The Duchess of Rakecombe huffed as only an Irish duchess could. “I was pointing out suitable ladies. You need someone with–”
“Wild passion, quiet strength and indomitable spirit?”
“Why, yes.” She inspected him closely, twirling an ebony lock. “There’s something different about you, Jack, since Cornwall. Have you been drinking absinthe again?”
He rocked on his heels, stared unseeingly at the dancers, wondered if he could consult his fob watch again. “Never again, lovey. I was mazed as a wagon of lost sheep the last time.”
“You were what? I’ll take that,” she stated, hastily snatching the glass of champagne from his hand. “You must be ailing.”
Yes, he really must explain, but where to begin? “Aideen, I have something to tell you…”
But her attention waned as the black-clad duke strode up, face softening to a scowl. “My sweet cherry love,” he snarled, handing back Jack’s glass and raising her fingers to his lips to nibble the ends.
Must they do that in front of a pining rogue, his own love some three hundred miles away?
“Winterbourne, I require you at Tattersalls tomorrow. Come by at ten.”
“Apologies, my upright friend,” Jack replied. “I’m for Cornwall at first light.”
“Saint Ninnidh’s bones,” interrupted the duchess, “you’ve only just been there.”
The duke grinned and began nibbling the back of her hand. “I believe, my honied nymph, that he’s left something behind.”
Now was his moment. “I have met–”
“But surely it’s too far to bother with a forgotten shoe or somesuch,” she imposed again, flicking her scarlet fan upon her husband’s chest. “Can’t they send it by post?”
An agreeable image of Tamsyn arriving in a box presented itself – tied with emerald ribbon. Anyway…
“Aideen, Rakecombe. Let me finish. I have news. In Cornwall, I met–”
“Oh!” cried the duchess, angling her head to stare past his black silk jacket. “She’s beautiful. How I wish I could wear such a gown.”
Hell and damnation, could he not bare his new-found heart to anyone?
“Hmm, take note, Winterbourne,” drawled the duke, “that is how one wears coquelicot.”
Rolling his eyes, he peered over one shoulder.
Chapter Thirty-four
Winter’s end.
Breath ceased, glass tumbled and heart pitched.
Why? How?
It mattered not.
Miss Tamsyn Penrose stood tall at the top of the marble staircase, a beauty swathed in glorious red, tanned skin rendering the crowds translucent. A crimson rose nestled in her hair, plump coils of walnut cascading over her shoulders in defiance of current fashion.
Jack’s eyes devoured, then starved for more.
The perfect dress shone, an ivory silk with overlay of coquelicot chiffon, crystals shimmering with her every movement and a shaped bodice highlighting her décolletage.
Jack had worried she might not fit within the regimented dictates of a London ball. And he’d been right. But then she didn’t need to.
Because Tamsyn Penrose commanded it.
