Julia Justiss

by Wicked Wager

  “He believes I should eventually make a good return on my capital, should I later decide to sell. Although I’m inclined to offer the soldiers terms that enable them to buy the plots they work, rather than sell the whole.”

  “I imagine the men would leap at such a chance.”

  “I hope so. As I mentioned, Evers arrived. I shall pair him with your Sergeant Anston to seek out soldiers and their families and be guided by their advice on the type and size of property to purchase. But the solicitor knew of two prime tracts within an easy ride of London, and I’ve arranged to view one tomorrow. Would you like to come?”

  “I should be happy to escort you, of course.”

  “I mean to depart early—if that will be acceptable?”

  “I shall endeavor to limit my drinking and wenching so as to stagger over at whatever hour you require, my lady.”

  “Good of you,” she replied, not sure he was joking.

  At that moment, someone called her name. She was delighted to discover Alastair Percy, a lieutenant who’d served under her father’s command, flanked by two other officers in Life Guards uniforms.

  After introductions all around, the group bore Jenna off to the refreshment room, Nelthorpe limping in their wake. Jenna noted that, like “Heedless” Harry, Alastair shook Nelthorpe’s hand and greeted him cordially. Since a poor reputation traveled in the relatively small world of the officer corps even faster than rumors seemed to circulate among the ton, Jenna concluded that, among his army mates, the viscount had earned respect.

  Which counted for far more in her opinion than the views of London’s ton.

  The dinner room was already crowded. Indeed, she’d not seen so many military men together at a social gathering since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the eve of Waterloo. The countess, Jenna thought with a suppressed smile, evidently wanting to ensure attendance at her gathering to honor the soldiers surpassed that of Lady Charlotte’s, must have sent runners to haul in every military man within a day’s ride of the metropolis.

  After the inevitable offering of condolences that still made her heart twist, her chats with various acquaintances progressed from reminiscences of campaigns past to a description of her ongoing efforts to assist the demobilized soldiers. Her work met with general approval and several generous pledges of support.

  Nelthorpe, who remained at her side—which, as he predicted, did indeed serve to keep Aunt Hetty and Lady Montclare at a distance—was behaving with perfect propriety. Surrounded by soldiers and their wives who had shared many of the same experiences she’d lived through, Jenna found herself relaxing and enjoying the gathering more than she had any since coming to London.

  Soon after, the musicians struck up. Humming along as the orchestra played, Jenna was upon the point of accepting a dashing junior officer’s invitation to dance before she remembered her mourning status. Stung by guilt made more cutting by a lingering, ignoble regret that she must refuse him, she turned down his offer.

  How could she have forgotten, even for a moment? she thought, shame and anguish twisting in her chest. Suddenly the room seemed overcrowded and airless. Breathless, almost dizzy, a desperate need to escape seized her.

  Wheeling around, she took two running steps and stumbled. A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders from behind, steadying her.

  Nelthorpe. Evidently once again watching out for her.

  “Easy, my dear,” he murmured. “’Tis a bit close in here. Shall we get a breath of air?”

  She nodded, allowing him to lead her from the room, down a hallway, and onto a balcony which ran the length of the house. Light glowing at its end and the faint strains of music indicated that it must also adjoin the ballroom. For a few moments in the darkness, she leaned back and breathed deeply of the cool, crisp evening air.

  “Was that young pup importunate? I’ll be happy to plant him a facer for you.”

  “Oh, no! ’Twas my fault entirely. He…he asked me to dance, and wretch that I am, I nearly accepted.”

  “And what was so wretched about that? As I recall from Spain, you love to dance.” He smiled wryly. “As did I, once upon a time.”

  She felt a pang of remorse. Her period of mourning would end, even if her grief did not, and dancing would be a possibility again. His injuries were permanent.

  “Do you miss dancing?”

