“I’m afraid it won’t matter. Dinner will commence in a similar fashion. By the end of the evening, you’ll have acquired at least three different names and titles and an entire history they will have pieced together from snippets of random rumors heard at parties. Why, even I have been called Janice and Jeanette—along with other forms, therein—for an entire service before one of them recalls that I was named after my father’s mother,” she said in a nervous ramble, hoping to hide her embarrassment.
But Raven wasn’t fooled. She could tell in the way his eyes held hers as he took her hand. Then he brought her fingers to his lips and pressed a warm lingering kiss that helped to soothe her.
“Regardless of how the night progresses, I’m glad I came,” he said, settling her hand on his sleeve. “And you look lovely in that shade of pink. It makes your skin shimmer in the candlelight.”
Her breath caught at the unexpected compliment. “Goodness. If that is your foray into practicing polite social conversation, then you don’t require any lesson.”
“I wasn’t being polite. Although, I was stopping myself from adding that you look like a sugar-glazed confection.”
“I suppose that isn’t too scandalous.”
He bent his head to whisper. “A confection that needs to be unwrapped with my teeth and savored slowly on my tongue.”
His warm breath brushed the sensitive lobe of her ear, and the deep timbre sent her pulse rollicking beneath her skin like popping corn over a fire. It simmered in a place deep inside, where her inner anatomy tilted and thrummed.
If she could find her voice, she might have called him a scoundrel. Then again, she imagined he already knew that he was.
Jane entered the dining room in a glow.
Unfortunately, the pleasure wasn’t to last because dinner proceeded as she’d expected.
Her parents were dragonfly conversationalists, skimming the surface of topics without ever lingering long. They were so used to altering their viewpoints to embrace popular opinion that they usually ended with an entirely different argument than when they began.
“Well, Ravenscroft,” Father said, “I suppose you’ll be attending the Marquess of Aversleigh’s ball. All the best people are, you know.”
Raven nodded and cleared his throat. When he glanced to Jane, she knew he was going to explain who he was.
But before he could, Mother interrupted. “It’s for Aversleigh’s oldest daughter. Her betrothal ball is sure to be the event of the year.”
“No, Clementina, indeed.” Beauregard shook his head, a frown knitting his tawny brows. “Remember, she’s marrying a commoner.”
Mother gasped. Her opinions typically served as an enhancement to his, like a sprinkle of salt over a bland meal. “I’d only remembered that the future son-in-law had a great fortune.”
Father scoffed a single word, a look of utter disgust pinching his nose. “Trade.”
“I simply don’t know what the world is coming to,” Mother answered, apparently forgetting that her own family’s wealth had begun with fur trading. “Well, one thing is for certain—no daughter of ours will ever marry below her class. I’d sooner send her off to America to live with your sister.”
Jane looked at the far end of the table and wondered if the woman seated there realized she was in the room, or remembered having given birth to her. Though, after eleven children, perhaps it all became too confusing. Even so, she had rarely felt so invisible.
“Then again,” Father mused, “what if he were well-endowed in the bank account? After all, if it’s good enough for Aversleigh . . .”
“I’ve always liked Americans,” Mother said, reaching for her goblet. “Their accents and coarse phrasings are so . . . amusing.”
Father raised his glass in salute. Setting it down again, he said, “How long will it be until Jane has her debut?”
“Our daughter has been out for two years, dear,” her mother said. Then she blinked blankly. “Or is it three?”
“Three?” Father stopped cutting into his lamb and addressed his wife. “I’d have thought she’d be married by now. You only had one Season, if I recall.”
Mother dabbed her napkin to the corner of her mouth then issued a distressed sigh as if preparing to impart the worst news imaginable. “Well, she still reads a great deal.”
With a row of peas balanced on his knife, Raven frowned toward Lady Hollybrook’s end of the table. “Many men admire a well-read woman, especially one who has a—”
“You’re quite right, Raversleigh,” Father interjected, busily cutting away again, knife and fork screeching over the fire-glazed porcelain. “We should support them in their endeavors. Yet, you must concede that there is a limit. This reading habit, for example, all began with an innocent collection of books from Roxburghe’s library, eons ago. I never thought it would bring about a bluestocking in the family. Gratefully, it was only a temporary malady. Turned her attention to plants and flower cuttings, if I recall. Perfectly acceptable, that.”
“Oh, but what a jolly time you had bidding for those books,” Mother added with a smile, the topic of bluestocking plagues snuffed like a candle flame. “You were so triumphant and crowed about it for months. The Duke of Tuttlesby absolutely loathed you for outbidding him.”
“And speaking of Tuttlesby, I heard a rumor that his nephew—Woodbine, I believe—is on the market again. Had some sort of scrape-up with his prior betrothal or something of the sort. Regardless, we’ve been invited to dine with the duke later this week. Perhaps”—Father used his fork tines to gesture in Jane’s general direction—“our daughter might entice him. We could have a duchess in our family one day, if we played our cards right.”
Jane stared down at her plate, begging the stewed turnips in a white cream sauce to bring an end to dinner. But turnips were hateful vegetables. They never did what one asked.
Dinner plodded onward, dragging her along with it by the hair.
Father’s next topic was his decision to hire a sportsman. He planned to use the conservatory for exercises to improve his own constitution. Then he grumbled, complaining that he’d found a great deal of nonsense and clutter that would need to be cleared out of the room first.
Jane only hoped that his usual forgetfulness would erase that idea before she lost her sanctuary.
Raven tried to speak on the behalf of all learned women several times, only to have the topic and his name change each instance. He looked so frustrated and perturbed each time that she wanted to reach out across the table and smooth her fingertips over his ruffled brow.
The obligatory after-dinner conversation moved to the music room. It involved a brief spell where Jane was prodded into delighting everyone on the harp.
Mother had insisted that she learn to play at a young age. Jane, having always been a relatively small person, loathed that bully of an instrument. It was nearly two times her size and forever left her shoulder sore and her fingertips feeling freshly plucked.
She studied the pink surface now as she walked alone with Raven toward the main hall.
One of her parents should have been with her to act as chaperone, but Mother had begged off the duties of hostess with a headache, and Father had followed her to their wing of the house, professing knowledge of a cure-all tonic.