Chapter 11
Jane stood before the fireplace in the library, tapping her foot. The mistletoe had been a horrid idea.
She’d proclaimed Mr. Newburton the winner because of the flawless artistry of his work, and she’d allowed him to hold the mistletoe high and… peck her on the cheek.
The men had left the room in boisterous camaraderie, and Jane had sunk low in her chair, sliding George’s white berries into her pocket.
She rolled them between her fingers now. “I think, Lil, that the suitors learned more and bonded more with one another than with me.”
Lillian looked up from her book. She sat, legs thrown across the arm of a chair, feet swinging. “They did appear quite chummy toward the end.” She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to her book. “Lord Devon is decidedly ill mannered these days. Coffee, indeed.Hmph. To think dirt rouses him to such passions. I’m rethinking my tendre for him.”
“I don’t believe that for a bit. But tell me, do you think I should be taking notes? A list of tallies as George took, to have a… quantified way of deciding who I should marry? Points, as it were.” She pressed her palms into the edge of the mantle, breathing in the bite of it. “Mr. Newburton would be in the lead.”
“And do you like that thought?”
Marrying Mr. Newburton. “He’s a jolly sort. I would not mind it.”
“Lord Abbington would mind it.” Lillian’s voice rose in sing-song from the pages of her book.
Jane stopped her hand from slipping back into her pocket. Merely the suggestion of the berries, thekisses, there burned.
“I’ll have to try for another kiss,” Jane said, sighing. “And now that there’s mistletoe hung everywhere, I’ll need to try for kisses from the others as well.”
“Nothing wrong with being thorough,” Lillian mumbled, eyes scanning rows of words. Her head popped up; her gaze found Jane’s. She grinned. “Ignoring the topic of Lord Abbington, I see. If Lord Devon had whispered about kisses in my ear after dropping to a knee before me, I’d be a puddle, I tell you. Nothing but a pile of pudding and sighs on the carpet.”
“George is a friend. Nothing more.”
“Pity. Terrible waste of a handsome man, if you ask me. By the way, don’t let Sharpton know you’re angling to be kissed.”
Jane shivered. She’d rather discuss the confusion that was George than Lord Sharpton. “I’d rather spend the night in the maze in the dead of winter.”
Lillian placed her book in her lap and grinned. “George would keep you warm, I’ve no doubt.”
“I am not his usual type of woman,” Jane snapped.
“And what type is that?”
She tried not to glower. “Widowed.”
“I’d heard about that. Is it true, then, that he only… sleeps”—she whisper-hissed the word—“with older women who have lost their husbands?”
“As far as I know. He’ll not speak with me about it. I mentioned it the other day, and he ran right past it, as if I’d not said anything at all.”
“Pity. I’d like to know the truth.”
So would Jane. George’s bedtime activities should be of no interest to her, but her interest grew every day, and he need do nothing to cultivate it. Yet, at times he certainly seemed to. Confusing, that.
A bump sounded against the door.
Jane and Lillian jolted to their feet.
“What was that?” Lillian hissed.
More bumping. The door shook. Mumbles slid beneath it.
They crept closer.
The mumbles took shape.
