Turned down before he’d even proposed. This didn’t bode well. Jessica must be convinced to change her mind, must see that marriage to him was the only solution.
Sutcliffe cleared his throat. “See here, Jessica. I’m your guardian in your father’s absence, and I don’t believe there’s any other recourse. If there were, I’d not have brought you here today.”
Well, thank you very much. Crispin speared Sutcliffe a dark glower.
Once she’d set her teacup aside, the duchess touched her sister’s arm, concern shadowing her pretty face. “What’s really going on, my dear? There’s more to this than simple reluctance to wed a man you don’t know well. I explained this morning how unfortunate the circumstances are. We”—she swept her hand in an arc to include Crispin and her husband—“fear for your future.”
“Might I have a few moments alone with Miss Brentwood?” Crispin asked, his focus never straying from her.
The duchess darted him an astonished look before her features settled into a contemplative mien. She sent her husband a speaking glance. One that demanded he’d bloody well better acquiesce, and he nodded.
“It’s rather unorthodox, but yes. I suppose you might,” he slowly agreed, uncrossing his legs.
Jessica snorted indelicately, shaking her head as if they were silly children. “I cannot imagine a few moments alone would be any more objectionable than a half dozen people coming upon us lying naked and entwined together.”
Clearing his throat, Sutcliffe shifted uncomfortably, and his wife blushed as she pressed a palm to the juncture of her collarbone.
Why did adults act all discomfited and constrained whenever anyone mentioned the words naked or nude?
At once, Crispin’s mind flashed back to last night. Of Jessica’s pearly-white, satiny body melded to his. Of her scintillating cloves and vanilla scent. It took every ounce of his will not to drop his attention to her breasts. He could still envision them in his mind: plump, creamy mounds with perfect rosebud-pink nipples.
Sutcliffe would run him through if he had any notion the dangerous path Crispin’s thoughts had jogged down.
Despite her advancing pregnancy, the duchess angled agilely to her feet. At once, the men stood, and Crispin’s head spun dizzily from rising too swiftly. “I should very much enjoy a stroll through your gardens, Bainbridge.” She gave her husband a blinding smile. “Darling, shall we?” She took his arm for, of course, he didn’t dare say otherwise.
“I know the way,” Sutcliff allowed. “I’ll permit you ten minutes.”
“That’s all I require,” Crispin assured him.
The room remained unnaturally still after their departure. Jessica poured herself more tea and then, teapot in hand, inquired, “Do you care for any more, Your Grace?”
“No, and please call me Crispin. Or Cris. And I shall address you as Jessica. Unless you have another preference?”
A golden eyebrow flexed at his suggestion, but she didn’t argue. “No. Unlike Theadosia, my name was never shortened. I cannot abide being called Jess or Jessie. What is it you wished to discuss with me that you couldn’t say in front of my sister and Victor?”
She blew lightly on her hot tea, drawing his attention to her cupid’s bow mouth. A shade between pink and cherry, her kissable lips all but begged for him to sample their sweetness.
Condemning propriety to a fusty corner, he took her sister’s place beside her. If she hadn’t been clutching the teacup like a miniature shield, he’d have taken her hand in his.
“Jessica, I believe you feel I’ve been pressed into asking for your hand against my will. That the circumstances of last night have necessitated it, and that is the only reason why I would marry you.”
Both eyebrows shied up her forehead before she wrinkled her small nose.
“You shan’t convince me otherwise, Your Grace. And I shan’t marry a man for no other reason than he is obligated by duty and honor to offer for me because of the nefarious actions of others.” She shifted her focus away, staring at the fire, unhappiness and melancholy shadowing her lovely face.
Ah, she was more overwrought than she’d let on. How could she not be?
That her concern was for him, and not herself, caused an indecipherable twinge behind his breastbone. For the truth of it was, he could choose to walk away and maintain his social standing.
Oh, there’d be chatter, of course. But a wealthy duke would never be permanently shunned, and women would still vie to become the next Duchess of Bainbridge.
