by Jen YatesNZ
‘Rogue, do you trust me?’
There was an odd note in Wolverton’s voice and the scar on his cheek seemed to whiten. Rogan laid his cup aside and frowned across at his friend.
‘What sort of question is that? I trust you with my life!’
Dominic continued to hold his gaze and the very room seemed to hold its breath.
‘Would you trust me with your wife?’
Rogan reared back, each word feeling like a stab wound to his chest.
‘What—do you mean?’
‘I know you said you’d have to kill any bastard who touched Jassie but—if there truly is no other way, and if there really is a possibility a third party intervention could work—I could be that third party. None better. I love Jassie for a start and deeply desire her happiness. She said she’d have accepted my suit and been happy to do so if she hadn’t loved you so desperately—or if something happened to you and there was no longer any hope.’
Dominic was eyeing him a little warily as Rogan fought to control the red surge of anger that threatened to cloud his brain. When he couldn’t form any sort of an answer, Dom continued, his voice rough and strained.
‘I’d not make love to her fully. That can only be for you. But—I could be in the bed with you, holding Jassie, arousing her perhaps; ready to act should you need it. It certainly wouldn’t work if I was just standing to one side watching—’
There was a huge knot in his belly trying to unravel. Rogan folded his arms tightly across his chest in an effort to hold himself together. Still watching him, his brave—or was that foolhardy—cousin forged on.
‘Just try and think of the outcome, Rogue. Think of being able to love Jassie—truly love her—and all that would mean to both of you. Focus on that—being able to give Jassie what she’s risked all to achieve for herself.’
‘You think your control is that good?’ Rogan snarled at last. ‘And why? Why would you put yourself through that?’
Dominic raked his hands through his black locks in a rare burst of vulnerability, completely destroying Patchett’s stylish arrangement.
‘I can’t deny it would be fulfilling my deepest desire to make—hold Jassie in that way—and if that scenario could actually work I’m the only man you could ask to fill the vacant third. Precisely because I love her. I’m the only man Jassie might accept in that role. I’m someone you trust and I rather think Jassie would trust me also.—As for being able to control myself? That’s a given.’
Wolverton had risen while he was talking and now leant against the window-frame staring down into Bruton Street.
‘I will control myself because I love Jassie and because—and you will forget I ever said this—I have a deep regard for you. And maybe for Philip, who loved her more than either of us. Her happiness and her safety was all he cared about. There is little else we can do for him now.’
To someone who didn’t know him he might appear relaxed. Rogan knew the Duke too well and the fine waves of tension radiating from the lithe, whipcord tough body posing with such spurious nonchalance against the filtered sunlight, were almost visible; certainly tangible.
And not much different to those Rogan felt spiraling around himself. His whole body seemed to be on alert.
As if waiting for just one more word from Wolverton before Rogan body-slammed him and rammed his oft-professed love for Jassie down his throat. The thought had no sooner formed than he realized that was not the source of the peculiar tension that had every hair on his body standing rigid and every muscle quivering.
He was not rigid with jealousy. He was frozen with hope. And as he realized hope was the strongest emotion driving him, it burgeoned forth like an exotic bloom in the succession houses at the Abbey. If he could overcome his possessiveness towards Jassie, enough to allow Wolverton, his best friend, to touch her, hold her as he would himself, then he might also hope the scheme would succeed.
For his ultimate goal, his sole raison d’être now, was to be able to love Jassie, slowly, erotically, and with all the love in his heart.
So she could finally love him in the way she’d wanted, needed, longed to do for so long. He might just be trembling with hope.
‘Well—say something! Land me a facer. But for God’s sake stop sitting there like you’ve been struck by lightning or something! I can’t even tell whether that’s good or bad.’
‘Good—I think,’ Rogan rasped. ‘I should be pummeling your lecherous face into the carpet but—the only thoughts in my head are ‘when’, ‘how’, ‘how soon’? It’s finally happened. I’ve gone insane like I always feared I would.’
