June Calvin (18 page)

By the evening of Jennifer’s ball, the duke had succeeded in his goal of convincing Vincent of the value of the Duke of Harwood’s friendship. Deborah was startled, therefore, to hear her brother-in-law reveal that he was not convinced of Harwood’s interest in Jennifer.

“I begin to think it is all a hoax,” he informed Deborah pugnaciously as they waited with Winnifred at the bottom of the stairs for Jennifer to make her appearance.

“By no means, Vincent. He is clearly fond of her.”

“I had hoped to make the announcement at this ball. Bah!”

Winnifred fluttered nervously at his side. “It may yet happen, dearest. He may ask for permission this very evening. Only just look how lovely Jenny is tonight.”

All three adults watched appreciatively as Jennifer, splendid in a white satin robe with a beaded gauze overdress, descended the stairs. The tiny white beads flashed and sparkled in the light as she moved sinuously toward them. The gown featured a bodice molded to the line of her high bosom and a skirt that fell straight from the gathered bodice, emphasizing her slender figure. She had never shown to better advantage.

“Quite so,” Vincent allowed grudgingly. “There is not the slightest doubt Harwood likes to look at her. But does he want to marry her?”

Deborah shut Vincent out. Tears in her eyes, she hugged her daughter when she reached the bottom of the stairs. “You are looking magnificent, darling.”

Jennifer’s eyes were huge, her features solemn. “I shall be in high fidgets during dinner, lest I ruin my gown.”

Laughing through her tears, Deborah took the girl’s arm. “Shall I have Cook pin one of her giant aprons on you?”

Leading the way to the drawing room to await their guests, Jennifer flashed her mother a quick smile. “Perhaps I should have put a pinafore over my dress.” They all laughed at the thought of such attire at the formal dinner they were giving before the ball.

No accident marred dinner. Jennifer acquitted herself well in the opening dance, too, when her uncle led her out to dance alone for several measures before other dancers joined them.

The second dance was a waltz, which Jennifer had finally received permission from the lofty patronesses of Almack’s to perform. As she danced with the duke, she batted her eyes at him flirtatiously.

The duke smiled down at her benignly. “You are a treat to look at tonight, Jennifer.”

“Thank you, sir. You are all that is kind. I should tell you, my uncle is growing impatient for our engagement.”

“So that is the reason for this adoring look?”

“He is of a suspicious nature, not like Mother, who I believe half expects you to offer for me.” Mischief lit Jennifer’s eyes.

“And is your mother as thrilled with that prospect as Vincent would be?” Harwood’s grey eyes studied Jennifer anxiously.

“I am sorry, sir. I cannot say for sure.”

Harwood’s mouth took on a grim line. “I am not at all sure how to proceed, then. I thought to bring her around, and then, as your stepfather, wrest you from Vincent’s control by persuasion, intimidation, or, if necessary, legal action. But now . . .”

“It
is
a dilemma!” Jennifer glanced to where her uncle stood, studying them dourly, and gasped, missing a step.

“What is it, Jenny?”

“Look who is with Uncle Vincent.”

Harwood looked. “Ah, yes. Lord Morton, back from France. He’s failed with Mrs. Smithfield, too. I heard she eloped with an impecunious French count. You need not fear him, Jenny. I made it quite clear to Morton that he pursued you or your mother at peril of his life.”

Jennifer relaxed and flashed him a smile even more adoring than before, and much more genuine. “Thank you, sir. From the bottom of my heart.”

She would have been less relieved if she could have heard the conversation going forward between the two men observing the couple.

Chapter 19

“It seems Harwood has taken a leaf from my book.”

Vincent gave Lord Morton a sneering look. “I understand you attempted to have both mother and child. Very bad
ton,
Dolphus. Not what you represented to me, was it?”

“Never tell me he doesn’t intend the same. Just because he is more subtle than I . . .”

Vincent shook his head. He had learned enough about society in the last two weeks to know just how low in its estimation Morton stood, and just how high the duke ranked.

“I cannot believe it of him. No, my concern is that he is not truly interested in Jennifer.”

“Of course he isn’t. He’s stalking her for his cousin, John Warner.”

“Rot! I’ve made it clear that he won’t do. But neither will you, Morton, so you might as well be off.”

Dolphus chewed on his drooping mustache. He lacked the courage to continue his pursuit of Jennifer and her mother in the face of the duke’s threats, but his wounded pride urged him to put a spoke in Harwood’s wheels if he could.

“Harwood won’t plump down any ten thousand pounds for her. He’s no need to pay for a bride.”

Vincent glowered. It was the one drawback to his cherished scheme to marry Jennifer to the duke.

“On the other hand, Tarkington would pay and pay dearly. Wants an heir, at last.”

