by Wicked Wager
More spooked than he’d been by the thought of prowling Waterloo ghosts, he cast about for something to prod her out of this unusual, disturbing lethargy. “So you’ve lost the child. What do you intend to do with yourself now?”
“With them gone—Papa, Garrett, our babe, there’s nothing left worth doing.”
“Nothing? Why, you could…” His voice trailed off. Barely knowing what to do with himself, how could he presume to advise her?
With a deep sigh, she leaned on the bridge rail, her torso extended so alarmingly far over the frigid water, he had to clench his hands to keep from pulling her back. Of course she didn’t mean to throw herself in—certainly not with a potential rescuer standing right beside her.
Once she had rescued him. If a purpose was what she needed, surely he could think of some project with which to challenge her. Then a sudden inspiration occurred.
“’Tis true that far too many good men died to keep England out of the Corsican monster’s grasp. Since you were the instrument of saving my carcass, why not take it upon yourself to redeem my sad character as well? Look upon it as retribution to all those better, finer men who died.”
She looked over. “A man should redeem himself.”
“Undoubtedly. But you should know me well enough to judge how likely I’d be to accomplish that feat.”
She tilted her head at him thoughtfully. “I’ve always wondered—if I had not have escaped you, would you have held me there by force, three years ago at Badajoz?”
He let his gaze rove over her figure. “Oh, I don’t think I’d have needed force.”
She stiffened. “You conceited blackguard. As likely could the devil reform himself!”
“You have your new calling, then. Here I stand, while Garrett lies in a Belgian grave. An outrage, is it not?”
“Indeed it is!”
“Then do something to change it. Or has Jenna Montague, the colonel’s daughter, turned craven?”
“Were I slime in the gutter, I would have more courage than you!”
Truer words than you could ever know. Shaking off the shame that scoured him, he said, “Prove it! Swear you will work until my character is well and truly reformed.”
“Nay, sir, I’ll not pledge that. Redeeming you would take a miracle!”
“Until Christmas, then,” he said, desperate to wangle some sort of promise from her. “’Tis the season of miracles, after all. And while you expend your best efforts upon my character, I can shield you from other toadies and fortune hunters.”
“You being one of the most notorious?”
“Exactly. A mutually beneficial bargain.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Why not? You claim to cherish the memory and sacrifice of the men who died, yet you refuse to stir yourself to attempt redeeming even one sorry soul in their honor? I see your vaunted love for them is only empty, pious talk.”
She gasped in indignation. “How dare you!”
“What is it you fear, then?” he pressed, trying to goad her beyond resistance. “That your character isn’t up to the task of reforming mine? That I might succeed in seducing you before you succeed in reforming me?”
“Never!”
“Are you so certain?” And to prove just how desperately in need of reform he was, before Jenna could realize his intent, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
His plan of rousing her to a furious response succeeded all too well. Though a merciful heaven accorded him an instant, while shock held her immobile, to revel in the taste as her chilled lips warmed under his, a second later she shoved him back and slapped his face.
The force of the blow knocked him off balance. He came down hard on his bad knee, which buckled under his weight and pitched him forward. Blessing the strength he’d developed in his arms, he seized the wooden railing just in time to keep from toppling into the freezing water below.
Relieved as he was to have provoked the fiery Jenna he remembered so well out of her shell of grief, even better had been that doubtless never-to-be-repeated opportunity to sample her mouth. ’Od’s blood, how well she fit in his arms! One brief touch of her winter-cold lips had been enough to heat his blood to a July fever.
Awkwardly he hauled himself upright. “Ah, I do so love a passionate lady.”
She had reached out as if to help steady him on his feet, but at that, she snatched her hand back. “Touch me again and I’ll be ‘passionate’ enough to send your miserable carcass straight into the pond.”
“I’ve much warmer places I’d rather you send me.”
Whirling around, she stomped off the bridge.
He limped after her. “See how dire is the need for my reform?”