‘Hell, Windermere! I thought I’d have to talk and talk, wheedle, cajole, threaten—I never thought you’d agree—just like that!’
‘Nor did I,’ Rogan said, suddenly aware they both had stupid, scared grins on their faces. ‘But—what if it fails?’
The question fell out of his mouth as soon as it formed in his brain.
Dominic’s tall frame tensed and he fixed Rogan with the ducal stare that he did so well.
‘Shooting yourself in the foot before we’ve even dared to try?’
Fetching up at the next window, Rogan stared unseeingly down onto Bruton Street where Wolverton’s neighbors, Lady Archibald and her mousey twin daughters walked with their maid towards Berkeley Square where they liked to take the air. It was a fine sunny day outdoors, perfect for a stroll through the colorful gardens. The tableau faded from his consciousness to be replaced by a vision of Jassie on his arm, her golden curls peeping from beneath her bonnet, her topaz eyes dancing and her mouth curved deliciously in laughter.
Warm. Vibrant. Happy. In love with one another and—free to indulge that love when the doors of Windermere House closed behind them.
The scene was so vivid, felt so real he could feel the imprint of her fingers on his arm and hear the music of her laughter in the air all around him; compelling him to step forward, not retreat back into the horror and darkness of that place where he’d lived for the last sixteen years.
There was only one way now.
Forward.
He straightened away from the window, strode down the room with his hand out-stretched to Dominic.
‘There’s no way back. We have some careful planning to do—after I’ve convinced Jassie.’
‘Have faith in your wife, Rogue. Jassie Carlisle is the strongest female I know. Did she not vow she loves you—unconditionally? Do you not think she’ll see as you see, hope as you hope?’
A peculiar ache, more of a suffering, flowered in his chest; a wistful kind of sadness.
‘I’d rather face a score of Fouché’s goons in a dark alley than face Jassie with this scenario. She may not be a total innocent but no gently bred young woman should expect her husband to invite a third into their bed.’
‘That last is true but again I say you underestimate your wife. Was it not she who visited the Madame in the first place? Was it not she who sent you there?’
‘Yes. But I’m certain this outcome is not one she’d thought of!’
‘Probably not,’ Wolverton agreed, ‘but if we devise a plan whereby privacy and discretion are guaranteed, she might be more readily convinced. I’m thinking of the hunting lodge up in Cumbria. You could take a honeymoon trip and I could meet you there.’
‘And meantime there’s this damned house party to get through.—Or—could you be ready to leave for the Abbey tomorrow? That way we’d be a couple of days ahead of everyone else who have all been invited for Thursday. It’d give us a couple of days to—’
‘Court Jassie?’
Rogan looked at his friend and saw the same wistful expression that must have graced his own rugged features a few minutes before. For the first time in sixteen years he felt a wide and genuine smile stretch his face.
Chapter 13
After a dreary wet morning, which Jassie had spent with her steward in the study at Brantleigh Manor, the sun had come out and the wind had completely dropped. Since the Abbe
y smith had fixed wheels to the sedan chair it was the perfect afternoon to wheel Lady O round the cinder paths of the Garden Walk and allow Jensen the afternoon off to visit with her sister, the Cook at Brantleigh.
They’d just entered the cloisters of the medieval Cistercian chapel when the thud of hooves coming up the Elm Drive brought the small cavalcade to a halt.
‘Surely we’re not expecting anyone today?’ The Dowager looked puzzled.
‘No, but—,’
Before Jassie could say more the riders broke from the cover of the elms.
‘It’s Windermere!’ Fran said.
An eerie sense of déjà vu settled over Jassie as she recognized the other rider.
‘And Wolverton, if I’m not mistaken.’
She held her breath for a moment, half expecting the reckless thud of the horses across the front of the Abbey, kicking up divots from the lawns that the gardeners had not long repaired from the last time.
But today they weren’t late. Early, if anything. Gradually she eased air into her lungs and continued pushing Lady O’s chair from the cloisters into the stone-flagged hallway at the back of the Abbey as the echo of the hooves carried on past to the stables beyond.
