by Jen YatesNZ
She wished she could believe the same for the marriage. Jassie smiled at Lady Windermere, though inwardly her heart still quaked.
By stopping to change horses at regular intervals Rogan made it to London before dark. His body should’ve been exhausted but his head would not let him rest. Stopping at Windermere House in Berkeley Square long enough to bathe and change and have his town coach brought round, he headed down Berkeley Street to Piccadilly where they joined the crush of evening traffic heading to the theatres and clubs.
Amidst the roil of his thoughts one thing was clear. Since marriage was inevitable he must search out Wolverton. Dominic Beresford, Duke of Wolverton, his second cousin, had been the third in the close-knit trio of his boyhood. They and Philip Carlisle had been kindred spirits. None of them had expected to inherit titles. Rogue’s brother Quentin would inherit Windermere, Philip’s father didn’t have a title and Wolverton was the third son of the tenth Duke of Wolverton. All three faced the need to find some other means of supporting themselves. They’d learned early to deflect the disparagements of those more fortunate, and learned young how to fight back to back in a tight circle.
Philip’s death at the Battle of Vitoria had cut to the heart of them both, effectively strengthening the bond they shared. He needed to find Wolverton and ask him to stand at his side on his wedding day. It would be painful for Dominic, he knew, for his friend loved Jassie almost as well as he did himself.
Dom had recently returned from a trip to America and it was possible he’d left for his vast estates in Norfolk or Kent already, to ascertain all was in order before returning to the capital for the Season, but he’d check out the Clubs first. He struck a blank at White’s and had to talk hard and fast to slide out of making the fourth at a high stakes table in the card room. Lord Marston thought he’d seen Wolverton at Brooks’ earlier, so Rogan stepped out into the street and walked along to the smaller club on the corner of St James Street.
If Wolverton wasn’t there he’d have to call at his house in Bruton Street. In fact he was wondering whether he shouldn’t have done just that when he spotted his quarry leaning back in his chair at a table in Brooks’, cynically observing a lively altercation between two gentlemen obviously far gone in their cups. At his approach, Wolverton rose lithely to his feet, the cynical amusement dying from his eyes and the scar down his cheek flexing as he clenched his jaw. Rogan guessed his own expression was the cause but he just didn’t seem able to ease the grimness that radiated outwards from deep in his gut.
‘You looking for me, Rogue?’
‘I am.’
‘Excuse me gentlemen.’
‘Windermere! Haven’t seen you f’r ages. Come ‘n’ join us, man!’
Rogan managed the semblance of a grin and replied, ‘Thanks, Ogilvie, but I need a word with Wolverton. Some other time maybe.’
‘What? You ‘fusin’ to drink with us, Windermere?’ Ogilvie’s friend, Chumsley, slurred, rising belligerently out of his seat.
‘Stubble it, Chum,’ the Duke snapped. ‘You should probably get him out of here, Ogilvie. He’s beyond reasoning.—Come on, Windermere. Time for a change of scene, I think.’
Rogan led the way back out onto St. James Street then stopped to face Wolverton.
‘I didn’t mean to drag you away.’
Dominic rubbed a hand ruefully down his face.
‘If I stay I’ll only end up dagger’s drawn with Chum. He’s got some bee in his bonnet about Wellesley being made a Duke. Lord knows why. Apart from the fact it’s last year’s news, we’d be dancing to the Frenchie’s drum if it weren’t for Arthur. I’ve had enough to drink. I don’t seem to have the stomach for it that I once did. And Chum ceased to be entertaining about half an hour ago. What’s the problem?’
‘I’d rather not discuss it here on the street, Dom. How about my place? I’ve got my coach here. Where’s yours?’
‘I came with Chum and Ogilvie. Your coach, your place, is fine.’
Rogan led the way to where Hobbs was waiting with the equipage across the street. Both remained silent until they were settled in Rogan’s study, each cradling a crystal tumbler and with the whisky decanter between them.
Dominic raised his glass.
‘So what’s got you looking so Friday-faced?’
Rogan couldn’t find the will to raise his in response. In fact, if he raised it at all it would be to dash it into the fireplace.
