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Madame Plumb led them to the far end of the room that had been cleared for dancing and where some of them had been dancing, earlier. Chairs lined the walls, and the carpets had been rolled up, and once again the dance floor was fast filling with an array of oddly assorted characters. If ever a gentleman became tired of the respectable fare on offer throughout London’s ballrooms during the season or failed to secure vouchers at Almack’s, he could be assured of a rollicking good time at Madame Plumb’s.
Miles watched and waited for his opportunity and when he saw the young woman and her consort leave the table, he made his way purposefully toward her as the players tuned up for the next dance.
“May I be permitted, Miss…?”
“Mrs. Graves,” the young woman said in slightly chilly tones, “and I’m afraid I’m unable…” She glanced up at her companion who, with no words, simply shrugged as if it were of no account to him, and wandered off to the card tables.
“Mrs. Graves,” Miles repeated, surprised though aware of the young woman’s discomposure. It only added to her allure. Then, as the dancing had begun, and not taking her response as a rejection, he swept her into his arms for a waltz, surprised when she gasped, saying, “I really don’t know how to dance, sir.”
“You’re doing a jolly good job of it,” he told her, relishing the feel of her slender waist, hitherto hidden by the cut of her high-waisted gown. A long tendril of hair, which had escaped from the topknot of curls secured by a pearl comb, tickled the back of his hand. It sent a charge of sexual awareness right through him. “So tell me, Mrs. Graves; what brings a beautiful young woman to a place like this?” He truly was intrigued. Madame Plumb’s was no place a gentleman would take his wife, sister, or any other respectable female.
“I’m not familiar with London, sir,” she said between gritted teeth and with no smile to sweeten her frosty response. “This is my first foray into…society in three months. I didn’t question my husband when he said he desired to…entertain me.”
Miles regarded her more closely. She’d ground out her words with such difficulty, suggesting she was indeed the respectable angel of the household over which the very young Mr. Graves presided. What a pity, he reflected sadly. He’d assumed Mrs. Graves was an interesting bit o’
muslin who might find Miles’s company more amusing than she clearly did her companion’s.
But the carrot-headed Mr. Graves, it appeared, was indeed her husband and Mrs. Graves a lawfully wedded wife, however out of place one of those was in this company. During dinner, Miles had intercepted several cold looks pass between the couple. Or rather, he’d not missed the cold looks she’d sent her husband, while he’d looked evasive and miserable, pretending his attention was required by his neighbor on the left.
“Notch it up as a novel experience then, Mrs. Graves. I think your husband is perhaps as much out of his depth. An evening spent at a table presided over by the divine Madame Plumb is a privilege for which many young blades would give their back teeth. No doubt your husband will handsomely atone for having subjected you to embarrassment. This is clearly not the kind of society you frequent, and he has no doubt learned that to his cost. But let us put that aside and concentrate on the pleasures of the evening. May I commend you on the lightness of your feet? You are an exceptional dancer and, if I may say it, the most beautiful woman here.”
The way she colored up amused him enormously. If he couldn’t pursue his association with her as he’d originally hoped, he was finding enjoyment enough in the way she responded to him.
When she didn’t reply, but just turned her head to stare beyond his shoulder, he chuckled. “A beautiful young woman should know how to accept a compliment from a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” She glanced about her. “How can I make such a supposition in a place like this? And when you didn’t introduce yourself properly?”
Her sharpness intrigued him. “It’s not required. Most people don’t introduce themselves properly at Madame Plumb’s because most people would know they’re not who they say they are.” He inclined his head. “But if you wish to know my identity, I am Lord Ruthcot, and delighted to have the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mrs. Graves.” He’d expected her to be impressed. Instead, she dropped her hand from his shoulder as the music came to an end. “I think you should return me to my husband.”
He was about to suggest another waltz when the caramel tones of Lord Deveril cut in. “And I should like to claim the pleasure of this dance.”
Irritated, Miles stepped back to allow Deveril to insinuate himself into their midst. He’d never liked Deveril, a pompous Corinthian with an unwarranted high opinion of himself. Now he liked him even less as Deveril swept an overdone bow before issuing a series of lavish compliments on Mrs. Graves’s beauty.
Won’t get him anywhere, he thought. Respectable Mrs. Graves will return meekly to her husband’s side, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on will be but a memory of the kind of woman I’d like for wife and cytherean, if it were possible to combine the two.
But when he looked back, Lord Deveril had obviously not taken no for an answer. The man even had the gall to send a triumphant grin in Miles’s direction as he twirled the graceful Mrs. Graves about the room.
What an appalling evening. An insult. Jemima tried not to cry during the return home in the carriage with Roderick. Was he trying to wound her more than he already had?
He helped her out while an ostler attended to the horses, leading them away to their stabling around the corner, while Jemima picked up her skirts and walked silently by her husband’s side up the pathway that led to their modest home. There’d been little excitement since their rushed nuptials two months ago. Their circumstances forced them to live a parsimonious life. Roderick, initially wild with love for her, now returned home resentful and taciturn after toiling all day as a clerk in the city. Jemima supposed she ought to shoulder some of the blame. She’d hardly been the loving, responsive wife for which he’d hoped, but then he’d put her in a situation where she’d had no choice but to marry him if her good name were to remain intact.
Tonight’s entertainment had been at her instigation—so he’d told her and now he would no doubt put the blame squarely back on her shoulders for the fact it had turned out so ill.
Her soft-shoed slippers made no sound as she took the three steps up to the portico. It made her feel even more insubstantial. As if she were turning into a ghost of the woman she’d hoped to be.
Jemima supposed Roderick had wanted to make her happy tonight, treating her to this surprise after she’d complained bitterly, several days before, at feeling like a prisoner with nothing worthwhile to do. He continually told her how much he loved her and how he wished he could provide her with a comfortable home and the fashionable clothes worthy of her matchless beauty.
Yet his words were like raindrops upon a frosty windowpane. They rolled off her for she felt nothing in response to his impassioned declarations.
She put her hand on the door knob and let herself into the gloomy house, cringing at the sound of Roderick's footsteps behind her.
The only excitement during their short marriage was learning that the British Museum would, in the next few weeks, house the Rosetta Stone; though visiting might be more of a torture since she was no longer in possession of the clay tablet.
No doubt Roderick had had no idea of what kind of establishment Madame Plumb really presided over. He’d certainly not have taken her if he had.
And yet again, tonight only served to emphasize how truly derelict a husband Roderick had proved and how much Jemima was his prisoner.
Jemima had never intended remaining as governess to the Graves. Despite Lord Griffith’s threats, she’d intended going home within a week of taking up her position with the Graves’s, or at least sending a message to reassure her loved ones she was all right.