  He shrugged, and it struck her that although he teased and encouraged her, he said very little about himself. Though she knew his financial condition to be perilous, he never complained of it. Nor, except for an occasional taunting reference, was he making any real attempt to seduce—much less coerce—her into solving his monetary difficulties by marrying him.

  “I can still ride, and that’s more important,” his answer broke into her musing. “Would it be so scandalous for you to have accepted the young ensign’s offer?”

  “You know it would! I am not yet out of blacks.”

  “Do you think Garrett would find that reason enough for you to refrain?”

  “I…well, no, I expect he would tell me to do what I enjoy, and Society be damned.”

  He made a flourish with his hand. “I rest my case.”

  “I know Garrett wouldn’t expect it. But others do, and should I commit the folly of ignoring the conventions, Society will say I lacked affection for him. Whereas I grieve for him still,” she added with a touch of defiance.

  “All the more reason to allow yourself some small pleasures. You have few enough, these days.”

  She couldn’t dispute that. Although her new task of assisting the soldiers brought her satisfaction, that emotion was tepid compared to the fiery intensity of delight and passion that had been her life with Garrett.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she admitted after a moment.

  “Of course I’m right. And so, my lady—” he offered his arm “—may I have the honor of this dance?”

  “D-dance?” she stuttered.

  “I’m afraid my knee will not allow a grand sweep of a waltz, but I can manage a semblance. The music beckons, you’ve already admitted Garrett would never begrudge you the pleasure and no one shall see you here. So, my lady, dance with me.”

  Though Garrett might quibble about her choice of partner, she knew he would have encouraged her to seize whatever comfort presented itself. And the music did call to her.

  No one will ever know, a little voice whispered.

  At that, her resistance crumbled. Accepting his hand, she said, “I should be delighted, my lord.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THOUGH HE HEARD THE WORDS, Tony had to shake his head to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He never expected Jenna would agree to waltz with him.

  Here, in the intimate dimness of the deserted balcony.

  Given how the merest touch of her—and he’d nearly scared her off tonight, succumbing far too often to the temptation to touch her—fired to a boil the ever-simmering longing to pull her back into his arms, waltzing was probably a very bad idea. His leg, as well as other already-throbbing parts of his anatomy, was going to give him agonies when the music ended and he had to let her go.

  But he also knew that nothing less than a squad of provost marshals would keep him from her. Already his hands trembled with anticipation and desire made his throat so thick he couldn’t voice a reply. Instead he pulled her toward him.

  She stepped into his arms, close enough that her honeysuckle scent and the warmth of her skin enveloped him in a dizzying cloud that set his pulse trip-hammering before they’d taken the first step. As his knee would not, in truth, support his spinning her away from him in the requisite circles, he was required to simply hold her near as he led her in gentle spirals.

  Their slow, swaying progress across the balcony turned a dance which, he now discovered, had been justly condemned as scandalously intimate, into an even closer approximation of an embrace. The potent power of her nearness stimulated every nerve to acute sensitivity. Within moments, his whole body was sheened with perspiration, his f
ingers clenched in his gloves as he struggled to resist the imperative to turn this pseudoembrace into a real one.

  Still, he must resist, for if he pulled her any closer, she would learn beyond doubt how much he desired her. At the thought, his knee gave a bit and he stumbled.

  Instead of pushing away, she steadied him and—miracle of miracles—stepped closer. Her hands tightening on his arm, his shoulder, she laid her head against his chest.

  After the first moment of shock, from somewhere deep within him tenderness welled up, a sense of awe that tempered the sharp edges of lust. Hardly daring to breathe lest he disturb her, he bent to brush his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes, wishing that the music and the magic might never end.

  Of course, far too soon, the orchestra finished. Not until she lifted her head did he reluctantly loosen his grip. But the face she turned up to him, illumined by moonlight and radiant with delight, sent another wave of tenderness spiraling through him.

  How could he ever let her go?

  “Ah, Nelthorpe, that was wonderful!”

  “No—you are wonderful,” he answered.

