Raven forced himself to keep a neutral expression. But in the center of his chest, he felt that painful, burning harpooning again. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
Warrister chuckled again. Easing back against the leather upholstery of his winged-back chair, he steepled his fingers. “Are you going to marry the gel? If you are, you’ll need the title to satisfy her father. And she has plenty of brothers and sisters for whom to set an example.”
“You’ve been spying, it seems.”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, you can’t use her to badger me into being introduced as Merrick Northcott at Aversleigh’s ball,” Raven said, straightening his shoulders. “I’ll go there as myself and as your grandson, if you like, but I don’t want the title. And I don’t need it either because I’m not planning to marry. At all.”
For the first time all afternoon, Warrister’s smile fell. “It will be your duty to carry on the Northcott line with legitimate heirs. Miss Pickerington comes from a robust family line. However, if you don’t want her, I’ll find someone else for you.”
“I don’t want any wife,” Raven said with an irritated swipe of his hand in the air as he began to pace the floor. “I’ve been intimately acquainted with a number of them and, let’s just say, I wouldn’t be willing to share. I keep what’s mine.”
The years he’d been the plaything of Mrs. Devons and her friends had left a sour taste on the back of his tongue when it came to the notion of marriage. In addition, there were countless society wives who’d whispered propositions in his ear at Sterling’s while their husbands played hazard in the next room.
“I see,” Warrister said, thoughtfully staring into the fire. “Then I suggest you end your acquaintance with your . . . Jane, as you called her. She’s likely to have misunderstood your intentions. And too long in any gentleman’s company, without explanation, will not bode well for her reputation.”
After last night in the library, Raven knew the earl was right.
He couldn’t risk seeing Jane again. If she’d meant nothing to him, he never would have stopped. He’d have taken her, there on the map table. But the very fact that he had stopped told him that his initial feelings of merely liking her had turned into a genuine affection.
If he gave himself over to it, he’d become vulnerable. There’d be no telling when the rug’d be pulled out from under his feet. That’s what would happen. That’s what always happened.
So, from now on, it was better if he just kept his distance.
“It’s already done and over,” he said with a tight shrug and went back to the window to stare blindly at the traffic in the square.
Behind him, Warrister cracked another nut. “I’m sure Aversleigh will be delighted to hear that. He has a son your age, Lord Manning, a widower without an heir. He doesn’t keep much society, though. Bookish sort of fellow. From what I gather, however, Miss Pickerington had made quite an impression on him this past spring. Apparently, she said something or other that inspired an idea to improve the condensing engine he’d been building for some time.”
Raven twisted around, biting back a low growl in his throat. “And why are you telling me this?”
“No reason,” Warrister said flippantly. “Other than knowing that the two of them will be attending the same dinner at the Duke of Tuttlesby’s tomorrow evening. If you like, I could garner you an invitation. Tuttlesby is an old friend.”
Incredulous, Raven almost wanted to laugh. “I don’t need an invitation. As I said, there’s nothing between Jane—Miss Pickerington,” he corrected, “and myself.”
The old codger merely smiled in response.
* * *
Dearest Jane,
Your last letter saved me from another visit with the widow and her spinster daughter down the lane. As I write this response, I am blissfully alone in the parlor where I can pretend this is a mere visit with my aunt and uncle instead of a life sentence.
As you may have surmised by my lack of mentioning the topic of Lord F— in these past four letters, I have been at sixes and sevens since his unexpected presence in the village. His pursuit has been nothing more than a plague upon my conscience.
Thankfully, I need not worry about him any longer. After our last meeting, he went away without a word, and his lack of correspondence indicates that I shall never hear from him again. I am relieved, of course. Indisputably relieved.
Your friend,
Prudence Thorogood
Standing in the pale November light, Ellie lowered the letter and crumpled it to her bosom. She stepped away from the garret window in slow, mournful steps. “My heart is breaking for her. To have this terrible man pursue her at such lengths goes beyond the pale! Well, that settles it—I shall speak with my aunts about a long visit with Prue when winter ends. And I shall write to her more than thrice per week.”
“I shall do the same.” Jane nodded and continued perusing the assortment of trunks in search of the one containing the ball gown from her presentation at court two years ago.
However, in the back of her mind, her thoughts were similar to Prue’s.
Raven hadn’t returned. She thought that, after the evening they’d shared, he would have awakened yesterday morning wanting to see her with the same yearning that she felt.
For the purpose of the primer, she tried to describe the sensation. But there were no words. It was more of a feeling. She likened it to being one of the clematis vines that covered trees in the corner of the conservatory. They grew quickly, tendrils reaching out blindly to seek purchase on the branch of a neighbor tree, connecting them both in an autumn flowering arch.
Logically, she knew she wasn’t a vine on a tree. Even so, she felt herself reaching out blindly, waiting for Raven to take her hand.
But deep inside, she feared that he would stay away again. He seemed to only want to get so close before he put distance between them.
“How is the scoundrel portion of our book faring? Did you receive those chapters that Winnie promised?” Ellie asked, trying on a feathered bonnet from atop a dressmaker’s dummy. Tying the green ribbons around her neck, she stepped over to the oval standing mirror to pose like a sketch from La Belle Assemblée.
“I did, and they will be quite useful. However, I am not of the belief that Lord Holt belongs in the scoundrel portion of the book,” Jane said, avoiding mention of her own study of a true scoundrel and the worries that were plaguing her. “And what about your hunt for a certain gentleman neighbor?”
Ellie issued a disconsolate sigh in response and began searching through another trunk. “George recently returned from the country and he has been in a fractious mood ever since. I don’t know what to make of it.”
It seemed that all three of them—Jane, Ellie and Prue—were having similar experiences with the men in their lives.
Behind her, Ellie clapped and said, “Jane! I’ve found your gown!”
Turning, her breath caught as her gaze skimmed over yards and yards—well, perhaps not too many yards considering she was so short—of pale silvery-blue taffeta, spilling down to a Vandyked hem. “I’d forgotten how lovely it was.”
“You’re so silly,” Ellie commented with a grin on her lips. “Don’t you realize that this is the precise color of your scoundrel’s eyes?”