“Clearly.”
“Then you’ll agree? To honor the fallen heroes—and demonstrate your superior character?”
“’Tis a wicked wager.”
“Ah, but I’m a wicked rogue. You could change that—for all of them.” Maybe even for me, he added silently. “Unless you want to admit yourself more flawed than I.”
She gave a huff of frustration, obviously not wishing to agree to his bargain, yet unwilling to pronounce his character superior. “Very well. Only until Christmas.”
“You’ll not later disavow this?”
“I always honor my word,” she said with icy disdain. “And you shall lose that wager!”
“We shall see, shan’t we? As for now, Lady Fairchild, I believe we have a reception to attend.”
He held out his arm, not daring to say more, praying that he’d pushed her hard enough to win her acceptance but not so far that he’d alienated her completely.
For a moment she hesitated, moonlight silvering her cheeks, her hair, dancing across the satin of her cloak.
Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she laid her gloved hand on his arm. “I expect I shall live to regret this.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHAT IDIOCY HAD SHE AGREED to? Jenna wondered as they approached Lady Charlotte Darnell’s townhouse. Promising Tony Nelthorpe—Tony Nelthorpe—that she would attempt a reform of his sadly soiled character?
It would have made more sense to follow her vague longings and throw herself into the Serpentine.
Still, as the distraught widow had accused, she had been the means of saving Nelthorpe’s roguish skin. If she could manage to transform him into a more acceptable human being, it would in some measure make up for the loss of so many good and valiant men on the field at Waterloo.
She had no other worthy activity to occupy her time.
Though she was by no means sure she could accomplish that, she had little fear that Nelthorpe would succeed in seducing her. Even were her fingers too numb to feel, there would be no frisson of attraction passing between them, she told herself, glancing at her hand on his arm.
None she could not control, she amended with more honesty. She’d been an innocent when she’d first encountered him in Spain. Ignorant of why he affected her so strongly, knowing only that he made her uncomfortable.
With the benefit of age and experience, she quickly recognized the reason behind the heightened awareness that seemed to telegraph between the two of them…the prickling of her skin under his gaze…the flutter in her gut.
So Anthony Nelthorpe inspired her to lust. He was a very handsome man, perhaps more attractive than ever now that suffering had worn the edge off his once-omnipresent arrogance. But she could control her baser impulses.
Unlike Anthony Nelthorpe, she thought with a sniff.
Before she could think further on it, Nelthorpe ushered her through the door of their hostess’s house.
Lady Charlotte exclaimed with delight when she spotted them, giving Jenna a hug for braving the cold night to attend the party. Not until they continued into the room and Jenna felt the speculative gaze of Lady Charlotte’s friend Lord Riverton follow her and Nelthorpe, did it occur to her to wonder how members of the ton—other than the fortune-hunting wife seekers she wished to discourag
e—might view her association with Nelthorpe.
She raised her chin a notch. Too late to worry about that. Besides, without Garrett’s child to consider, what did she care for the approval of the ton?
A deep voice in her ear, however, shattered that bravado. “Jenna, how good to see you!”
Trying not to appear too hasty, Jenna released Nelthorpe’s arm and turned to the man who’d hailed her. “Harry! How wonderful to see you, too!”
“What, I’m offered a hand? What about a hug?” Captain “Heedless” Harry Hartwell, one of her father’s former lieutenants and longtime friend, demanded.
Without further thought she threw herself into his embrace. Not for almost six lonely months had she felt the comfort of a strong, caring man’s arms around her. Her chest tightened and tears pricked at her eyes.
Gently Harry set her back on her feet, his clear blue eyes regarding her with sympathy and affection. “I was so sorry to hear of your loss—both of them. I’ve been in Vienna, helping to prepare for the Duke. The delegation returns there shortly, but if there is anything I can do…”
I will not cry, she told herself, taking a deep, gasping breath. “No. But thank you for offering.”
