“You will not eat with us, sir?”
“Not this morning. I’ve already consumed my morning victuals. You enjoy yourself riding, Jessie. Don’t let Master Anthony ride off Monmouth’s cliff, which is at the south end of Fenlow Moor.”
“I won’t.”
He smiled down at her, turned on his stately heel, and left her. She hadn’t time to open the door. A footman dressed in stunning gold and dark blue eased forward as smooth as a snake and opened the door for her.
So this was what was called dining en famille, she thought, forcing herself to stand still while the same footman pulled out her chair for her.
Anthony was in high spirits, waving a strip of bacon around on his fork as he made a point about his pony.
“My God.”
Jessie brought her head up fast at the earl’s stunned voice.
“My God,” he said again. “Isn’t she utterly delicious, Duchess?”
“It’s that red hair, Jessie. My husband lusts after red hair.”
“What is lust, Mama?”
“It’s a new feed for the horses,” the earl said, and laughed. “Your mama thinks it’s about the best feed we’ve ever had. I think she wanted to eat it herself.”
The Duchess threw a piece of toast at her husband. She hadn’t yet buttered it. “Jessie isn’t yet married, my lord. Mind your tongue, or it won’t go well for you.”
The earl said to Jessie, his voice pensive, “Did you know that last month she threw a plate at me? It had eggs on it. Luckily she hasn’t become all that good a shot since we’ve been married, so only my coat was ruined. Spears wasn’t even put out by it. He just smiled and said her aim was getting better.”
“What did you do, my lord, to deserve having a plate of eggs heaved at you?”
“Call me Marcus. What did I do? Naught of anything. So naught I can’t even remember.”
“I will remind you later, my dear,” the Duchess said, eyeing her small son, who was staring at his papa.
Jessie wondered if the plate had broken. She certainly hoped not. It was probably worth more money than her father’s stud. She looked back and forth between the Duchess and Marcus. The Duchess was scolding Anthony about stuffing porridge down his little gullet like a savage. As for his papa, Marcus was forking down his porridge like a big savage.
She was lucky. More than lucky, not that it wasn’t about time that her luck turned. She would try to be a good horse nanny to Anthony and a good nurse to Charles.
She missed James damnably, curse him.
13
THAT FRIDAY EVENING, when Jessie had been in residence for a week and a half, the countess and earl gave a dinner party. She was invited. She was their guest, not Charles’s nurse or Anthony’s horse nanny.
She agreed because of the excitement in the Duchess’s beautiful eyes. When the earl gave her a gown of the softest yellow silk, all low-cut over her breasts, the sleeves long and fitting closely at her wrists, she wanted to cry. She’d never before seen such a lovely gown in her life. She doubted if anyone in Baltimore even knew such a gown was possible. Maggie arranged her hair with only three interwoven braids atop her head. The rest of her hair she brought through the circle and arranged the curls in a fall that came nearly to the middle of her back. Her streamers fell down her neck and beside her face. She just sat there and stared at herself in the mirror.
“Now, just a bit of lip cream.”
“Oh goodness, my mother would have apoplexy.”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful that you’re here and she isn’t?”
“Maggie, is it possible? Are the freckles all gone?”
“No, there’s this adorable little line—little soldiers, I think of them—marching right over the bridge of your nose. They’re charming. I should imagine that all the young ladies here tonight will see them and go home and paint some on their own noses. Now, this gown. Your breasts look mighty fine. I’d brought some handkerchiefs to stuff in there just in case, but you don’t need them. Mr. Spears said we didn’t want to flaunt your cleavage but that you should have one. Yes, he would approve. No freckles on those pretty shoulders. Nearly as white as mine except my skin’s creamier because it’s the way I am, but yours isn’t all that bad, Jessie. You’re ready.”
“I don’t dance, Maggie.”
“You what?”