There would be two more for tea in the small parlor that Lady O favored and she had a few more minutes to steady her racing heart and school her features and emotions into something bland and socially acceptable.
By the time her husband stood before her, she would be armored against his scowl and continued determination to keep her at arm’s length. She would have banal, polite pleasantries ready at the tip of her tongue and would be able to suppress all emotion as she lifted her cheek for his chaste and perfunctory duty kiss of greeting.
She would, in short, project the image of the perfect society hostess, regal Countess, happy bride. And if she did not fool her husband she would, hopefully, conceal the worst of her inner panic from these two closest companions whose concern for her ran deep.
But the man who arrived in the small parlor at almost the same time as themselves was a Rogan Wyldefell she’d not seen for many years. His dark hair was ruffled as if he’d run his fingers through it after removing his hat, and his riding attire, while of the latest cut and fashion, was dusty and a little rumpled from the ride. None of that was out of the ordinary but the wide smile, the wicked deep blue sparkle in his eyes and the general air of suppressed excitement that emanated from him caused Jassie to stand like a statue in the middle of the room while he descended on her with a promise in his gaze that stole her ability to think or move. Stern and solemn, Rogan Wyldefell was a handsome man. Smiling and with devilment (Devilment? Rogan?) in his eyes, he stole what little composure she’d managed to gather.
As if no one else was present in the room, he held out his hands for hers, drew her close and raised her fingers for a lingering kiss. Then he leaned back to survey her startled countenance, smiled into her glazed eyes, and said, ‘Wolverton and I decided to come down a couple of days ahead of time to—help.’
Jassie followed his glance back over his shoulder to where the Duke, his head almost brushing the lintel of the door, coal black locks a little long as always, observed them with a pirate’s wickedly scarred grin. And his eyes beneath thick dark lashes glowed with the same anticipatory gleam she’d just seen in Rogan’s.
What were the two of them up to? A fleeting stab of grief assailed her with the thought that only a couple of years ago, Philip would have been shouldering Wolverton through the door with the three of them tossing friendly abuse at one another as only friends from boyhood could. As Rogan turned aside to greet his mother and Fran, Wolverton took his place before her, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her fingertips with all the rakish grace for which he was famous.
Jassie had the strangest sensation she’d been spun several times in a circle and the real world had shifted a little sideways allowing a glimpse through to a different reality.
A reality that seemed to promise to substantiate dreams and grant wishes; a reality where the impossible became eminently possible and fairies appeared at the bottom of the garden.
Lady Windermere sent the hovering maid for the tea trolley and Rogan steered Jassie towards the love seat and sat himself beside her—so close their thighs were touching and she could feel his heat through their clothing.
Wolverton declined a seat, electing instead to drape his elegant form from the mantelpiece, specifically it seemed, so he had a clear view of the two on the loveseat.
Jassie had never been so thankful for the perspicacity of her mother-in-law or her ability to maintain polite conversation in the face of the most unusual circumstances. For Jassie could not fool herself that Lady Olwynne was unaware of the air of suppressed excitement emanating from the men or her own complete inability to hold two coherent thoughts in her head, let alone converse intelligently.
They both accepted tea, drinking thirstily and holding out their cups for more. They appeared to relish the small meat pies Cook had thought to provide in their honor as well as the dainty sandwiches and fairy cakes that were the usual fare for afternoon tea.
Jassie mashed a fairy cake to crumbs on her saucer, sipped once or twice at her tea and listened to Rogan telling his mother, to her obvious delight, that now he was married he intended taking his seat in the House of Lords. He also said he’d promoted Brixton to be his full-time valet and that he and Patchett, Wolverton’s valet, should be arriving soon in the ducal carriage with their luggage.
