by Cheryl Holt
“I would never dishonor you that way.”
They snuggled for a bit, his body warming and relaxing. It was an unusual night, what with Clara being away. Joanna caught herself wishing she was a tad more dissolute. She would love to give him what he sought.
In a very short period, she’d turned into a woman who might be willing to commit any sin for him. Where would she be when he was finished with her?
“I don’t want to get married,” he suddenly said.
This was a bog she didn’t dare enter. “What do you want to do?”
“I thought I was prepared to proceed. Before my mother’s health failed, I had her find me a bride, and I never fretted over her choice.”
“Is it Miss Ralston who’s rattled you? Or have you found you’re a dedicated bachelor?”
“I believe I’m ready to be a husband, and I’m not necessarily opposed to Roxanne. She’s beautiful, educated, and competent.”
As well as cruel, petty, and all wrong for you, Joanna added, but silently. Instead, she asked, “Then why are you vacillating?”
“When I was riding over here, I was so excited to see you. I was debating how I’d react if you were asleep. I was thinking I’d have to hurl rocks at your bedroom window until I awakened you.”
“You’d be my very own Romeo?”
“Yes, so it occurred to me—if I could feel so happy about you—I must not be as eager to wed as I presumed. I’m the type of man who exerts my best effort at any endeavor. If I can’t be totally resolved, why would I forge ahead? It would be so unfair to my wife.”
She was biting her tongue so hard that she was amazed it wasn’t gnawed bloody. She yearned to share what she’d learned about Miss Ralston, but if she blurted it out, she’d be interfering in his relationship with the awful shrew.
Joanna couldn’t be the catalyst that broke them apart. If Fate intervened, so be it, but Joanna shouldn’t involve herself. She sensed it to the marrow of her bones.
For a brief instant, she wondered if she might be the bride Fate intended for him. They possessed such a potent bond, and they had their unrevealed connection to his father. Might his father’s ghost be pushing them together?
Over the years, she’d waited to notice Miles Ralston hovering, but she never had. Was he finally pitching in so she’d wind up with his son? She’d never quit expecting he’d follow through on the vow he’d made while she was still on his ship. What if he gave her the most perfect gift of all? What if he gave her Jacob?
She’d confessed her father’s elevated lineage to Jacob. If her father had wed her mother, Joanna would have been much higher in rank and station than Jacob. Had he grasped that fact?
She was sure he hadn’t. Nor had he deduced that she could be his wife. In order for it to transpire, he’d have to overlook her parentage and peculiar talents, but she comprehended British men and how they viewed the world. He’d never realize she was a viable candidate, and—with her being a female—she couldn’t point it out to him.
Yet even if he proposed, would she consent to have him? It went counter to the historical view of her ancestors. Yet despite their teachings, she thought, for him, she might agree. If she could have him as her husband, matrimony might be worth it.
“You keep reminding me that the engagement isn’t official,” she said. “Could you postpone it so you can contemplate your path?”
“I can’t imagine doing that. Roxanne traveled from Italy, due to my promise. It would be callous of me to demand a delay.”
Joanna frowned. “Could we not talk about this? I understand you need a confidante on the topic, but it can’t be me. I’m very fond of you, and I can’t bear to discuss your betrothal or your marriage. It’s painful for me.”
He snorted with disgust. “Gad, I’m an ass, aren’t I? I was so anxious to vent my frustrations that I never considered how difficult it might be for you to listen. I’m sorry.”
He snuggled her down, and she rested against his chest, soothed by the sound of his heart beating under his ribs. It was such a splendid interval, and she must have dozed off because, next she knew, he was whispering, “Joanna! Wake up.”
She flinched and glanced about, requiring a moment to figure out why she wasn’t in her bed. Then she exhaled a nervous breath and sank down.
“Was I sleeping? I didn’t mean to.”
“The rain has stopped and dawn is upon us. I should go.”
She sat up and ran a hand through her disheveled hair. “Am I a mess?”
“Yes, but you’re an adorable mess.”
He drew her in and kissed her, and they both sighed with pleasure.
“I will be very greedy,” she said, “and ask when I’ll see you again.”
“I’m not certain when it will be.”
Panic surged, but she tamped it down. “That can’t be your response. You’re like a bad habit. You can’t simply avoid me. I’d miss you too much.”
“I’m off to London for a few days. I have business to conduct.”
“I’m glad you told me. If I hadn’t been apprised, I’d have been glued to my window, staring out to discover if you were strolling up my walk. I’m growing that used to having you around.”
“Can I tell you of a task I’ve scheduled?”
“Of course.”
“It’s a tad shocking, and no one in my family likes to admit it, but did you ever hear that I have two half-brothers? Their names are Caleb and Blake.”
“Yes, I have heard that.”
“When my mother was alive, I wasn’t able to be friends with them, but I can make my own choices now. I’ve been thinking I should establish a relationship with them. While I’m in town, I intend to visit Caleb and invite him to Ralston Place.”
“What a pretty idea.”
“Really? Everyone else believes it’s an insane notion.”
