Page 51 of As the Earl Likes
“My lord?”
They both turned to see a footman—the same one who’d helped Jackson guide the duke upstairs—in the doorway.
“Yes?” Sheff croaked.
“His Grace is sleeping. Jackson is with him and will remain so for the duration of the ball.”
“Thank you.” Sheff watched the footman leave.
“We should return to the ballroom,” Jo said. “We’ve been gone an awfully long time. And we should not enter together, else tongues will be wagging.”
Sheff wanted to wag his tongue, but it had nothing to do with gossip and everything to do with bringing Jo to orgasm. Alas, that was not to be. “You go on ahead.” He needed a moment to let his body cool, for he’d become overheated again.
Her gaze flicked to his cock once more, indicating she’d noticed it too. “You seem to need a few minutes to recover. My apologies. I should not have provoked you. Now that I know of your…desire, I shall not contribute to it.”
He was afraid she did that by merely breathing. “I should not have provoked you either. Don’t pretend you are not immune.”
She held his gaze a moment, then left the study in a flurry of blue silk.
Sheff exhaled. How he longed for a cooling bath. But he needed to return to the ball. Where he would need to spend more time with Jo.
He would resist temptation, but it would be torturous, especially now that he knew she was attracted to him too. Was there any way their betrothal could not be fake? Could he be different from his father? Different from how he’d always imagined himself to be?
Even if he was, Jo would never consider him. Nor should she. She’d perfectly laid out the benefits of spinsterhood. He had a duty, and she had freedom.
Perhaps that was what he wanted: the freedom to be who he wanted to be, to live the life he chose. He only needed to determine what those things were.
Chapter 11
After Saturday’s ball and a busy night at the Siren’s Call on Sunday, Jo was glad to be doing what she wanted to do on Monday evening. Smiling as she departed the hack, she stepped through the wrought iron gate to the front door of the Davenports’ house. It opened before she could knock.
“Good evening, Melrose,” Jo said.
“Good evening, Miss Harker.” The rather short butler closed the door behind her and took her cloak and hat.
Jo made her way upstairs to the drawing room, more eager than usual for tonight’s literary salon.
“If it isn’t the future Duchess of Henlow!” Mrs. Davenport exclaimed loudly so that everyone who had already arrived, perhaps ten people, quieted and turned to look at Jo.
In any other situation, Jo would have been horrified to have brought everything to a standstill, but she had known these people a few years now. She considered some of them friends, though not in the way of her new friends who were near to her own age.
Jo smiled. “Good evening, Mrs. Davenport.”
Mrs. Davenport, a petite woman in her late sixties who wore ornate white wigs that were firmly out of fashion, grinned at Jo. “Shall we have a toast to your good fortune?”
“That isn’t necessary,” Jo said. “Truly, though, I do appreciate your kindness.”
“It isn’t kindness so much as envy,” she said with a laugh. “Oh, to marry an earl!” She glanced toward her husband, who, as usual, was dozing in the corner. “You must tell me everything. When is the wedding?”
“I want to hear!” Mrs. Fletcher-Peabody hastened toward them. A widow in her early sixties, she possessed a round figure and surprisingly dark hair. Mrs. Fletcher-Peabody hosted the literary salons on the first and third Mondays of the month, while Mrs. Davenport hosted the second and fourth. If there was a fifth Monday, they took a respite, and the next salon was invariably at least an hour longer than normal.
“I would also like to hear,” said a third woman, Lady Standish. Her cane tapped on the floor as she approached. In her seventies, Lady Standish was a poetess and occasionally shared her work. Tonight was one such evening, and Jo was particularly looking forward to it. Lady Standish wrote of the intersection of love and nature, and her work moved Jo to seek out beauty and peace. With everything happening, she felt rather in need of the latter.
“What did I miss?” Lady Standish asked, looking at the two older ladies before settling her gaze on Jo. “Here’s our beautiful bride.”
“You haven’t missed a thing,” Jo said. “Mrs. Davenport asked when the wedding will be. Not until autumn or winter. We haven’t set the date yet.”
Mrs. Fletcher-Peabody pouted. “Why so long?”
