Undone by His Kiss (6 page)

“I knew you would agree.” Portia leaned down to embrace Emily. “You really are the truest friend.”

If only I could be the truest daughter.
There was no need to voice the words, but they echoed in her mind nonetheless.

Chapter 7

Jasper, in his evening’s finest, and Randolph, wearing his interpretation of fashion, collected Penwick at nine sharp and proceeded to Kellaway’s town house on George Street in Hanover Square. They arrived at the same time Kell’s elegant barouche pulled to the curb.

“There’s no reason for all of us to climb out.” Jasper took control. “I’ll speak to Kell concerning the anticipated entertainment. It appears he’s only arriving when we’d arranged to be already on our way.” Not waiting for either friend to reply, he hopped from the carriage and shadowed the footman who’d opened Kellaway’s coach and extended the steps. Taken aback, Jasper watched as two females with scandalously low necklines exited. He almost swallowed his tongue when a feminine giggle echoed from the confines of the carriage and Kell stepped out. Apparently, the coach wasn’t emptied yet.

“Have plans changed?” Keen to his perspicuity, Jasper waited on his friend’s reply.

“Aah, yes. I won’t be joining you this evening. Sorry about the alterations, but other distractions have taken precedence.” Kellaway glanced into the carriage and smiled. The coo of a besotted female followed although she had yet to materialize.

Jasper slue his eyes from one beautiful companion to the other and then warranted a glance at the carriage, now silent. “Expecting a few more gentlemen this evening?” His voice cracked on the question.

“Not at all.” Kell’s reply was thrown over his shoulder, his arms full of female on either side as he climbed the front steps. “I’ll be in touch.”

The ladies purred with this pronouncement.

Refusing to feel the fool, Jasper reclaimed his carriage and instructed the driver to an address in Mayfair. He’d ensure Penwick had an enjoyable evening, despite the only ready invitation he’d received was to the Bandlewits’ house party and that began hours ago.

“Where’s Kell? Isn’t he coming?” Randolph leaned forward in an attempt to peer out the window before the carriage gained speed.

“Not with us he isn’t.” Jasper refrained from saying more.

Emily touched a finger to each charm on the silver bracelet gifted to her by the newly arrived orphan at the Foundling Hospital. Mary had cleaned it in a hot wash of vinegar and salt and now the once tarnished and corroded chain shone with brilliance. It was a curious piece, each charm different, but equally beautiful. The owner who’d dropped it must regret its loss indeed.

She gathered the bracelet and looped it around her wrist, the perfect addition to the periwinkle silk gown she’d donned for this evening’s gathering. Not one to squander money on frivolous purchases, she possessed a few extravagant fashions for the rare occasion when she ventured out; this selection one of them. Some intuitive notion urged she wear her best this evening. Perhaps the dull ache of her mother’s distress motivated she’d disguise heartache with ribbons and silk. If society served any meaningful purpose, distraction proved prime.

Her maid, Agnes, had arranged her hair in a wonderful style with soft tendrils falling around her ears and neck, the result becoming. Not one to fuss over her ordinary brown hair, Emily seldom took time to examine her features and attempt improvement. Tonight, with her new bracelet and elegant dress, she portrayed exactly what her mother wished. The realization brought melancholy and much-needed comfort. She’d force herself to try harder to be the kind of biddable daughter her mother needed.

With sadness, she glanced to the basket beside her bed, filled with unsent letters Bianca had composed, at times with painstaking care and constituting further evidence of love’s trap. Emily had covered the basket with a blanket to prevent discovery. What a blessing Mary aided in her discretion and assisted in carrying out the charade. Commonsense prodded Emily attempt anything to protect her mother from further disappointment, but to what end? Shaking free from her maudlin thoughts and unwilling to mar the evening, she collected her wrap from the foot of the bed and hurried downstairs.

Inside Portia’s carriage, the mood was light and cheery. Lady Edmonstone chattered endlessly about the attributes of the Bandlewits and Portia and Emily communicated their opinions through a variety of eye widening and subdued smirks. At times, Emily found herself biting the inside of her cheek to keep laughter in check. It proved pleasant despite both girls knew Portia’s mother would be determined in her attempt to see her daughter wed as soon as possible.

