“Not in the slightest,” Jareth promised her, being careful to avoid eye contact with Portia, who was hovering near the door. “But the chit persists in clinging. Short of a firing squad, I cannot find a way to rid myself of her.”
“This is a literary event, not a military encampment, sir.”
“What would you have me do? Declaim her to death?”
She slapped his arm lightly with her ebony fan, but her eyes twinkled. “Fie, sir. I expect better of the infamous Jareth Darby.”
“Ah, but I thought you wished me to forego the pleasures of my infamous nature. Tell me, madam, how can I politely tell the girl she is hunting the wrong scent?”
He had been so intent on the conversation that when Eleanor stopped with a frown, he thought it must be in consideration of her answer. Instead, a clear voice piped up. “Lady Wenworth, for shame! How can you be so cruel as to monopolize the most eligible bachelor here?”
Jareth grit his teeth, but kept a polite smile in place at the sight of Miss Sinclair effectively blocking their way across the expanse of blue and yellow carpet. Her gloved hands were on the hips of her puffed-sleeve gown, her color nearly as high as the rosy ribbons that bordered the low neckline.
“Why, I do believe my brother-in-law understands monopolization,” Eleanor replied, smiling coolly at him. “Just look at how utterly devoted he is to the fair Miss Watkin. What a shame she could not attend tonight.”
“A decided shame,” Portia said cheerfully. “It remains for the rest of us present to console him on her loss.”
“She is not dead, Miss Sinclair,” Eleanor pointed out, snapping open her fan as if intent on blowing the girl away, “merely unavailable. I daresay Mr. Darby will survive.”
Jareth extracted his arm from hers. “Actually, I find myself completely lost without her. To keep your party from becoming as depressed as I am, dear lady, I shall withdraw. Goodnight, Sister Eleanor, Miss Sinclair.”
He strode away from them, congratulating himself on a neat escape, from both the reading and the daring Miss Sinclair. On his way out, he bid farewell to some acquaintances as well as the fledgling author. He had not reached the stairs before a sharp hiss stopped him. Portia’s stepmother, a dark cloud in her satin gown of matte brown, materialized out of the archway that led to the servant’s stair. “Mr. Darby, a word with you.”
He paused, inclining his head. “Your servant, madam.”
“I must ask,” she hurried on, gaze darting about as if she expected the portraits on the soft white walls to censure her, “what your intentions are toward my stepdaughter.”
“I have no intentions, madam,” he told her frankly. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
As he put a foot on the stair, she seized his arm with fingers that bit into his flesh through the velvet coat. “No, wait, please. There are circumstances you cannot know.”
Jareth paused to regard her. Tears welled in her eyes. Once before he had stopped himself to help a lady in distress. The results had not been good. Still, he was supposed to be a even more a gentleman now than he had been then. “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.
She swallowed, blinking back her tears. “I dare not tell you here.”
Jareth frowned. “We are alone. What do you fear?”
“We could be interrupted at any moment.” As if to confirm her, laughter bubbled out of the open door to the forward salon. She wiped hastily at her cheeks, and Jareth pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to aid her. She smiled as she took it, but the look seemed more triumphant than grateful.
“There is a small sitting room just down the corridor, is there not?” she ventured. “Can we go there?”
Jareth hesitated. He could feel her fear but not sense its cause. It might well be connected with the dire secret she wished to impart, but it could also be connected to another purpose. Unfortunately, the only way to find out was to go with her. Reluctantly, he bowed her in front of him.
She hurried across the corridor, her movements as agitated as her conversation. But when she reached the sitting room, she motioned him to precede her into the ill-lit room. Jareth stepped through the open door and heard it snap shut behind him. He whirled, but a voice in the darkened room stayed him.
“Forgive the subterfuge, Mr. Darby. My stepmother said it was the only way to get you alone.”
Jareth turned to gaze into the room. Lit only by the glow of a dying fire, the pastel furniture looked rosy red, as did the face and figure of Portia Sinclair.
“You expect me to believe your stepmother approves of this?” he demanded.
She took a step toward him, gown whispering. “Most certainly. She suggested it would be seemly for me to explain that many people believe you have already compromised me and beg you to see the error of your ways.”