‘I’d like you to stand up with me when I marry Jassie on May 20th at Windermere Abbey.’
He didn’t want to see what his disclosure would do to Wolverton but neither of them needed the gossip that would ensue if someone else stood at his side. They and Philip had been known as a tight trio since their school days and with Philip gone it would look dashed peculiar if he asked anyone else. But the harsh curse that accompanied the clatter of Dominic’s glass as he thumped it down on the table drew Rogan’s gaze.
The scar of the sabre cut on his cheek was a livid white slash down the darker hue of his skin and his eyes glittered with some intense emotion. Rogan had no trouble working out what it was.
‘Why? Why now?’ Wolverton’s mouth snapped on the words as if he would bite them through. ‘All these years you’ve said nothing. All these years she’s waited. You’ve loved her—since forever. We all knew that and yet—you never offered. You know she turned me down? Twice?’
Rogan nodded and lowered his gaze, unable to confront the pain in his friend’s eyes.
‘Of course I know. You made damned sure I wasn’t going to offer before you did.’
‘Do you know why she refused me?’
‘No—but I guess I’m—about to hear it.’
‘Damn right you are! She wasn’t averse to me. We could’ve had a very satisfactory marriage on all levels—but even though I proved to her that she could respond to me—she said that while you lived she’d never give up hope. It wouldn’t be fair—to any of us—she said.’
His face clenched, clearly expressing the pain induced by the memory.
And Rogan flinched at the thought of Wolverton kissing Jassie, touching her. Damn it all to hell. He downed a gulp of whisky and savored the burn of it down his gullet, taking the edge off the vision in his head.
Jassie in Wolverton’s arms.
He leaned his head back against the chair, closed his eyes and ground his teeth.
‘Why?’ Wolverton snapped again.
Downing the rest of the whisky in his glass, Rogan placed it on the table then gripped the arms of his chair to steady himself. Jassie had got sick of waiting but he’d not betray her by telling Wolverton that.
‘I compromised her and—’
Wolverton almost came up out of his chair at that admission but then he sat back, clenching his fists and glaring at Rogan from eyes gone as dark as smoldering charcoal.
‘Again,’ he ground out, ‘why, after all this time?’
‘That’s between Jassie and me.’
A slight flush touched Dominic’s cheeks then he subsided, taking several deep breaths.
‘So why do you look as if you’re being forced to put your head in the hangman’s noose?’
Because that was exactly how he felt. How could he explain to Dominic without revealing the depth of his depravity; without losing the one friend left whose regard mattered? But he had to tell him something. He owed him that, if only because Wolverton cared so deeply for Jassie.
‘I’m not the man she needs—not the man she believes me to be. I—can never be that man again.’
‘What the devil are you talking about, Windermere? You’re the only man she’s ever wanted!’
Rogan felt his heart thudding in his breast, painfully telling him he could lose Wolverton’s regard anyway if he couldn’t give him more of a reason than that. But God help him, he could not.
Dominic sat forward in his chair, and fixed Rogan with a piercing glare.
‘Does this have anything to do with what really drives you to seek the kind of r
elease offered by the Matrix Club?’
The words propelled Rogan out of his chair and across the room to stare blindly out of the window into the moonless night. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides and imprudent rage boiled in his chest. He knew it was a wonder Dominic hadn’t called him on it long since but it didn’t mean he was any more ready to admit to the truth of what he was, what he’d become. They were both members of the exclusive club founded by their older cousin, Ajax Beresford, Earl of Knightsborough, to cater for members of the ton whose sexual needs were considered outside the norm. For years they’d pretended their membership was based on nothing more than a need for light-hearted entertainment that nevertheless allowed certain boundaries to be pushed, and perhaps, as a show of family solidarity with Ajax, a.k.a. the Knight.
‘Do-you-or-do-you-not-stand-up-with-me-at-the-altar?’
Dominic came and stood at his side to stare as sightlessly into the darkness beyond the window.
‘Do you have any idea what you’re asking of me?’ he muttered.
