by Gina Lamm
She had to face it. She was falling in love with a nineteenth-century earl. And for a twenty-first century girl, that was pretty damn terrifying.
The game lasted less than ten minutes, but at top speed, Baron was plenty exhausted enough to give up. Mike relented, and on the last swing of the pole, let the blue-gray hound catch the hanky.
“What a gentleman,” Mike crooned to his dog, untying the line from the hanky. Baron shook it like a dead animal, cheerfully strangling and dirtying the clean linen. “Excellent work, Baron. Good lad.”
Mike petted his dog, praising him for such a remarkable performance. The pleasure, pride, and love in Mike’s eyes as he looked at Baron were too much for Jamie.
She couldn’t watch anymore. Without another word, she waved at Mike and headed to the door of the house.
“Miss Marten?”
She pretended not to hear and ascended the steps to the door.
“Jamie?”
His use of her first name, combined with his boots crunching the gravel of the path behind her, stopped her in her tracks. She turned.
“Are you…” He trailed off. He swallowed hard. His cheeks were drawn, and his eyes had gone dark. He was in the grip of some strong emotion that she really wasn’t sure she wanted to identify.
“What?”
He cleared his throat and went on. “I would like you to have dinner with me this evening. Would you attend me?”
Jamie looked down at the brick steps beneath her slippers. Mike went out almost every night. When she’d asked Mrs. Knightsbridge about where he went so often, the housekeeper made comments about dinner parties, balls, routs, soirees, and numerous other entertainments. What that meant was, they’d only really had breakfast together regularly. The rest of the meals Jamie ate were either alone in the dining room or up in her room with a book.
She couldn’t make her answer come out. Her yes was stuck in her throat like a wad of stale pretzels. From her vantage on the second step, she was looking straight into his eyes. He took a step closer, and her arms ached to reach out to him. She could nearly feel the heat rising from his body, both from his exertion and, she hoped, their chemistry.
“Jamie?”
She tore her eyes from him, choosing to focus on Baron’s heaving sides instead. The dog was obviously elated with his handkerchief prize. If only things were that simple for her. “Yes. I’ll have dinner with you.”
He smiled at her then, an expression that sliced straight through the last shield she’d erected in front of her heart.
She walked with him back into the house, and even gave a polite good-bye at the bottom of the stairs. He went into his office, and she went up the stairs to hyperventilate in private. When she collapsed on the bed, flat on her back because of those stays, she faced reality.
Jamie loved Micah Alexander Axelby, Earl of Dunnington.
He was a guy that she should never even have met. She loved a guy that she would have to abandon her entire life to be with. Her friends, her house, her computer, her shower. Shower. Running Water. Toothbrushes. Those neat little personal hand-sanitizer bottles.
She threw an arm over her eyes. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Her heart pounded like that for an hour. She was too keyed up to sleep, too jittery to be around anyone, too anxious to focus on any sort of activity. An elephant sat on her chest, one that had nothing to do with the whalebone and lacing compressing her middle.
Eventually, when the logical portion of her brain managed to wrestle the rest of it into submission, she pushed herself off the bed and started pacing in front of the now-dark fireplace. The afternoon sun shone through the open curtains, and she focused on the familiar light that she passed through again and again.
She had some decisions to make. The rhythmic thudding of her slippers against the rug helped her focus her breath. Calm. Focus, Jamie.
“Oh God,” she said aloud, hands braced against the wooden mantel, head bowed.
Could she do this? Could she lose the person she always thought she was in order to be the perfect countess for the man she loved?
A knock on the door told her she didn’t have time to make that decision then. Muriel skipped into the room, thin face alight with joy.
“Mrs. K said I was to help you dress for dinner with his lordship.”
Despite her inner turmoil, Jamie had to smile at Muriel’s adoption of her nickname for the housekeeper. “Mrs. K, huh?”
Muriel didn’t miss a beat as she pulled a peach satin gown from the armoire. She winked at her and said, “Yup. Sure did.”
Jamie laughed aloud at that. No matter what the outcome of her time here would ultimately be, at least she’d made a mark on someone.