“I’m all alone in the world—except for Clara—so it’s lovely that you’d want to expand your family. You absolutely should befriend them.”
“The minute I’m back, I’ll call on you to report how it went.”
“Are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes, so I’ll be home next Sunday.”
“Will you be at church this morning? I could grin at you from the rear pews.”
“No. I’m a dedicated heathen.”
“I am not, so I’ll be there with bells on.”
She always attended services. She would never let others suppose she wasn’t a Christian. It was a warning passed down by her female kin.
He shifted her off his lap and stood her on her feet. She helped him up too, then she assisted him as he donned his coat and boots. He was gazing down at her with such a serious expression on his face. She braced for him to offer a profound comment, but in the end, he didn’t.
He dipped down and kissed her again, then he practically yanked himself away.
“I have to get going,” he said. “You entice me so thoroughly that I feel as if you’ve attached fetters to prevent my escape.”
“I have no fetters to ensnare you, but I will declare myself ecstatic that you spent part of the night with me.”
“I’ll miss you every second while I’m away.”
“I will very brashly confess that I will miss you too.”
“The ground is too wet,” he said, “so stay in here.”
“All right, I will.”
“But watch out the window as I depart. Will you? I’ll wave goodbye.”
“I must inform you that you’re very close to spouting poetry. You must flee before you completely embarrass yourself.”
“I’ll see you in a week.”
“I can’t wait.”
He left, and Mutt scooted out with him.
“Can he come outside?” he asked.
“Yes. He can even follow you to the manor if
he wishes. He knows the way back.”
Jacob nodded, then hurried out. She tarried until he appeared on his horse that he must have hobbled in the shed behind the cottage. He trotted past the front, and Mutt was loping along with him.
Just when he would have been swallowed up by the trees, he reined in. She waved enthusiastically, and it made her feel as if he was hers, that he lived with her, that he was merely off on an errand and would return shortly.
It was a thrilling thought, and she let it sink in so it would keep her smiling all day.
“If it isn’t Roxanne, the new mistress of Ralston Place.”
“Sod off, Kit.”
Roxanne glared at Kit, but it was impossible to shame him. When she’d agreed to betroth herself to Jacob, she hadn’t realized he was Jacob’s land agent, but she should have realized it. After all, he’d been raised at the estate and had been too lazy to ever leave. It had been a huge shock to show up and bump into him.
Jacob’s mother, Esther, had written to her about the engagement, and it would have been nice if Kit had written too. He could have warned her of his presence before she accepted, but he was too much of a prig to consider anyone but himself.
She had to get rid of him, but she wasn’t sure how. She knew his secrets, but he knew hers too. If she moved to ruin him, he’d run to Jacob and tattle. If he couldn’t save himself, he’d be delighted to drag her down with him.
They were in the dining room, and she’d risen much too early. With the bad weather ending the party so abruptly, she’d tossed and turned, worrying that the soiree had been a failure—and that Jacob would blame her.
“Why are you eating in the manor?” she asked Kit. “You have your own house and your own servants. I’m positive they can scramble an egg and put it on a plate. Why must we feed you?”
“I’ve always eaten breakfast here. Esther and I began our day together.”
“She was an obnoxious shrew, so I’m not surprised to learn you were chums.”
“I flattered and cajoled her, so she adored me.”
“In your deluded mind maybe. She didn’t like anybody.”
She dug into her food, and he stood and meandered over to the sideboard to dish up another helping for himself.
“Oh, look,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “there’s Jacob coming home. Where could he have been?”
Kit was adept at needling her, and she should have ignored him, but she couldn’t stop herself from inquiring, “What are you talking about?”
“He just rode into the yard.”
Kit was staring out the window, but whether Jacob was out there or not, it was hard to predict. Kit loved to torment her.
“It’s not even eight o’clock,” she said, “and the roads will be muddy from the rain. Why would he be out and about already?”
“It appears to me that he’s wearing the same clothes he had on last night.”
“You’re a man,” she scoffed. “As if you’d have noticed what he was wearing. As if you’d remember it later on.”
“If I had to guess, I’d swear he hasn’t been to bed yet. At least he hasn’t been to the one up in his bedchamber. He must have slept somewhere else.”
There was a footman hovering in the corner, and she said to Kit, “Would you shut up?”
“Aren’t you curious as to where he’s been? I certainly am. If I asked him, I wonder if he’d whisper the name of the lucky girl.”
Roxanne peeked at the footman, and his eyes were wide as saucers. She waved him out, then she rose and walked over to stand beside Kit. And . . . ?
There was Jacob, skulking across the garden toward a rear entrance, and Kit was correct: He was wearing the clothes he’d had on the night before.
The bastard!
There was a mongrel dog with him, and as he neared the verandah, he petted the animal, then he pointed to the woods. The dog barked, then raced off, and Jacob continued on into the house.
Kit smirked. “Aren’t you his dearest betrothed? I would hate to imagine he’s cheating on you so soon, but then, he is Miles’s son.”
Concealing her fury, she sauntered back to the table and resumed eating, but she casually said, “Whose dog is that?”
