Mentally patting himself on the back for his exceptionally civil behavior for the past pair of vexing hours, Jules permitted a self-satisfied smirk and stepped back into the corridor. He nearly collided with Theo’s aged mother-in-law, the Dowager Viscountess Lockhart, come to town for her daughter-in-law’s birthday.
A tuft of glossy black ostrich feathers adorned her hair, the tallest of which poked him in the eye.
Hell’s bells.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.”
Eye watering, Jules grasped her frail elbow, steadying her before she toppled over, such did she sway.
She chuckled, a soft crackle like delicate old lace, and squinted up at him, her faded eyes, the color of weak tea, snapping with mirth.
“Bolting, are you, Dandridge?”
Saucy, astute old bird.
Nothing much escaped Faye, Dowager Viscountess Lockhart’s notice.
“I prefer to call it making a prudently-timed departure.”
Which he’d be forced to abandon in order to assist the tottering dame back to her preferred throne—er, seat—in the ballroom.
He’d congratulated himself prematurely, blast it.
“Allow me to escort you, Lady Lockhart.”
He daren’t imply she needed his help, or she’d turn her tart tongue, and likely her china-handled cane, on him too.
“Flim flam. Don’t be an utter nincompoop. You mightn’t have another opportunity to flee. Go on with you now.” She pointed her cane down the deserted passageway. “I’ll contrive some drivel to explain your disappearance.”
“I don’t need a justification.”
Beyond that he was bored to his polished shoes, he’d rather munch fresh horse manure than carry on anymore inane conversation, and crowds made him nervous as hell.
Always had.
Hence his infrequent appearances.
Pure naughtiness sparked in the dowager’s eyes as she put a bony finger to her chin as if seriously contemplating what shocking tale she’d spin.
“What excuse should I use? Perhaps an abduction? Hmph. Not believable.” She shook her head, and the ostrich feather danced in agreement. “An elopement? No, no. Won’t do at all. Too dull and predictable.”
She jutted her finger skyward, nearly poking his other eye.
“Ah, ha! I have just the thing. A scandalous assignation. With a secret love. Oh, yes, that’ll do nicely.”
A decidedly teasing smile tipped her thin lips.
Jules vacillated.
She was right, of course.
If he didn’t make good his escape now, he mightn’t be able to for hours. Still, his conscience chafed at leaving her to hobble her way to the ballroom alone. For all of his darkling countenance and brusque comportment, he was still a gentleman first.
Lady Lockhart extracted her arm, and then poked him in the bicep with her pointy nail.
Hard.
“Go, I said, young scamp.” Only she would dare call a duke a scamp. “I assure you, I’m not so infirm that I’m incapable of walking the distance without tumbling onto my face.”
Maybe not her face, but what about the rest of her feeble form?
Her crepey features softened, and the beauty she’d once been peeked through the ravages of age. “It was good of you to come, Dandridge, and I know it meant the world to Theodora.” The imp returned full on, and she bumped her cane’s tip against his instep. “Now git yourself gone.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Jules lifted her hand, and after kissing the back, waited a few moments to assess her progress. If she struggled the least, he’d lay aside his plans and disregard her command.
A few feet along the corridor, she paused, half-turning toward him. Starchy silvery eyebrow raised, she mouthed, “Move your arse.”
With a sharp salute, Jules complied and continued to reflect on his most successful venture into society in a great while.
Somehow—multiple glasses of superb champagne might be attributed to helping—he’d even managed to converse—perhaps a little less courteously than the majority of attendees, but certainly not as tersely as he was generally wont to—with the young bucks, dandies, and past-their-prime decrepitudes whose trivial interests consisted of horseflesh, the preposterous wagers on Whites’s books, and the next bit of feminine fluff they might sample.
Or, in the older, less virile coves’ cases, the unfortunate woman subjected to their lusty ogling since the aged chaps’ softer parts were wont to stay that way.
Only the welcome presence of the two men whom Jules might truly call ‘friend,’ Maxwell, Duke of Pennington, and Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, had made the evening, if not pleasant, undoubtedly more interesting with their barbed humor and ongoing litany of drolly murmured sarcastic observations.
Compared to that acerbic pair, Jules, renowned for his acute intellect and grave mien, seemed quite the epitome of frivolous jollity.
But, by spitting camels, when his uncles, Leopold and Darius—from whom his middle names had been derived—had cornered him in the card room and demanded to know for the third time this month when he intended to do his ducal duty?
Marry and produce an heir...
Damn their interfering eyes!
Jules’s rigidly controlled temper had slipped loose of its moorings, and he’d told them—ever so calmly, but also enunciating each syllable most carefully lest the mulish, bacon-brained pair misunderstand a single word—“go bugger yourselves and leave me be!”
He’d been officially betrothed once and nearly so a second time in his five-and-twenty years. Never again.
Never?
Fine, maybe someday. But not to a Society damsel and not for many, many years or before he had concluded the parson’s mousetrap was both necessary and convenient. Should that fateful day never come to pass, well, best his Charmont uncles get busy producing male heirs themselves instead of dallying with actresses and opera singers.
Marching along the corridor, Jules tipped his mouth into his first genuine smile since alighting from his coach, other than the one he’d bestowed upon Theo when he arrived. Since his affianced, Annabel’s death five years ago, Theo was one of the few people he felt any degree of true affection for.
Must be a character flaw—an inadequacy in his emotional reservoir, this inability to feel earnest emotions. In any event, he wanted to return home early enough to bid his niece and ward, Lady Sabrina Remington, good-night as he’d promised.
They’d celebrated her tenth birthday earlier today, too.
Jules truly enjoyed Sabrina’s company.
Possibly because he could simply be himself, not Duke of Dandridge, or a peer, or a member of the House of Lords. Not quarry for eager-to-wed chits, a tolerant listener of friends’ ribald jokes, or a wise counselor to troubled acquaintances. Not even a dutiful nephew, a less-favored son, a preferred godson, or at one time, a loving brother and wholly-devoted intended.
Anticipation of fleeing the crowd lengthening his strides, he cut a swift glance behind him, and his gut plummeted, arse over chin, to his shiny shoes.
Blisters and ballocks.
Who the devil invited her?
Jules’s brusque sound of annoyance echoed in the corridor.