Participating in the conversation herself was impossible. Each new snippet of information twitched the knot of tension that had formed in her belly the moment Rogan strode across the room to her with the light of desire—she could only call it that—and anticipation in his beautiful eyes. She felt as if she’d confronted the ghost of the old, happy, devil-may-care Rogan from her childhood.
The tension had spread to her fingers and she scarcely dared lift her cup to her lips for fear of sloshing the tea on her gown. She wondered why his presence made her nervous then realized it was excitement fizzing through her veins and that all she wanted was to be alone with her husband so she could test the theory that he was done with running from her and that somehow Wolverton had had a hand in that.
How soon could they politely withdraw?
‘Your gowns arrived and we’ve brought them with us,’ Rogan said, turning to address her directly.
‘Oh—good!’
She’d forgotten about the gowns, the ball, the house party, everything she’d been worrying over earlier that afternoon as they’d walked in the gardens. Whatever importance she’d attached to those problems had faded to nothingness in the space of the half hour since Windermere’s arrival.
‘Is that all you can say? I thought you’d be pacing the drive looking for them by now!’ he teased.
He teased? When had he last teased her with that devilish twinkle that made his eyes shine like stars in a midnight sky?
When she didn’t answer, just stared at him with questions whirling in her brain, he gently took the cup and saucer from her hands, set it on the tea trolley and rose to his feet.
‘Come walk in the gardens with me,’ he commanded.
Jassie immediately looked to Lady O, who was rarely without her trusty Jensen, but she waved an airy hand at her.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I shall go up and have a nap and I’m sure Fran won’t mind assisting me.’
‘And I,’ Wolverton put in quickly as if forestalling any concern for him, ‘shall catch a few winks on that very comfortable daybed you keep in the conservatory.’
The men shared what Jassie thought was a decidedly conspiratorial smile before Rogan extended his arm and led her out of the room. She had the distinct impression if it were not for the comment it would provoke, he’d have been running and dragging her after him, feet and skirts flying—like a boy with a kite.
In silence he hurried her through the galleries and hallways, back the way she’d wheeled Lady Olwynne less
than an hour before, across the partly cloistered quadrangle of lawn to the chapel.
‘It’ll be quiet in here and we won’t be disturbed. I have much to tell you.’
Jassie made no demur, allowing him to lead her into the sanctuary of the sacred place and close the door at their backs. Looking up at him as he turned back to her, Jassie thought she’d never seen a more beautiful man. The wide brow topped with unruly, dark mahogany hair; a straight, elegant but very masculine nose; a square harshly carved jaw-line and a mouth chiseled by a master artisan.
A mouth she desperately wanted on hers, on her body, everywhere.
‘Don’t look at me like that!’
‘Like what?’
They were whispering, as if they could keep God from hearing their words. Rogan smiled, slow and dark.
‘Like you want to devour me.’
‘I do,’ she said simply. ‘But this is scarcely the place for it.’
‘No,’ he said, suddenly solemn. ‘And that’s why we’re here. To talk. Nothing else—yet.’
Taking her hand, he led her up the aisle and urged her to sit on the chancel steps then dropped down beside her to take her face in his hands and kiss her swiftly and deeply, all in one movement.
Setting her from him and shuffling away so a few inches separated their bodies, he said, ‘That’s just to hold us for now.’
Instinctively she reached to pull him back to her. The kiss was wonderful but it was too little.
‘No!’ he said sharply and her hands fell to her lap. ‘Nothing has changed and yet—perhaps—a lot has.’
Jassie knew her confusion was evident in her eyes for he offered her a wry smile.
‘You’re not making sense,’ she whispered when he said no more.
‘I will explain.’
Suddenly he was on his feet, pacing across the stone-flagged floor before her.
A shaft of sunlight from the clerestory windows outlined his form, the shoulders broad and strong beneath the perfectly fitted blue jacket, and his long muscular legs show-cased in the buff riding breeches and close fitting hessians. Her eyes were remembering that form sans clothing and her body was having much trouble staying where he’d put her, where he clearly wanted her to stay while he talked. Really? Was talking all he wanted at this minute?