“You both look lovely this evening.” Lady Edmonstone’s trilling pronouncement had Emily suppressing another trickle of laughter. “I’d wager you’ll garner a high degree of attention this evening. It’s to your detriment that you don’t venture out more often, girls. It would take hardly any work at all to marry you off.”

These last few words erased the congenial mood.

“Mother, I doubt Emily wishes to take part in such a devastating endeavor regardless how lovely she looks.” Portia shifted her attention. “Your blue eyes are absolutely stunning with the hue of your gown, by the way.”

Any further discussion was curtailed as the carriage rolled to a stop before a grand white stone house with ornate railings and finely detailed shutters. Despite any shortcomings noted in the prospect of marriage to a Bandlewit, surely their impeccable taste and imposing wealth forged a remarkable first impression. Lady Edmonstone’s grand gleaming smile seemed to surmise the same conclusion.

Once inside they greeted their hosts and dinner proceeded in a pleasant manner. Emily decided it wasn’t altogether horrible to be out amongst the fashionable ton despite conversation from all sides revolved around who’d made their debut, secured a proposal, or produced offspring. Perhaps she would make an effort to socialize more often. If her mother improved, that is. Only then.

Lord and Lady Bandlewit were the proud parents of five sons who were stuffed into formalwear like poorly cased sausage. The quintet of male specimens resembled their father with pale skin and short sandy locks, as if once created all originality has been exhausted, resulting in a disappointing lack of inspiration.

Marriage posed a suspicious prospect as it were. Emily could never allow Portia to be bartered off to a gentleman unless her friend found him outwardly and, more importantly, inwardly, appealing. She flicked a glance to where Portia remained captive by discussion with Norris, the eldest Bandlewit and bachelor currently on the chopping block. Perhaps she should rescue her, although some conversation would be expected for the purpose of common courtesy. Norris did not appear the type to explore the pyramids of Egypt or climb mountains in Italy, but appearances were deceiving. Emily knew that as fact.

She shook her head with distressing consideration and turned attention to the hall where three gentlemen entered and made for the gathering in the drawing room. The furniture had been removed and the carpets rolled up to allow for dancing. These guests had arrived just in time for reverie. The musicians tuned their instruments with care and an unexpected frizzle of excitement rippled through her.

As she perused the newly arrived guests, a startling recognition took hold. Two of the men were from the building on upper Bond Street below the league office. The third guest she did not recognize, although he was a fair degree older than his companions and impeccably dressed. She might have continued her examination, except Mr. St. David glanced across the room and smiled upon matching her eyes. Panic struck and when she locked with his gaze, a jolt of awareness radiated from her core to the tips of her toes and fingers, across her scalp and within, to wiggle about and tickle her brain. She was all at once unsettled, when she’d been enjoying herself, perfectly calm and reserved, only moments before. How dare he?

Jasper stepped around Beaufort who’d taken to introducing Penwick within the room. He wanted to give an impression of confident assurance, yet a definite throb of exhilaration motivated his passage through the crowd, intent on locating Miss Shaw on the other side. This was the sole serendipitous occurrence of the evening, an unexpected happenstance that evoked a brilliant spark of attraction. He pulled toward her as if a magnet finding its mate.

“Miss Shaw, what a pleasant surprise.” He bowed low, his eyes sliding from her silk slippers upward to settle at her delightful face, although he stole a quick glance to her bosom, neatly tucked into the gown’s demure neckline where some gauzy sarcenet tempted he discover what lay beneath.

The musicians began a lively tune and around him guests reassembled though Jasper didn’t budge, captivated by the female in periwinkle, a gentle scowl marring her beauty.

“Good evening, Mr…I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

The minx.
So she’d play a coy little game. He didn’t mind. Miss Shaw was the most intriguing novelty he’d happened upon in a very long time; worth a greater investment than Nasmyth’s steam hammer and utterly more charming.

“Jasper St. David, at your service, although I’m beginning to believe you’re independently capable and in need of little assistance.”

“Mr. St. David, yes. Now I remember. You occupy the lower office on Bond Street and presume you own the public sidewalk.”

