Seven Years to Sin(3)
“To the Diamond of the Season. Not such a bad fate. My mother says Helen of Troy could not have been more beautiful.”
“Or a marble statue more cold.”
Michael looked at him. “Beg your pardon?”
From across the shallow terrace pool separating them, Alistair watched Lady Jessica Sheffield cross the lawn toward the house with her little dog in tow. Her slender figure was encased from neck to wrist to ankle in pale floral muslin that clung to her with the breeze. Her face was turned away from him and shielded from the sun by a hat, but he knew her features from memory. He was irresistibly drawn to stare at such beauty. Many men were.
Her hair was a delight of nature, the strands longer and thicker than any other blonde he had ever seen. The tresses were so pale as to be almost silver, with streaks of darker gold adding richness to the whole. She’d worn it down on occasion before her presentation, but now it was as restrained as her deportment. For someone so young, she had the cool demeanor and reserve of a more mature woman.
“That pale hair and creamy skin,” Alistair murmured, “and those gray eyes …”
“Yes?”
Alistair noted the amusement in his friend’s voice and strengthened his own. “Her coloring suits her temperament perfectly,” he said briskly. “She is an ice princess, that one. Your brother had best pray she breeds quickly or risk losing his cock to frostbite.”
“And you had best watch your tongue,” Michael warned, repairing his dark brown hair with a quick combing with both hands, “lest I take offense. Lady Jessica is soon to be my sister-in-law.”
Nodding absently, Alistair found his attention once again drawn to the graceful girl who was so perfect in both physical and social deportment. He was fascinated with watching her and waiting for some crack in the porcelain-smooth exterior. He wondered how she bore the pressure at her age, the very pressure he had grown intolerant of and now rebelled against. “Apologies.”
Michael studied him. “Have you some quarrel with her? There is an edge to your tone suggesting so.”
“Perhaps there is a slight sting,” he admitted gruffly, “from her failure to acknowledge me the other evening. Her cut direct was a marked difference in manner from that of her sister, Lady Hester, who is quite charming.”
“Yes, Hester is a delight.” Michael’s admiring tone was so like Alistair’s when speaking of Lady Jessica that Alistair raised his brows in silent inquiry. Flushing, Michael went on, “Likely Jessica did not hear you.”
Alistair shrugged into his jacket. “I was directly beside her.”
“On the left side? She is deaf in that ear.”
It took him a moment to absorb the information and reply. He had not imagined any imperfections in her, although he felt some relief to know there was one. It made her more mortal and less Grecian goddess. “I was not aware.”
“For the most part, no one takes note. Only when the noise is high, during large gatherings, does it become a hindrance.”
“Now I see why Tarley selected her. A wife who only half listens to rumormongers would be a blessing indeed.”
Michael snorted and started toward the house. “She is reserved,” he conceded, “but then the future Countess of Pennington should be. Tarley assures me there are hidden depths to her.”
“Hmm …”
“You sound doubtful, but despite your excessively comely face, your experience with women is not equal to Tarley’s.”
Alistair’s mouth curved wryly. “Are you certain?”
“Considering the irrefutable fact that he has ten years’ advantage on you, I would say so.” Michael threw his arm around Alistair’s shoulders. “I suggest you concede that his greater maturity likely gives him a superior platform from which to note hidden qualities in his own betrothed.”
“I dislike conceding anything.”
“I know, my friend. However, you really should concede defeat in our recently interrupted wrestling match. You were moments away from seeing me the victor.”
Alistair elbowed him in the ribs. “If Tarley had not spared you, you would be pleading for mercy now.”
“Ho! Shall we determine the winner with a race to the—”
Alistair was running before the last word was out.
Within hours, she would be wed.
As the dark of night lightened into the gray of predawn, Jessica hugged her shawl tighter about her shoulders and walked Temperance deeper into the forest surrounding the Pennington manse. The pug’s rapid steps crunched atop the loose gravel trail in a staccato that was soothing in its familiarity.
“Why must you be so picky?” Jess chastised. Her breath puffed visibly in the chill air, making her long for the warmth of the bed she had yet to crawl into. “Any spot should suffice.”
Temperance glanced up with an expression Jess swore was akin to exasperation.
“Very well,” she said reluctantly, unable to refuse that look. “We’ll go a bit farther.”
They rounded a corner and Temperance paused, sniffing. Apparently satisfied with the location, the pug presented her back to Jess and squatted in front of a tree.
Smiling at the bid for privacy, Jess turned away and took in her surroundings, deciding to explore the trail more thoroughly in the light of day. Unlike so many estates where the gardens and woodlands were invaded by obelisks, reproductions of Grecian statues and temples, and the occasional pagoda, the Pennington estate displayed a welcome appreciation of the natural landscape. There were places along the pathway where it felt as if civilization and all its inhabitants were miles away. She had not expected to enjoy the feeling so much but found she did, especially after hours of meaningless interactions with people who cared only for the title she was marrying into.