by Wendy Vella
He wasn’t ready to divulge those reasons yet, so he simply said, “Because I have only recently come to know your cousin, and she is a lovely woman who surely deserves better than Lord Crickley.”
Phillip raised his brow but Harry ignored him.
“What do you know of Lord Crickley that I do not?” Thomas frowned. “I have heard he gambles, but no more than others, and has a mistress. Again, so do many.”
Harry was subjected to a steady look from Thomas Radler.
“Harry caught him cheating at cards,” Phillip said, entering the conversation. “He also has a reputation for ravishing young girls in the district.”
“What!” Thomas came out of his chair. “How has this not reached London?”
“Because Crickley throws a great deal of money around in the village to hush things up if his licentious activities go to far,” Phillip said.
“What do you mean by to far?”
“He likes to punish the women he beds, Thomas, and sometimes he goes to far,” Harry said.
All color leeched from the man’s face. “I will not allow my cousin to marry such a man!”
“I’m not sure how you can stop her now that everything is agreed between them,” Phillip added.
“We must find a way,” Thomas said.
“Yes,” Harry said. “We must.”
Because he would never allow another man to have her, not now, not when he had finally found a woman who fed both his passion and his soul. The shock had subsided now. Jemma Partridge was his Hero, and with that knowledge came the rightness of it. She was intelligent, had a sharp tongue, and ignited his body with just a look. She would be his. He just had to work out how he was to go about that.
Chapter Seven
The mirror told Jemma she was the same woman she’d always been, but she felt different. As if her body now belonged to another: Leander, or should she say, Lord Harrington. Slipping into her undergarments, she then let the maid lower the dress she was to wear over her head.
“You look lovely, Miss Partridge.”
“Thank you.”
Jemma had spent hours finding and discarding ideas on how she could stop her marriage to Lord Crickley. Before, she’d just accepted her fate, and vowed to make the best of it, but now she had Lord Harrington, and a future she would fight for… if only she knew how.
She had always been strong, having weak parents had determined that, but how was she to find a way out of this without destroying her mother and father?
She’d tried to speak with her father but he had ignored her attempts. Vowing the marriage would proceed and no more would be said on the matter or he would end his days in debtors prison and her mother would be left heart broken with shame. She’d then spoken with Lord Crickley, asking that he released her, he’d refused.
“Here’s your perfume.”
Jemma took the bottle, and dabbed it behind each ear.
Her maid had pinned her hair into a nest of curls on her head, through which she had pinned small diamonds. Her dress was ivory silk with a darker lace overskirt, and the sides met in the middle and curved upward to beneath the bodice. The sleeves were long thankfully, but she still wore woolen stockings as the weather had turned very cold. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever worn, and Jemma would have loved wearing it if the circumstances were different. Her fiancé had insisted she have it made for their betrothal dinner, and she realized this was simply because he wanted her looking her best when he introduced her to his guests. They had steadily been arriving all day, and she would need to force a smile to her face to greet them.
Lord Crickley’s character had changed since they’d arrived at his estate. Where in London he had been solicitous toward her, here he was smug and sanctimonious. Jemma had snapped at him yesterday, telling him his manners were unacceptable. His reply had been to warn her what was at stake if she did not behave.
He insisted on strutting about the place with her on his arm, showing her his home. He often emphasized that it was his property or his painting; never did he mention ours. He would often touch her inappropriately, fondling her bottom and chest, stealing kisses that had repulsed her. Jemma had slapped him this morning, and he’d laughed. Saying he hoped she was just as naughty when they reached his bed.
What rotten luck it was that Lord Harrington lived so close, and after seeing him in the lovely little village of Cartleigh, she would now have to avoid it. Beastly man, how dare he kiss her again? Swallowing her sigh, she thought about how with just a glance she had quite literally melted at his feet that day, even in the frigid weather. His effect on her was devastating, if possible, even more so now she knew he was Leander. The humor Jemma had thought him devoid of was in fact dry and funny. His laugh was genuine and with it came little creases on either side of his mouth. Unlike other men he seemed to focus on her when she spoke, as if she were all that mattered to him. Jemma could only imagine what it would be like to have such a man in her life.
Horrid, beastly man, why could he not have approached her years ago and tried harder to get into her good graces after their first disastrous encounter? Surely if he’d persisted she would have realized the man he truly was beneath that aloof façade. Of course the fault was not entirely his; she too had judged him on that brief meeting.
Jemma felt a wave of despair so strong she pressed a fist to her chest to ease it. She longed for him deep in her soul. It was like a chasm had opened inside her that she doubted would ever close.
He would be a man she could rely on, a hero in every sense of the word. Lord Harrington was not prone to flamboyant gestures. He would do the little things, the necessary things. He’d ensure she was warm and be there to help her mount her horse when they rode together, which of course would be never.
“Damn you.” Jemma sighed. If only she had not gone to the Cavanagh ball none of this would have happened.
