Page 13 of If the Slipper Fits
Ah. Lady Wentworth stood talking with Lord Fenton a mere stone's throw away—also eschewing the bulk of the crowd, he noted. In any case, he saw an opening for him to approach Jones and meant to seize it.
Grinning, he drew the champagne flute to his mouth. Ah, yes. He'd drained the glass.
“She’s a looker, I’ll grant you.”
Caden’s gaze slid from Jones to the dark-haired man of a similar age with himself who'd sidled up beside him. He recognized the man. He would not call him precisely a friend. “Lord…Hardasher, isn’t it?”
Hardasher’s upper lip curled in a semblance of a smile, and he inclined his head. “Quite right, Mr. Thurgood. We met last year at the Huntford affair.”
Huntford affair. Sounded familiar, though he couldn’t conjure the specifics. Last year’s--and the year’s before for that matter--affairs,comprised of an endless round of parties, soirees, and balls, starting with the London Season, and carrying on through one Summer house party to the next.
This year promised to be more of the same until his brother returned from abroad, posted the banns announcing his engagement to a woman of whom no one had ever heard, and Caden raced home to Derby. Then the fun really began.
“Summer party?” he guessed.
“Quite right.” Hardasher's eyes trained on Mrs. Jones.
Caden quirked a grin, though the man’s intent scrutiny rubbed him wrong. He gestured with his empty flute toward Jones. “Lord Hardasher, do you, by chance, recognize her?”
His focus never wavered. “I can’t say as I recognize her, though I did note something familiar about her the night of the reception, when I spotted her standing alongside the dowager duchess.”
“She is the lady’s companion.”
“Is she, indeed?” The sly edge to Hardasher’s tone drew Caden’s hackles. Without a by-your-leave, he started toward Jones.
Annoyed, Caden followed. He would head-off any nonsense on Hardasher’s part—the least he could do considering Jones had saved his life.
The dinner gong sounded.
Hardasher paused mid-stride. His head pivoted, then locked in place.
Caden followed the direction of Hardasher's gaze to the redoubtable Lady Wentworth, clearly en route to Jones.
Caden could almost read the poor sot's thoughts. He had no desire to tangle with the dowager duchess of Wentworth.
Sure enough, he hesitated one moment longer, tugged at the lapels of his waistcoat, then veered to join the mass exodus from the parlor.
Caden continued his now leisurely approach.
Before he reached them, Lord Hammond, recently named Earl of Whittenmore, appeared, proffering his arm toward the dowager in a courtly manner. As the lady of the most consequence in attendance, a high nobleman would need to escort her into the hall. Lord Hammond fit the bill nicely. Certainly Caden, the Claybourne spare, would never do.
He’d make an excellent escort for Jones, however.
“Lady Wentworth, Mrs. Jones, Lord Hammond, good evening.”
Jones’ face angled up toward him. Her amber eyes glowed as if they stole all the light from the stuttering candle flames illuminating the grand parlor. “Good evening, Mr. Thurgood.”
Four words, welcoming enough, and yet, those eyes. He first thought he detected a glint of pleasure at his arrival. Then he read dread in their depth, or something akin to it.
He couldn’t decide if he was vexed or amused. Certainly confounded. Womenlikedhim.
Lady Wentworth shifted, dragging Hammond with her to bring the four of them into a semi-circle. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She,at least, seemed happy to see him.
“Mr. Thurgood, delighted you appear to suffer no ill effects from this morning’s mishap.” Eyes still trained on Caden, she directed hernext words to Hammond. “Mr. Randall whacked him with a skiff this morning, if you can imagine. Mrs. Jones and I discovered him and she rushed to his aid.”
“Very impressive,” Hammond commented, slanting an appreciative leer at Mrs. Jones.
Caden resisted the urge to step in front of her. Evidently no man alive was proof against the woman’s charms.
