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Worley to stare at her daughter
in amazement. “There was, however,” Jenny ventured, “an incident
with his daughter.”
    “ Daughter!” How is that possible. No
one has seen the chit in years.”
    “ She was there last night, mama, at
Longville House. I encountered her, unexpectedly, in the bookroom.
She . . .” Jenny Norville Wharton hung her head. “There was a
misunderstanding. We had words.”
    “ Merciful heavens,” Lady Worley moaned,
sinking onto the opposite end of the crocodile-footed settee Jenny
had found particularly revolting from the moment her mother had
purchased it. As was the sidetable nearby whose slim walnut legs
were each clutched in the grip of a climbing snake. Jenny sometimes
wondered if they were intended to represent Cleopatra’s asp. This
morning, they seemed to glare at her with a particularly malevolent
eye.
    “ My dear,” her mama begged. “tell me
you are making a May game of me.”
    “ Only the sad truth, I fear. I was so
overcome by jealousy I mistook her for Longville’s latest chère amie .”
    Lady Worley’s concerned murmurs escalated
into a full-blown groan, followed by silence so profound a carriage
could be heard clattering over the cobbles outside in the Square.
“So he has truly gone off,” she said at last. “And we cannot be
certain he means to return.”
    “ I think it quite possible he will wish
for me to cry off,” Jenny said.
    “ Never!” Lady Worley declared, a
militant glint springing to her eyes. “You have snabbled the most
eligible parti in England, my
girl. He’ll not get off so easily.”
    Lady Eugenia pleated the skirt of the forest
green silk morning gown she had donned in anticipation of a round
of callers wishing to discuss the elaborate dinner hosted by His
Grace, the Duke of Longville. Not to mention, of course, that she
had expected her betrothed to be among those visitors. Until his
note had been brought ’round, a note signed as impersonally as
possible—a scrawled “Longville.” Two sentences and his title, that
was all the time and effort Lady Eugenia Wharton, his betrothed,
was worth.
    “ I do not wish to wed where I am not
wanted, mama.”
    “ Nonsense. It happens all the time. You
married once for love, and look what it brought you. Heat and cold,
rain and snow, guns and blood,” Lady Worley emoted. “A babe born
God knows where . . . ’tis a wonder either one of you
lived.”
    “ Yes,” Jen intoned, her despair reduced
to cold reality, “that’s why Longville wanted me, you know. I’m
hardy. I can bear a child. I’m not the fragile flower his first
wife was.”
    It was true, of course, the countess was
forced to admit. In her own thoughts and in private moments with
her husband, she had decided this was the only possible explanation
for the Duke of Longville’s interest in a young woman who was, like
herself, a veritable Viking in stature. It was true Jenny’s
features were softer than her own—but not by much. And her dear
girl was a widow, mother of a four-year-old child. A woman with a
decisive mind of her own and a tongue that could match the
sharpness of her thoughts.
    Longville, of course, might have had his pick
of any nubile young virgin in the ton. In all Britain, for that
matter. Truthfully, there was no other explanation for his odd
choice of bride. The Duke of Longville had indeed chosen Jenny
solely for her proven sturdiness and for her fertility. That was
the only explanation.
    And for those very reasons, Lady Worley was
quite determined, Marcus Carlington would keep her daughter. If
necessary, Worley and Anthony would see that it was so.
    Jenny sat quite still, wondering where her
much-vaunted courage had fled. Until her mother had sailed into the
room, she had been sitting there, clutching Longville’s note, for
what seemed like hours. She was thirty years old, a woman who had
always been certain of her own mind. Until last night when,
overcome by a moment of blinding jealousy, she had discovered