And what about when he found a wife? She would have to watch them together on the rare occasion she was forced into his company. Could she? No, Jemma knew this would be impossible to endure. The thought of him with another and perhaps even children was a pain she would not inflict upon herself.
His kiss at the well had been no more than a second or two, and yet it had felt blissful. She’d wanted to curl her fingers around the lapels of his coat and hold him close. Jemma had fought the urge to lay her cheek on his chest and stay there. But she hadn’t because she was strong, and would endure what needed to be endured, she reminded herself yet again. Her life would not be bad, just not good either. She could live with that surely? After all many did.
“It is time, Miss Partridge.”
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded to the maid and left the room, attempting to push all thoughts of Lord Harrington aside, which of course would not be easy, as he was to attend tonight’s dinner to celebrate her wedding to the vile Lord Crickley.
She could do this, be composed in his company. She would be sure not to let her social mask slip when she encountered the man who had taken her innocence, and she now believed her heart.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced her thoughts to the back of her head once more. It did not matter that she knew her Leander’s identity, nor that Lord Harrington had now kissed her twice, and each time had been as magical as the last. What mattered was she would marry Lord Crickley and in doing so save her mother’s reputation. Her father, Jemma thought, could go to hell.
Crickley Hall was a large estate with many rooms decorated in heavy dark colors and furniture. The place was freezing and walking through the halls quickly was the only way for Jemma to warm up. She could feel the cool air creeping under her skirt and up her legs.
“That will be one of the first things I address,” Jemma muttered as she started down the stairs. Her husband did not seem to feel the chill in the air like others, but she would have to discuss the need for having more fires lit once they were wed. If she was to live here then she would do so in bloody comfort.
The guests were gat
hering before dinner in a room on the second floor. She had made sure the curtains were drawn, and fires stoked to warm it before they arrived. Walking through the door, she was greeted by the hum of voices, and did not do as she wished and look for Lord Harrington.
“Hello, darling.” Thomas was the first to greet her, holding out a glass of wine that she gratefully took.
“Hello. I am so glad you are here.” Jemma leaned on her cousin, briefly enjoying the familiar scent and feel of his strong arms around her.
“Where else would I be as I am staying here with you?”
Her laugh was forced. “I’m not sure, but I’m glad you are here just the same.”
“Are you well, sweetheart?”
His eyes studied her face, and she made herself smile warmly.
“Of course. I just missed you today, but now you are here all is right in the world once more.”
She saw the doubt and patted his chest. “Really, I am quite all right.”
She had not told him anything about her encounter at the Cavanagh ball, even though he knew something had taken place.
“Jemma, I need to talk with you about your betr—”
“My darling fiancée, how beautiful you look in that gown.”
She fought the need to stiffen as Lord Crickley interrupted Thomas. He then put his hand on her waist and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“I selected it, you know.” His smile was smug. “Already keeping her happy you see, Radler.” He winked at Thomas, who did not smile back. In fact, Jemma thought he looked like he wanted to punch Lord Crickley.
Jemma quickly stepped into the conversation after glaring at her cousin. “Will you introduce me to your guests, my lord?”
“Of course, it will be my pleasure to show you off. Remember to keep smiling, my dear, it would not do for me to have to tell your father’s naughty little tale here, in front of so many of society’s affluent members.”
“I have given you my word, Lord Crickley. Therefore, I do not appreciate you throwing my father’s crimes in my face continually.”
“Just making sure you understand what is at stake, my sweet.”
Jemma pinched the fingers he held on her waist.
“We shall make wonderful children together, my luscious Jemma, and begetting them will be so much fun.”
“Not for me it won’t.”
His laugh sounded like a rusty door hinge.
“Oh I shall soothe your maidenly nerves and make sure you enjoy it.”
At least he would not be her first, Jemma thought, shuddering.
She kept a smile on her face as he introduced her to people. Some she had met while in London, others she recognized but had never spoken with. When she saw who was in the group he was heading for next, Jemma tried to detain her fiancé, but it was too late.
“Harrington, I believe you already know my betrothed.”
“Good evening, Lord Harrington.” Jemma sank into a curtsey.
“Miss Partridge.” He bowed. “Allow me to offer you both my congratulations once again, and add how delighted my brother and I are to be invited to witness such a joyous event.”
He was lying. She saw that in the cold green gaze. He had asked her not to marry Lord Crickley just two days ago beside the wishing well, so she knew he was not pleased with her upcoming nuptials. She was unsure why, when he’d never shown any interest in her besides the two kisses—wonderful, fabulous kisses.
“We are of course honored to have you with us, Lord Harrington,” she returned the lie.
He looked elegant in his evening clothes but also dangerous, and Jemma wondered if that was because she knew the threat he posed to her now. He was just so much of everything. Handsome, strong, and he could make her melt with a touch or kiss. Standing beside her fiancé, there was no comparison, and Lord Crickley’s every fault was strikingly obvious.
“The honor is mine,” he took her hand and squeezed her fingers gently. Jemma tugged them free as soon as was proper.
“Excellent, Harrington!”