Jareth leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “What game are you playing, Miss Sinclair? I’ve never compromised you. In fact, you know very well my behavior has been above reproach.”
She hurried to close the distance between them. He could see the eagerness in her smile. “But your politeness has been against your desire, has it not? I have seen the light in your eyes. You are intrigued with me.”
“Perhaps once,” he allowed. “I will own you were a temptation at first. But sadly, Miss Sinclair, I am truly reformed. You will have to find yourself another playmate.”
“But I don’t want another playmate.” Her smile faded. “I must have you.”
“I should be flattered, but my interests lie elsewhere.”
She frowned for a moment, then evidently decided to try again. Reaching up, she pulled the pins from her soft brown hair, shaking her head to let her tresses fall about her shoulders. “You don’t need to look elsewhere. I can satisfy your needs, Jareth. I can make you happy. Let me show you.”
She slipped her arms about his neck and pressed herself against him as her lips sought his. Jareth felt a curious detachment. The softness of her body touched him, and it raised no excitement. He smelled the sweetness of her hair and found it cloying. He tasted the caress of her kiss, and it brought only annoyance.
She stepped away from him with a frown as if she realized his lack of response. “You are not pleased. Should I try again?”
“No, Miss Sinclair,” Jareth replied quellingly. “I am not interested. Peddle our wares elsewhere. I am reformed.” He started to turn away but heard her sigh.
“I am very sorry, Mr. Darby. Please believe me. I hope you’ll understand someday. It is simply too late for me to go elsewhere.”
Her words implied some dire consequences. He turned back. She had seated herself on the biggest chair the room boasted. Slowly, she raised the hem of her skirt, baring her ankles, her calves, her knees. Jareth shook his head, turning his back on her.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said as he reached the door handle, “I wish you would believe
me
. I have no need for a further demonstration of your ardor.”
At the level of his chest, someone tapped softly at the door. He stiffened.
“This display isn’t for you, Mr. Darby,” Portia said sadly behind him. She raised her voice to a high pitch of alarm. “Oh, stop, Jareth my darling. What if we are discovered?”
The door opened as if on cue, and he found himself looking down at Mrs. Sinclair on the threshold. Her flabby face was white, her large hands worrying before her. She was the epitome of the concerned mother, except that her eyes were clear and calculating. She did not meet his gaze, her own going immediately to her stepdaughter beyond.
“Is it done?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Portia whispered.
“On the contrary,” Jareth said coldly, realizing Mrs. Sinclair was indeed the instigator of Portia’s plan. “You are undone, madam. I leave you to minister to your stepdaughter.”
He half expected the woman to reach out to stop him, but she did not move a finger. When he pushed past her, he realized she had no need. The slight beyond her was quite enough.
Eleanor stood with Lord and Lady Hastings and several other guests in the corridor. Lord Hastings was frowning, dark brows drawn tightly over his long nose, look nearly as black as the evening clothes he wore. Lady Hastings’s mouth hung nearly to the bosom of her lacy green gown, as if she could not catch her breath in amazement at his audacity. Around them, the other guests stood with looks of equal surprise.
Eleanor’s face was as white as Mrs. Sinclair’s. She met his gaze with eyes wide in shock. He wished he could think of a single clever thing to say, some charming trick to wipe away her embarrassment, but for once in his life, nothing came to mind. Perhaps because, he realized, for once in his life, he was innocent.
The irony was exquisite. He threw back his head and laughed. The guests recoiled, cast each other worried glances, began to murmur. The murmurs only increased when Portia appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on her stepmother’s arm and pulling furtively at her gown as if she had been through a great deal.
Her gray eyes widened as if she were shocked to find so many people witness to her supposed fall.
“Mr. Darby?” she murmured pathetically, reaching out a hand to him. “You would not abandon me?”
He glanced at her, then back at Eleanor and the others. Lady Hastings’s face was a thundercloud. He was doomed.
“Cheerfully, Miss Sinclair,” he said in ringing tones. “After all, isn’t that what everyone would expect from the infamous Jareth Darby?”
Chapter Sixteen
Eloise had not even finished her solitary breakfast the following morning before she learned of the night’s events. She had spent a lovely evening at the theatre with her father, one of the few times he had deigned to join her out. His conversation had been pleasant and the Shakespearean drama well acted. The only thing that marred her enjoyment of the evening was the fact that she missed Jareth.