Both men’s eyes turned to the Earl of Tarkington, standing like an emaciated bird of prey at the edge of the ballroom, his glittering blue eyes avidly following Jennifer as she moved gracefully in the duke’s arms.

“Hardly a desirable match. He looks to be diseased. Consider his reputation.” Vincent shuddered at the rash on the corner of Tarkington’s mouth and across his bald head.

“She’ll be a countess, though. Not to be sneezed at.” Morton nodded sagely.

Vincent turned away as the music ended. “Not what I’d choose for my ward, I thank you.” But his thoughts toward Jennifer were less benign.
I’m damned if I’ll give up ten thousand pounds for anything less than a duke, though. And it’s time Miss Jennifer was very clear about that!

There was no opportunity to impress his determination on his niece during the ball. It was just the squeeze that assured its being called a great success, and Jennifer was besieged by admirers. Vincent was not pleased that she granted one of her dances to John Warner, but the duke had made it very clear that he expected his kinsman to be received wherever he was. There was nothing Vincent could do but gnash his teeth as John led Jennifer out for a set of country-dances.

After the last guest had been bowed from the house, though, when the exhausted ladies would have gone to their beds, Vincent commanded Jennifer and her mother to attend him in the drawing room. Winnifred eyed him uneasily and followed along uninvited.

Flipping up his long tails, Vincent sat and motioned the women to do likewise. “Well, Jennifer, do you feel that your ball was a success?”

“It was a lovely ball, Uncle Vincent. Thank you so much for . . .”

He waved aside her gratitude. “It was
not
a success, for your information.”

“Vincent, it is very late. Can’t this wait?” Deborah refused to sit and confronted her brother-in-law tensely.

“No, it can’t. I’m tired of waiting. You said the duke would likely offer for her at this ball. Where is that offer, Deborah?”

“The duke is not in a rush to make a decision, but you saw that Jennifer was the only eligible
parti
that he danced with. And he danced with her twice.”

“Nevertheless, I feel that you are his object, not Jennifer. I have seen the way his eyes follow you as you dance. Either he seeks to curry favor with the mother by turning the child up sweet, or there is some deliberate deception going on.”

Deborah’s heart almost stopped. She had not thought Vincent would guess the truth.

“And I sense that Jennifer has a
tendre
for John Warner, in spite of all I’ve said on that head!” Vincent looked from mother to child challengingly.

Jennifer opened her mouth and then closed it again.

“Well, missy? Cat got your tongue?”

“I can’t
make
the duke offer for me, Uncle.”

“Ah, but I say you can. Clever girl like you, running tame in his household. I’ve been thinking. It shouldn’t be too hard to maneuver him into a compromising position.”

All three women exclaimed as one. “No, Vincent.” It was Winnifred whose protests first found voice. “That is not the way to go on. Have you forgotten you hope to count the duke your friend when our girls make their come-outs?”

Vincent scowled. “Well, then, I may just have to accept another offer. Tarkington has expressed an interest in Jennifer.”

“Tarkington. You wouldn’t!” Deborah shuddered violently.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Winnifred asserted. “Think of our daughters . . .”

“Madam, have you considered what an additional five thousand pounds apiece would do to our daughters’ eligibility?” Vincent pounded the arm of his chair. “In my desk in the library is a signed contract for that amount from Morton, and Tarkington would offer at least that. Now, hear me, Jennifer. Bring the duke up to scratch, or I find someone who can make it worth my while to bestow your hand in marriage. My gals don’t have your fine looks or your fortune. I would be remiss as a father not to do all I can for them.”

“Not Tarkington.” Unexpectedly assertive, Winnifred faced her husband. “That is a connection I could not bear.”

“You have said quite enough, madam. Go to your room now.”

“No, Vincent. You mustn’t . . .”

“Do as I say, or suffer the consequences.” He stood, raising his fist menacingly.

Winnifred drew back before this evidence of his determination. As pale as Jennifer’s dress, she stood and walked from the room.

Abruptly Jennifer stood up, too. “You are despicable. Mother always said you were a better man than my father, but you are not! I’ve lost all respect for you. I no longer consider myself bound to obey you. I . . .”

Deborah stepped between Vincent and her daughter and put her hand over Jennifer’s mouth. “Hush, child. You are distraught. Go to bed and get some rest. We shall speak of these matters more tomorrow when we are all rested.”

“I did not give her, or you, permission to withdraw.”

“I hate you! I hate you!” Jennifer spun out of her mother’s grasp and fled the room, her sobs resounding as she climbed the stairs.

“A good night’s work, Vincent.” Deborah turned scorn-filled eyes on her brother-in-law. “It seems I have misjudged you.”

The light of battle in his usually noncombative sister-in-law’s eyes unnerved Vincent. Still, he was determined to carry his point. “I suggest you get control of your daughter, madam, before I have to take measures . . .”

