“He wanted to dance with me again,” Jessica explained, “and professed himself to be heartbroken when I informed him that the remaining sets of the evening were all spoken for.”
“You have indeed made a conquest.” Anna laughed again and poured them a second cup of tea. Luncheon was over and all the children except Josephine, who was still out with Avery, were in the nursery for their afternoon naps. Jessica’s mother had gone with Aunt Mildred and Aunt Matilda to call upon Grandmama and Great-aunt Edith. It felt good to relax.
Jessica was not quite sure she liked Mr. Rochford. She wanted to. He had certainly seemed like the answer to all her prayers when she first set eyes upon him last evening. He was young, dazzlingly handsome, charming, amiable, and very eligible—or was about to be. He seemed in a fair way to becoming the darling of the ton. Certainly all eyes had been upon him throughout the evening. And though he had danced every set before theirs, it had been impossible not to notice that she was the focus of much of his attention. She had been the focus of all of it during their particular set, as Anna had just observed, even when the figures of the dance had separated them for brief spells. He had been visibly crestfallen when she had told him, untruthfully as it happened, that she did not have a free set to offer him for the rest of the evening after supper. When he left, he had succeeded in looking somehow tragic. Had it been deliberate?
What was it she had not quite liked? Oh, there was absolutely nothing. Perhaps for the first time in her life she was powerfully attracted to someone, was in grave danger of falling in love with him, and had taken fright. But no, that was absurd. That was not it. What was it, then?
Was it his waistcoat? Would a plain ivory one to match his silk knee breeches have looked more elegant with the dull gold evening coat? Her own brother was known for his gorgeous attire, morning, afternoon, and evening. He was known for his elaborately tied neckcloths, for the copious and glittering pins and rings and fobs and quizzing glasses he wore about his person. But . . . Avery was never, ever vulgar. Had that waistcoat crossed a borderline into vulgarity, then? But what a trivial reason to dislike someone—to perhaps dislike him. Ah, but then there was his smile. It was a spectacular smile, given the white perfection of his teeth, but did it always have to be quite so wide? He had worn it practically all evening except when he was leaving. Oh, and there was the studied elegance of his bow, which he had demonstrated for her several times. And the lavish and numerous compliments he had paid her.
She was being unfair, she told herself. He was new to London. He was new to the social prominence of being heir to an earldom, though his father was not yet the earl. Last evening had been his first ton ball. He had told her so. He had probably been horribly nervous and had overcompensated for that fact. She must give him a chance to grow more at ease in the new life that was about to be his. She would like nothing better than to fall in love with him and marry him and live happily ever after as the Countess of Lyndale. The future countess. She must not consign his father to the grave just yet, poor man. Or the present earl, for that matter, though it was surely almost certain that he really was in his grave and had been for many years.
Yes, she would allow herself to fall in love with Mr. Rochford if she possibly could. But there was also this bouquet. There was something undeniably . . . ostentatious about its size. Perhaps he had merely ordered it but had not actually seen it. Perhaps if he had done so . . .
“What is amusing you?” Anna asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Jessica said, startled out of her musings. “Though I was thinking that if that bouquet was divided up into smaller ones, we could fill every room in the house quite adequately.”
Anna laughed again. “It was a very generous gift,” she said. “Ah. Was that the door knocker?”
They both listened and heard the sound of the heavy front doors being opened below