She, on the other hand, had no future. Not a respectable one, if she didn’t accept Crispin’s offer. He’d replace her despondency with laughter and gaiety if she’d only permit him. They could be happy together.
“As silly as it may seem to you, my sister, and brother-in-law, I’d rather suffer the snubbing and disgrace than enter into a compulsory union. The shame will fade eventually, replaced by other titillating on dit. But a marriage…” She shook her head, golden ribbons from the window’s light shimmering in her blonde hair.
He reached to touch a flaxen curl but drew his hand back. Too bold, too soon. But, someday, he’d run his hands through those sunny curls, bury his face in their silkiness, and inhale Jessica’s heady fragrance.
“Marriage is for a lifetime,” she said. “And I cannot imagine a more dissatisfying scenario than to enter into what could very well be an incompatible union.”
Making a sympathetic noise, he took the cup from her and set it aside. He did claim her hand then, running his thumb across the palm. “And what if I told you that I’ve held you in high esteem for quite some time? That only my betrothal to Miss Brighton kept me from proclaiming myself and asking for permission to pay my addresses?”
It was God’s honest truth. And damn it all, if it didn’t feel blessedly wonderful to declare himself finally.
Her luscious mouth went slack for a second, and she blinked her big blue-green eyes twice, appearing adorably birdlike in her astonishment. Her gaze plumbed Crispin’s, solemn and penetrating, as if she sought something within the depths of his eyes.
An assurance? Affirmation that he spoke the truth?
Aye. That and perhaps more. Mayhap a desire, a hope that he felt something for her? He’d been her secret admirer for some time.
He’d confounded her. It rather stung his pride that she should be so shocked.
“In no way did you ever hint of such interest, in word or deed,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly, the silver flecks glinting with suspicion. “How am I to believe you now?”
He sensed her hesitation, her uncertainty. That it would make a difference to her if he wed her because he wanted to instead of out of obligation.
“I am a gentleman, Kitten. I could not speak of my interest while betrothed to another. I vow others have noted my attentiveness to you.” He recalled the Duke of Pennington teasing him about his hang-dog expression as Crispin surreptitiously observed Jessica. “They’ve seen me covertly watching you.”
Devil it. The confession made Crispin sound like a stalker.
“Watching me?” A scowl tweaked her eyebrows and framed her mouth. “Who saw you?”
Such distrust and suspicion.
If Jessica noticed the term of endearment, she’d chosen to ignore it. He hadn’t meant to let it slip.
“Pennington. Sutcliffe. And others.” He might as well admit it. There was no longer a reason to hide his fascination for her. He pressed her fingertips, wishing he might lift the slender fingers to his mouth. “I’ve attempted to have my betrothal contract canceled for some time. If you think about it, I often arranged to be present where you were. House parties, and the like.”
He had, more fool him.
“Did you?” Her nose angled slightly higher. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Was that the truth, or was the vixen toying with him? He detected no subterfuge, but her comment was slightly too flippant.
“You do owe me an ice from Gunter’s,” she reminded. “Which I shall have
before Season’s end, mind you.”
“Name the date, and it shall be done.” He breathed a silent sigh of relief that she’d changed the subject.
Jessica pursed her pretty mouth before blurting, “Your betrothal didn’t prevent you from numerous dalliances.”
Good God. She wanted to discuss his lovers? Past lovers.
That, he would not do, out of respect for the few women who’d graced his bed and from a desire to protect her from what surely could only be painful and embarrassing disclosures.
Her color high and nostrils slightly flared, she challenged him in that direct way he so admired.
“I heard of your exploits before I came to London, Your Grace. I’m not a woman who could look the other way.” Sadness and resignation settled on her features. “You’re not the sort to keep yourself only to your wife.”
I could be. For Jessica, he had no doubt he could.
It did, however, rather rankle to be dismissed so readily. To be found wanting in her eyes.
