Page 20 of The Forbidden Lord
“Why? You already move in exalted circles.”
“Yes, but I want a woman who can be the jewel in my crown, a woman so stunning that my position is secured forever. And preferably someone who can love me despite my faults.”
Jordan couldn’t restrain his laughter. “You think to find it at Merrington’s? With a lot of simpering virgins and scheming mamas?”
“Perhaps.” Pollock fingered the cravat he’d spent so much time torturing into a Mathematique. “Before St. Clair set his sights on Lady Sophie, I’d planned to try for her myself.” He scowled. “Then St. Clair came along and captured her fancy. He isn’t even in love with her. He just wants a docile wife, God knows why.”
Yes, that was curious. Jordan himself had wondered why Ian seemed bent on marrying these days. “I wouldn’t envy him his conquest of Sophie, if I were you. She’s tolerably pretty and good-natured, but her father’s a bastard. I fear Ian will rue the day he marries into that man’s family.”
The carriage drew up in front of Merrington’s, and Jordan checked his watch. They’d made good time; the girl might still be here. If so, he’d give it an hour. That should be sufficient time to enrage Lord Nesfield and promote Ian’s suit. Then he could go to his club and be done with this nonsense.
The two of them left the carriage and entered Merrington’s handsome town house in silence. The place was all got up in spring flowers and ribbons, enough of them to make a man ill. When they reached the ballroom, Jordan paused to survey the scene. As usual, Merrington’s ball resembled a ship’s hold full of doves and crows, cooing and cawing and taking wing whenever they liked. White-gowned women swirled down the lines of dancers accompanied by their black-tailed companions, whose cinched waists, tight knee-breeches, and brilliant-colored waistcoats enhanced their birdlike appearance.
Hovering on the sidelines, he scanned the crowd for Ian or even Lady Sophie. But despite the glow of a thousand candles and Argand lamps, he saw nothing but flashes of fans and trains and white slippers.
Then he and Pollock were surrounded by Pollock’s friends, all of them bachelors attending the ball in search of mates. A few moments of pleasantries ensued, but they soon gave way to earnest comparisons of the young women’s attributes. Jordan wanted to laugh at them. What romantic drivel these young pups spouted! If they had to have wives, at least they should choose them sensibly.
That’s what he would do when the need for an heir became overwhelming. He would find some experienced woman—a widowed marchioness or some such—with taste and good judgment, who could preside over his household without a lot of fuss. A businesslike marriage. Sensible. No emotional entanglements.
The one thing he wouldnotdo is marry some chit out of the schoolroom who would expect him to dote on her every word and indulge her whims. Like the tittering young women the men around him were discussing.
Impatient with their talk, Jordan turned to Pollock. “Have you spotted Ian yet?”
“Just now. He’s at the top of the set.” Pollock nodded toward the dance floor.
“Ian is dancing? You must be joking. He hates to dance. Though I suppose he’ll do what he must to secure Lady Sophie.”
“Haven’t you heard?” one of the others remarked. “Lady Sophie’s very ill, and no one knows when she’ll leave the sickroom.”
“You must be mistaken,” Jordan said. “I heard she’d left town briefly last week, but St. Clair told me yesterday she was back. He planned to call on the family today.”
“She may be back, but she’s not out and about. St. Clair is dancing with her cousin. For the second time, I should add.”
“Deuce take it.” So Lady Sophie wasn’t even here, and he needn’t have come after all. Well, he’d stay just long enough totorment Ian for missing his shot at Nesfield’s girl, then leave for his club.
It took only half a minute to pick his friend out of the throng of dancers, for Ian was hard to miss. Unlike the blond, fair, and short Pollock, Ian had coffee-hued skin and stood easily a head above most other men. Among the fair geldings of English society, he was a dark horse.
As for his dance partner … Well, well. Ian always managed to snag the pretty ones, didn’t he? Jordan couldn’t make out her face from where he stood, but her hair was the rich, dark gold of late sunset, and the figure a randy young man’s dream, even draped in pure white satin. Of course, he wasn’t young or randy, not for these sweet darlings. He preferred women in scarlet … or black bombazine.
Good God, where had that come from? That was the second time he’d thought of Emily tonight. Matchmaking was polluting the spring air, that’s all. It was bound to affect him a little.
The dance ended, and Jordan threaded his way through the crowd toward Ian, casting a warning look at the one bold matron who approached him with simpering daughter in tow. She stopped in her tracks, thank God. Smart woman.
He should never have come. All these harpies would get the wrong idea about his attendance at a marriage mart and descend on him en masse. After talking to Ian, he’d have to beat a hasty retreat.
The closer he got to the couple, the more interested he became in the woman on Ian’s arm. For a girl at her coming out, she was much too graceful. No awkwardness in the way she walked, no hint of uncertainty in her manner. Her back was to him, and a very shapely back it was, too—not to mention the exceedingly attractive derriere. And there was all that glorious hair, swept up into a chignon and studded with pearls above her long, elegant neck.
He could swear he’d seen that neck before, and all that hair, too. But that was absurd, of course. He’d never even heard of Lady Sophie’s cousin, much less seen her attractions before tonight.
Then the couple stopped at the edge of the dance floor, and the woman turned toward her companion, putting her face in profile.
Devil take it. Hehadseen her before! The profile was achingly familiar. Last time it had been muted by moonlight and covered by a mask, but he could swear it was the same face … the same delicate nose and modest smile.
No, it couldn’t be. How could she be in London at a ball, dressed in expensive white satin and pearls? He was imagining things. This woman merely shared some of Emily’s features. And he couldn’t be sure about the face, after all. He’d seen it for only a few moments in the darkness.
Still, this woman had the same height and figure, the same way of ducking her head when she smiled and that same swanlike bend in her neck. She even had the same color of hair, though it was dressed more extravagantly. His heart thudded loudly, and he quickened his steps. It couldn’t be her. But it was. He couldn’t be mistaken.
What on earth was she doing here? “Emily?” he said hoarsely as he reached them. “Emily, is it really you?”