‘Yes. But the gossip would be untenable if I asked anyone else.’
Silence stretched between them, heavy with emotion too deep to be expressed by either. The weight of Wolverton’s hand landed on his shoulder.
‘We always pledged there was nothing we couldn’t ask of one another. Yes, Rogue, I’ll stand with you at the altar when you make those most sacred of vows to Jassie but-you-had-better-be-the-best-bloody-husband-to-her-you-can-possibly-be.’
Rogan’s whole body jerked as if Dominic had struck him. Needing to put space between them, he lurched over to the mantelpiece and kicked the brass fire fender hard enough to cause acute pain—had he been able to feel any kind of physical pain at all. But nothing could penetrate the emotional agony that filled his heart when he thought of being married to Jassie.
‘I will be no sort of husband to her. I’m marrying her. That’s all.’
Suddenly Dominic’s hand was back on his person but there was nothing conciliatory or gentle in his touch now. Gripping a fistful of Rogan’s collar, Dominic swung him about so they stood toe to toe, nose to nose.
‘What in damnation do you mean by that?’
‘That I’ll wed her because honor demands it,’ Rogan snarled, glaring back into Dominic’s molten eyes.
Before either of them could blink Dominic flung Rogan from him and he landed untidily across the arms of the chair where he’d been sitting earlier, his foot flying out and toppling the table, crystal and alcohol spraying across the carpet.
For several minutes the only sound in the room was the hiss and crackle of the dying fire in the grate and two sets of heavy breathing. Then slowly, Rogan unfolded his body from the chair and reached for the bell to summon Deacon.
They stood, one either side of the room while Deacon moved, silently and po-faced, about the business of sweeping up the glass, sponging the whisky off the carpet and stoking up the fire.
‘Will that be all, my Lord?’
‘Another bottle of whisky and two more glasses, if you would? Thanks, Deacon.’
‘Certainly, my Lord.’
Neither moved nor spoke until Deacon silently closed the door for the second time, then Rogan returned to his chair and motioned Dominic to the other, before he lifted the whisky bottle.
‘D’you think that’s wise?’ Dominic asked, one eyebrow raised as he watched Rogan pour.
‘I won’t retaliate, Dom, and gentleman that you are, you wouldn’t fight me if I refused to defend myself. Although we’d probably both feel better for a round or two.’
He raised his glass to Dominic, his gaze fixed and steady, and said, ‘To Jassie.’
Slowly Dominic reached out and took up the other glass, touched it to Rogan’s and repeated, ‘To Jassie.’ With a flick of his wrist he tossed the contents down his throat and thumped the glass down on the table.
‘So, are you going to tell me what the hell goes on with you, Rogue? How can you even think of marrying that woman and not being a husband to her? You do realize what you’re risking, don’t you? And I don’t mean any disrespect to Jassie because I know where her heart lies. But there are bastards out there—like me—who would give a great deal to be where you are—married to her.’
‘Damn it, Dom! Stop trying to rile me! We will be married. The last thing I want is for Jassie to be the butt of any more gossip than I’ve already caused her. And that aside, I should not be marrying anyone. Ever.—And no, I won’t tell you what goes on with me. I can’t.’
‘Bloody hell, Windermere, you can be an ornery cuss when you set your mind to it!’
She was marrying Rogan today.
Unable to sleep, Jassie had been sitting in her bedroom window-seat wrapped in a heavy quilt for hours. Or so it seemed. The moment the sun began to brighten the eastern sky over Neave Village she scrambled out of the warm cocoon, threw on a shirt and riding breeches, pulled on a warm jacket, then twisted her hair and bunched it up under a close-fitting cap. Boots in hand she slipped down the service stairs so as not to awaken the house and quietly unbolted the door into the back garden. Sitting on a rustic seat against the red brick wall of the Manor, she pulled on her boots before starting down the path to the stables.