She bent her pink mouth into an unrepentant smile, her eyes flashing with turquoise sparks. Lifting a graceful shoulder, she flippantly waved her hand. “I’m old-fashioned that way. Vicar’s daughter, and all that. I’d expect fidelity, and I doubt you’re capable of faithfulness.”
Crispin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be offended. Life with her would certainly be an adventure.
Releasing Jessica’s hand, he considered how to reply. She deserved transparency and honesty. He unthinkingly cupped the back of his head as he did when in thought, and a sharp breath hissed from between his clenched teeth.
Christ on the cross! He almost swore aloud. He’d forgotten about the bloody wound. He squeezed his eyes shut, clamped his teeth tighter, and held his breath, waiting for the stab of pain to pass.
As it eased, he opened his eyes.
“Crispin?” Sincere worry tinged her voice. “Are you quite all right?” At once, her features pleated into concern, and she laid a dainty hand atop his forearm. Her fingers were slender, but not overly long, the nails short and oval-shaped.
“Should I send for someone?” she asked, her fingers still resting on his forearm, further disrupting his equilibrium. Her innocent touch sent his libido racing. “Do you require pain medicines? Or should you lie down?” She made as if to rise, but he stayed her with a palm over her hand.
“No, I’m fine, Jessica. Truly.” He wasn’t, but they must work out the issue of their nuptials. He could rest later.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you the bulk of what you’ve heard was a ruse, fabricated to encourage Brighton to break the betrothal contract?” He leaned back, welcoming the sofa’s support. He bussed his hand over his jaw. “I’d hoped if I were a bad enough scapegrace, he’d refuse to bind his only daughter to me.”
Jessica’s delicate eyebrows shied high onto her alabaster forehead. Her expression fairly shouted liar. Prevaricator. Charlatan.
When he laid it out like that, his plan sounded damned absurd, even to him.
No man with Brighton’s social aspirations would object to something so trivial as a sordid reputation. Or by-blows and mistresses. In short, Crispin might’ve been a diseased debauchee, and Brighton would still insist the marriage take place.
“That was rather extreme, wasn’t it?” Jessica toyed with her earring, considering him the whole while.
She appeared neither shocked or judgmental. No, if anything, he’d say she was mystified.
“You burden yourself with a much-tainted repute to escape marriage, Crispin? Such an albatross, obviously, would be problematic to overcome.”
“Not marriage,” he denied with the merest shake of his head.
“No?” Her probing gaze said she didn’t believe him.
“I have no dislike of the institution itself. What I object to, most strongly, is matrimony to a woman I was pledged to as a child, to whom I have no warm regard whatsoever.” He played his fingers upon his knee, realizing just how little he felt for Miss Brighton except scathing anger. “Besides, I was determined to see the engagement ended without a scandal,” he admitted, crossing his ankles.
Her wry smile, hilarity in her aquamarine eyes, and the mocking angle of her winged, golden eyebrows spoke volumes. “Yes, well, that certainly worked out well, didn’t it?”
She jested. Minx.
When was the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation this much? Even if the circumstances were, to say the least, trying as hell.
Two could play at teasing, though why they were verbally parrying when they should be discussing the terms of their marriage, he couldn’t quite define. He’d thought to take control of the situation, and Jessica had neatly turned the tables on him. Crispin would have to remember that in the future.
Despite having been outmaneuvered last night by Miss Brighton, Jessica was not easily manipulated. He rather liked that. Liked that she knew her own mind. Appreciated that she wasn’t weepy and hysterical at her plight.
He angled his own eyebrows in feigned reproach. “Have you ever seen me with a woman on my arm? Has a particular lady’s name ever been linked with mine?”
Crispin had been most diligent that neither of those occur.
His rake’s reputation was built on inference and insinuation. Whispers and conjectures. Implication and allusion. It had been remarkably easy to create something out of nothing. There were always those at the ready to embellish a whisper. Add intimations and innuendos.
