Mary set her fan atop her knee, and over the next seconds, removed her hand. The lace fan tumbled to the floor between her seat and Rogan’s.
She bent to retrieve it, but immediately the duke’s hand shot down between the seats and wrapped his fingers around the fan.
Luck was not with her. Of course the wretched man chose that very moment to act in a gentlemanly manner.
Brilliant, just brilliant.
Still, Mary bent at her waist and plunged her hand between the chairs as well. She fished her hand around the feet of chairs, pretending she was not aware Rogan had already picked up the fan. As her hand scrabbled around the floor, she turned her head as much as she dared and wedged her eyes as far to the left as she could manage, hoping to catch a glimpse of Quinn.
And catch it, she did. Only the appalling sight she glimpsed made her turn around completely in her chair to be sure of what she had seen.
Quinn was holding Lady Tidwell’s hand between both of his own. Oh God. He held her hand the very same way he had held hers in the parlor, not so many evenings ago.
The backs of Mary’s eyes pricked as she caught Quinn staring, most adoringly, into the widow’s eyes. He squeezed her hand in his.
A tear breached Mary’s lower lashes and splashed onto her cheek.
“Turn around, gel. People are taking notice.” Lady Upperton grasped Mary’s arm and turned her around in her chair.
“Your fan, Miss Royle.” Rogan glanced down at her, no doubt seeing her tears, as he closed her fan and placed it into her gloved hand, along with his handkerchief.
Deuce it. Mary tried hard to blink back the tears welling in her eyes without needing Rogan’s linen.
She took a deep breath, then raised her chin, trying to keep the tears poised in her eyes.
It was then that she noticed she was peering up at a very large painting positioned behind the musicians.
Focus on the painting. Not on what Quinn might be doing.
It was a full-length oil portrait of a beautiful woman. Clearly, she was highborn. She had an aristocratic look about her.
Her expression was demure, yet in her eyes Mary could almost believe she saw sparks. The painted sky behind the woman was dark and dramatic, which made her white gown vivid and fresh. Her hair was piled high upon her head, with coils of ringlets spilling down the sides of her throat. Around her shoulders, in stark contrast with her almost virginal appearance, was a crimson-and-gold Kashmir shawl.
Mary looked at the shawl, so bold and vivid, and then once more she focused on the woman’s eyes. They seemed to flicker with a sly vitality.
With feminine power.
A knowing smile lifted Mary’s lips.
She felt almost as though she knew this woman. Could see her soul through her eyes.
“Mary?” Lady Upperton nudged her shoulder.
She turned to look across at the old woman, but the moment she did, the tears she’d fought slipped down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away with Rogan’s handkerchief, then folded the linen in a square and squeezed it in her palm.
“Mary?”
Belatedly, Mary realized that the musicians had finally stopped playing at last, and that Lady Upperton was peering pointedly at her. “Oh, dear, I do apologize, Lady Upperton. I found myself quite taken by the woman in that painting.”
“You would not be the first.” Then it almost sounded as if Lady Upperton huffed. “Sir Joseph possesses many paintings by the artist George Romney, but this one is his prize.”
“Why is that?”
“Because ’tis rumored that the Prince Regent himself commissioned the painting…when the lady was his mistress.” Lady Upperton caught Mary’s arm and pulled her near. “But when she lost his favor to another, he never paid the commission or claimed the painting. So there it sat in Romney’s studio until his death, when the house and its contents were sold by his heir.”
Mary leaned back in her chair and gazed up at the painting.
From the corner of her eye, she could see that Rogan was looking up at it as well.
“She was a classic beauty,” he admitted, punctuating his words with a greatly affected sigh.
Mary did not look at him. Instead she directed her next question to Lady Upperton. “Who was she?”
“Are you serious? You really do not know?” Rogan rudely broke into the conversation. “My, you are a country miss, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” Mary glowered at him. “But I was not addressing you, Your Grace.”
Rogan chuckled. “My, my, Miss Royle. Either you have taken a sudden dislike to me…or you are working very hard to play unattainable. Which is it?” He lifted one eyebrow, which only served to infuriate her further.
“I think you know, Your Grace.” Mary glared at him, holding her angry gaze as long as she could manage.
Those ladies and gentleman of society who sat nearby suddenly quieted and watched them, as if eagerly awaiting a sparring match between the country miss and the highborn duke.
Lady Upperton noticed the other guests’ focused attention and was quick about stopping the heated exchange.
She snorted an overdone laugh. “Goodness now, the war is over, let us not begin another.” She tapped Mary’s arm with her fan, forcing her to break her daggered gaze, then tamped down her tone. “The woman is Frances, Countess of Jersey.”
A cold finger seemed to run down Mary’s spine. “You do not mean the Lady Jersey.”
The woman who wrapped up the cold, blue babies in her shawl and handed them off to Papa?
She shook the idea from her head.
Impossible. Impossible!
“Yes, I do.” Lady Upperton sighed. “As you can see, she was quite beautiful in her day. And she took full advantage of that beauty.”
“So, she is no longer living.”
“No, Miss Royle, she is alive. I saw her only last year,” Rogan mentioned nonchalantly. “She…was an acquaintance of my father’s.”
“You actually have been introduced to Lady Jersey?” She asked, with badly feigned indifference. As much as she wished she was not interested, she was.
“I was, only in passing though.” Then, his tone grew richer, as smooth and sweet as port and chocolate. The sort of voice a man draws forth to lure, to woo. His tone dropped as well, and he began speaking so quietly that Mary was compelled to lean nearer to hear what he was saying at all.
“She no longer resembles the siren in these paintings, however,” he told her. “She is handsome enough, but no longer beautiful, unlike you, my dear.” He paused for several moments and merely stared into Mary’s eyes, making her heart pound ridiculously.
He reached out his hand then and for the briefest moment slid two fingers down the length of a dark curl dangling at her throat. “Her hair color is not silky and rich, as yours is. Instead, it is gray.”
Mary swallowed hard.
Rogan’s gaze slid slowly down her form, riding every curve like a lover’s caress. “She no longer possesses the slim yet supple body a man dreams of pressing against his own.”
Mary flipped open her fan. The gallery had grown very warm now that the audience had started to move about. How she wished he would just go away. Go speak with his brother…and his lady friend.
She turned away from Rogan, hoping that perhaps Lady Upperton had heard something of the duke’s lascivious words and would cease creating opportunities for their meeting. But the old woman was deep in conversation with Lord Lotharian, too preoccupied to have noticed that anything was amiss.
Rogan evidently noticed this too. For he brought his mouth to Mary’s ear and whispered hotly into it. “Shall I tell you more, Miss Royle? Or would you like to step into the courtyard for some cool air? I seem to recall you enjoy night walks in the garden.”