Chapter Nine
As Jasmine entered the drawing room, the group of ladies surrounding Mother raised their fans and used her arrival as an excuse to find their way to the dining room.
Lady Stretton and her mother, Lady Penrose, were the only two brave enough to remain—though brave was a generous description of Lady Stretton, who looked ready to bolt from the room.
“Ah, there she is. Right on time for dinner,” Mother said. “Lady Stretton was just discussing how much she missed you.”
“What do you mean?” Jasmine asked innocently. “We met earlier today in Hyde Park.”
“I don’t recall,” Lady Stretton said through her teeth, forcing a smile.
“Truly? I called out to you, but you didn’t respond,” Jasmine said. “Perhaps you hadn’t heard me?”
“Hyde Park is always loud on a Saturday,” Lady Penrose replied diplomatically, then took Lady Stretton by the elbow. “We shall see our way to the dining room. Come darling, let us find our husbands.”
Once they walked away, Mother brought Jasmine to her side and hissed, “You’re late.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mother?” Jasmine smiled. “You just said I’m right on time.”
Mother examined her. “Where are your pearls?”
Jasmine flushed at the thought of Matthew’s hands on her.
His calloused hands had caressed her neck exactly where he had kissed her before.
She could feel the ghost of his breath across her skin, but it wasn’t enough.
She had been tempted to turn around and kiss him.
In that perfect moment, under flickering candlelight—in her own bed—she might have let him do anything.
She swallowed hard and banished the thought.
“The pearls were too tight. I couldn’t breathe.”
“I hope you’re finished with your tantrum,” Mother said. “Now, Don Lorenzo will accompany you to the dining room. Be nice, and give him a chance.”
Conde Lorenzo de Morales flashed her a bright smile as he approached. His black hair shimmered under the light. With a square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and eyelashes that put most women to shame, he sauntered to her as if he had already won her hand.
Admittedly, she had once considered giving it to him—until he opened his mouth. In Spain, Don Lorenzo had openly pursued her, thinking her empty-headed. Rejection only increased his interest. As a trophy hunter, he appreciated a challenge, and the allure of a diamond was too strong to resist.
He bowed to her and kissed her hand. In a crisp Castilian accent, he said, “Senorita, será un placer escoltarla al comedor.”
“The pleasure is all yours, I can assure you.” Jasmine curtsied. “And we speak English in London, Don Lorenzo.”
Mother shot her an annoyed glance that Jasmine promptly ignored.
Not wishing to cause a scene, Jasmine swallowed her pride and placed her hand on his elbow. His clove-scented cologne wafted from him, unpleasantly permeating the fabric of her clothing.
“Allow me to try again.” He carefully enunciated his words. “It is a pleasure to have you on my arm, Lady Jasmine.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Lucís más bella aquí, en Inglaterra. Beautiful gown.” His gaze trailed over her, inspecting more than her dress.
Jasmine scoffed. “My mother made me wear it.”
Above them, crystal chandeliers formed a halo of light illuminating a white table spanning the length of the dining room. Perfectly placed china plates lined the edges. Centerpieces of Spanish irises and English roses allowed for enough space for conversation between the guests.
Her father was at the front of the table with Earl Bolderwood, the Secretary at War, and Don Esteban Ortiz, a general in the Spanish Army.
Both men sat upright, with firm shoulders and salt-and-pepper hair, but the lines around General Ortiz’s eyes were softer.
All men were deep in conversation with Mr. Sanderson and Seth.
Matthew had yet to arrive.
Don Lorenzo pulled out Jasmine’s chair for her. After she sat down, he held on to the back and hovered over her.
Jasmine fought the urge to roll her eyes as he took his seat. He was far from the first man to gawk at her, and definitely not the last, as Viscount Rothwell took the seat to her left.
Blond and blue-eyed, Lord Rothwell had the straightest teeth she had ever seen. She had seen them plenty during his multiple attempts to court her. But looks alone didn’t make up for a patronizing nature, and Jasmine had never appreciated being talked down to.
“You look lovely, Lady Jasmine.” Lord Rothwell spoke gently, as if soothing a scared animal. “It is good to see you safely returned. I prayed for a second chance to speak with you. The Lord has seen fit to answer me.”
“Good for you,” Jasmine grumbled. “God seldom answers my prayers.”
“Perhaps that is about to change. I know we’ve had some setbacks between us, but my affection for you remains as strong as ever.” He pulled his chair closer to hers until their elbows touched. “I’ve spoken to your mother about my intentions. Pray, allow me another chance to capture your heart.”
She scooted her chair away from him.
