Miss Milbourne’s attention swept over Jemmah without pause, the way one dismissed a potted plant or a piece of furniture.
After all, who’d suspect the nondescript Miss Jemmah Dament had just spent the most wonderful twenty minutes in the embrace of the distinguished and oh, so alluring Duke of Dandridge—the very man the Milbourne beauty wanted for herself?
Unaccustomed confidence squared Jemmah’s shoulders and notched her chin higher. She’d never felt more attractive or worthy than she did at this moment, and she had Jules to thank for the new self-assurance.
The dowager gently tapped Jemmah’s forearm with her fan. “You’re pale as a lily, but your cheeks are berry bright. Are you feeling quite the thing?”
“Yes, my lady. I’m quite well.” Very well, indeed. Better than she had been in a great while. “I confess to falling asleep in the parlor, which may contribute to my flushed appearance.”
Not nearly as much a duke’s ravishing kisses had.
“Your mother has paraded past here thrice searching for you. A ripped hem or some such twaddle. Doesn’t she know how to mend a simple tear? Don’t know why she or your sister can’t see to the task.”
Disapproval pinched the dowager’s mouth for an instant.
Jemmah was used to urgent summons at all hours of the day and night for whatever trifling needs Mama or Adelinda might have.
Two months ago, she’d walked four miles in the pouring rain to purchase barbel blue embroidery thread for Mama—not azure or cerulean, her mother had insisted, but barbel.
“This is mazurine blue, Jemmah,” Mama had scolded when Jemmah returned home sopping wet and shivering. “Fortunate for you, I decided lavender better suited, else you’d turn yourself around and fetch me the color I need.”
Never mind the prodigious cold Jemmah contracted as a result of her soggy trek, which left her sneezing and with a reddened nose and eyes for a full week.
On another occasion, she’d been awoken in the wee morning hours when her sister couldn’t sleep and deemed a cup of hot chocolate the perfect insomnia cure.
Jemmah had dutifully gone through the time-consuming task of making the beverage only to find Adelinda slumbering soundly when she brought her the required pot and cup.
Snuggled on her window seat, a tattered quilt about her shoulders while she gazed at the stars flickering between moonlit clouds over the rooftops, Jemmah had drunk every last drop herself.
A rare treat indeed.
Oh, and she couldn’t possibly forget last month when the family had been invited to the Silverton’s soirée.
Jemmah couldn’t attend, of course.
After all, since Papa died, they’d been required to economize and naturally there were only funds for one remade gown.
For the eldest daughter.
Always the confounded eldest daughter.
That was the excuse for most everything Jemmah was deprived of.
Nonetheless, she’d dutifully dressed and coiffed Adelinda, even allowing her—Mama’s orders to stop being such a selfish sister—to borrow Jemmah’s best gloves and the delicate pearl earrings Papa had given her for her sixteenth birthday.
Adelinda had misplaced the gloves and lost an earring.
As Jemmah fought bitter tears, Adelinda had pouted. "You know better than to lend me your things. I always lose them, Germ.”
Germ, the hated knick-name Adelinda insisted upon calling Jemmah.
Mama thought it quaint and amusing, a show of sisterly affection.
Balderdash and codswallop. Crafty and mean-spirited better described the moniker.
However, the one time Jemmah dared call Adelinda “Adder”—a fitting moniker since Adelinda meant noble snake, Mama had berated Jemmah for a full thirty minutes before sending her to bed without supper.
Small comfort knowing Jemmah meant precious gem while her sister’s name meant a cold, slithery, vile creature.
Mama’s given name, Belinda, meant beautiful snake, which was probably why she became so peeved at Jemmah calling Adelinda Adder.
A raspy chuckle filled the air.
“You actually fell asleep, my dear? While all these other young women are trying to snare a husband, you’re napping in Theo’s parlor. By all the crumpets in Canterbury, I admire you. Indeed, I do.”
“No need for admiration, I assure you. I simply didn’t find my bed until almost five this morning.” Jemmah licked her lower lip and searched for a footman. “Truth to tell I am quite thirsty.”
The dowager tutted kindly. “Five, you say? Hmph.”
She made a brusque sound of disapproval.
“I’ll wager staying up all night wasn’t of your own choosing.” She opened her mouth then snapped it shut. “I could use a glass of punch myself, my dear. Would you oblige an old woman and fetch me a cup?”
“Punch?”
Jemmah tried to hide her shock. Ladies didn’t drink the spirit-heavy libation. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a ratafia?”
“Too syrupy.” Eyes flashing with mischief, the dowager shook her head, and the ostrich feathers tucked into her stylish coif bobbed in agreement.
“Lemonade? Or perhaps an iced champagne?” Jemmah offered hopefully. Rather frantically, truth be told.
“I think not. Too insipid. Like men, I prefer something with a bit—actually, a great deal—more vigor and potency.”
Not quite believing her ears, and trying to subdue the heat crawling up her cheeks, Jemmah tried one last time.
“Tea? Wine?”
Lord, she couldn’t just stride up to the table and snatch a glass of punch. Tongues would flap faster than flags in a hurricane.
Cocking her head, humor sparring with patience in her gaze, the dowager chuckled. “My dear Miss Dament, do you truly believe none of the ladies present tonight ever imbibes in alcohol?”
Not publically.
“Look there, beside Lord Beetle Brows.” With her cane, the Dowager Lady Lockhart gestured at a proud dame.
Lord Dunston does have rather grizzled eyebrows.
“See Lady Clutterbuck?”
How could I miss her in that primrose gown?
“She trundles her thick backside off regularly and takes a nip from the flask she has hidden in her reticule.”
Jemmah bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling.
“Over there,” the dowager swung her cane toward a regal dame, epitomizing haut ton elegance. “Lady Dreary—
“I believe that’s Lady Drury—”
“Hmph. She’s as dreary and cold as frozen fog on a grave. But that was beside the point. Her ladyship is most clever—keeps whisky stashed in her vinaigrette instead of ammonia or smelling salts.”
How, for all the salt in the sea could Jemmah have forgotten the ... erm … unique labels the clever dowager attributed to others? Sometimes she explained a name’s genuine meaning, but others, as she’d just demonstrated, a droll play on words.
A speculative glint entered her ladyship’s watered-down-topaz-colored eyes. “Even Lady Wimpleton, whom I admire very much indeed, is wont to take a nip on occasion.”
Jemmah laughed and threw her hands up in defeat. “You win, my lady. I shall return shortly. Pray my mother doesn’t espy me.”