  She smiled and shook her head a little, as if denying it. And then he just couldn’t resist any longer. Though he’d probably get his face slapped and his ears blistered for the lapse, he simply had to kiss her.

  Once again, though, she surprised him. Instead of jerking away as she had that night on the bridge, she leaned into his kiss. Desperate to avoid frightening her into flight, he kept his touch light, just a gentle brush of his mouth against hers.

  Until with a sigh, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and slid her tongue across his lips.

  A shock of pleasure blasting through him, eagerly he opened his mouth. After allowing her a moment of exquisite exploration, with a cautious, tentative touch, he stroked the velvet plush of her tongue.

  She moaned deep in her throat, clutched him tighter and fit her body into his, the sweetness of her belly pressing against his throbbing erection. Almost too dizzy to stand, he deepened the kiss, meeting each thrust and parry of her tongue in an ageless dance of pleasure.

  Already lost to place and time and well beyond reasoning, Tony didn’t know how much further they would have progressed had not a gust of warm air accompanied by a loud trill of laughter announced the arrival of other guests onto the balcony.

  Jenna jerked away immediately, Tony responding a bare second later to draw Jenna back into the shadows. Heart still hammering, he turned to position himself in front of her, blocking her from view should the newcomers chance to glance their way. And not sure whether to curse or bless the interlopers who had put a premature, but probably prudent end, to their interlude.

  Mercifully they remained undetected, the chatting couples returning to the ballroom once the orchestra struck up again. After he was certain the others had departed, he turned to her. “I’d best get you back.”

  Head lowered so he could not read her face, she nodded. Neither of them speaking, he led her down the once again deserted balcony and back inside, where he halted to permit her a moment to smooth her hair and gown. Not able to stand it any longer, at last he allowed himself to tilt up her chin.

  Though he’d expected withdrawal, nonetheless a pain much sharper than he’d anticipated lanced through him when she pulled away, refusing even to meet his gaze.

  “I should get back now,” she murmured, lifting her skirts as if to step around him.

  He didn’t want to let her go—not now, not like this. With a touch of desperation, he blocked her path. “Without first slapping my face?”

  She shook her head, still evading his eyes.

  “I suppose I should apologize—though I can’t in good conscience say I am sorry. For upsetting you—if I did upset you, yes. But not for the kiss. At least no one saw us. I did make good on that promise. I shouldn’t blame you if you did strike me, though.”

  Faith, now he was babbling, he realized, clamping his lips shut. But would she not say something, anything?

  “How could I, in good conscience, slap you, when what…happened was more my fault than yours? But please—” she raised a hand to forestall his reply “—I do not wish to speak of it further.”

  Obviously, what had been a moment of pure enchantment for him she saw as regrettable and embarrassing. But what had he expected, he asked himself, suppressing a burgeoning sense of hurt and disappointment. She was no Lady Ellsmere, to whom moonlight rendezvous and serial lovers were sport.

  No, this lady would not give her person without first giving her heart. And that, she had made perfectly clear three years ago, she would never offer to a man like Anthony Nelthorpe.

  The distress he felt now went deeper than the chagrin he’d suffered on that occasion. This despairing sense of loss, he suddenly realized, more sharply resembled the emotion that had engulfed him all those years ago when Miss Sweet abandoned him to the tender mercies of his father.

  Hadn’t he learned then that no lady who was truly a lady would concern herself with him?

  That Jenna had permitted him close at all was simply testament to how unsettled grief had left her. No doubt she was already chastising herself for the lapse.

  Perhaps he could at least do something about that. “Had I not insisted on a dance, it wouldn’t have happened. You mustn’t reproach yourself for it.”

  At last she looked up. “You are too kind.”

  Her face was so bleak that a second wave of anguish skewered him. He would infinitely have preferred that she struck him or shredded his character, heaped all the blame on his shoulders. Anything but know that the crime of kissing him had left her desolate.

