expression. “It wasn’t a mallet. And the spot was a bit lower, unfortunately.”
Returning his attention to the ballroom, Jordan finally spotted Lady Emma. She was waltzing with young Radcliffe as cool as you please, without a hint in her sweet expression of the scene she’d played with him in the garden. The puppy was holding her close enough to imprint his lecherous body on her skirts. Where was the chit’s chaperone,for God’s sake? Somebody ought to put a stop to her outrageous behavior!
Ian followed the direction of his gaze. “It’s not like you to be interested in an innocent.”
“She’s no innocent, I assure you,” he snapped.
“So you don’t still think she’s the rector’s daughter you mistook her for?”
“I don’t know what to think.” White anger seared Jordan when Radcliffe lowered his head to whisper something in her ear and she laughed.
“Come, man, I met her mother, a formidable matron if ever I saw one. Why would a woman of Lady Dundee’s social status put an impostor forward as her daughter, risking her husband’s reputation and the future of her other daughters?”
Why indeed? “I don’t know; perhaps the countess grew bored in Scotland and this is her entertainment.” His eyes narrowed. “And what about Lady Emma’s speech? If she’s from Scotland, where’s her brogue?”
“She wouldn’t have one, not with an English mother like Lady Dundee. The countess probably worked with her for years to prevent her from developing an accent.”
“You can’t eliminate an accent that easily. She ought to have some trace of it.”
Ian sighed. “Even if Lady Dundee were foolish enough to pass off a nobody as her daughter, Nesfield says the woman is his niece, too.”
“So why do Nesfield’s niece and the daughter of his rector resemble each other so much?” Except in their experience with men. “Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. How did you come to meet a rector’s daughter, anyway?”
“She was at Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire two months ago.”
“Was she in costume that night, wearing a mask, that sort of thing?”
Jordan sensed a trap. “Yes.” He added hastily, “But I saw her without her mask.”
“For how long?”
With a black scowl, Jordan returned his attention to the dancers. He could only imagine what Ian would think if he admitted he’d seen the girl’s face in dim moonlight for a mere matter of minutes.
“I take it from your silence that it was a brief glimpse.”
“It was enough.”
Now the deuced woman was dancing with Pollock. With a jealousy bordering on idiocy, he remembered Pollock’s vow to find a woman to love.
Well, it won’t be her, Pollock , Jordan thought. Pollock wasn’t for her. None of them were for her. If anyone had her, it would be him, and he wasn’t about to become entangled with a deceitful, coy flirt.
Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. All it wanted right now was to drag her back outside and lay claim to her like some half-witted stallion.
“My God,” Ian said dryly, “this rector’s daughter must have made quite an impression on you for you to remember her after so short an encounter.”
Jordan met his friend’s speculation with stony silence. How could he explain the way Emily had affected him that night? He didn’t understand it himself. “It was enough to make me almost certain that this woman is not Lady Emma, but Emily Fairchild, engaged in some scheme of Nesfield’s making.”
“That man is the most humorless, self-important creature in all England—why would he indulge in something so risky to his reputation?”
“I don’t know. But I do know the woman I met, and I’d swear that’s her.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong.”
“Why?” A horrible thought suddenly seized him. Ian was now watching Lady Emma, and at the sight of his intent scrutiny, another ridiculous spasm of jealous anger wracked Jordan. “You’re not thinking of courting her
Returning his attention to the ballroom, Jordan finally spotted Lady Emma. She was waltzing with young Radcliffe as cool as you please, without a hint in her sweet expression of the scene she’d played with him in the garden. The puppy was holding her close enough to imprint his lecherous body on her skirts. Where was the chit’s chaperone,for God’s sake? Somebody ought to put a stop to her outrageous behavior!
Ian followed the direction of his gaze. “It’s not like you to be interested in an innocent.”
“She’s no innocent, I assure you,” he snapped.
“So you don’t still think she’s the rector’s daughter you mistook her for?”
“I don’t know what to think.” White anger seared Jordan when Radcliffe lowered his head to whisper something in her ear and she laughed.
“Come, man, I met her mother, a formidable matron if ever I saw one. Why would a woman of Lady Dundee’s social status put an impostor forward as her daughter, risking her husband’s reputation and the future of her other daughters?”
Why indeed? “I don’t know; perhaps the countess grew bored in Scotland and this is her entertainment.” His eyes narrowed. “And what about Lady Emma’s speech? If she’s from Scotland, where’s her brogue?”
“She wouldn’t have one, not with an English mother like Lady Dundee. The countess probably worked with her for years to prevent her from developing an accent.”
“You can’t eliminate an accent that easily. She ought to have some trace of it.”
Ian sighed. “Even if Lady Dundee were foolish enough to pass off a nobody as her daughter, Nesfield says the woman is his niece, too.”
“So why do Nesfield’s niece and the daughter of his rector resemble each other so much?” Except in their experience with men. “Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. How did you come to meet a rector’s daughter, anyway?”
“She was at Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire two months ago.”
“Was she in costume that night, wearing a mask, that sort of thing?”
Jordan sensed a trap. “Yes.” He added hastily, “But I saw her without her mask.”
“For how long?”
With a black scowl, Jordan returned his attention to the dancers. He could only imagine what Ian would think if he admitted he’d seen the girl’s face in dim moonlight for a mere matter of minutes.
“I take it from your silence that it was a brief glimpse.”
“It was enough.”
Now the deuced woman was dancing with Pollock. With a jealousy bordering on idiocy, he remembered Pollock’s vow to find a woman to love.
Well, it won’t be her, Pollock , Jordan thought. Pollock wasn’t for her. None of them were for her. If anyone had her, it would be him, and he wasn’t about to become entangled with a deceitful, coy flirt.
Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. All it wanted right now was to drag her back outside and lay claim to her like some half-witted stallion.
“My God,” Ian said dryly, “this rector’s daughter must have made quite an impression on you for you to remember her after so short an encounter.”
Jordan met his friend’s speculation with stony silence. How could he explain the way Emily had affected him that night? He didn’t understand it himself. “It was enough to make me almost certain that this woman is not Lady Emma, but Emily Fairchild, engaged in some scheme of Nesfield’s making.”
“That man is the most humorless, self-important creature in all England—why would he indulge in something so risky to his reputation?”
“I don’t know. But I do know the woman I met, and I’d swear that’s her.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong.”
“Why?” A horrible thought suddenly seized him. Ian was now watching Lady Emma, and at the sight of his intent scrutiny, another ridiculous spasm of jealous anger wracked Jordan. “You’re not thinking of courting her
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