Lord Crickley accompanied these words with a slap on the man’s shoulder. Not an easy accomplishment as he was a great deal taller. Lord Harrington’s expression remained blank. However, Jemma had the feeling he wanted to slap her fiancé back… harder.
“I shall leave my girl in your capable hands.”
Jemma felt her heart sink as Lord Crickley walked away, leaving her alone with the man she loved. She thought about simply walking away because he would not stop her, but her feet didn’t seem to want to move.
“Did you attend the Cavanagh costume ball, Miss Partridge?”
Jemma was relieved she had not taken a mouthful of her wine, as she would have spat it all over him.
“Yes, my cousin and I attended.” She’d wanted to lie, but Lord Harrington’s brother and Thomas were friends. Therefore, it would be easy to verify.
“A most enjoyable evening, wouldn’t you say?”
His expression was blank, and she could see no suggestion that he knew she was Hero.
“I am not one for such occasions, but it was pleasing enough.”
“What costume did you wear, as we may even have danced together?”
“I was a milkmaid,” Jemma said quickly and hoped Thomas and Lord Harrington never had a discussion about costumes. “I did not stay long, and danced only once.”
“Did you know any of the women dressed as Grecian goddesses? One in particular stood out for me; she had a long honey-colored braid down her right shoulder, and wore a gold belt?”
Oh, dear Lord!
“Miss Partridge, are you all right? Your face seems to have lost all its color.”
“Of course.” She took a step back as he reached for her. She then took a large gulp of wine. “Just overexcited about my upcoming wedding, my Lord,” she added, waving a hand about. Overexcited was an excellent excuse, as most men simply nodded, because it was well established among their ranks that women suffered regularly from such a thing.
“You have never struck me as the overexcitable type, Miss Partridge.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or insult, Lord Harrington. Furthermore, just because we have shared….” Jemma’s words trailed off.
“Two wonderful kisses,” he said in a low, deep voice that seemed to roll up Jemma’s spine. “And let me assure you I was complimenting you, as there are far too many overexcitable women in London during the season.”
Jemma’s skin was suddenly too tight, and she was breathless. This would not do; she had to get away from him before he continued to question her about the Grecian goddess.
How can you not know it was me, Leander? Jemma shut away that treacherous thought. Him knowing her identity would only create more trouble for her.
“You should not make mention of those silly kisses, and I will ask you not to do so again.”
“They were not silly, Jemma, they were precious and infinitely disturbing.”
Jemma couldn’t force air into her lungs. Dragging her eyes from his, she tried to breathe slowly. She was no simpering girl who let a man unsettle her… even this man. Surely she was strong enough to at least keep her façade in place.
“I have no wish to discuss this matter further, and it is highly improper that you continue to do so.”
“Jemma, I must talk with you alone.”
She shook her head. “Th-the London season is not easy for a young lady, Lord Harrington. Often there is much at stake.” She changed the conversation quickly.
He thought their kisses were precious and infinitely disturbing.
He didn’t speak immediately, and she wondered if he would insist that she acknowledge his words. She breathed easier when he spoke.
“Yes, I can see how shopping, dancing, and giggling can be extremely taxing upon a soul.”
“Unfortunately, that shows your ignorance of the female plight, Lord Harrington. Because unlike a man, who for some reason has been led to believe he is allowed to do and say as he chooses, a
woman is judged by her behavior. She cannot speak out, is subject to whims of others, mainly men, and can only hope to catch the eye of a man with fortune and good breeding to secure a match for the rest of her life.” Jemma was relieved that she could find an outlet for the tension roiling around inside her. “I would add to that, there are many unhappy women living in society, my Lord, who can do nothing to change their plight. Both wed and unwed.”
“And are you about to become one of these unhappy women, Miss Partridge?”
He should not have asked the question of her when she had only just recovered from him telling her their kisses had been precious and disturbing. Despair flashed across her pretty features, and the look had him reaching for her.
“Jemma—”
“Do not touch me please.” She tucked her hands behind her back as Harry tried to take one. “I have no wish for you to ever do so again, Lord Harrington, and my name is Miss Partridge, soon to be Lady Crickley.”
“You did not answer my earlier question, Miss Partridge,” Harry said feeling the bite of frustration and anger at her response, even though he knew circumstance had forced her to speak that way.
“I remember no question.”
“I asked you if you knew the Grecian goddess, and you did not furnish me with your answer.”
Her eyes went to his shoulder as she took yet another step back. Harry closed the distance.
“I have no idea of this woman’s identity and suggest that you ask elsewhere. Now I think perhaps it better that we go back to conversing on the weather, Lord Harrington, and put these silly interludes between us in the past. You can once again look down your nose at me in that haughty way you have, and I-I will once again believe you a bore.”
“I am vastly relieved you no longer see me as a bore, Miss Partridge, and I fear our relationship has progressed beyond discussing the weather.”
“We have no relationship.”
She was hurting just as he was.
“Now please excuse me, I believe we are being called in to dinner.”
“You look beautiful tonight, Jemma.” Harry said the words softly so only she could hear.