The sun wasn’t truly up yet but it was light enough to see and already the blackbirds were singing in the orchard. Regardless, Jassie was too restless to stay still a moment longer. If Dobbie and Jem were still abed she’d saddle Chester herself. It wouldn’t be the first time and she wouldn’t have to endure Dobbie’s disapproving frown at her attire and the saddle she intended to use today. A lady-like canter was not what she needed this morning. Only a wild ride over the downs would settle the incipient panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She needed distraction, action, something that required all her focus.
And that kind of ride demanded the safety of riding astride. There might be a part of her that would like to run and never stop or simply find some excuse to put off this wedding but she wasn’t so desperate as to risk breaking her neck.
There was still no one around when she led Chester out of the stable, threw herself into the saddle and headed in the direction of the Windermere Downs. There was nowhere quite so satisfying to ride as across the exposed tops. Chester, sensing in the moment his mistress mounted that a wild ride was the order of the day, shivered with excitement. Jassie patted his neck and settled him with soothing words. When they were clear of the Manor grounds she gave the big red horse his head. They rode in a huge circle coming back along the ridge to the east of the Abbey from which point Neave Tor stood, eerily silhouetted against the morning sky.
The desire to revisit the Tor surprised Jassie. Until this moment she hadn’t thought she’d ever again want to revisit the monument to her deepest humiliation but she didn’t question it, realizing that subconsciously it was where she’d been headed from the start. Chester picked his way down into the Neave Valley and they trotted more sedately along the banks of the brook then up the eastern slopes of the Tor. An eerie wind whistled about the standing stone and Chester eyed it warily as Jassie slid from the saddle.
‘God knows why, Chester,’ she said, dropping his reins and stroking his neck, ‘but I want to be here for a while.’
Climbing the last few yards to the top, she settled on the flat rock and gazed down the long valley to Brantleigh then across to the hill that hid the Abbey from sight. Had Rogan come home last night? Or was he planning to arrive at the last minute? She hadn’t waited by the willow for him this morning, or any morning this last week.
What would she do if he failed to turn up at all? She propped her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands and tried to envision where he was at this very moment, the first hours of their wedding day. Was he already at Windermere, still asleep in the huge and ancient oak tester bed, his manly nakedness between crisp linen sheets? Or was he on the road, riding up from London, his hat jammed tight on his head and his big body lying low along his horse? He was a superb hors
eman. The vision was easily formed.
Just as easy as it was to visualize him on his back in the grassy crater with her on top of him, their mouths locked together and his large, warm hands on her naked buttocks. Suddenly Jassie was on her feet, unable to sit still for the heat that rushed through her entire body and pooled almost painfully in that place Rogan had initiated just two weeks ago. Walking down the hill to the crater, she dropped to her haunches and laid her head on her arms across her knees. The pictures flowed through her mind and then she stopped them and backed up.
To the moment he had forgotten himself in his desire for her. Right after he’d asked if she was all right. His hands had shaped her then, learning her as if—they’d finally come home. Oh the glory of those few moments when he’d been hers, their hearts and bodies in tune. She’d swear they were. So what had changed and when? Scrolling the memories forward in her mind again she sought the moment when something changed and he’d become a stranger with rough words and hands, and a demanding body that had no thought for hers, but to dominate and punish.
It was when his fingers had found that inner center of all her desire and she’d lost her mind and begged—though she’d little enough idea of what she was really begging for at that point. Then he’d gripped her wrists as if he’d thought she might try to fight him off—and given her what she’d been begging for—only it was way more than she’d ever imagined.
And even if it wasn’t what he’d told her it should have been, it was—curiously, persistently exciting.
If he couldn’t give her the kind of loving he seemed to believe she deserved, could she accept what he could give? With a heavy sigh she had to admit the answer to that riven question was unknown. Given that Windermere had been so adamant about not marrying, Jassie had to presume that there was much more to know that he’d suppressed.
Whatever the outcome, they would be married today.
Rising, she climbed back up to the standing stone and embraced it, arms spread wide and cheek pressed to the cool, weather-worn surface. Always if she stood thus, her body was energized by a faint, humming vibration that seemed to touch every molecule of her being, shake it, re-vitalize it, and re-align it within her skin. She smiled and the energy seemed to take the smile and magnify it throughout her being.
