The Unwilling Miss Watkin Read online

She was pleased he had sought her out. His family was known for having exacting standards when it came to the qualifications of brides. Indeed, she had never quaked quite so much as when she had been presented to his mother last week. But Lady Nathaniel had been as gracious as her son. Surely the fact that they accepted her was proof that she had finally achieved respect among the members of the Society.

  Cleo was just as certain. “You are making your mark at last,” she had told Eloise earlier as they waited for Cleo’s husband, the Marquis of Hastings, to escort them to Almack’s. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you have put that reprehensible Jareth Darby out of your mind.”

  Eloise had merely smiled. Truth be told, if Cleo knew how often Eloise thought of Jareth Darby, her friend would surely despair.

  It was difficult to forget the first man she had ever loved, even more so because he had forsaken that love. His attentions had seemed so romantic then. Even now, there were moments she found Viscount Nathaniel sadly lacking in comparison. Of course, the chivalrous viscount was also far less likely to trample her heart. She should apply herself to the task of cementing her place in his affections.

  She followed him through the pattern of the dance, fluttering her lashes from long practice and casting him covert glances from the corner of her eyes. With an odd number of couples in the line, she and Lord Nathaniel would have to take a turn at standing out. When they stepped aside, she smiled brightly at him.

  “I so enjoy our time together, my lord,” she confided, gazing at him from under her lashes.

  His smile was warm. “As I do, Miss Watkin. And may I say that you dance divinely?”

  She kept her smile to herself as she made a circle with the toe of her green kid slipper on the polished wood floor, knowing the movement drew attention to her long legs. “You are too kind, my lord.”

  “Not at all.” His assurance was fervent. “Rarely have I seen anyone so poised. Many young ladies show an inappropriate passion for the dance.” He nodded down the set to where Lady Thomas DeGuis was laughing as her doting husband swung her to the left.

  Eloise felt a slight chill and wished for the paisley shawl she had brought with her. She forced herself not to be so common as to rub her arms where they were bared between her long gloves and the cap sleeves of her satin gown.

  “You cannot compare my feeble skills to those of Lady DeGuis,” she told the viscount. “Besides, surely passion such as hers should be praised.”

  “Yes, I had heard that her efforts are tireless for the unfortunate here in London,” he allowed, eying the lady in question thoughtfully before returning his gaze to Eloise. “As are yours, I believe. Did I not hear that you are assisting her?”

  Eloise smiled. “For the last few weeks. I find her work admirable and was lucky that we shared a mutual acquaintance in Lord Hastings. I prevailed upon him to introduce us. He is a great admirer of the lady as well.”

  “Some ladies should be admired,” he murmured, taking her hand for a quick kiss. Eloise willed the caress to thrill her, but instead the only emotion she felt was a minor satisfaction. She allowed him to return her to the dance.

  But though she danced with her usual flair, she found herself repeating his words in her mind. He admired her. Lord Hastings admired her. Lady DeGuis admired her. It appeared that the entire ton thought her worthy of admiration.

  How would they react if they knew the truth?

  The thought was completely unwelcome. She brought her foot down so firmly that Lord Nathaniel raised his brows. He could not know why she had to deal with such thoughts as firmly as she’d stamped her foot. She would not be ruled by fear anymore than she’d once allowed herself to be ruled by passion.

  She knew the consequences of the choice she’d made all those years ago. An unmarried lady of London Society could not admit to an indiscretion without forfeiting her future. That was why her romance with Jareth Darby remained a closely guarded secret.

  As far as she knew, only four people other than herself knew of her past. Cleo was her dear friend and would have died rather than breathe the secret to a soul. Her husband had become a friend and ally as well; Eloise knew she could count on Leslie Petersborough, Lord Hastings, to remain silent. Miss Martingale, headmistress of the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, had already proven she wanted no one to know that one of her charges had been less than chaste. That left only the villain of the story, Jareth Darby, and he was safely in exile on the Continent.

