to the Lovely Lucinda—the fiancée who had jilted Garrett for an earl.
Nearly as annoying, Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare arrived early “to support dear Jenna through her first public reception.” Effusing with delight at their thoughtfulness, Aunt Hetty had chairs installed for them beside Jenna’s, where the two were now dispensing sottovoce commentary on each caller who approached.
Jenna had thrown an appealing glance at Lane, seated beside Aunt Hetty on the sofa, but he’d returned nothing more helpful than a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. While Cousin Bayard, alleging anyone who wished to convey their regrets to him had had ample opportunity during the service at St. George’s, abandoned the parlor minutes after the reception began.
Not that she’d really expected to escape the function—or her two watchdogs. Apparently Lady Montclare did wield as much influence among the ton as she’d claimed, for Aunt Hetty had been both shocked and ecstatic to learn of her call, and did everything she could to promote the connection. In her listless state, Jenna had neither sufficient interest nor strength to oppose them, and had soon found herself trotted around to all the merchants Lady Montclare favored, pinned and prodded and led to purchase a vast quantity of items those ladies deemed essential for a recently bereaved viscountess.
She’d felt a twinge of conscience at expending blunt on gowns that in a matter of a few weeks she’d be unable to wear. Someday soon, when the simple business of waking, rising, and surviving each new day didn’t exhaust all her meager mental and physical reserves, she’d sort out what to do about the sisters—and her life without Garrett.
Onward the crowd continued—like buzzards circling a kill, Jenna thought—an endless progression of names and titles. In vain she looked for the real comfort that might have been afforded by the friendly faces and heartfelt condolences of “Heedless” Harry or Alastair Percy or other men from Garrett’s regiment. By now, she realized with resignation, her military compatriots had doubtless returned to their respective homes or rejoined the army.
Then a stir from the hallway caught her attention. As she’d hoped, a few moments later His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, walked into the salon, trailed by a crowd of well-wishers eager to shake the hand of the great general.
“Excellent! I so hoped he would appear,” Mrs. Anderson said in Jenna’s ear.
After exchanging a brief word with Lady Montclare and Mrs. Anderson, he took Jenna’s hand.
“It’s been a long and difficult road since India. England owes her safety to the selfless service of your father and husband. Take solace in that, Jenna.”
“I do, your grace.”
She blinked back tears as he kissed her hand, bowed and walked away, the crowd parting respectfully to allow the passage of England’s Savior. Who, it was said, had wept while he wrote his dispatch after Waterloo at the loss of so many good friends and soldiers.
Napoleon’s Vanquisher would be going on to other important duties. What was Jenna Montague Fairchild, soldier’s daughter and soldier’s wife who had lost father, husband and army, to do with herself now?
Think of the babe, she told herself, fighting back grief and despair. Rebuild your life around the child.
“How excellent of the Duke to show so singular a mark of favor,” Lady Montclare murmured.
“We are old acquaintances,” Jenna replied.
In the wake of the Duke’s departure, the crowd in the drawing room began to thin. “My sister has presented you to everyone of note in London this afternoon, including most of the gentlemen who will be your potential suitors,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling her satisfaction.
“And your conduct has been excellent, my dear!” Lady Montclare reached over to press Jenna’s fingers. “A grave demeanor indicative of continuing grief, with just the right touch of hauteur.”
The woman obviously believed Jenna was assuming the role she’d been urged to play. She wasn’t sure whether to dissolve into hysterical laughter—or tears.
“Oh no—not him!”
At Mrs. Anderson’s gasp, Jenna’s looked to the door, through which a gentleman now strode with languorous ease.
Jenna exhaled in relief. Though the half-mocking, half-amused smile on the handsome face of the man now approaching was reminiscent of the grin she’d so disliked on another gentleman, this man’s hair gleamed guineagold rather than blue-black and his eyes were the turquoise of a tropic ocean’s depths—not, praise heaven, gunmetal gray.
“The effrontery!” Mrs. Anderson whispered.
“We’ll soon send him to the rightabout,” Lady Montclare soothed. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Jenna—a notorious rogue and gambler. ’Tis said he mended his ways since he beguiled a rich widow into marriage, but I doubt it. His aunt, Lady Charlotte Darnell, is the daughter of a duke and a Society leader, so you cannot, regrettably, cut him, but his reputation for seducing foolish women was well-earned. Take care to avoid him whenever possible.”
A moment later the blond man bowed before them. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Fairchild, at your service.”
As if fully conscious of the condemnation that had just been pronounced by her companions, after nodding to them, he seized Jenna’s hands and gave them a long, lingering caress that sent heat rushing to her cheeks.
She had just opened her lips to deliver a sharp set down when he gave her a quick, conspiratorial wink, so fleeting she wasn’t sure whether she’d seen or imagined it. Then he tugged on her hands and pulled her to her feet.
“By the saints, dear Lady Fairchild, your grief has rendered you pale as the shades of my Irish kin! Let me assist you to stroll down the hall, that exercise might return a little color to your lovely face.” Before she could think what to reply, over the sputtering protest of her chaperones, he nudged her into motion.
Not until they reached the hallway did she realize how great a relief it was to escape the confines of the parlor. Nonetheless, torn between amusement and irritation, she felt moved to protest.
“Gracious, Mr. Fitzwilliams, you are a rogue indeed!”
“That, Lady Fairchild, is for you to decide.” Turning to her with an unexpectedly sympathetic look, he continued, “Nonetheless, your expression so clearly called out ‘rescue me!’ that I could not help but respond.”
That reading of what she’d thought to be her impassive countenance belied the carelessness of the grin with which he had, she suspected, deliberately taunted her chaperones. Though she heard again Lady Montclare’s warning to avoid him, she found herself curious to know why he’d called.
Besides, over her years with the army she’d encountered men who truly were seducers and reprobates. The instincts that had protected her on more than one occasion were now telling her this man was neither.
“You are right, Mr. Fitzwilliams. I did long for rescue.”
He rewarded her honesty with a smile of genuine warmth that lit his handsome face and set mesmerizing lights dancing in those intensely turquoise eyes.
Heavens! she thought, shaken by the force of his charm. If he were a rake, small wonder women succumbed!
“If what I’d heard of your adventures with the army had not already convinced me of your stalwart character, I knew Garrett would marry none but an enterprising lady.”
“You were…acquainted with Garrett?”
His eyes dimmed and she read real sorrow on his face. “I had that honor and so offer you my deepest condolences. I cannot boast to have been one of his intimates, but at Eton he stood my friend, and when I became the focus of some…unpleasantness at Oxford, he continued to recognize me when few others, including my own family, did. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”
His heartfelt testament moved her more