The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(17)

Lady Manderly’s cheeks instantly colored and her thick lips pursed with disapproval. “Your Grace, with all due respect, I cannot countenance your reason for asking, unless it’s simply your wish to avoid her, which would be understandable, of course. The forward, impertinent baggage was not invited. She isn’t received by anyone. If you actually have some wish to see her, especially after—”

“I’ve made an enquiry. You decline to answer. We won’t belabor the reasons.” He’d expected her to beat him about the head with indignation, but was compelled to ask, nonetheless. He wanted everyone in the expansive ballroom to be buzzing. He needed Lady Jane to be the sole person of interest, if she were not already. As soon as he turned away, Lady Manderly would do her duty and spread his enquiry far and wide. Within five minutes, every man and woman in attendance, even the older generation who played cards in the salon, would know he was there, asking after Lady Jane. Particularly, so would Lady Jane.

She was ruined.

She was a beautiful termagant, bursting with passion and vibrant life, ruled by her emotions, the worst possible woman to become his duchess.

She was his only hope.

Turning, he walked away from his hostess and moved to the topmost step leading into the ballroom, his gaze sweeping the throng until he found her father. At fifty, the Earl of Sherbourne was still a fine figure of a man, on the tall side, his dark hair silvering at the temples, his face given additional character by the appearance of laugh lines edging his mouth and crow’s-feet near his eyes. Sherbourne and his brood were a lively, jolly lot, prone to raucous laughter, mischievous pranks and riding neck-or-nothing. They were all dark haired, blue eyed, big boned. They were all males. Excepting Lady Jane. She’d never known her mother, that woman having expired scarcely six months after giving birth to her seventh child and only daughter. It was said Jane emerged from the womb alternately laughing and shouting and had not stopped in two and twenty years. Unlike her good-natured brothers, Lady Jane was sometimes possessed of a nasty tendency to rage.

Michael was well acquainted with that rage.

He supposed there must necessarily be some duality to her passionate nature. She laughed with good humor, and stormed in her anger. She would undoubtedly be equally ardent in bed. That much was clear from her reaction in Lucy’s library, four years ago. He ground his teeth. What despicable fate had landed upon him this turn of events? What bitter irony that the only suitable woman in all England who would have him –and she would have him –who wouldn’t be afraid of him, was the one woman he would never wish to marry. The woman who jilted him and ran off to Scotland to avoid him.

Mentally, he shook himself. How many events in his life had he managed to overcome through sheer force of will? He would likewise deal with marriage to Lady Jane and the possible consequences. If she died in childbed, there would be the cruel guilt of his demon seed killing yet another flower of England, but he wouldn’t grieve. He would bury her and move on. He cursed his duty. Damned his father for losing his mind and thus failing to remarry and beget more heirs. Railed at the travesty that was his life.

There was the possibility she wouldn’t die. He’d heard it said, only the good die young. If that were true, Lady Jane was destined to hit the century mark. And then there were her hips. Coming from a long line of big boned, healthy stock, Lady Jane was a picture of robust vigor and stamina. The midwife attending Letitia had said in ominous tones on the day of delivery, “Her Grace will have a hard labor. Her hips are too narrow.” Letitia’s hips hadn’t given an inch and the baby he’d planted in her belly killed her. If any woman could bear a son of his and live to see him grow to manhood, surely it must be Lady Jane Lennox. She would not die. But if she did . . .

Moving toward Sherbourne, Michael’s gaze traveled from the earl and focused on his daughter, standing just to his left. Head held high, blue eyes twinkling, she was eye to eye with Sir Samuel Mowbry, an expressionless chap evidently possessed of great wit. Lady Jane appeared ready to laugh right out loud.

She was magnificent.

Her dark hair was piled atop her head in an artful arrangement of curls, from which several tendrils fell across her neck, resting intriguingly close to her bosom, barely contained within the bodice of a stunning gown of midnight blue, shot through with streaks of glittering silver. Unsurprising to him, he experienced a frisson of sensual awareness as he moved closer to the small group occupying the center of the east wall of the ballroom. He realized she’d matured in four years. What had once been fresh, innocent beauty was now the flawless face and figure of a woman full grown. In spite of two wives and a string of mistresses in four years, he had not forgotten Jane, occasionally wondering where she was, how she fared, whether she regretted her impulsive flight. Did she feel even the slightest amount of guilt over humiliating him?