My Winter Rogue: A Regency Holiday Collection
Page 33
Jasper visibly winced. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”
“Why not?” she asked. “It’s who you are now.”
“It’s who Father is.” His mouth thinned. “Was.”
The fifth Marquess of Slatington’s untimely death had come as a shock to everyone, but no one was more surprised than his son and heir. From a young age, Jasper had idolized his father. Bridget had loved him as well, of course, but her bond had always been closer with her mother. She and Jasper were half-siblings, the late marquess having remarried after his first wife died in childbirth.
It had never occurred to Jasper that his father would one day die too. Larger than life, the marquess had seemed immortal. Until one night when his heart unexpectedly failed him, and Jasper learned how mortal the most important man in his life really was.
They’d laid him to rest nearly eight months ago, but Jasper still wasn’t accustomed to being addressed by his father’s title. Truth to be told, he didn’t know if he’d ever get used to it. Or if he’d ever want to.
The Marquess of Slatington was someone who honored his obligations. He didn’t stay out gambling all hours of the night or consorting with women of questionable moral standing. He didn’t drink to excess. And he never would have ignored an invitation to a house party, no matter how trivial or uninspiring he found it to be. In short, the Marquess of Slatington was considered a pillar of High Society. Whereas Jasper…wasn’t.
It’s not that he was a terrible person. Yes, he enjoyed playing the tables, but he never risked more than he could afford to lose. And yes, he’d spent a small fortune on mistresses, but wasn’t that a testament to his generosity? And yes, he probably did drink more than he should, but it was a habit he’d been trying to quell these past few weeks. Which was why, all things considered, Jasper didn’t think of himself as a complete degenerate. He just wasn’t the man his father had been, and as a result his new title fit poorly. Rather like a pair of trousers that had been hemmed at the wrong length.
“I miss him too,” Bridget said quietly. A replica of her mother, she looked like a porcelain doll, sitting in the chair with her ebony hair swept away from her softly rounded face, with her ivory complexion, and wide, innocent eyes framed with thick black lashes.
Jasper, on the other hand, was all rawboned muscle and hard lines. He towered over his half-sister by nearly six inches, and his chest was easily the width of her body twice over. The one trait they shared was the color of their hair. And they had a mutual love for one another that went deeper than the blood ties that bound them together.
“But,” Jasper said, lifting a brow as he waited for Bridget to complete her sentence.
“But,” she acknowledged with a tiny sigh, “Father is gone, Jasp. You’re not.”
“Neither are you,” he was quick to point out.
“No, but I’m just his daughter. You’re his legacy. You carry his title, whether you want it or not. The fact that it came to you far sooner than you ever expected – or wanted – doesn’t change that. You cannot keep shirking your responsibilities forever.”
Jasper scowled. “I can bloody well try.”
“Come to the house party,” she pleaded. “We’ll stay through the ball, then join my mother for Christmas at Hatfield House. I know she’d love to see us, and surely the holiday will be a bit easier if we’re all together to celebrate.”
Hatfield House was the dowager estate Lady Slatington had moved to after her husband’s passing. Jasper had requested she take up a wing at Slatington Manor, but she’d politely refused.
This is your home now, she’d told him, her smile tender as she’d placed her hand upon his cheek. Hatfield will be a quiet place to grieve, and I’ve always loved the gardens. Come visit whenever the mood strikes you. My door shall always be open.
Bridget looked at him hopefully. “We’ll be a three-hour journey by carriage. I’ve already mapped it out.”
Jasper raked a hand through his hair, pulling the ends taut as he walked across the parlor to stare broodingly out the window. It was unseasonably cold, even for December, and a storm had swept through two nights ago, leaving a thick, fluffy layer of snow in its wake. He’d ridden through it this morning, and both he and his horse had found it distasteful.
A week in the country and he already missed the neat, tidy streets of Grosvenor Square. Not to mention the pubs and the gaming hells. Out here in the middle of nowhere, if he wanted a pint that wasn’t from his own stock, he’d have to venture all the way into the village. Which was but one of the many reasons why he’d given serious consideration to staying in town and skipping Christmas all together. It was Bridget who had finally convinced him they needed to keep with tradition and celebrate the holidays at the family estate. Now she wanted to attend some house party, and worse yet, she wanted him to go with her.
Jasper gritted his teeth.
The only place he wanted to go was his study where he’d kick up his feet and drown himself in brandy until the bloody snow melted.
Unfortunately, he’d never been able to refuse Bridget anything.
A fact she well knew.
“Please,” his sister begged, coming up behind him to rest her smaller hand beside his much larger one. “I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean so much to me. We’ve been in mourning for nearly the entire Season, and I’ve missed the company of our friends.”
“I haven’t.”
“Lady Heather Dobbs will be there,” said Bridget, swiftly changing tactics. “I know you took a shine to her at the last ball we attended. The youngest Appleton sister is unmarried as well. We met last Season at a benefit for the orphanage. Lady Honora is very intelligent. I think you’d like her.”
Jasper grimaced. “If you’re trying to change my mind, you’re going about it all wrong.”
The last thing he wanted was to be swarmed by greedy heiresses and their conniving mothers. If there was a sliver of good that had come from his father’s death, it was that he’d been able to retreat from Society and refuse all house calls, including those from ladies looking to strike up a courtship with the newly minted Marquess of Slatington.
He’d thought he had received a lot of unwanted attention when he was an earl, but it was nothing compared to the notoriety he’d achieved since accepting his new title. Even his mistress, a lovely widow who had shared his bed for nearly a year, had begun making certain hints. Hints that had inevitably forced him to show her the door.
A shame, really. Cassandra had cost him a small monthly fortune in rent and dresses and jewels, but the things she’d done with her tongue… Suffice it to say, he had a feeling she wouldn’t be without a benefactor for very long.
“Then if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.” Bridget met his gaze in the window’s reflection. “Perhaps I want to meet someone.”
His mouth curled derisively. “You’re only sixteen.”
“I’ll be twenty in February.”
Twenty?
Bollocks.
Where had the time gone?
“If we were to attend – and I’m not saying we are,” he warned with a shake of his finger when Bridget gasped with excitement. “But if we were, how long would we have to stay?”
“Five days. Six, including the ball. Oh Jasp, I knew you’d come around! I’ll go tell Mavis to start packing my things. A fortnight is hardly enough time to prepare, but I have those new dresses sitting at the shop in London and–”
“Wait,” Jasper interrupted. He turned to face Bridget, a frown firmly etched in the corners of his mouth. Then he saw the brightness of her smile, and his frown faded. “I’ll send one of the footmen to retrieve the dresses,” he said gruffly.
Bridget squealed. “You’re the best brother I have!”
“I’m the only brother you have,” he called after her as she dashed out of the room, but she was already out of sight. Muttering a half-hearted curse under his breath, he looked back out the window. And wondered what the devil he’d agreed to.
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