“No, thank you.”
Stuck between two of her worst options, Jasmine held her arms close to her and made a prayer of her own.
Lord, please don’t make me marry either of these men.
Jasmine lifted a half-full flute of champagne to her lips. She drained the glass in one swallow and gestured for another. She motioned for the server to continue pouring until it reached the top.
After all the guests sat down, Matthew entered the dining room.
He flashed everyone an apologetic smile as he passed by.
The ladies on either side of him scooted their chairs away as he took his seat.
Once settled, Matthew directed his attention to Lord Bolderwood and General Ortiz across from him and joined in their discussion.
Jasmine strained to listen, but through the clattering plates, she heard only a few words.
Battalion… Napoleon… war…
Contracts.
Servants brought forth the first course, and Jasmine focused on her soup—a tasteless clear broth.
Her eyes trailed to Matthew. Poised and professional, he mastered the conversation. She couldn’t hear them over the sound of Lord Rothwell’s muttering.
“It’s deplorable that Lord Bolderwood has brought tradesmen and bastards. It reflects poorly on our entire nation.”
“They’re here under our invitation, and they’re my friends,” Jasmine snipped. “Mr. Sanderson is a gentleman, Mr. Reeves is a war hero, and Lord Lincolnshire is a viscount—same as you, Lord Rothwell.”
“Unable to tend to his own land and has to work? Building weapons.” He scoffed. “It’s obscene, and insulting. Lord Lincolnshire is not the same as me. You should be more discerning with your friends, Lady Jasmine.”
Don Lorenzo perked up at the name. He leaned forward, speaking around her to Lord Rothwell.
“That is the Lincolnshire Slayer? The one with”—he pursed his lips as he searched for the word. Giving up, he twirled his finger near his head—“el pelo rizado.”
“Yes, with the curly hair,” Lord Rothwell said.
“Are the rumors of him true?”
“They aren’t,” Jasmine cut in. It didn’t matter which rumor he was referring to. “None of it is true.”
Ignoring her, Lord Rothwell responded, “He’s worse than the rumors make him out to be. He’s a libertine, and corrupt down to his core.”
Don Lorenzo laughed. “I like him already.”
The servants brought forth the next course.
Lamb seasoned with rosemary and garlic—one of Jasmine’s favorites—but it brought her no fulfillment.
She picked at her food, moving it around her plate with her fork.
Between the sounds of chewing and clinking flatware, conversation quieted, allowing Matthew’s words to be heard clear across the table.
“We are more than capable of supplying your needs,” Matthew said. “Not only rifles, we’re working with Duke Kendall to expand his specialty interests, and are exploring other weaponry. Whatever you have in mind, we can satisfy it.”
“Are you propositioning a gentleman across the dinner table, Lord Lincolnshire?” An older, pudgy man scoffed. “There are better times to discuss business!”
“I am propositioning a general across the dinner table, Lord Stretton. We are at war,” Matthew replied. “There is never a more appropriate time to discuss the topic. As I’m sure General Ortiz would agree, time is of the essence. Every battle lost is a tragedy.”
Don Lorenzo cut in, voice sharp as a dagger. “The tragedy you would bring is my country’s dependence on English weapons. Dependent on you personally, Lord Lincolnshire, when the war has ended. Napoleon is all but defeated.”
“There is never an end to war.” Matthew’s eyes narrowed on Don Lorenzo. “Your name, sir?”
“Conde Lorenzo de Morales.” He smirked. “Es un placer conocer al Asesino de Lincolnshire.”
“I’m learning a lot of Spanish words today.
Hm… Asesino,” Matthew rolled the word on his tongue.
“Your Excellency, this war is ending, but there will be others. The numbers do not lie, battalions with our rifles suffer fewer casualties. I offer my inventions to your country, not as shackles, but as safety. If mutual interests align, all parties benefit. Is that not the purpose of your visit?” Matthew’s eyes shifted to Jasmine before addressing Don Lorenzo. “Diplomacy?”
“Exactamente. I’m here seeking a beneficial partnership.” Don Lorenzo leered down at Jasmine before speaking to Matthew. “Same as you.”
“My lords,” Lord Rothwell interjected. “This talk of diplomacy and war is not a conversation we should have around ladies. Perhaps we should save it for the war room?”
“What they don’t understand won’t hurt them.” Don Lorenzo snickered. Jasmine glared at him. “In Spain women do not concern themselves with politics and war. Their minds are not so complex. Is it different here in London?”
“Women have complex minds, regardless of their location,” Matthew said. “I would wager several of the ladies present could offer better solutions to these issues, if given a voice.”