by Wendy Vella
One thing he had realized after that kiss was that Miss Partridge had a mouth made to ravish and a body he longed to touch, soft and curvaceous. Even through her thick clothing, Harry had responded to the feel of her pressed against him.
“Her lips were made for sin,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. They had arrived at a tentative state of companionship, and he’d just ruined it by kissing her. But then hadn’t she kissed him back? Hadn’t her mouth moved beneath his? Hadn’t she slumped into him, and dear Christ he’d enjoyed it. He was still aroused, even on such a bloody chilly day.
It was ridiculous, but he felt as if he were betraying Hero.
“You don’t even know her name, you idiot.”
Shaking his head, he walked slowly back to the inn. When he arrived, Miss Partridge was in the courtyard with the rest of her traveling party, about to leave.
Harry had to say good-bye; it would be expected of him, especially considering Phillip was standing beside their coach.
“We shall see you next week then, Thomas, at the dinner Lord Crickley is hosting before the wedding.”
“Yes.”
Thomas Radler did not look happy. In fact, the expression on his face was one of anger, and Harry believed that had more to do with his cousin’s impending nuptials rather than seeing Phillip again. He must remember to question Phillip over this, and refused to think about his need to do so, and that he was now thoroughly intrigued with Jemma Partridge.
“Good-bye, my Lord.”
“Miss Partridge.” Harry stepped forward and held out his hand as she moved toward the carriage. For some perverse reason, he wanted to touch her once more, even if the contact was through their gloves. She hesitated, but could not refuse him, so placed her small hand on his. Harry folded her fingers inside his briefly as he helped her into the carriage, and then he released them.
“Travel safely, Miss Partridge.”
“I shall, as my fiancé is awaiting me at the end of this journey, and I l-long to see him.”
He wasn’t sure if she was reminding him she was to be wed or herself. Her small stutter disturbed him. Was she unhappy to be marrying Crickley, and if so why was she?
“Then he is a lucky man,” Harry murmured for her ears alone.
Harry stood back as the others joined her inside, and then he lifted a hand in farewell as he watched the carriage roll out of the courtyard. He realized one thing as he watched Jemma Partridge drive away from him: she was the second woman in a short space of time who had made him feel alive; she was also the second woman in a short space of time that he wanted desperately. The thought of her marrying Crickley made him feel ill.
“Why do you look as if someone has stolen your new boots?”
“Why is Miss Partridge marrying Crickley do you think, Phillip?”
The brothers made for their carriage.
“Thomas is not best pleased about the entire matter, Harry. He would not go into detail, only that it is not a match he would have wanted for his cousin.”
“They’re very close, I understand?”
Harry followed Phillip and settled on the seat of his carriage. Another long day of travel was before them.
“Thomas loves her like a sister. He said they have lived together since she was born, and he would do anything for her.”
“One wonders then why he allowed her to become betrothed to a reprobate like Crickley.”
Harry hadn’t meant to bark out the last word, but he felt angry just thinking of the man laying a hand on the beautiful Jemma Partridge.
“It is not Thomas’s decision, Harry. Jemma has a father after all, even though he seems a bit simple.”
“She must have received other offers. Why Crickley and why now?”
He didn’t want her married to such a man. He didn’t want to see the light snuffed out of a woman who was vital and funny.
You have no rights to her, Harry reminded himself.
“You seem awfully concerned over her plight, brother, when usually you do not involve yourself in anything that has no connection to you… or me,” Phillip added.
“I do not have as much time as you to involve myself in the affairs of others,” Harry said.
He withstood the look Phillip gave him.
“You have changed since the Cavanagh ball, brother.”
“No I haven’t,” Harry denied, feeling uncomfortable.
“Yes, you have. That woman has had an impact on you. Suddenly you seem aware of others. It is most pleasing, and I will redouble my efforts to find her just so she can continue your transition.”
“You are speaking like a fool, so be quiet, I wish to sleep.”
Harry closed his eyes on the uncomfortable conversation. He did feel different and wondered how that was possible when he didn’t even know Hero’s real name.
“I like her.”
“Who?” Harry kept his eyes closed.
“Miss Partridge. I like her because she’s funny and real. She doesn’t put on airs and graces or try to be who she is not. It saddens me greatly to imagine her with that Crickley.”
Harry thought about how he’d found her this morning, arms circling like windmills as she attempted to walk across the ice, her voice hideously off-key. Yes, Jemma Partridge was real, he realized. Real, sweet, and tempting. She had a body any man would worship and a mouth that should be kissed several times a day.
“You just groaned, Harry.”
“I did not; now be quiet.”
His brother chuckled, but said nothing further, leaving Harry alone with his disturbing thoughts, which involved two women, both unattainable to him.
Harry rode out two mornings later, leaving behind Harrington House, the large rambling, gray stone façade that was his family home, and his brother still slumbering. It had been built by his ancestors, centuries ago, and each had left a mark for those that followed. He loved it here. Loved the rolling pastures and gentles sweeps and dips of valleys and hills. He and Phillip had fished in the rivers, ridden and run over most of the land.
