Christ, James thought as he readjusted his cravat for perhaps the tenth time, staring into the cheval glass placed in the corner of his bedchamber. He was due to stop by the Ravenhursts’ townhouse on his way to retrieve Jilly for their trip to the theatre, but somehow he had been struck with a fit of nerves to rival a girl before her first ball.
It had not occurred to him, while he had been in the midst of securing a proper chaperone, that Jilly ought to have been the one desperate for his company, rather than he for hers. It had not occurred to him at all—at least, not until she had posed that single, devastating question, her hand pressed over her heart, something fragile and very nearly hopeful swimming in her clear green eyes.
You gave up a horse—a good horse—just so I would accompany you to the theatre tonight?
Yes. He had. Without regret or any sort of second thoughts at all, because he had valued the pleasure of her company beyond price. He could have waited two weeks. But he hadn’t wanted to. He would have sacrificed the whole of his stables to secure her, and he would have counted himself the richer for it.
Because he liked her. Christ. He wasn’t supposed to like her. He hadn’t wanted to like her. It was damned inconvenient. But he did like her, and that was a serious problem.
He couldn’t even truly say what it was, in particular, that he liked. Of course, she was beautiful. No, that was too tame, too trite to encapsulate her. When she blushed, she was radiant. And she blushed so charmingly—not the delicate, demure flush he would have expected from this year’s crop of golden-haired, peaches-and-cream complexioned debutantes, but a wild, vivid, furious sort of blush that started at her throat and swept up her face until it blended into her hairline. He had found it more affecting than it had any right to be, that glorious flush that she had demanded he assist her in obscuring from the rest of Lady Northrupp’s guests.
Then she had laughed, and he had found himself unwillingly enthralled yet again. He had liked her laugh before, but it had been a pale shadow of the honest one, which was rich and warm and flowed over him like honey. It had surprised the both of them, he thought—she had seemed shocked by it, as if she did not recognize it, and he wondered how long it had been since she had laughed like that.
About three years, he expected. And he would doubtless take it from her again, when he was finished with her.
It was a sobering thought, and it hit him rather like a punch to the gut. It might very well kill him to be responsible for smothering that laughter into submission once again. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. She deserved happiness.
But Westwood. The thought slipped in, needling him, shoving aside the brief attack of conscience. Gloriana had also deserved happiness, and Westwood had stolen it from her like the selfish, feckless bastard he was. It had been Westwood’s mistake to refuse to atone for his sins, his mistake to leave his beautiful sister alone and vulnerable to men like James.
It wasn’t right or fair that Jilly would suffer for her brother’s crimes. But life seldom was fair, and she knew that perhaps better than most. If she made the monumental mistake of falling in love with James, then she would have earned her heartbreak for not being a better judge of character.
This lesson she would never forget.
Unfortunately, neither would he.