as if you are plotting something diabolical,” said her brother-in-law, Lord Harry, as he reached their sides.
“I am not plotting anything,” Jo denied. “Your wife is the diabolical sister, of the two of us. Surely you ought to know that by now.”
Lord Harry grinned and winked. “I live in fear.”
He was lighthearted and easy to converse with and he appreciated Alexandra’s peculiarities and her sharp mind in equal measure. He was also madly in love with her. All those qualities made Jo like her brother-in-law quite immensely. He was the perfect foil for Alexandra.
Alexandra swatted his forearm playfully. “Tell your son that, a few months hence.”
The smile Lord Harry sent her sister was laden with love. “Or our daughter.”
Jo fought off an unwanted pang of envy at the reminder that she was unwed. Unkissed. Untouched. Unhappy. Meanwhile, her sister was wildly in love, carrying her first child with her husband, the roundness of her belly cleverly hidden beneath the fall of her beautiful skirts.
But Jo was a wallflower, unable to free herself from the mold into which she had been poured. She was not intelligent and handsome like Alexandra, with a mind sharp enough to cut anyone else to shreds. Nor was she vivacious and gregarious and beautiful in the way of her friend Callie. She was small and quiet and shy in the presence of others.
She sighed.
“The two of you make me want to retch,” she announced without heat.
In truth, she loved them both, and she was pleased they were happy. Was it wrong of her to want that same happiness for herself?
“Or mayhap we make you want to find a love match of your own,” Alexandra said, shrewd as ever. “Is there anyone who has struck your fancy?”
An image of Mr. Elijah Decker rose to Jo’s mind.
Blast him, he was even beautiful in her thoughts. Every bit as attractive and tempting. Sinfully so.
“No one,” she said, perhaps with a touch too much brightness. “I have only just come out. Surely this sort of thing requires time.”
Alexandra and Harry shared a telling look.
“Of course it does, my dear,” her sister said in a high-pitched voice that Jo instantly recognized.
It meant her sister was lying.
“Just because you and Lord Harry found love instantly does not mean everyone else must,” Jo grumbled.
“It was not instant,” her sister denied.
“Of course it was, darling,” her husband argued back, his tone warm, his gaze radiating with love as it settled upon Alexandra.
Jo sighed. “Have your dance, the two of you. I will find Callie.”
Without waiting for their responses, she swept off into the crush. But the amount of people—a staggering number of guests, in truth—meant that covering a small distance required intense effort. She was skirting people, curtseying, engaging in brief conversation, and being so polite, it made her teeth ache.
By the time she found Callie, Jo was grinding her molars.
But her friend’s smile chased all the irritation away.
“I was about to find you,” Callie told her. “Sin told me I ought to allow you time to mingle before stealing you away from the crush.”
Sin was the Earl of Sinclair, Callie’s husband.
“Sinclair is consideration personified,” Jo returned. “However, I have no wish to be a part of the crush, as you well know. Rescue me from it whenever you wish.”
“That is what I told him,” her friend agreed, linking her arm in Jo’s. “Now come with me, do. There are some ladies I want you to meet whom I think would make excellent additions to the Lady’s Suffrage Society…”
Jo allowed Callie to lead her away.
She never made it to the blue salon or Mr. Decker after all.
And she told herself it was for the best.
Chapter Three
Lady Jo had not come to the salon.
Decker still could not believe it, two days later. He had never, for as long as he had been chasing skirts, been refused. Never. Not once.
Not. Ever.
And yet, innocent, proper, prim, wallflower Lady Jo, who had been flushed and breathless following their waltz the evening before, had failed to accept his invitation. It boggled the mind.
He had waited, pacing the newly decorated salon, glaring at the blue damask wall coverings dotted with paintings by Moreau. His strides had all but worn holes in the plush Axminster—a damned improvement upon its threadbare predecessor, Decker could not deny.
He was embarrassed to admit he had arrived ten minutes early and had remained ten minutes after the appointed time. Twenty minutes lost, spent upon a woman who had never had any intention of accepting his offer.