  Determined to seize the future she desired, she smiled and flirted and danced with ladylike restraint for the remainder of the set. Her performance must have been particularly convincing, for, as soon as the dance ended, Lord Nathaniel implored her to join him on a stroll about the hall. She glanced across the room to where Cleo was engaged in conversation with her husband and several others. Her friend would not miss her. She accepted her beau’s offered arm, and they set off.

  Along the edges of the dance floor, any number of sofas and alcoves allowed the fashionable to converse. The first group they passed contained Lady Jersey, their hostess for the evening. The queen of London Society nodded in greeting as they passed. Eloise smiled in satisfaction.

  “Particularly lovely weather for this time of year,” Lord Nathaniel commented politely.

  “Oh, decidedly,” she said with more enthusiasm than the tired subject warranted. They passed a group of dowagers who smiled at them with approval. Eloise raised her head.

  They passed another group, this one of young people who talked and laughed, animated, carefree. One of the young men raised a lady’s hand to his lips in tribute, and she gazed at him raptly. Eloise swallowed.

  Suddenly a laugh turned to a shriek, and one of the ladies darted away from the group, directly into Eloise’s path. She recognized Portia Sinclair, who was on her first Season.

  Lord Nathaniel stopped with a frown, but Portia seemed heedless of his presence. Her attention was all for the young, dark-haired Major Churchill in dress regimentals, who had followed her from the group. She tossed her red-gold hair and swung a quizzing glass from her short fingers, daring him to retrieve it. When he reached for it, she slid it deftly down the tight bodice of her white muslin gown, then laughed at the look of chagrin on his handsome face.

  “A sorry showing,” Lord Nathaniel murmured as he detoured Eloise around her. “Miss Sinclair grows more shocking with each ball.”

  Eloise glanced back and saw that Portia and the major were in deep conversation. Indeed, it was as if they had forgotten anyone else was in the room. She had been just as besotted. She shook her head. “Surely her activities can be ascribed to nothing more than high spirits.”

  “You are being kind, Miss Watkin. You see only the good in people.”

  Would that that were so. In truth, it was all too easy for her to suspect the worst of everyone she met. “I am merely speaking from my own experience,” she assured the viscount. “I was much like her, once.”

  “Never say so,” he replied, pressing her hand on his arm. “I will not believe you were ever anything less than perfect, Miss Watkin.”

  “You are too kind, my lord,” she returned, but somehow his praise did not warm her.

  They passed two more groups before he spoke again. “Will you be receiving callers later this week, Miss Watkin?”

  She blinked, but quickly recovered her poise. Was this what she had waited for? “Certainly, Lord Nathaniel. I hope I shall always be home to you.”

  “Now you are too kind,” he murmured. He paused, and she was forced to stop as well. He gazed warmly down at her. “I hope you know, Miss Watkin, that I hold you in the highest esteem.”

  His voice positively trembled with emotion, and Eloise could not help but be touched. He truly was a worthy fellow.

  “I hope you know, my lord,” she replied, “that I highly esteem you as well.”

  His look grew even warmer, and she thought that if they had not been in Almack’s, he might have kissed her. She felt a momentary flutter a
t the thought. He did not seem to notice, merely squeezing her hand with fervor before turning her back the way they had come.

  “I should return you to your friends,” he said.

  She was ready to agree when she saw him.

  Along the wall in the direction they were moving, stood Jareth Darby, staring at her. The man and woman at his side were staring as well, but Eloise barely noticed them. Jareth looked much as she still pictured him, tall, lean, confident, platinum-haired, and devilishly handsome. She could not seem to take in more. Indeed, all coherent thought had fled. She must have hesitated, for Lord Nathaniel’s grip on her arm tightened as if in support.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Watkin?” he asked.

  She shook her head, more to clear the apparition than to answer him. The dance ended, and couples parted. People passed her, intent on securing new partners. When she could see down the wall again, the tall, elegant woman stood alone. The devil had fled with Eloise’s composure.

  She let out her breath. Was this some dream of her feverish brain? He could not be in London. Surely she would have heard. No, more likely her thoughts of matrimony had conjured him. It was a sign of her uncertainty in the future, nothing more. All perspective brides were allowed second thoughts.

