Peter Wayne, her younger cousins, who had assured both their mother and hers that they would guard her with their lives and bring her home in one piece sometime after midnight, when all the fireworks had been shot off. Really, though, they had wanted her as a sort of chaperon for the other occupant of the carriage: Alice Wayne, a young cousin on their father’s side, who had recently arrived in London and was about to share a come-out ball with the two daughters of a friend of her mother’s. Her eyes had been sparkling from the moment she stepped into the carriage with them. Jessica felt eighty years old.
She wondered who else would make up the party. Was she doomed to be the eldest, apart from Aunt Viola and the marquess? There would be Estelle and Bertrand, of course, and the four of them who were in this carriage. Perhaps one or two more. But they were bound to see other acquaintances there. They were sure to have a good time. She felt desperately in need of a good time. She wanted to be appreciated, admired, flirted with. She wanted to appreciate, admire, and flirt—something she almost never did. She wanted to dance and laugh and stroll along the main avenue through the gardens, reveling in the wonder of colored lanterns swaying in the branches of the trees on either side. She wanted to be a part of the gaiety of the crowds that would be there. She wanted to feel young and attractive.
Oh, she had waited too long to seek her own happiness. She was twenty-five years old. Ancient. Abby had married two years ago at the age of twenty-four. She was happy and in love. She had children and a home and a garden and neighbors and a husband who, for all his dour outer appearance, was absolutely besotted with her. As she was with him.
Self-pity clawed at Jessica’s insides. And she had no one but herself to blame. She gave herself a mental shake and joined in the burst of laughter that followed something marvelously witty Boris had said, though she had not heard what it was.
Aunt Viola and the Marquess of Dorchester were already sitting in the open box they had reserved on the lower level of the rotunda, close to the orchestra and overlooking the dancing area. So were Estelle and Bertrand and Miss Keithley, the sister of Bertrand’s friend, and another young lady whom Jessica believed to be Miss Keithley’s younger sister. And . . . Mr. Rochford.
But of course, she thought the instant her eyes alit upon him and he got to his feet, having spied her at the same moment. He made her an elegant bow while he smiled dazzlingly at her. Of course he was here. Aunt Viola was one of the Westcott aunts, was she not? And in the few days since Avery had withheld his blessing on Mr. Rochford’s suit, her mother had gone visiting twice without Jessica—once to Grandmama’s and once to Aunt Mildred’s. To rally the troops, no doubt.
Well, she was not going to let his presence spoil her evening, Jessica decided as they all exchanged effusive greetings and she succeeded in seating herself between Bertrand and his father. She would just be very careful not to allow him to monopolize her company. Let Estelle entertain him or Miss Keithley or someone else.
So there were six ladies and five gentlemen. That was unusually careless of Aunt Viola. But of course again! This party at Vauxhall had been planned more than a week ago. She had probably invited Mr. Thorne too, for the family committee had a two-pronged matchmaking goal. Perhaps Aunt Viola had not yet realized that he had disappeared, apparently without a trace. Or, if she had realized it, maybe it had been too late to invite another gentleman in his place.
But then . . .
Well, but then he came, tall and broad shouldered and immaculately elegant as he strode purposefully toward the box. He bowed to Aunt Viola, shook hands with the marquess, and nodded to everyone else, Jessica included.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said to Aunt Viola. “A cart had overturned on the bridge, completely blocking it, and it took several minutes to clear the roadway after it became evident that all the shouting and gesticulating was not going to accomplish the task.”
Jessica wished the cart had been full of rotten cabbages and that it had overturned onto his head.
Since he