“I believe so, but I’ve yet to see him. I’ve instructed Penvale”—here Diana jerked her head at her brother, who was sipping a glass of champagne and looking bored—“to keep a sharp eye out for him, so that we might keep him away from Emily.”
“Playing matchmaker, are we?” James asked.
Diana sniffed. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to want to see Emily married to someone other than that vulgar boor.”
“You sound frightfully snobbish, Diana,” Penvale said, sounding amused. “Not such a rebel after all, are we?”
“You’re making a mistake if you think to match Belfry with Lady Emily,” Jeremy added. “A less likely man to marry I’ve never seen. Haven’t you heard anything of his reputation?”
“Mmm, yes,” Diana said sweetly, giving Jeremy a saccharine smile. “But I didn’t think it was any worse than yours, my lord.”
Rather than look offended, Jeremy appeared amused. “Touché. And yet I’ve no intention of marrying, either, so my point remains.”
“So you say,” Diana said, sounding skeptical. “But need I remind you that you are a marquess? At some point, you’ll have to produce an heir.”
Jeremy shrugged. “I’ve a cousin who I’ve no doubt would be quite pleased to inherit. He has a very fertile wife, if I recall.”
Diana tossed her head impatiently. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you’ll marry.”
Jeremy shrugged again, and James was fairly certain he was doing so merely to irritate Diana. “If you say so. I’ve yet to meet a debutante I didn’t find insufferable, so you’ll forgive me for remaining unconvinced.”
“You knew me when I was a debutante,” Diana said through gritted teeth.
“Did I?” Jeremy asked in mock surprise. “Oh, I do believe you’re right.” He pointedly did not apologize, nor did he amend his previous statement.
Diana took a deep breath, in the manner of a parent dealing with a particularly stubborn toddler. “I’ll wager you’ll be married within the year. I could find you a bride in three snaps.”
Jeremy laughed out loud, and James suspected that Jeremy and Diana had entirely forgotten the presence of the rest of the group, who were observing this interaction with some interest. “That would be money in my pocket, Lady Templeton.”
“Then you’ll take the wager?” Diana asked, a steely glint in her eye, and, seeing the alarmed look on Penvale’s face at this, it suddenly struck James that Jeremy might be in over his head for once. It was rather enjoyable to witness. “And you’ll allow me to send a parade of marriageable misses in your direction?”
“Why not?” Jeremy asked blithely. “I somehow think I’ll be able to resist the temptation. What shall we make the bet?”
Diana paused, and James wondered for a brief moment if she was going to affect ladylike hesitation to deal with something so sordid as money.
“One hundred pounds.” James blinked; that sum would pay the annual salaries of half of his household staff, for Christ’s sake. He was beginning to wonder if Diana and Jeremy weren’t taking this a bit far.
“Done,” Jeremy said briskly, then extended his hand. “Shall we shake on it?”
Diana appeared momentarily startled—James was quite certain that no one had ever attempted to shake her hand before—but she took Jeremy’s proffered hand.
“I shall spend my winnings on a glorious wedding gift for you,” she said.
“Of course,” Jeremy said, unconcerned. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Violet and Lady Fitzwilliam exchange raised eyebrows.
“How would you feel about a swan centerpiece for your dining room table?” Diana asked.
“Lovely,” Jeremy replied. “Since I don’t expect to ever see such a thing.”
“Right,” said Penvale, seeming to seize upon the momentary cessation of hostilities to change the subject. “Shall we—”
The faint strains of a waltz began to filter throughout the room; the previous set had ended while Jeremy and Diana were speaking, and Penvale was now interrupted by a gasp from Lady Fitzwilliam. He turned politely in her direction. “Yes, my lady? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing at all,” Lady Fitzwilliam replied, waving her hand quickly. “I merely . . . no, never mind.”
“I assure you, my lady, we are all ears,” James said, in as pleasant a voice as he could manage.
“It is only that I thought I heard the sounds of a waltz,” Lady Fitzwilliam said with her best downcast look.
The rest of the party turned to look at James.
“Lady Fitzwilliam,” he said as politely as he could, despite the fact that he felt rather like a cornered fox, “would you do me the very great honor of giving me this dance?”
“Oh,” Lady Fitzwilliam said brightly, as though the idea had never occurred to her. “How very kind of you, Lord James.” She took his proffered arm. “I do so love to dance the waltz, but of course I would never be so forward as to ask you myself . . . how very thoughtful you are.” She stroked a finger down the length of his forearm in a disturbingly flirtatious way. James shot a glare at Violet, who looked as though she were biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.
This, James thought, not for the first time over the course of the past fortnight, was why men should never marry.
Twelve
Violet was not certain what it said about the state of her marriage—or, perhaps, her social life—that watching her husband dance with another woman was the most entertaining thing she’d experienced at a ball in years.
James steered Sophie around the ballroom with the look of a man faced with an unpleasant task who was determined to get it over and done with, no matter the cost to him personally. Sophie, by contrast, was leaning forward ever so slightly—not close enough to cause any blatant gossip, as there was still a sliver of space between James and herself, but certainly closer than either Emily or Diana had ever stood when dancing with James before.
The evening was going perfectly according to plan. James appeared wildly uncomfortable with Sophie’s advances, and his kiss at home, and his seductive words just a few minutes before—blast her horrible mother for interrupting that particular interlude!—seemed to indicate that he desired her as much as she did him. And he didn’t like it one bit when she feigned indifference. Surely, all of this combined was enough to cause some sort of revelation in even the most thickheaded, emotionally stunted of men—and James, fond of him as she was, could not be said to possess a great deal of emotional intelligence. But surely even he must be awakening to his own desire. For her. Now, in theory, all she had to do was wait for him to come to her.
Violet was drawn back from watching the entertaining tableau before her with a sharp “Lady James.”
She turned, her hackles already going up at the distinct note of disapproval she heard in the voice summoning her, and found herself face-to-face with James’s brother.
“West,” she said, sagging slightly.
West’s eyes, at the moment, were focused on her with an expression of more gravity than she had ever seen. In truth, Violet and West had always gotten on well—early in her marriage, when James and West had been closer, she had invited West to dinner often, and they would frequently dine à trois, West lingering late into the evening for drinks and discussion. The loss of this camaraderie was one of the many things she regretted about the past four years.