  “I am fine,” she assured Lord Nathaniel. “Perhaps just a bit winded from the dance.”

  “Quite understandable. Shall I procure you a glass of lemonade?”

  The thought of being alone was suddenly terrifying. She glanced about but saw no sign of Cleo or Leslie. She clutched at his arm. “No, that is unnecessary. If we could find a seat?”

  “Of course.” He paused to glance around the room. “Ah, yes, I see a free sofa directly opposite.”

  She followed his gaze and gasped. Standing beside the sofa, resplendent in his coat and breeches of blue velvet, was Jareth Darby. He must have noticed her staring, for he made her a bow.

  “Do you see him?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “See whom?” Lord Nathaniel asked.

  The crowds milled and parted again. The space beside the sofa was empty.

  A laugh bubbled out of her, sounding hysterical. “Apparently no one. Perhaps I need that lemonade after all. My mouth is suddenly quite dry.”

  “Your servant, madam.” He bowed over her hand and strode across the floor, to be quickly swallowed up in the crowd going toward the refreshments.

  Alone, she wrapped one arm about her waist. What was wrong with her that she conjured ghosts? Did some part of her not believe she deserved a kind, considerate husband like Lord Nathaniel? She thought she had stamped out those fears and self-doubts. She had earned her place in Society. She had prayed, reformed, done good deeds to atone. She had been accepted. She refused to lose that acceptance now and by her own imagination.

  She forced herself to drop her hold and stand tall. A gentleman passing raised a quizzing glass for a better look at her. She smiled radiantly and was rewarded to see the fellow actually stumble. Yes, she still had power over the gentlemen. It was her newfound honor that kept her from using it to the full as she once had. Surely Lord Nathaniel saw her as a lady.

  She took a deep breath and turned to see what might be keeping him. Moving inexorably toward her was her phantom. Her stomach jumped into her throat, but she stood her ground, willing him to vanish along with her other fears. He strode to her side but did not bother to bow again.

  “Good evening, Miss Watkin,” he said. She could only stare stupidly as he took her hand in his very solid grip and brought it to his lips. The warmth of his breath touched her through the silk of her long gloves. The pressure of his lips sent her stomach crashing back down again.

  He was real.

  He was back in London.

  He knew everything about her and had once shown himself black enough that he just might share it.

  Faced with such dire circumstances, she did the only thing a lady could do. She let her eyes roll back in her head and collapsed toward the floor in a faint.

  Chapter Three

  Jareth caught her neatly, but not before cries of alarm rose on all sides. He quickly found himself the center of attention. He had hardly expected a welcome from Eloise, but he somehow hadn’t thought she’d be the one to faint from the encounter. He could think of nothing he had done to warrant such a reaction. Still, it was difficult to look like an innocent standing in the middle of Almack’s with a beautiful woman in his arms. By the expressions of the ladies around him, he was swiftly being painted the villain. He offered them his most winning smile as he shifted his grip on Eloise.

  “Heat fatigue,” he assured them all. He loosened one hand to pat her cheek. “Miss Watkin, are you all right?”

  He hadn’t expected a response and was surprised when her lips moved.

  “Go away.”

  He blinked and peered closer. Thick curling black lashes fanned out over alabaster cheeks. The only other spot of color was her soft, rose-toned lips. She always had been the most kissable female. That hadn’t changed. But now was hardly the time to find out if she still tasted as good as she looked.

  “Miss Watkin?” he tried again.

  She sighed and opened her eyes. Green as deep as a forest in summer nearly took his breath away. “Let go of me,” she said firmly.

  Jareth did so, and she wobbled to her feet. The ladies around them began talking all at once. The sound was no doubt supposed to be soothing, but Eloise turned so pale that he put a hand on her elbow to support her. She stiffened at his touch.