Oh, this was fun. She didn’t fool him for a minute. “Funny how the memory plays tricks.” He’d accept she’d told the truth when two Sundays came together. And damn, her little upturned nose would be the death of him. “May I have this dance?”

The question seemed to disrupt her cool demeanor. She eyed him as if he was a midnight highwayman commanding she surrender her virginity. A timeless lapse ensued. At last, she found her tongue although Jasper reckoned he’d had happily found it for her.

“What do you want?”

The silky edge of her question forced his eyes to her lips. “A partner for the waltz. I thought my request clearly made. You were standing on the side of the room looking pensive and not at all in the spirit of the evening. I thought I’d cross over and instigate a bit of conversation.”

“A woman doesn’t require a man to rush to her rescue. Thank you for the kind offer, but I need for nothing at the moment.”

Her words were laced with an underlying note of contradiction. He couldn’t help but notice.

“Needs and wants are as different as gloves and boots, besides you do need a dance partner. That’s something you can’t possibly accomplish alone, Miss Shaw.”

She straightened her shoulders the smallest degree and he noticed the gentle sweep of her neck, how the lacy edge of each silk sleeve arched delicately against her creamy pink skin.

“What can’t I accomplish?” Her voice hinted at just the right amount of fluster and it pleased him immensely. She seemed far too comfortable with the upper hand.

“A waltz.” He indicated the dance floor with a slight nod of his head. “Dance with me, Miss Shaw.”

“And what is your goal? Surely you harbor an underlying reason for your request.” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. Was she angry or playfully deceptive? He couldn’t decide.

“Such cynicism from one so young and beautiful, but I promise you, I desire nothing complicated. I like music and enjoy dancing. I want nothing more.”

She cocked a delicate brow just as she’d done in front of his office and he was drawn into the blue ocean of her eyes rather than deterred from his message, as similar an experience as in front of his office. His heart thudded an anxious beat as he waited on her answer and when she smiled, the smallest curl of her lips, and took a step toward the dance floor, he embraced a moment of genuine surprise.

She fitted into his hold perfectly, although she still seemed cautious of his intentions. Had she heard unfavorable gossip concerning his person? He couldn’t imagine why she’d behave so standoffish. He was an all around easy-going fellow and everyone labeled him such.

“Now, isn’t this preferable to standing near the wall watching others enjoy the entertainment?”

Her eyes shot to his as if she was startled he’d read her thoughts so easily.

“I’m still considering your motives.”

Jasper chuckled. Damn, the lady behaved curiously.

“I can’t imagine why. We’re sharing a waltz, just as I proposed.” He felt a shiver coarse through her and unsure of her reaction, he pressed on. “Are you suspicious by nature? Surely I’ve given you no cause.”

“I’ve only just made your acquaintance. You might be the worst sort of gentleman.”

Again her words held a weight of censure.

“That, Miss Shaw, is a huge leap of imagination, I assure you. A rakehell? A rogue? Never have I been viewed as such.” He stifled the grin itching to be freed. “Were I a man of low reputation I might have pulled you against me in unseemly familiarity.” And just to tweak her stern expression, he tightened his hold and moved closer. She smelled delightful, a mixture of rose water and bitter orange, a fitting combination. She angled her chin with his action, but she didn’t object.

“Nor have I suffered a case of roaming hands, taking advantage of the situation and proximity of your lovely stature.” He slid his left palm lower to stroke his thumb against the row of buttons tracing her spine. She made the smallest sound in the back of her throat; not at all the loud objection she’d voiced on the walkway outside the offices yesterday.

“A rogue would lean in and whisper intimate endearments against your ear.” He purposely didn’t lean. Not even an inch and by damn, he experienced a surge of victory when she swayed toward him. Jasper refused to accept it was the vertiginous pattern of the waltz that caused her increased nearness. She somehow felt more fluid, pliant and relaxed in his arms; as if with his teasing, he’d melted a layer of her icy veneer. “Had I a devious motive, I might have showered you with compliments, spouting gratuitous prose describing the captivating hue of your eyes, the way your irises sparkle with delight when you deliver a cutting remark, or how the candlelight casts glossy highlights across the ribbons of your hair, the color of warm brandy on a cold night.”