, and graceful, as well as stunningly beautiful.
She had fashionably dark hair and large, long-lashed dark eyes under beautifully arched brows, a flawless creamy complexion, a perfectly straight nose, full sensuous lips, pronounced cheekbones, and a long neck that gave her an air fit for a queen. In short, a stunning beauty.
“Why thank you, my lord,” she continued. “I confess I am greedy when it comes to books. You have caught me indulging my monthly passion.”
“That is quite a haul,” Ravenshaw said. “I see a number of titles I would recommend and some I have yet to read. You must tell me how this one strikes you.”
Ava leaned, weak-kneed, against the shelves, as Ravenshaw and the countess appeared at the end of the row.
Ravenshaw’s attention was all on his companion and he didn’t see Ava.
His elegantly attired form disappeared from her sight.
His voice, asking the countess if she was going to see Drury Lane’s latest production of As You Like It, wafted back to her, leaving her clutching the shelf, her heart hammering and a stab of searing jealousy in her stomach.
Since he had told her bluntly at Devonshire House that he would forever see her as a child, and she had thought she would expire of shame and heartbreak, Ravenshaw had continued to give Ava a wide berth.
She had tried, in the wake of that dire confession from him, to erase him from her heart and failed abysmally.
Returning from Brighton to London for the little season, she discovered that his name was being increasingly linked with that of the countess.
And here was more evidence of it. As if the sight of him dancing with the woman hadn’t already underlined it.
They made such an elegant couple, as if they belonged together.
Tears stung Ava’s eyes, and she hunted in her reticule for her handkerchief.
This was untenable! Things couldn’t go on like this! She had to do something!
Miss Deborah Watson—younger sister to Ava’s sister-in-law, Sarah—appeared at her elbow, and Ava said brightly, “Just got something in my eye!” as she dabbed at her cheeks and blew her nose. “Have you found the book you were looking for?”
Deborah gave her a penetrating look and then tactfully smiled and waved a copy of The Vicar’s Fireside.
“Yes, did you find yours?” Ava was grateful that Deborah pretended not to notice her agitation.
She returned the other girl’s smile with a rueful one of her own and tried not to mind that Deborah was another stunning beauty with fashionably dark curls and deep-blue eyes in an exquisite face. All the fashionable beauties were dark.
It was a mystery to her why Deb wasn’t already married.
Admittedly, she wasn’t a great heiress, and her father was a vicar of respectable but undistinguished birth.
But she was sister-in-law to a duke, and she was every bit as lovely as the countess—and younger to boot.
It wasn’t for lack of offers, either. Several gentlemen had taken a strong interest in the dark-haired beauty making her come out under the aegis of the Duchess of Troubridge.
But it seemed Deborah was as hard to please as herself.
Now why was that? An idea began to percolate through her brain, and she vowed to do some digging. When her own affairs weren’t so pressing. Drat Ravenshaw! And double drat the countess!
“It’s up there!” Ava indicated the shelf above her head. Deborah, who was taller—everyone was taller than Ava, except her mother—reached it down for her, and the two young ladies progressed to the front desk to pay for their books.
Emerging from the shop, Ava’s heart lurched at the sight of Ravenshaw, looking absolutely splendid in a perfectly fitting coat of blue superfine, pale-beige pantaloons, and exquisitely polished top boots, standing beside the countess’s carriage, still conversing with her.
As she and Deborah moved away from the bookshop to find Sarah and Mama, who were in a shop two doors down, the countess’s carriage drew away from the pavement and Ravenshaw turned.
His eyes caught Ava’s and widened slightly.
Something in their blue depths made her heart turn over, and a wave of longing washed through her.
If only . . . Then he removed his hat and bowed.
“Ladies.”
Both young women curtsied, murmuring, “My lord.”
He replaced his hat and passed on. Ava couldn’t forebear a look at his retreating back as he strolled casually away from her.
Irritation and longing warred in her breast and irritation won.
I have to do something! She turned and strode out with a twitch of her petticoats, a determined line pulling her lips tight.
Deborah glanced at her but said nothing.
They had only gone a few steps when a masculine voice accosted them.
The Earl of Lannister stood before them, smiling and bowing.
He was tall, blond, ridiculously handsome, and wholly ineligible.
Despite the title, Reynard Fairbanks, 7th Earl of Lannister, was the sort of man mamas warned their daughters about and brothers forbade their sisters to know.
So of course Ava made it her business to know such an irresistibly charming rake.
“Lady Ava, Miss Watson.” Ava raised her eyes to Lannister’s smiling face and dipped a curtsy, offering him her hand.
“My lord.” She smiled warmly. His obvious pleasure at encountering them was a balm to her bruised heart. He took her hand and kissed it and offered Deborah a deep bow.
“I trust you’re well?” His inquiry was directed to Deborah, who flushed faintly and inclined her head. Ava looked between the two. A blond Adonis and a dark-haired Aphrodite. Really? Was that why . . .?
“I am. Thank you, my lord.”
*
Jerome continued on down the street, conscious of Ava behind him, and turned to cross the road. Looking back, his eyes landed on her exquisite little figure again, engaged in conversation with—bloody hell! Lannister! He gritted his teeth and crossed, dodging between riders and carriages.
Didn’t she know better than to give a lecherous devil like that the time of day? Surely Rob had warned her about Lannister. The antipathy between the two men was well known, even in the wider ton. He’d have to have a conversation with Rob.
*
London, November 1819
“Not dancing old fellow?” asked Emrys wandering up to Jerome’s position propping the wall and watching the dancers.
Since his second marriage, Ashford’s wardrobe had improved.
Not to Jerome’s standards, but he was generally neater, and while not in the first stare of fashion, he no longer looked like something the cat had dragged in.
Jerome dragged his attention away from the petite figure of Ava, twirling around the room in Lannister’s embrace. She was here with Sarah tonight, neither her mother nor Robert was present or it wouldn’t be happening.