  “What happened?” someone cried, and Jareth looked up in time to see a pint-sized Amazon push her way through the crowd, a tall, dark-haired man at her heels. She had reddish-brown hair set in short curls around a pert face, and her well-molded bosom heaved with maidenly virtue. She didn’t fool him for a second. The last time he’d seen her, she’d had a pitchfork in her hand, and she hadn’t been afraid to use it. She seemed to have the same idea now.

  “You!” she declared, evidently recognizing him as well. “Release her this instant.”

  He would have been delighted to do so, but Eloise disengaged from him first.

  “Mr. Darby has no hold on me, Lady Hastings,” she said calmly.

  “Nor should he,” the Amazon maintained hotly.

  The tall gentleman, whom he took to be the Amazon’s husband, stepped forward and put a hand on his wife’s arm. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private, dearest.”

  She looked ready to protest, but evidently thought better of it. Perhaps it was the pointed look Eloise gave her. He could have kissed her for that. None of them needed another story circulating. Of course, he seemed to combine kissing and Eloise in the same thought far too easily.

  They started to move away, and he knew he had to act quickly or lose any chance he had. “Forgive my interruption,” he tried, stepping to Eloise’s side. “I would like a moment of Miss Watkin’s time, when she is feeling better, of course.”

  Eloise refused to meet his gaze. He could do nothing but bow and turn to leave. He found Lady Jersey blocking his way. She stood tall in her amethyst satin gown, her pomaded golden hair glinting in the candlelight. Her impressive bosom wasn’t heaving, but the fire in those blue eyes was enough to make him cringe.

  “Are you disturbing my hall, Mr. Darby?” she asked, though the simple words implied blasphemy worthy of hell fire.

  He swept her a bow. “Certainly not, my lady. Miss Watkin evidently collapsed from the heat. I merely managed to cushion her fall.”

  “A likely tale.” The young man who had been dancing so cloddishly with Eloise pushed his way to the front. The fingers of his gloves were stained from the punch that still trickled over the glasses he held in a trembling grip. “I have heard of you, Darby, and nothing good. I demand to know what you did to Miss Watkin.”

  Jareth raised his quizzing glass and glared at the fellow through it. Before he could speak to put the upstart in his place, help came from an unexpected source.


  “I am certain Mr. Darby was merely trying to help,” Eloise murmured.

  Jareth blinked at her sudden change of heart. Lady Jersey and the young lord frowned.

  “If you would excuse us,” the Amazon’s husband said, “I think Miss Watkin needs to sit down.”

  The young lord bowed, and Jareth had no choice but to do likewise. He watched as Eloise was led off to a sofa as far away from him as possible. The young lord followed. Deprived of drama, the crowd dispersed.

  Lady Jersey clucked her tongue. “Bad ton, Mr. Darby. I shall keep an eye on you.”

  “I can only endeavor to earn your commendation, dear lady,” Jareth replied with another bow, this time to her.

  She raised a saffron brow that said she very much doubted his ability to earn any sort of praise from her, then sailed off to join another group. As he walked toward Eleanor and Justinian, he heard the murmurs begin afresh.

  “He is unchanged …”

  “Just as scandalous as always …”

  “Did you hear how he came to be forced from good Society last time?”

  Jareth gritted his teeth. He had only made things worse. Justinian and Eleanor apparently thought so as well, for they hastened to join him as if in support.

  “What happened?” his sister-in-law asked, her silk gown whispering almost as loudly as she did.

  Jareth shrugged. “I cannot say. The lady simply collapsed.”

  “Odd,” Justinian said. His grey eyes were thoughtful as he gazed to where Eloise had been settled. The Amazon and her husband ministered to her as she accepted her glass of punch at last from her fawning escort. She certainly managed a smile for his sake.

  As if she felt Jareth watching her, she glanced up. Their gazes locked. For a heated moment, he was back in the hayloft over the school stables. He could smell her lilac perfume merging with the scent of summer hay, feel the silk of her skin beneath his hands, hear the sweet gasp of her breath as he covered her with kisses. Eloise turned on the sofa and put her back to him.

  The cut direct.

  Justinian must have seen it as well, for he shook his leonine head. “How disappointing, Jareth. You are obviously far from forgiveness.”