The captain turned to the viscount. “Out of uniform now, I see, Nelthorpe. ’Twas quite a beating the Royals took below Mont St. Jean. Pleased to see you’re looking better than when I visited you in hospital.”
Nelthorpe bowed. “Thank you, Captain. I’m pleased to be getting around better.”
A little frisson of shame warmed Jenna’s face. Apparently Harry, good officer that he was, hadn’t forgotten his former company-mate after the battle.
“Confounded the sawbones who declared you’d never walk again, I see. Must have required tremendous effort.”
Nelthorpe nodded, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I exist to be contrary, I suppose.”
“Jenna, what did I hear about your accident?” Harry said, turning to her. “That you fell from your horse?”
“Supposedly, though that blow to the head knocked any memory of it clear out of mind. I had borrowed the mount, my usual horse having thrown a shoe. Aunt Hetty seldom rides the mare, who is a real plodder, but with one nasty habit—she detests riding crops. The head groom neglected to mention it to me, so once in the park, when I urged her to greater speed…”
“A gross omission by the head groom!” Harry observed with a frown. “He should certainly have warned you if you’d not ridden that horse before.”
“So my cousin thought. I understand he flew into a rage and turned the man off without a character.”
“As well he should have. Come, let’s get some refreshments and you can tell me what you plan next. Nelthorpe, good to see you.”
The two men bowed, and Harry led her off.
Not wishing to confess to Harry her ridiculous bargain with the viscount, after accepting the wine he brought her, she said, “I…I’m not sure what I intend to do.”
“Should I renew the offer I made at Badajoz?”
Jenna laughed, as he’d surely intended. “When you coerced all Papa’s officers to offer yourselves to your late colonel’s daughter, that she might marry one of you and remain with the army after Papa died?”
But her momentary humor was snuffed out by recalling ’twas Garrett, the serious, commanding brigade major, who’d won her hand on that occasion. Who, after convincing her he’d come to reciprocate the love she’d long cherished for him, brought her the greatest happiness she’d ever known.
And the greatest sorrow.
“I’m not the regimental colors, to be caught up from one falling hand and passed to another,” she whispered.
“I didn’t mean it like that! How can you even think to doubt how much I admire and respect—”
“I’m sorry,” she broke in. “I know what you meant.”
The blue eyes he fixed on her were grave. “I may have spoken of it jestingly, but I’m entirely serious about that offer, Jenna. I would be honored if you’d consent to be my wife. We’ve been friends for years, and what could be a firmer basis for marriage than that?”
Spoken like a man who has never been in love, she thought, both touched and rueful. How could she put into words, for one who obviously had no idea of it, the depth of contentment and breadth of rapture possible in a union between a man and woman who not only liked, but loved one another? A dimension so much richer, so far beyond friendship she could not begin to describe it.
And so did not attempt to.
“You only ask because you know I will refuse,” she parried. “I am honored, but…I cannot accept.”
He nodded, taking the refusal with a good grace which confirmed that opinion. “Remember, though, I am yours whenever you wish, Jenna. You have but to send for me.”
“What I wish is that one day you will meet a lady who will not just win your esteem, but conquer your whole heart. When you do, I doubt you’ll wait to be sent for. I expect you’ll sweep her up and carry her away!”
“Perhaps,” he said, grinning. “Not planning on being carried off yourself, are you?” He nodded toward the corner of the room.
Where, she discovered, Nelthorpe stood—watching them.
Jenna felt her face heat. “By Nelthorpe? I hardly think so!”
“He’s not such a bad fellow now,” Harry said. “No Garrett, of course, but how many men are? We didn’t see him much after his transfer into the Royals, but I hear he turned out to be a rather good officer. Cautious, prudent, careful of his men. His troopers respected him.”