  With a little sigh she dropped her eyes, squared her shoulders and stepped beyond him, back toward the hall.

  He raised a hand to halt her, then let it fall. What else was there to say? Probably better that he not accompany her back to the ballroom, lest her eagle-eyed cousin assume them to have enjoyed a tryst.

  An assumption both too close and much too far from the truth.

  He followed at a discreet distance, arriving just in time to see Jenna, face once again a serene mask, being hailed by Lady Charlotte Darnell. Not sure whether he wished to leave immediately or try approaching her again after he got his chaotic thoughts in order, he halted behind a pillar some distance away, still close enough that their voices carried to him.

  After a warm exchange of greetings, Lady Charlotte said, “Our arrival was so delayed, I feared you might have already departed. Lord Riverton brought a friend who’s just returned to London—and whose conversation was so fascinating, we quite forgot the time.”

  A distinguished-looking man with dark hair graying at the temples, Riverton bowed to Jenna. Beside him stood a colonel in the dress uniform of the Coldstream Guards, his tall form erect and his gold-burnished hair glowing almost as brightly as the braid trimming his regimentals.

  The soldier was opposite Tony, giving him a clear view of the handsome face and intelligent eyes now fixed, with obvious interest, on Jenna.

  An instantaneous, instinctive dislike bristled the hair at the back of Tony’s neck.

  “Lady Fairchild,” Riverton said, “may I present Colonel Madison Vernier. He was, as you can see, formerly of the Guards before the Duke requested his services.”

  “Mayhap you know each other already?” Lady Charlotte interposed. “Lady Fairchild is the daughter of the late Colonel Montague of the Fighting Fifth and accompanied her father both in India and on the Peninsula.”

  “An honor, Colonel,” Jenna said, curtsying. “Though we’ve never met, I’ve heard of Colonel Vernier, of course. Who has not thrilled to the tales of his regiment’s valor at Barrosa, Salamanca and Vittoria? Not to mention their glorious efforts in holding Hougoumont and saving the Duke’s right flank at Waterloo.”

  A flush rising in his cheeks, the colonel waved a deprecating hand. “My lady, the honor is mine. Though the regiment fully deserves those accolades, I must protest that I did no more t
han my duty, like any other soldier.”

  Tony clenched his jaw. He’d heard of Vernier, too—the man was a gazetted hero, frequently mentioned in Wellington’s dispatches. And modest as well, it appeared.

  “Would that every soldier had performed so excellently,” Jenna replied.

  “I met your father several times, though we never served together. And I’d been told my old Oxford mate Garrett married a beauty. I see rumor was correct.”

  Tony frowned. Not only was the man a golden-haired hero, he was silver-tongued as well.

  Damme him.

  “Now it is you who are too kind,” Jenna said coolly, relieving Tony a trifle. Not his Jenna, to be reduced to simpering gratification by a handsome man’s compliment.

  “My sincerest condolences upon your loss, Lady Fairchild,” Vernier said. “I knew Garrett from Eton onward and often enjoyed working with him. His competence, courage and character will be sorely missed.”

  Did Jenna blush as she nodded in acknowledgment? Mortified, perhaps, to remember how much less exemplary was the man she’d just kissed in the moonlight?

  Glaring at the colonel, as if it was Vernier’s fault he’d made such mice-feet of the situation on the balcony, Tony missed entirely the man’s next words.

  Which was just as well. Now that Lady Charlotte had presented Jenna to a military man who was even more a paragon of virtue and valor than her late husband, he might as well go home. Jenna Fairchild was unlikely to spare another thought tonight for the likes of Tony Nelthorpe.

  Who had taunted rather than praised her for her virtue and tempted her into succumbing to the pull between them, a connection her senses relished but her mind refused to admit. Thus inducing a lapse in behavior which would likely cause her to keep him at a chilly distance, if she did not terminate their agreement altogether.

  Yes, Tony, quite an evening’s work you’ve accomplished, he told himself bitterly.