The Rakehell Regency(277)

The thought was almost crushing in its impact. The prospect of not seeing him, being able to take his arm, his hand during a dance, was almost too much to bear. She put down her knife and fork, suddenly almost queasy.



"Can I get you something else?" Clifford asked softly.



She had been seated at his right, with Sarah across from her. The other woman was looking at her fixedly.



"Er, no. I had so much dinner, I fear I cannot do this exquisite spread justice."



She sipped her elderflower cordial thirstily to try to swallow the heavy lump that had lodged in her throat.



"He'll be fine," Sarah said softly.



If anyone noticed the edge of false hilarity as Jonathan returned twenty minutes later, they said nothing. They lingered at the table, picking at their food for form's sake to keep him company.



"Oh, come now. Do please cheer up, all of you. I had no idea that going for a little walk would cast such a pall over the whole evening," he said in a jovial tone.



"Pamela is here as our special guest, my particular friend. We mustn't have a sprightly young lady think we are always so dour. What about some dancing afterwards?"



"Er, no, really," Pamela said with a shake of her head. "I wouldn't mind you giving me some lessons in chess, however. I know Father enjoyed it, but he said it was beyond most women."



"Stuff and nonsense," Clifford said spiritedly. "Vanessa often beats me without even trying. And Sarah can most certainly give me a good game."



"Oh, in that case perhaps she can teach me. Jonathan will want to talk to his friends here and--"



"You're my friend. I've just said so. If Clifford has no objections to taking out his set, we can begin your lessons directly after supper."



"Can I carry on knitting at the same time?"



"Yes, easily."



Pamela was as good as her word and continued to work on her contributions to the parcel for Michael Avenel in southern France. She studied the movement of each piece, and Jonathan encouraged her, and gave her an easy time of it.



"You're letting me win," she accused softly at one point, looking up at him with gentle reproach in her eyes.



He flashed her a dazzling smile that made her weak at the knees even though she was sitting down. "Beginner's luck, my dear. And I have to admit, it's more difficult at times to play with an amateur than a diligent player. The latter sees patterns on the board, standard moves and openings. The former is delightfully unpredictable."



"Like most women," Henry said with a wink.



"I've not known that many women, Henry, and neither have you, so I shall thank you not to embarrass Miss Ashton with rakish talk," Jonathan said curtly.



Henry blinked. "No, indeed, I do apologize. Josephine was my childhood sweetheart, and I never indulged in any woman before marriage."



"Would I could have been so circumspect."



Pamela started in shock at his alarming candor.



Jonathan gave a bitter smile. "There, you see, I have flaws, Miss Ashton. I was careful, there were no consequences, but I have not always lived up to the Christian ideal. That is all the more reason to try to do so now. Thus my quiet existence as a bachelor, and my fondness for chess and books."



She blushed, wondering why he was making such a point of shocking her and calling attention to his single state again.



"If it suits you well enough, Mr. Deveril, it is no one's business but yours," she asserted, trying to keep the pique out of her tone.



What a waste... She found herself wondering what might persuade him to ever marry. A certain kind of woman? Smarter, more devout? Brunette, red-haired? If only she knew what she was lacking.



Then she pulled herself up short. She was no more lacking that any of the men she was merely indifferent to were lacking. If there was no spark, it could not be forced.



Except that she was sure there was one. Jonathan leaned forward, laughing and smiling, teasing her when she moved her bishop incorrectly, pointing out various possibilities she needed to consider as the game advanced.



She certainly felt some sort of unusual heat which made her palms damp and the secret space between her thighs lambently moist.



Could he possibly be immune to it? But no, when he looked at her, it was almost as if he was willing her to move into his orbit. All the lessons and books, and conversations, were they all not designed to bring them closer to one another? Like Pygmalion with his Galatea, was he creating her into his desired image?



Yet at the end of the game, Jonathan urged Pamela to join in the general conversation, and always made sure that her point of view was given equal time with that of the others. He allowed her the freedom to express herself, and supported her even when he disagreed. He was trying to help her, but not coerce or force her to change her ways as so many domineering men would.