mind,” Celeste said blithely. To Jude, she explained, “Miss Gloriana Dollydear is an opera singer, and our newest weapon in this war. Sit down, Miss Dollydear, while I explain the situation to Lord Huntington.”
Chapter 5
“A lovely afternoon after so many days of rain, Lord
Huntington.” Lady Rutherford’s affected voice brought Jude to a halt.
“Indeed, Lady Rutherford. So good to see you and your lovely daughter, Miss Jordan!” Jude bowed so extravagantly he might have been in the courts of Versailles rather than a gravel path in Hyde Park. “A most splendid day, and a chance to try out the newest spring styles.”
Poor Miss Jordan. She was only seventeen, new to
London, and was torn between acknowledging him as the heir to a dukedom, a man wealthy in his own right, one of the prime catches of any Season…or as one of the most laughable men in London.
When, with deliberate insouciance, he tossed his emerald-and-tan paisley scarf over one shoulder, Miss
Jordan lost the battle. Covering her mouth with one gloved hand, she dissolved into muffled laughter.
Her mother jabbed her bony elbow hard into the girl’s ribs.
Straightening at once, Miss Jordan choked, “How lovely to see you, my lord. Your costume is most magnificent.”
“But of course!” His brow knit with sham concern. “Yet you sound as if you’re not well, Miss Jordan. I fear from your glassy eyes you’re coming down with an indisposition.” He drew back as if from the plague. “Please! I’m too important a gentleman, and too much in demand at parties, to be exposed to such a threat.”
This time, she couldn’t contain a snort, and he stepped back to the far end of the path. “Really, Lady Rutherford, she should be in bed and away from the rest of polite society. Away from me .”
Lady Rutherford nodded, grabbed Miss Jordan’s arm, and jerked her down the path.
He strolled on, doffing his tall hat—his very tall hat—to every lady he passed. The wise mamas and their title-hungry daughters curtsied gravely to him, but there were always the young ladies like Miss Jordan who couldn’t contain their amusement, and to them he gave a special smile. His oblivion caused further gales of merriment as he minced along.
As he had hoped, the first spring sunshine drew enough people to Hyde Park to make his outing unremarkable. Unremarkable, that is, except for the vibrant lime green greatcoat he matched with a brown-checked suit and brown, high-heeled ankle boots, making him the most outrageously dressed man on parade—and a nincompoop of the highest order. Such was the title he had cultivated with painstaking care.
Sometimes he wondered if, after this escapade, he would ever return to his former self, careful of manners, of propriety, of all matters that were unimportant, and contemplative to the point of indecision.
He thought not. He hoped not. None of the ton who strolled the paths imagined that he noted each of them: how they walked, the tones of their voices, the attention they paid to their surroundings, and, of course, what they wore. It was possible to tell a lot about a man or a woman by their attire, and Jude watched and weighed everyone who crossed his path as, all the while, he avoided the puddles left by the rain and kept a lookout for the two Moricadians who were his prey.
He also watched for his tutor.
His tutor. The dour female his father had hired to teach him how to flirt. The one his father said, “looked well enough”—a euphemism if Jude had ever heard one.
And there she was, a horse-faced female carrying a nosegay of red roses held under her chin. Her complexion was absolutely white, either painted on with powder or caused by a lamentable lack of sun. Her nose was squashed flat, as if she’d walked headlong into a door. Her shoulders were rounded, her bosom unremarkable, and she wore fine clothing so badly she would have done as well to have donned a sackcloth.
What in the devil had his father been
Chapter 5
“A lovely afternoon after so many days of rain, Lord
Huntington.” Lady Rutherford’s affected voice brought Jude to a halt.
“Indeed, Lady Rutherford. So good to see you and your lovely daughter, Miss Jordan!” Jude bowed so extravagantly he might have been in the courts of Versailles rather than a gravel path in Hyde Park. “A most splendid day, and a chance to try out the newest spring styles.”
Poor Miss Jordan. She was only seventeen, new to
London, and was torn between acknowledging him as the heir to a dukedom, a man wealthy in his own right, one of the prime catches of any Season…or as one of the most laughable men in London.
When, with deliberate insouciance, he tossed his emerald-and-tan paisley scarf over one shoulder, Miss
Jordan lost the battle. Covering her mouth with one gloved hand, she dissolved into muffled laughter.
Her mother jabbed her bony elbow hard into the girl’s ribs.
Straightening at once, Miss Jordan choked, “How lovely to see you, my lord. Your costume is most magnificent.”
“But of course!” His brow knit with sham concern. “Yet you sound as if you’re not well, Miss Jordan. I fear from your glassy eyes you’re coming down with an indisposition.” He drew back as if from the plague. “Please! I’m too important a gentleman, and too much in demand at parties, to be exposed to such a threat.”
This time, she couldn’t contain a snort, and he stepped back to the far end of the path. “Really, Lady Rutherford, she should be in bed and away from the rest of polite society. Away from me .”
Lady Rutherford nodded, grabbed Miss Jordan’s arm, and jerked her down the path.
He strolled on, doffing his tall hat—his very tall hat—to every lady he passed. The wise mamas and their title-hungry daughters curtsied gravely to him, but there were always the young ladies like Miss Jordan who couldn’t contain their amusement, and to them he gave a special smile. His oblivion caused further gales of merriment as he minced along.
As he had hoped, the first spring sunshine drew enough people to Hyde Park to make his outing unremarkable. Unremarkable, that is, except for the vibrant lime green greatcoat he matched with a brown-checked suit and brown, high-heeled ankle boots, making him the most outrageously dressed man on parade—and a nincompoop of the highest order. Such was the title he had cultivated with painstaking care.
Sometimes he wondered if, after this escapade, he would ever return to his former self, careful of manners, of propriety, of all matters that were unimportant, and contemplative to the point of indecision.
He thought not. He hoped not. None of the ton who strolled the paths imagined that he noted each of them: how they walked, the tones of their voices, the attention they paid to their surroundings, and, of course, what they wore. It was possible to tell a lot about a man or a woman by their attire, and Jude watched and weighed everyone who crossed his path as, all the while, he avoided the puddles left by the rain and kept a lookout for the two Moricadians who were his prey.
He also watched for his tutor.
His tutor. The dour female his father had hired to teach him how to flirt. The one his father said, “looked well enough”—a euphemism if Jude had ever heard one.
And there she was, a horse-faced female carrying a nosegay of red roses held under her chin. Her complexion was absolutely white, either painted on with powder or caused by a lamentable lack of sun. Her nose was squashed flat, as if she’d walked headlong into a door. Her shoulders were rounded, her bosom unremarkable, and she wore fine clothing so badly she would have done as well to have donned a sackcloth.
What in the devil had his father been
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