Page 27 of Joy to the Earl

An hour later, clad in her favorite sapphire silk evening gown, Rosalind made her way up the front steps of the elegant Vale townhouse on the edge of Piccadilly. A neatly clad butler ushered her inside and took her wool-lined pelisse, then escorted her to the drawing room.

“Rosalind! Welcome!” said Claire as she hurried over and pulled her into a quick, warm embrace. “I’m so glad you are here. The men are driving me quite batty with their talk of merchant ships and warehouses and stocks and whatnot.”

“The men?”

“Indeed, the men,” said Phillip with a low bow as he and a very handsome dark-haired man joined their small circle. “Claire has been like a cat on a tin roof in summer waiting for you to arrive. Lady Nelson, may I introduce Lord Chisholm. Lord Chisholm, this is Lady Nelson.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady,” said the young lord as he bowed over her hand, his kind brown eyes twinkling. “The Vales have been effusive in their praise; I must admit I have been rather eager to meet you.”

Rosalind curtsied and smiled, but her glance to her hostess was quizzical. At no stage during her visit had Claire mentioned there would be other guests. Surely they weren’t trying to play matchmaker? Handsome and seemingly pleasant as Lord Chisholm was, she had no desire whatsoever for the company of another man after Jack.

Claire merely grinned, then turned to her husband. “Phillip dear, would you assist me with the pianoforte lid? I simply cannot lift it.”

“Hmmm,” said Chisholm, raising an eyebrow as the couple near-sprinted to the other side of the room. “Don’t think I’ve ever been abandoned that fast. Tell me, Lady Nelson, do I have an odor about me?”

She laughed. “I might ask the same thing, my lord.”

“Well, you have a fragrance of lemons, and I swear my valet does not allow me out of the house unless I am in tip-top shape, so I suspect ulterior motives. You’re a widow, I understand?”

If the question had come from another man, it might have sounded awfully lascivious. But there was no slyness or lust in Chisholm’s eyes, just polite interest, and she found herself relaxing and enjoying his company and conversation.

Until he froze, his gaze locking on something over her shoulder.

“Lord Chisholm?” she said, concerned as the warmth and friendliness left his expression. “Are you well?”

“Quite well,” he muttered through gritted teeth, and she turned, needing to see what it was that troubled him so greatly.

Oh God.

Jack and a beautiful brunette stood in the doorway, her arm casually linked through his, and both were smiling as they made their way into the drawing room.

“Lord Lynthorpe,” she said through bloodless lips. “And…”

“His fiancée, Lady Marianne Alton,” finished Chisholm, a look of pure hopelessness flashing across his face as he watched the new arrivals approach.

Oh, this was beyond all. Bad enough to torture her with the sight of Jack and his intended bride, but the man clearly in love with Lady Marianne as well? This was just cruel.

“Claire,” she said in a furious undertone as their hostess appeared beside them. “I—”

“Suppertime,” sang Claire gaily. “I hope you have all brought empty stomachs, because our cook has outdone herself. Since there is just the six of us, we’ll be eating in the small dining room. Follow me!”

Lord Chisholm offered his arm, and they walked silently into a cozy room with a beautifully carved oak table laden with pristine china plates, silver cutlery, and crystal glasses. Rosalind went to sit down, but before she could, Claire curved a surprisingly strong hand under her elbow and practically dragged her around the side. She was forced to sit next to Jack, while Lady Marianne sat next to Lord Chisholm, and Phillip and Claire sat at either end.

Jack was so close, if she tilted her head, she could rest it on his shoulder. His blond hair had been trimmed, and gone were the borrowed clothes. Tonight he wore tailored gray trousers, linen shirt and gold waistcoat, black jacket, and an intricately tied cravat, and he looked absolutely devastating. Wealthy. Like the Earl of Lynthorpe.

“Good evening, Rosalind,” he said softly in her ear, and she shivered as the heady scent of sandalwood, shaving soap and a fragrance essentially Jack surrounded her senses and clenched her heart.

“Good evening,” she said woodenly, wanting to kiss the footman who chose that moment to pour her a glass of champagne, and give her time to compose herself as she sipped the delicious, fizzy beverage.

“How are you? How is Felicity?”

“We are both fine, thank you. As are my aunt and uncle.”

“Well, less trees for him to get into trouble with in town, I’d say.”

“Indeed,” she replied through gritted teeth, torn between wanting to pour the contents of her glass over his head, and crawling into his lap for a prolonged, erotic kiss. Remarkably, the other two couples weren’t paying much attention to them at all; Claire was chatting to Lady Marianne about bonnets, and Phillip and Lord Chisholm had resumed their conversation about stocks.

“And Wellington?” Jack continued. “Is our furry Field Marshal enjoying being back in the city?”