She slanted her head in an endearing fashion, indecision and doubt darkening her eyes to almost indigo. “Not a respectable woman, no. But there are, ah…” She blushed furiously but plowed onward, the brave darling. “There are establishments men might frequent. Women whose favors might be purchased.”
Her cheeks glowed pink with chagrin.
Jesus and all the saints. How did a vicar’s daughter know about bordellos and courtesans? He frequented neither, restricting his ventures to White’s, Boodle’s, and Bon Chance, none of which were gaming hells or brothels.
“Jessica, how can I convince you my exploits have been greatly exaggerated?” Devil and damn. His ploy to appear a philandering rakehell might very well make him irredeemable in her estimation.
And, unfortunately, it didn’t matter what she thought of him. Though, of course, he’d much prefer she didn’t dislike or disdain him, as he’d be her husband for many years, the good Lord willing.
For wed him, she must. In short order, too. She’d be the target of every whoremongering churl in England if she didn’t. Each thinking to sample charms they believed her eager to share. And some wouldn’t wait for her permission; they’d force themselves upon her at the first opportunity.
Crispin would spare her that foul knowledge, if possible. No woman should ever know her good name had been reduced to such despicable depths.
She’d be dismayed to know there were already bets on the books at White’s for who’d have her in his bed next. Marsters had shared that particularly unsavory tidbit with his usual stoic drollness while shaving Crispin. The valet had heard it from the underfootman, who’d heard it from his cousin, a waiter at White’s.
Not even a full day had passed, and wagers were flying.
His stomach churned, and his head ached bloody awful, making him question the wisdom of leaving his sickbed. Pride, in his case, might literally go before a fall.
Plucking at her serviette, Jessica wrinkled her forehead. As if realizing she tortured the unfortunate cloth, she folded the square and set it aside.
He could practically hear the whirring of her brain as she considered what he’d said.
“Papa always said actions speak louder than words.” She sighed and brushed a hand over the silky fabric of her skirt. A small sardonic smile skewed her soft mouth, and she slid him a glance from beneath her golden-tipped lashes. “This is a fine pickle, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed.” It could be a most delicious pickle if she’d but agree to be his duchess.
She turned toward him then, her mouth quirked in the winsome way it did when she was contemplative. “Do you think Miss Brighton and Lord Brookmoore have married? Theadosia said everyone believes they’ve eloped, after…uhm, what they did to us.”
Crispin gave a casual shrug. He didn’t give a snap about either of them except that they be held accountable for their actions. “I cannot say, but that seems to have been their plan. No one knows for certain, of course.”
Sutcliffe had sent a rider after them to report on their intentions, but to Crispin’s knowledge, the man hadn’t returned yet. Brookmoore and Miss Brighton might’ve evaded the man, too. Brookmoore was cunning. A scurrilous lout. He’d likely been bedding Miss Brighton for some time. He was precisely the sort to steal a maiden’s virtue. She could count herself fortunate he’d been gentlemanly enough to wed her.
He’d left bastards in the wombs of many a woman. A responsible fellow made sure not to impregnate his partners. Brookmoore, by no stretch of the imagination, fit that category.
Crispin speared a glance at the spotless tall windows illuminating one side of the drawing room. The day had darkened somewhat, and a breeze ruffled the meticulously groomed shrubberies. Sutcliffe was most probably on his way back with his wife.
“Your sister and brother-in-law will return soon, Jessica. They’ll expect you to have accepted my proposal.”
She cradled her chin between her forefinger and thumb, head tilted to the side as she observed him. A spark of mischief gleamed in her eyes. Even now, she remained light-hearted and impish, when both of their futures hung in the balance.
“Ah, but then you haven’t proposed, Your Grace, have you?”
Why in heaven’s name had Jessica jested about Crispin’s proposal?
The words had poured from her mouth of their own dashed accord. She’d meant what she said about not accepting his offer, however. Meant she’d somehow shoulder the cuts and snubs. Endure the doors slammed in her face. Bear the whispers and snide comments. Learn to accept the isolation and boredom ostracism brought.
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance Page 24
