He sketched a bow.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, her gaze sliding away from his.
Lady Ravenhurst’s eyes slid between them, her round cheeks cut with dimples as she absorbed the tension. James had no earthly idea what had pleased her so, but she was clearly delighted with it.
“I think it only fair to warn you,” he said to Lady Jillian. “I intend to call upon you tomorrow.”
And he strode away, Lady Jillian’s gasp of dismay breaking even over Lady Ravenhurst’s delighted laughter.

Chapter Two

“Jilly,” Eleanora said, her voice wheedling. “You liked him. You know that you did.”
“I did not!” Jilly replied, exasperated and halfway to furious. “He was presumptuous and arrogant! And you—you are supposed to be my friend! How could you toss me to the wolves like that!”
“Oh, please.” Eleanora waved that way with her gloved hand, tipping her pert nose into the air. “I threw you to a duke. Who is the catch of the Season, mind you.” Her dark eyes bored into Jilly’s face. “And you did like him,” she said. “I saw it. I know you, Jilly.”
Jilly averted her eyes, aware of the stares cast her way by the other attendees. The duke’s interest in her had been marked, and she flushed beneath the scrutiny directed her way. She knew what they must be thinking—she was no fresh-faced, bright-eyed debutante; what had the duke seen in a woman of her advanced years?
“It matters not whether or not I liked him,” she said, her voice pitched low to avoid falling into straining ears. “I won’t have him, Nora.” Her trembling fingers snatched up a flute of champagne, and she lifted it to her lips for a steadying sip, trying to pretend an unaffectedness that she did not feel. She had seen him watch her—seen his eyes follow the curl that had slipped free of her pins, felt his heated gaze land on her throat and coast along the skin exposed above the neckline of her gown. It had been so long since a man had looked at her like that. She had quite forgotten what it felt like.
Eleanora laid a hand on her arm, sympathy written into her face. “It’s been three years since Adrian,” she murmured. “You should have moved on, Jilly. He did.”
Jilly felt her face freeze into a brittle smile. “I have,” she said. “I have moved on. I’m simply not interested in marriage any longer.” One disastrous Season had been quite enough for her. It had been difficult enough to withstand the stares, the whispers floating in the air after Adrian’s defection—it had been agony to pretend her heart had not shattered in her chest. The rumor mill had quieted with time, but no one had ever forgotten.
They looked upon her with pity, or patronizing condescension, or worse, suspicion. Wondering what could have induced Adrian Ross, Viscount Kirkland, to throw her over—she, the daughter of an earl, a consummate lady—in favor of a mere miss of no great fortune. As if Jilly had done something to drive him into the arms of another. As if she were unworthy to be his wife, perhaps to be anyone’s wife.
That had been the hardest to bear, that she had borne the brunt of the scandal alone. After all, Adrian had eloped to Scotland, to his ancestral estate. He had not returned to London in the years since, and that was a blessing in itself. But she had been left to face the speculation, and he had done nothing to quell it.