Jane blushed, only now realizing why she’d been determined to wear this gown to the ball. Because it reminded her of Raven.
But was he her scoundrel?
When she first began her research for the primer, she never would have wondered such a thing. Her study of scoundrels had begun with perfectly sound reasoning.
Now, she worried that she was perilously close to losing her head.
Therefore, she decided at once that it was time to resume her dedicated focus on the primer.
“That will do nicely,” she said, adopting a neutral tone. “What do you think I should wear to the Duke of Tuttlesby’s dinner tonight?”
Ellie scoffed. “I thought you said you were going to claim a headache and stay home. After all, how could either of us be in the room with that horrid Mr. Woodbine after the way he treated our Winnie when they were betrothed? Well, not unless we were planning to poison him.”
Jane considered the possibility for a moment or two.
Then she shook her head. “No. Winnie is content. And surely, we must be beyond the timeframe when poisoning would have been appropriate.”
“Hmm . . . true.” Ellie sighed, forlorn. “I hope I do not look back on a life of misspent opportunities. Then again, who’s to say I don’t have a terrible carriage accident on my way home? It could be that all I’ll have to show for my efforts to marry George is a gravestone in the family plot not too far from his own.”
“Fear not. I would plant flowers that would bloom all year for you, and design a mechanical watering device that would be powered by the wind so they would never wither.”
“Thank you ever so.” Ellie laughed and found another gown. “You’d look smashing in the cerise gown this evening. It is the color of love. Perhaps it will inspire one of the gentlemen there to woo you.”
“I shan’t hold my breath. I recall wearing that last spring with little success, other than an invigorating chat about condensing engines with Lord Manning. And then, afterwards, I never saw him again for the rest of the Season.”
“Well, with any luck, it will inspire the right man to do more than just talk.”
“The right man,” Jane murmured, holding the gown at arm’s length as if eyeing it critically. In the back of her mind, however, she was still thinking about Raven.
“Would you like to hear something amusing?” Ellie asked, digging toward the bottom of the trunk to find the matching slippers. “Ever since I was here for tea with you and your scoundrel, I started to wonder if you were falling in love with him . . .”
Jane went still, but her head started to spin like a whirligig. She felt giddy and somewhat nauseous as if she were going to laugh and vomit at the same time.
“. . . he is handsome, after all,” her friend continued, oblivious, her voice echoing inside the trunk. “And scads of rakish appeal. I even admit that my own heart fluttered. But, of course, no one could ever take George’s place.”
The truth came to Jane in that same mysterious way that brought pages of text to the forefront of her mind. Suddenly she knew an answer without ever having asked herself the question.
And she, who had begun her research in part to find evidence of love, had somehow stumbled upon it without having taken a single note.
“Oh, Ellie,” she said, mystified. “I do believe I am.”
Chapter 26
It was the most frustrating evening of Raven’s life. He never should have come to the Duke of Tuttlesby’s dinner party in the first place.
Yesterday, he’d left Warrister’s town house feeling completely sure of himself. Only to return early this morning to beg for a bloody introduction to Tuttlesby and gain an invitation to His Grace’s dinner. The earl hadn’t even bothered to hide his merriment.
So, before Raven had left, he’d said, “This changes nothing.”
To that, the old codger had grinned. “Of course not.”
Arriving at Tuttlesby’s soiree, he’d met a pompous windbag named Woodbine, an assortment of accomplished debutantes—or so their parents said—and a certain Lord Manning.
But no Jane.
He felt duped. Manipulated. He thought Warrister had planned the whole thing.
After dinner, they all gathered in the parlor. Raven’s irritation only mounted as Lord Manning took him into his confidence to wax poetic about the brilliant Miss Pickerington. By all accounts, she was his muse for the engine improvements he’d created. And, while Manning droned on and on, Raven had the unsettling picture in his mind of Jane and Manning standing in the conservatory, surrounded by their dozen children.
“I’d hoped to see her this evening,” Manning said, cleaning the golden-rimmed spectacles against the knee of his trousers. “But I learned, shortly before I arrived, that Lord and Lady Hollybrook had sent their apologies, stating their daughter was unwell.”
The news sent a shock through Raven, banishing all the hot irritation and turning it cold. He never even thought she could be ill.
He stood and, without begging anyone’s pardon, left to fetch Sterling’s horse from the stables. Then he rode to Westbourne Green in the light of the full moon, under a cold midnight sky.
He never expected to see a light within the Holly House conservatory, the frosty window glass aglow from within.
He rubbed his hand in a circle on the pane and peered inside to find Jane at her desk, her pen fervently scribbling over a sheet of paper.
Tapping on the glass, he saw her head turn instantly. And as she walked to the door, he was perplexed to see her dressed in a deep red gown, her hair gradually coming undone from a coiffure. She appeared as though she’d gone out this evening.
“I thought you were unwell,” he said the instant she opened the door.
She looked at him queerly, tilting her head to the side. “That is an odd way of greeting me. What would give you cause to believe I’m ill?”
“Apparently, everyone at the Duke of Tuttlesby’s dinner party.”
“Oh, that.” With an absent shrug, she latched the door behind him, then proceeded to walk back to her desk. “I had a pressing matter on my mind so I claimed a headache. But wait.” She stopped on the path and turned back to him, eyes wide. “Were you there?”
“Is it so hard to believe that I was invited? And besides, wasn’t that the purpose of your lessons?”
“Well, yes. I mean, no. I—” she stammered perplexedly. “I only wanted you to find a level of comfort in society.”
Crowded by vines and branches, he took her by the shoulders to turn her around, gesturing with a wave of his hand for her to proceed toward the clearing.
“Were you aware that I’d planned to attend before you went, or was this mere happenstance?” she asked once they reached her desk.
Issuing a noncommittal grunt, he walked by her to the stove, sloshing the kettle to ensure there was enough water for a cup of tea. Then he lifted the curfew and stuffed a few fresh pieces of kindling inside.
When he faced her again, her lips slowly began to curl up at the corner. “You did know, didn’t you? That’s the reason you went to that stuffy old duke’s party.”
Feeling like seven kinds of fool, he sidestepped the question and jerked his chin toward her desk. “So, what’s your pressing matter?”