Page 15 of Irresistible
Dougal gripped his glass more tightly, his forearm resting on the arm of the chair. He didn’t want this to be his last mission. “Not now.” Soon, however. His father could live another few years. Or not. Dougal couldn’t see the future. “I can’t be sure of the timing.” Would he walk away once he’d solved the mysteries surrounding those two missions? He should.
“You will be missed.” Kent held up his glass in a toast.
Dougal lifted his glass and took a drink, surprised to find his throat felt tight.
Kent sipped his port. “Will you wed?”
“Eventually.” An earl needed a countess, and Dougal would do his duty.
“I do hope you’ll invite me to the wedding.” Kent finished his port and set his glass on the table between their chairs. “Safe travels to you as always, Mac—” He shook his head. “Fallin.” Standing, he inclined his head toward Dougal before taking his leave.
Dougal surveyed the room once more, looking to see if anyone had arrived or if Lucien had come in. There were a few new faces, including one he definitely didn’t know, but then he could only view her profile. A peacock feather graced her auburn hair, and large pearl drops hung from her ears. He made a mental note to ask Lucien about the woman. Continuing his perusal, he made eye contact with an acquaintance and rose to go speak with him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw deep blue skirts moving and turned his head. The unknown woman was coming toward him. Now he could see her. There was something vaguely familiar about her. It wasn’t her thick auburn brows or dark red lips, nor was it the arrogant tilt of her head. Damn, but she was attractive. Dougal typically didn’t allow himself to entertain the fairer sex when he was in the middle of or about to start a mission. He needed to remain focused on his work. This woman, however, might actually possess the ability to distract him.
He needed to move away before he became ensnared.
“Good evening, my lord,” she drawled in a lovely southern Welsh accent.
“I’ll be damned,” he breathed as recognition finally settled into his brain. “Jess?”
“You didn’t know it was me.” It wasn’t a question, and it held just as much humility as her stature, which was to say none.
“I’m not too proud to say I did not. Until you spoke. Then I knew.”
She smiled. No, it was more of a grin. “Then I shall congratulate myself.”
“You shouldn’t.” He frowned. “Have I taught you nothing? Composure at all times.”
Pursing her lips, she made a rather unladylike sound of annoyance. “Am I not allowed a moment of fun? We aren’t in Dorset yet.”
“No, but at the moment, you are entirely Mrs. Smythe. Anyone here can look at you, describe you, talk to you, interrogate you—”
“All right, I take your point,” she said crossly. “No fun ever.”
“Not in public.” He deposited his glass on the table next to Kent’s and took her elbow. “Allow me to escort you to the library, my dear.”
“How lovely,” she purred, pulling her elbow from his grasp and curling her hand around his forearm.
“How did you gain access tonight?”
“Lady Pickering arranged for me to arrive earlier as Evie’s guest. I donned my costume upstairs. It’s rather exciting to be on the gentlemen’s side of the club.”
“Have you been on the ladies’?”
“No, but I am hopeful that once I’m a spinster, I might receive an invitation of membership.”
Dougal could almost guarantee it. The membership committee especially liked to invite spinsters and widows, though convincing the patronesses of the ladies’ side that spinsters should be included had taken some effort, and so far, that roster was too lean. Dougal wished they didn’t need the patronesses at all, but Lucien had determined they were necessary to lend a modicum of respectability. They were nowhere near as stringent—or fearsome—as the patronesses of Almack’s, but Dougal still preferred they weren’t required. At least Evie was one of them. Indeed, she kept them—somewhat—in line.
They left the members’ den and went to the library at the front of the first floor. This smaller room was generally quieter with fewer people. But since it was Tuesday, it wasn’t as much of an escape as on other evenings.
Dougal guided her toward the large fireplace, which was quite cozy in the winter when a semicircle of highbacked chairs was arranged before it. “That’s your goal, to become a spinster?” he asked.
The mirror over the mantel reflected the glimmer of the setting sun filtering through the windows. The light splashed across Jess’s face, and he now wondered how he hadn’t recognized her, even with the transformative cosmetics.
“It is, and indeed, I’m already there. I just need my mother to acknowledge it. I think my father is ready to do so, and hopefully, he will convince her. She can be remarkably stubborn.”
“Your mother sounds difficult.” Dougal had been fortunate to have two loving parents, even if their own relationship was rather odd. They’d been close—like friends—but their story wasn’t a romantic one.