Today he was going to the village, as he always did when he returned. Like his family, many of the people who still lived there had their roots firmly planted in the soil, and he liked to acknowledge them. Shop in their stores, and catch up on news.
The Harrington brothers had spent the last two days organizing gifts for the annual Christmas dance he held for his tenants and the villagers. They loaded trestle tables full of food and drink, decorated the great hall in Harrington House, lit the fires, and brought in a band. Phillip grumbled, but he enjoyed this tradition as much as Harry did. It had been something his family had done for many years, and he would see that it kept going while he was alive.
Inhaling, he wondered if they would have a white Christmas this year. There had been flurries, but no more than that in the last two days. The sun was cloaked in a gray cloud, making the day dull, but Harry didn’t mind as there was no thick smoke or noise to contend with here like there would be if he were riding through London.
He galloped slowly toward the small cluster of houses and shops, then slowed to a walk as he entered the village of Cartleigh. He’d run through it often as a boy, and stopped at the small green at the far end beside the church to play with other children.
The memories of a time when his biggest worry had been to make it home for his meal made him smile. Phillip was right in that he was a serious man, but then he had to be. His responsibilities were vast and many relied upon him making the right decisions. Still, perhaps his brother had a point. He did need to find some enjoyment in his life. Visions of Miss Partridge skating on that pond made him smile. If he were married to such a woman, he would not be serious all the time as she would not allow it.
“For pity’s sake, Harry. Stop thinking about women you cannot have,” he muttered, shaking his head.
He saw the carriage as he reached the haberdashery, and recognized the Crickley markings on the side. Lord Crickley’s lands were an hour to the north, but he had
been known to come to Cartleigh often, as he enjoyed the company of several of the women in the local tavern.
Dismounting, Harry tethered his horse and wondered if Miss Partridge was accompanying her betrothed. Dismissing the thought, he went into the first shop. In the third, he ordered lemon sherbet for Phillip and toffee for himself and added it to the other items that were to be delivered to Harrington House. Harry tucked a small bag of toffee into his pocket for the journey back.
He then wandered slowly, looking in each window, acknowledging people, refusing to acknowledge he was looking for Jemma Partridge. He reached the village green and found her at the small wishing well. Her head was lowered as she looked into the depths, gloved hands braced on the bricks before her.
Harry ignored the sudden thud of his heartbeat and approached. Dressed in a blue coat, she wore leather gloves and a thick scarf. Something about the glimpse of her dainty black leather boots made his chest ache.
“I have a penny if you feel the need to make a wish.”
She didn’t shriek like she had that day at the pond. Instead, he watched her gloved fingers clench around the edge of the well before she turned to face him. Her smile was polite, face blank of expression. Her cheeks were pink from the chill, eyes bright, and he felt it again, the tug of need.
“I have been told that a hairpin would suffice, and was just about to remove one and use that.”
“As I’m sure that, like every lady of my acquaintance, your hair takes a great deal of time to arrange, perhaps a penny would be easier for you to use?”
She studied him in that way he’d come to realize she used often, as if she were weighing him and finding him lacking.
“No thank you, my hairpin will do.”
“’Tis only a penny, Miss Partridge, nothing more than a friendly gesture.” It nettled him that she would not accept the coin from him.
“I don’t want your penny, so perhaps you should use it to increase your own luck?”
She had changed since he’d last seen her. The spark had been extinguished, and she looked tense and unhappy.
“Has our truce ended then?”
She didn’t answer him, instead turning away to look back down into the well. One of her hands then went to her hair, where she dug about under her bonnet and came out with a long pin and a long honey curl. Harry watched that curl as it dropped to her shoulder. The color, if he were to guess, was the exact color of Hero’s, or perhaps it was a shade or two darker?
“Does that not hurt when it’s pushed in?”
“Yes and often, but as you know, there is no price too high for vanity, Lord Harrington.”
He thought about that for a few seconds, never having had much interest in the plight of a woman’s dressing habits. He supposed there was a great deal involved. Certainly a lot more than what he went through before an evening out.
“Why do you think I need to increase my luck?” He moved to her side, deliberately close enough to brush her sleeve. She stiffened and moved a few inches to the left.
“Everyone needs more luck, my lord.”
“Do you?”
She didn’t answer that. Instead, closing her eyes tight, she dropped the hairpin into the well. Leaning forward, she opened her eyes to follow its progress.
“It is said that when this well was built in 1613, two sweethearts came here to meet every evening after darkness had fallen. They were forbidden from seeing each other, but their love ran so deep they did so against their families’ wishes.”
She was listening to him, her head tilted slightly toward Harry.
“One stormy winter night, around this time of the year, they slipped from their beds and ran here. Unbeknown to the girl, her father followed and found them in a lovers’ embrace. Furious, he rushed forward, startling the couple. The girl, who had been seated on the edge of the well, fell, breaking her neck. Her lover took his life on this very spot the following night. It is said their spirits live on inside the well and that their ghostly forms are seen several times during the month of December.”