Deborah’s eyes met and held his. “I shall be the one to take measures if you try to marry her to someone like Tarkington.”

“What can you do, woman? Tell the duke on me? But he won’t dominate me as he did Morton, I can tell you. I am not afraid to meet him!”

A thrill of fear went through her at this hint of a duel. A sudden horrifying vision of Harwood pitching forward, blood spurting from his chest, almost paralyzed her.

“No. I see that you are not.” Needing to ponder her course of action, Deborah called upon all her long experience at presenting a submissive appearance. She slumped her shoulders and dropped her eyes. “I must consider what to do about Jennifer’s rebelliousness. May I be excused?”

“You’d best consider how to bring the duke up to scratch.”

“Yes, Vincent.” Deborah kept her eyes downcast, a study in meekness.

At last, satisfied that she was in a properly submissive mood, Vincent dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He sat up late, nursing a brandy bottle, reassuring himself that he was in charge of things, and that this feminine revolt had been quelled.

***

Deborah hurried to Jennifer’s rooms. She wasn’t surprised to see light under her door, but she was surprised upon entering her bedroom to find clothes strewn everywhere and Jennifer, eyes bright with unshed tears, determinedly packing.

“Jenny, darling. Where do you think you are going?”

“Anywhere that is away from here.”

Deborah rushed to her side. “You mustn’t despair, love. Vincent doesn’t mean it. I am sure. He was only trying to maneuver you into compromising the duke. When he sees we won’t cooperate, he’ll give way.”

“Will he, Mother? What then? Will you expect me to continue trying to attach the duke?”

“He has seemed to grow more affectionate toward you, even in situations in which no one but ourselves could observe. I still have hopes that he . . .”

“Well, I don’t, Mother. The duke doesn’t love me, nor I him. In fact, I love John, and the duke loves you, so it would be immoral for us to marry one another.”

“The duke obviously does not love me, or else his constancy is in serious doubt, for his manner to you has been quite warm the last two weeks, as I am sure you well know!”

“Oh, Mother! It is all a pretense. You
know
that!”

“It began as a pretense, but it is as I hoped. The better the duke knows you, the more he can see that you would be a perfect wife for him.”

“Do you really hope and believe that is what is going to happen?”

Deborah steeled herself, finding it unexpectedly difficult to look her daughter in the eye. “You know I do. What May game are you playing?”

“If I could prove the duke loves you?”

“If he did, it would not do him any good, for I . . .”

“Yes, I know. You are incapable of loving a man, because of my father’s villainy. Well, do you know what I think, Mother?” Jennifer turned from her agitated folding of clothes to face Deborah squarely. “I think you are immoral. Immoral—and a coward as well! Your marriage plans for me are as immoral as Vincent’s!”

“Jenny!” Deborah took a step back, horrified.

“Yes, immoral. You want me to trick a dear man into marrying me, who really loves you, and turn my back on the man I really love.”

“Not trick, precisely.” Deborah wanted to defend herself, but her actions suddenly seemed shabby in her own eyes.

“Yes, trick—fool—deceive. For it would be a deception to say that I want to marry him. And you are a coward for being unwilling to even entertain the notion of marrying the duke! He loves you. He has been pretending to be truly attracted to me to make you jealous. And your indifference has hurt that dear man’s feelings terribly, I can tell you! You should forget the past, Mother, and marry the duke!”

“Jennifer!” Deborah’s hands flew to her cheeks in shock and mortification. “How can you? You know what I suffered . . .”

“Spare me, Mother.” Jenny flung away from her in disgust and began thrusting clothes into a carpetbag. For several moments there was nothing heard in the room but the sound of both women breathing deeply, raggedly.

Finally, in a low voice throbbing with emotion, Jennifer said, “If you wish never to recover from my father’s pernicious influence, that is your choice. But don’t ruin my life because of it.” She continued with her packing, leaving her mother stunned by Jennifer’s unexpected defiance and bitterness.

At last Deborah managed to murmur, “Promise me you won’t run away into the night alone. This is dangerous, Jenny. We must have a plan. There is still America.”

Jenny looked up into her mother’s face, her expression inscrutable. After a moment’s thought she nodded her head. “I won’t go alone, Mother. But I won’t go to America, unless John goes with me.”

Deborah watched her child a few more moments before slowly walking from the room. She was losing her daughter. This alienated, determined young woman was a stranger to her.

Long and long Deborah sat in her dark room, thinking. As she thought, she grew progressively angrier at the situation, at Vincent, at male-dominated society in general. At last she turned her anger on the one who she now realized bore the brunt of the responsibility.

Toward morning she emerged silently into the hall and crept down the stairs. Ascertaining that Vincent was no longer in the drawing room, she stealthily entered the darkened library and made her way to the desk in which he kept his papers.