Even that morning she marveled at it as she dressed in a cambric gown trimmed with lace. She would never have imagined that she would find herself missing him again. Yet as she finished her oat muffin, she had to own that she was greatly hoping he would call that afternoon.
She certainly didn’t expect to see him so early, or to see Cleo. She nearly dropped her cup of cocoa when the breakfast room door burst open and her friend stalked into the room. Bryerton, at her heels, was as composed as ever, but Eloise thought his color seemed just a bit pink, as if he had run to keep up with the young marchioness.
“Lady Hastings to see you, Miss Watkin,” he said, even as Cleo blurted, “He’s a fraud!” Then she glanced pointedly at the butler, who had the good sense to bow and withdraw.
“Since you cannot mean Bryerton,” Eloise said, motioning her friend to a seat, “I assume you mean Jareth Darby.”
Cleo pulled out the chair beside Eloise and threw herself into the seat with such vehemence that she rumpled the skirts of her striped silk walking dress. “Of course I mean Jareth Darby. You have every right to cut him off, Eloise. He has not changed in the slightest.”
Eloise waited for her stomach to clench or her heart to slow in disappointment, but nothing happened. It was as if her emotions had shut down now that her original thoughts might prove true. She pushed her cocoa away. “What’s happened?”
Cleo was obviously too upset to notice her muted response. “He was caught last night trying to seduce Portia Sinclair. I was there; I saw him. And in his own brother’s house, no less.”
Eloise’s gaze focused on a red spot on the white-figured damask tablecloth. She could not imagine how the stain had gotten there. She rubbed at it absently with her thumb. “It seems odd he would attempt seduction,” she pointed out to Cleo, “knowing you were watching.”
“Of course he didn’t do so before my eyes,” Cleo informed her testily. “We had reached an intermission in the program. Most of us had gone into another room for refreshments. Mr. Darby had excused himself, claiming of all things that he could not enjoy the evening without you there.”
Eloise felt a smile curving her lips. So, he had missed her as well. Shouldn’t that make it even more unlikely that he would seduce another woman? She rubbed a little harder on the red spot.
“Eloise, this is nothing to smile about,” Cleo insisted. “His claim was no more than a humbug. Shortly after he left, Miss Sinclair and her stepmother left us as well, I assumed to visit the ladies’ retiring room. The next thing anyone knew, Mrs. Sinclair was looking for Portia, only to find her barely clothed in a dark sitting room with Jareth.”
The spot only grew wider. Eloise licked her thumb and reapplied it. “And you are certain she did not entrap him?”
“One doesn’t need to trap a hand-fed fox,” Cleo retorted.
Eloise nodded. The damask tore under her thumb; she frowned at the polished walnut showing through.
Cleo’s hand came down to still hers. “Eloise, what is wrong with you? I tell you our suspicions about Jareth Darby are correct, and you sit with less animation than if I had asked your opinion on a new bonnet. Why do you not cry foul?”
She wasn’t sure. It was as if her heart was cocooned in soft fabric, muffled, hidden. The only hint of feeling was a deep need to be in Jareth’s arms.
“Perhaps I would like to hear it from his lips,” she said.
“And so you shall,” Jareth announced from the doorway.
Eloise’s head jerked up. The sight of him tore through the cover on her heart, like sun burning away a morning mist.
“Mr. Darby to see you, Miss Watkin,” Bryerton mumbled behind him. “I informed him you had a visitor, but he refused to wait.”
Her butler’s face was impassive, but his lower lip was beginning to swell. Her eyes widened, and she nodded to him.
“It’s all right, Bryerton. I’m sure you did your best. You may go.”
She thought she heard a sigh as her servant exited.
Jareth remained standing near the door. His color was as high as the butler’s, and she could not help noticing that he looked as if he had thrown his clothes on his lean body. His cravat was barely knotted, his embroidered vest was buttoned crookedly, and his navy coat clashed with the blue velvet knee breeches he wore.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said, “but I wanted you to hear the tale first from me. I should have guessed Lady Hastings would be equally fervent to carry the news to you.”