Page 43 of Sinfully Wed
The rumpled giant standing in the shadows deposited something in the jar he held, which immediately disappeared into the folds of his coat. A massive pair of hands next took out a tiny notebook and pencil. He scribbled furiously, ignoring Jordan’s presence completely.
“Was it a spider?” Jordan said in a hushed tone. He had an unnatural fear of spiders owing to an experience he’d had as a child. He’d been chasing Drew and Malcolm through the woods when the twins turned sharply, and Jordan ran into an enormous web. The creator of the web had been black with brilliant yellow streaks and didn’t care for Jordan destroying her handiwork. She’d crawled up his forehead into his hair, but not before releasing a horde of baby spiders.
The feel of those tiny legs crawling over his body had never been forgotten. Malcolm and Drew found him screaming in the grass and tossed him in a nearby stream.
“A moth,” said the bland tone. “I studyinsectanotarachinda.”
Jordan had no bloody idea what his new friend was talking about. “You mean insects.”
“Didn’t I just say so?” the giant rasped.
“You study insects?” Jordan asked. What an odd sort of acquaintance to make on Lord Curchon’s terrace, though there were quite a few eccentric characters inside sipping his host’s punch and playing cards.
The massive head tilted to the side, looking very much like a shaggy dog Jordan once owned when he was a child. “I am an entomologist. And a duke. But that is less important. The ducal part.”
“I see.” Jordan bowed slightly. “Apologies, Your Grace.”
A massive paw waved before Jordan. “I am Ware.”
Ware? The name was familiar to Jordan, but he couldn’t imagine they’d ever met. Dukes weren’t exactly rushing to make the Earl of Emerson’s acquaintance. Surely, he’d remember meeting this duke, given his size. Ware would be difficult to miss.
“Lord Emerson, Your Grace.”
The duke leaned towards Jordan. His eyes gleamed like quicksilver in the torchlight. “Emerson? You’re here for Miss Odessa Whitehall.”
Jordan’s teeth tightened on the cheroot. Was it Ware who had Odessa’s affections? “You are acquainted with Miss Whitehall?”
“Oh, yes,” the deep, raspy voice echoed in the night air. “We are quite close.”
He frowned up at the duke. “Are you?”
Ware raised a brow at Jordan, lips curling in a moue of distaste, which was rather unsettling in such a large man. “Not likethat, Emerson. What an utterly repulsive idea. Miss Whitehall is my cousin. Of sorts.” The big shoulders lifted. “You’ve confused me with Captain Phillips.” Ware started to move away.
How on earth was Miss Whitehall related to anyone of importance let alone a duke? Neither she nor her father were even received; that was the entire reason for Whitehall wanting a title for her. He should have paid closer attention to Patchahoo’s recitation of the pedigree of Angus Whitehall’s long dead wife; it was the only place from which the connection could come.
“Captain Phillips?” he asked the retreating Ware.
“Dashing cavalry officer.” The duke paused and wiggled a pair of bushy brows at Jordan. “You should hurry before she does something stupid. Which I feel certain she is inclined to do. I don’t like Phillips,” he added. “Disingenuous. Not sure you’ll be much better.” He shrugged again. “You’d best hurry.” Ware turned.
The entire conversation was confusing.Ware. Bloody hell. Tamsin. The duke’s son. But surelynot. His gaze took in Ware once more. Perhaps the duke had been smaller, years ago. He had to have been if Tamsin got in a punch. “Wait—”
The Duke of Ware never heard Jordan; he’d already started to make his way back inside, lumbering across the terrace with purpose, nearly toppling a whispering couple into the hedges.
Chapter Sixteen
Odessa entered LadyCurchon’s extravagant residence, eyes immediately searching for Captain Phillips. He’d mentioned in passing he would be here this evening when she and Aunt Lottie had come upon him outside the apothecary the other day on Bond Street.
When he hadn’t asked to call upon her.
Odessa pushed the thought aside. Merely an oversight on the part of Phillips. She was sure hemeantto ask.
This event of Lady Curchon’s, more of a gathering than a full-blown ball, was one of the few Odessa was invited to. No one of great importance was in attendance, unless you counted a few members of Parliament. The clustering of prominent titles and pedigrees was absent tonight. The presence of Angus Whitehall’s daughter would largely go unnoticed.
She greeted her hostess, making sure to thank Lady Curchon profusely for the invitation. Complimenting Lady Curchon’s gown, the floral arrangements, and the large table groaning under the load of refreshments, Odessa inquired after her health.
The last part may have been a bit much.
Lady Curchon, in turn, looked down her thin, aristocratic nose at the unwelcome product of her favorite cousin’s marriage to Angus Whitehall. She sighed, half in resignation, half in disapproval as she took in Odessa, but nonetheless, pressed a brief kiss to her cheek.