“Which merely confirms what I have always believed. True love is for fools.”
Her words were bitter, and nothing like the woman he had caught laughing and singing by the pond that day.
“Most women sigh when that story is told.”
“Most women have foolish romantic notions.”
“But not you?”
She didn’t answer him, once again looking down into the well.
“My parents were deeply in love,” Harry said.
“How wonderful for them.”
“They thought so, as did my brother and I.”
“Well then, with such wonderful role models, I am sure you will both achieve the same happy wedded state in your futures.”
“You sound angry, Miss Partridge.”
She didn’t look at him again; instead she focused her eyes down into the well.
“No, what I am is realistic, Lord Harrington. Now if you will excuse me, I must meet with my fiancé.”
“Jemma.” He stopped her, wrapping his fingers around the slender bones of her wrist. He braced himself for the jolt of awareness that he knew would come. “Can I help you in any way?”
“Wh-why would I need help from you?”
“You are unhappy.”
“No, what I am is cold, so please release me so I may return to the warmth of my fiancé’s carriage.”
“You’re not being truthful with me.”
She dragged her eyes from his to look at his shoulder.
“We are not friends, Lord Harrington. Therefore, you have no right to speak to me this way.”
“I want to be your friend, Jemma. Will you let me?” Harry said the words gently, as one would to a small child.
“No.” She tried to shake her hand free. “W-we are enemies, not friends, and I have no wish for that to change. Now please release my wrist.”
“We are not enemies anymore, and you know it.”
Harry didn’t release her; instead, grabbing her chin, he turned her until she was facing him, and then he kissed her, just a soft brush of his lips over hers, but it was enough to ignite his entire body. Her small sob stopped him from deepening the kiss. Easing back, he saw her eyes were closed.
“Jemma, don’t marry Crickley.” The words left his mouth before he could rethink them.
She wrenched away from him, eyes now stricken. “You have no right to ask that of me.”
She was right, he didn’t and still couldn’t believe he had.
“He is not the right man for you.”
“It matters not if he is right or wrong, only that he is my betrothed, and nothing will change that. Now good day to you, Lord Harrington, and I will ask you not to approach me again… ever.”
She picked up her skirts and ran away from him again. Harry leaned his hip on the edge of the well and watched her, saw that blonde curl bounce on her shoulders. He inhaled deeply; her scent still lingered in the air. His body stiffened in recognition.
“Hero,” he rasped, regaining his feet. “Christ, is it possible?” Stunned, he started after her but arrived back in the main street in time to see her climb into the Crickley carriage and drive away.
Was it possible? Was Jemma Partridge the woman he had made love to that night at the Cavanagh ball? His Hero? Harry walked back toward where he had tethered his horse, numb with shock. His thoughts tumbled one over the other, but it was as he was galloping toward his home that he finally allowed himself to acknowledge what had been in front of him since he had met Jemma at the inn on their journey here. She was his Hero. His reaction to her had been the same. Her scent, her hair, it was the same, and he knew she had the soft lush curves of the woman whose innocence he had taken that night. He had not allowed himself to see what had been before him.
What had possessed her to give herself to him like she had? Was it simply that she wanted a night of passion before she wed her elderly fiancé, or had she felt it, the stirring inside her stomach
, the awareness? She had; Harry could not believe otherwise. Her reaction to him had been open and honest.
Did she know he was Leander? He thought back to when she had stopped and looked at him in the road that day at the inn. Was that her moment of recognition? Was she angry and on edge today because she knew?
“Lord, what a mess,” Harry said as he rode into his stables and handed over his mount. One thing, however, was startlingly clear. Jemma would not be marrying Crickley; he would make sure of that.
When he walked into the house, his butler informed him that Miss Partridge’s cousin had called. He found his brother and friend before a roaring fire. Both held brandy and smoked cigars.
“Come, Harry, sit and warm yourself.”
Kicking off his boots, Harry took another chair, and the brandy his brother poured him.
“Thomas, I wish to talk about your cousin.”
The man raised a brow but did not lift his head from the back of the seat.
“How so?”
“Why is she marrying that old letch, and how could you let her?”
“It is not my choice that she does, I assure you, Harry. At her wish, I have played a hand in coercing her father into turning down many more suitable offers for Jemma’s hand. This one she was adamant she accept, however, as was her father, and there was nothing I could do or say to change their minds. It wasn’t until the deal was done that I had a niggling feeling something was not right.”
“And?” Harry probed impatiently.
“And she said this marriage will suit her as Crickley will not expect too much from her. She will be an elegant accessory to run his house, and perhaps give him more children. She tells me she has no wish for a great passion.”
She lies, Harry thought, knowing that nothing but a great passion would do for his Hero. Him. He would be her great passion, just as she would be his.
“Why do you think she is hiding something from you?”
“She gets defensive when I question her about the marriage, and she only does that when she’s hiding something. I questioned her father also, and he wouldn’t look at me. I know him well enough to realize when he is lying too. May I ask why the interest, Harry?”