“I believe it belongs to the little witch who’s treating Margaret—and I use the term witch literally.”
Roxanne tamped down a blanch. “I doubt she’s a witch. I begged her to read my palms once, but she insisted she had no ability for that sort of endeavor.”
“That’s not what the stable boys tell me. They claim she can make a man’s private parts stop working. If she can make them stop working, she can probably make them start working, wouldn’t you suppose?”
“For pity’s sake. Be silent.”
“Should we fear that she’s cast a spell on Jacob? How can we explain his being so enthralled? Perhaps she wants him for herself, and she’s luring him away from you.”
“Gad, you are so aggravating. Have mercy and let me finish my meal in peace.”
“If it’s not magic, how can an amour have flared so quickly?”
She threw down her napkin, leapt to her feet, and marched for the door.
“What’s wrong?” He was innocent as a choirboy. “Have my remarks upset you? Don’t mind me; I’m just babbling aloud.”
“I can’t wait for the day I skewer you with a sharp sword and spread your innards on the barn floor for the dogs to devour.”
“You have such a picturesque way with words. Is Jacob aware of your violent tendencies?”
She halted and said, “Miss James has a young girl living with her who she pretends is her niece. Do you know anything about her?”
“No, I haven’t a clue.”
“She’s nine or so. White-blond hair, very black eyes. Her name is Clara.”
“Why would that news interest me?”
“Figure it out, Kit. I’m betting you can.”
Their gazes locked, her message resonating, rattling him, then she whipped away and left.
She was desperate to escape his vile presence, and the best place to mope and fume was in her bedchamber, but she didn’t dare climb the stairs. If she met Jacob in the hall, it would be blatantly obvious that he was sneaking in from a tryst, and it had to have been with Miss James, didn’t it?
Roxanne’s blood boiled. Clearly, her suspicions about the pretty tart were valid. Did Jacob imagine Roxanne wouldn’t care about a dalliance?
It wasn’t the dalliance so much as his pursuing it right under her very nose. A rural estate was such an incestuous spot. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Did he think he could keep an affair a secret? Did he think Roxanne would never find out? Wasn’t he concerned about her finding out? If that was his attitude, what kind of marriage would they have?
She’d thought he was an honorable fellow and that he’d at least attempt to practice monogamy—but no man could. Just look at his dastardly father! In her view, she’d expected he’d be mostly faithful, but when he trifled with a paramour, he’d go to great lengths to hide it. She wasn’t even his wife yet, and he was already indifferent to her feelings. How was she to deal with such disregard?
And what about Miss James? Roxanne was about to be Jacob’s bride. How could Miss James assume she would be allowed to reside at Ralston Place after Roxanne’s wedding? Why would she assume Roxanne would be content to have her close by and available for Jacob’s mischief?
The wench had to vanish, and she had to take her niece and her mongrel dog with her. The sooner the better. The only problem to resolve was how to have it happen with clean hands so Roxanne could never be blamed.
Roxanne would ultimately be shed of her. Of that fact, she had no doubt at all.
Joanna walked down the lane toward her cottage. She was lonely and at loose ends. Clara was at school, and Jacob had gone to London. It was fooli
sh to mope, but she didn’t like him being so far away. Nor did she like it that he wasn’t around to surprise her. She’d gotten accustomed to having him bluster in unexpectedly.
Suddenly up ahead, a man was standing by the path that led through the woods to her gate. It was obvious he was waiting for her, and she halted and studied him. He was dressed like a bank clerk or maybe a secretary to an important gentleman—brown suit, bowler hat, spectacles—and he seemed harmless enough.
“Miss James?” he asked. “Joanna James?”
“Yes, I’m Miss James.”
He hurried over to her, removed his cap, and bowed. “I am Mr. Howard Periwinkle. I’m a newspaper reporter for the London Times.”
“My goodness, what a thrilling remark. I always thought it would be so exciting to write for a living. You love your work, don’t you? I can see that you do.”
“Well, yes. Yes, I do love it.”
“You’re quite a distance from the city, but you’re not lost. What brings you to my neighborhood?”
“I was looking for you.”
“For me! My goodness again. I’m flattered. What is it you need from me?”
“I’ve been searching for you,” he told her. “Aren’t you a Mystery Girl of the Caribbean? You were in a shipwreck when you were little. You survived with your two companions, Libby and Caroline.”
“Yes, I was a Mystery Girl. You sought me out over that? How very odd.”
“The three of you are famous.”
She chuckled. “We are famous? I find that very hard to believe.”
“No one has ever stopped talking about you.”
She knew he was correct, but she pretended he wasn’t. “You’re pulling my leg. I’m convinced of it.”
“No, no, it’s true! Why, Libby is in London right now, appearing on the stage to gushing audiences. She regales them with stories about the tragedy.”
She knew about Libby too, knew she was famous on the stage, but she said, “You’re joking.”
“No. People were agog when you were returned to England years ago, and they still are.”
“I had no idea,” she lied.
“It’s the reason I’m here—because it’s the twentieth anniversary.”
