Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,18

kissed like a woman who knew what she was doing.

Regardless, she had turned him down and insulted him with her words about it being a supposed honor. He grinned. She could pack more meaning into a line than most into a book.

Yet she hadn’t told him to leave her at peace. He would try again with a better invitation after a few day’s cooling off.

With that plan in mind, he was surprised to receive a missive from the brazen baggage the very next day.

Dear Lord Marshfield,

My sister, the Countess of Worthington, and the Viscount Denbigh, are having a small get-together tomorrow night. If you would care to come to our home on Hanover Square, I would be most pleased to have you as my dining partner.

Yours truly,

J. Sudbury

Jasper grinned to himself. Well. Well. Well.

Chapter Six

“Lord M__’s carriage was seen depositing the earl at the Hanover Square home of Lady W__ this week, long past polite afternoon visiting hours. Perhaps he attended a dinner party, dear reader. Yet no other guests were noticed!”

-The Morning Post

Julia had to restrain herself from pushing Sarah out the front door and into her carriage. She hadn’t told her she was having company over for the precise reason that her sister would look at her with her great big blue eyes and then say no.

Yet tired of being a saint and doing nothing but her good works, Julia wanted companionship and fun. Moreover, she’d decided she wanted both with the Earl of Marshfield since he was the most dash-fire man she’d met in London. Despite his rakish air, something about him reached inside her and gave her the most delightful tickle.

“Are you sure you won’t come?” Sarah asked for the umpteenth time, yet positively without enthusiasm. “The viscount won’t mind, I’m sure.”

Julia shook her head. “Go enjoy spending time with that handsome man, for goodness’ sake! I saw the white silk chemise your maid laid out and the rosy silk stockings.” She couldn’t help teasing her sister, making Sarah’s cheeks turn pink. There was no reason in the world two adults who were madly attracted to each other shouldn’t enjoy intimate relations.

No reason at all. Julia shivered.

That type of constraint was all very well for the upper-class women who couldn’t be trusted not to pass the wrong babe off as an heir to a title, but what had it to do with Julia or even the widowed Sarah or all the ordinary women of Britain? They shouldn’t have to wait interminably, with legs firmly crossed, for a husband when so many marriageable men had been killed during the wars with France. That meant perhaps never experiencing bliss in a man’s arms.

At least not if one waited for matrimonial bliss.

Besides, Julia’s prospects in that regard were sorely curtailed by the current company she kept — the English quality set. She couldn’t imagine a more insular, narrow-minded group of people when it came to marriage.

“Very well. I hope you enjoy your evening. I probably won’t see you until morning,” Sarah added, and then, realizing how brazen that sounded, her cheeks grew even redder as she yanked on her gloves.

Trying to urge her out, Julia picked up a posy from the glove stand in the hall and placed it into her sister’s hand.

“For the viscount,” she said, and then gave Sarah a firm little press to her back to send her on her way.

Finally, Julia was alone. Dashing back to the kitchen, she burst in, frightening the kitchen maid and making the cook exclaim loudly, “My word!”

“My apologies,” Julia said. “I simply wanted to make certain everything was going well.”

Both pairs of eyes stared at her, and she realized her faux pas in doubting the expertly run kitchen of the Worthington home. She should have known better. After all the cook’s reputation was on the line.

As was Julia’s. She was playing with fire, and she knew it, prepared to be burnt if necessary. In fact, she was counting on it.

“Very good, then,” she said into the continued silence of the insulted kitchen staff. “I had best prepare myself and leave you to it.” She turned away, then looked back. “Thank you.”

The cook rolled her eyes, and Julia hoped the woman wouldn’t poison her meal.

Having learned her lesson, she wasn’t going to ask the butler if he had lit the exterior oil lamps, nor the footman if he’d swept the stoop, nor the housemaid if she’d lit a fire in the drawing and dining rooms. They all knew their jobs,