Her voice softened. “Not every man is like Adrian,” she said. “It would be such a shame to let the right man slip through your fingers simply because the wrong one broke your heart.”

∞∞∞

On the other side of the hedges, James battled an unexpected surge of guilt as he eavesdropped upon their conversation. He had known that his scheme would make a villain of him, had been prepared to wear the title openly. He was still prepared to wear it openly.
Only now he would bear it with equal parts shame and self-righteousness. He could make Lady Jillian fall in love with him—he doubted it would even prove difficult. He had heard, from her own lips, her admission of loneliness. Heard in her trembling inflection the anguish she yet suffered over her faithless former fiancé. He wouldn’t leave her shamed and enraged—he would destroy her.
It changed nothing. He would still sacrifice her on the altar of revenge, strike out at Westwood in the only way he could to avenge Gloriana—sweet, innocent Gloriana, who had had to be sent away from London in the middle of the Season, where she would bear her child in secrecy. Because of Westwood’s selfishness, two lives would be ruined.
And James would lose what remained of his soul in the process.
Lady Ravenhurst had been half right. Not all men were like Lord Kirkland.
Some were far, far worse.

Chapter Four

The weather in early spring was unpredictable at best. Only last evening Jillian had shivered in the snapping wind that had swept through, leaving her chilled to the bone beneath her thin gown. This morning the sun blazed overhead and the last of the cold snap had been vanquished. Larks and starlings chirped merrily, their joyful cries echoing down the quiet Mayfair lane where Kittridge House was situated in its cozy corner.
Today she had nothing scheduled until evening, a rare and unusual occurrence. She filled her days with the general activities expected of a woman of her station—making calls, corresponding with her acquaintances, charity works, social events. Her days were perhaps fuller than most; she had been burdened with a surfeit of imagination since childhood and in the past three years she had accepted nearly every invitation that had come her way in a desperate bid to occupy her thoughts with something other than Adrian.
Over the years she had thought of him less and less often, although there were moments that could wrench her back into the past—or the future that had been snatched from her. Mothers snuggling their plump-cheeked babies. Couples sneaking off into the gardens for an illicit rendezvous. She had allowed these things to hurt her, however unintentionally. For once she wanted to see such things without those pangs of envy or regret.
“Here you are, my lady.” Victoria, her lady’s maid, careened down the stairs, a pair of gloves clutched in her hands.
“Thank you, Victoria,” Jilly said, accepting the gloves offered to her and drawing them on. “Are you ready?”
“I am. Mr. Fenton has got the carriage being sent round.” She peeked past Jilly to catch a glimpse of herself in the antique mirror situated on the wall just before the door. Victoria had a amusing tendency toward vanity, which perhaps ought to be unseemly in a lady’s maid, but had never bothered Jilly in the least. Between the two of them, Victoria might well have been the better dressed today, in one of Jilly’s old cast-off gowns. Out of style, perhaps, but still just as lovely, and Victoria wore it far better than Jilly ever had—the pink had clashed dreadfully with the red in Jilly’s hair, but looked quite elegant with Victoria’s blond locks.
Jilly’s own dress was a simple green cambric walking dress. Frills and ruffles had never suited her as they had the other girls. She didn’t have the sweet, delicate beauty that they had; she would have looked ridiculous in some of the popular fashions.
At least her advanced years had given her some freedom. Now that she had made it clear that she did not intend to cast her line out in search of a husband, she was afforded some choice over her own garments. Perhaps she was still limited from the darker colors that matrons could safely don, but she could choose between far more shades than just those favored by the new debutantes—shades that flattered her rather than making her skin look sallow or her hair carroty.
And there were only a few years remaining until she would have access to the funds that had been laid aside for her dowry.