“Papa always said that was the best measure of a soldier,” Jenna said, surprised and impressed. Apparently Nelthorpe had changed from the bored aristocrat who’d once tried to take advantage of her. Though, she thought, remembering his kiss on the bridge, there was still plenty of rogue left in him.
“If you choose to divert yourself with him, you will come to no harm. Whatever makes you happy, Jenna.”
With greater difficulty this time, Jenna stemmed the tears that seemed ever-threatening. “Thank you, Harry. I appreciate that more than you could know. But now, I believe I must find the ladies’ withdrawing room.”
He tossed down the last of his wine and took her glass. “I’ll escort you out.”
After promising to write, Jenna left him—and Nelthorpe, who seemed to be shadowing her—in the hall and searched out the ladies’ room.
Meeting Harry had been a comfort—but her memories of him were so irretrievably bound up with those of Papa and Garrett that she could not see Harry, could not reminisce about their shared past, without inevitably being ambushed again by her grief over the dear ones she’d loved and lost.
Marrying Harry would not be the right solution to fill the cavern of emptiness that loomed before her, she told herself as she fixed an errant curl. Though for the next several weeks, she had a task, however ludicrous. She’d given Nelthorpe her word.
Jenna was about to depart when a tall, strikingly beautiful blond woman glided into the room. “Lady Fairchild,” the lady said in a soft, breathy voice. “So good to see you out again after your sad accident. You remember me, I trust? Lucinda Blaine?”
As if she would ever forget the Lovely Lucinda, the woman whose image had been branded on her brain the moment she’d first glimpsed the miniature Garrett had carried with him until practically the day he’d proposed to Jenna. The portrait of the fiancée who’d broken her engagement—and Garrett’s heart—to marry the Earl of Doone.
“Yes, I remember you, Countess,” she said at last.
The beauty sank gracefully into the chair beside Jenna’s. “I’m sorry I was not able to pay my respects at Garrett’s service last month, but my poor nerves would just not support it!” She glanced at Jenna through her impossibly long lashes. “I suppose you understand.”
“Does your husband?” Jenna asked.
The countess shrugged. “Oh, Doone? He knew when he married me that I really loved Garrett. If only Papa hadn’t forced the match on me!�
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From what Jenna had heard around the regiment, it hadn’t been Lucinda’s papa who had urged her to cry off when a wealthy and aging earl became besotted with the Season’s reigning Diamond. “Indeed,” Jenna said at last.
The countess sighed. “So ironic, isn’t it? If only I had convinced my father to let us marry, Garrett would eventually have come into the title Papa wanted for me.”
A pleasant fiction, Jenna thought acidly. But having had enough of the woman’s distorted recollections, she said, “Such observations do no honor to either your husband or mine, Lady Doone. Pray, refrain from any further.”
The beauty’s eyes flashed. “You might not wish to hear me, but I will not be silent! You stole Garrett—”
“Stole!” Jenna interrupted incredulously. “Are you forgetting the small matter of your having already married another man?”
“Do you really think,” the beauty said, looking at Jenna with contempt, “that Garrett would have married you, had you not somehow managed to compromise him? There could be no other reason—not when we still loved each other!”
When she’d first met Garrett in Spain, he’d been still obsessed with the beautiful, spoiled girl who’d betrayed him. But over the months, she’d watched him struggle out of her grasp. By the time circumstances pressed Jenna to marry, he’d been able to offer her his whole heart.
Hadn’t he?
Anger shook her that this woman who had wounded Garrett so deeply could cause her even an instant’s doubt.
“I don’t believe there is any further point to this conversation. Good evening, Lady Doone.”
As she tried to walk past, the countess grabbed her wrist. “Garrett visited me last March when he was back in England gathering troops for the Duke, you know. We had a long, private, quite satisfying visit.”
Once again, the acid of doubt burned into Jenna. She and Garrett had been in London last March. And Garrett had been absent for hours, sometimes days, occupied with the business of organizing Wellington’s army.
Might he have stopped to see Lucinda Blaine?