Muriel didn’t comment on Jamie’s unusual reticence as she helped her bathe and dress. Normally, Jamie would have complained about the ridiculous amount of underwear, the aggravating nature of stays, and the crazy number of hairpins that were necessary to hold her highlighted mop off her shoulders. Jamie sat there without a word, watching the way her neck looked longer because of the hairstyle Muriel had chosen. The way her skin glowed against the peach satin. The way her eyes looked strange and frightened, almost like a hunted creature.
“You’re lovely, miss.” Muriel stepped back after placing the last curl in front of her ear. “A real treat.”
“Thank you, Muriel.” Jamie stood, completely unsurprised to find her ankles as shaky as Jell-O. She took as deep a calming breath as she could and forced a smile to her lips. Time to go downstairs and face the music—whether it was a symphony or thrashing death metal.
The staircase seemed way too short. The hallway even more so. She was at the door of the dining room hours before she was mentally ready to be. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and looked in. Mike wasn’t there.
Oh.
She wasn’t a fainting flower. She really wasn’t one of those people that tear up at greeting-card commercials. But when she saw what she perceived to be Mike standing her up, she was suspiciously ready to cry. The table wasn’t even really laid for their dinner yet. Had he changed his mind only moments after speaking to her? Why didn’t he let someone know?
“Miss Jamie.”
She blinked, shaking her head from the disappointment before turning to George, the footman.
He smiled. “His lordship awaits you in the drawing room.”
Oh. Oh!
Could she stop leaping to conclusions for about twenty seconds? It would probably make her life much easier.
She followed the footman to the drawing room and was both relieved and astounded by the sight of the man standing by the window, peering out into the night.
The earl was dressed even nicer than usual, and that was pretty damn nice. He wore all black, save for the crisp white shirt points and snowy cravat at his throat. The stark contrast only served to emphasize broad shoulders that tapered down to his slim hips. The flickering firelight cast delicately dancing shadows on his strong jaw. He was gorgeous. Truly the handsomest man she had ever seen.
Her heart caught in her throat as she drank in the sight of him. Knowing how she felt about him now, how could she continue this way? Choosing to stay with him would be the hardest decision that she’d ever make. But could she honestly say that life in this day and age would make her happy? With or without Mike, she wasn’t sure.
“Miss Marten.” His voice was warm as he turned to her. “You look splendid.”
A wry smile twisted her lips. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He laughed, and the deep sound went straight to her belly like a body blow. He crossed to the sideboard and picked up a decanter with reddish-brown alcohol inside. When he asked her to join him for a drink, she didn’t hesitate. She crossed the floor toward him, knowing sink or swim, she was all in.
Her hand barely trembled as she accepted the glass he held out to her. She took a sip, savoring the warmth of the liquor. She tried her best to avoid eye contact. He’d know
. If he looked into her eyes, she had no doubt that he would see the way she felt about him.
“Baron seemed to enjoy your sport with him this afternoon.” The polite tone of his voice helped her to tamp down some of her nerves. “He enjoys chasing sticks and things.” Liquid splashed into another glass as he poured himself a drink.
“Not as much as that greyhound-fishing-pole you rigged up,” Jamie said. She took another sip, keeping her gaze locked everywhere but on him. She couldn’t trust herself.
“That was an idea of Mrs. Knightsbridge’s. I think she’s more fond of the hound than she lets on.”
“I think we all are. He’s a pretty special dog.” Jamie toyed nervously with one of the curls dangling by her ear.
“Indeed.”
Mike fell silent then, and she chanced a sideways glance at him. He’d been watching her pretty hard. Was he thinking the same thing she was? Was he wondering about her, about the possibility of a future together?
It was fortunate that Thornton chose that exact moment to announce that dinner was ready.
“Permit me to escort you, Miss Marten.”
She couldn’t say no. She walked alongside him, desperately trying to ignore the feel of his strong arm under her hand.
He seated her, pulling out the chair for her as if she was a gentleman’s daughter or some titled personage. She ignored the flutterings of her heart. She had decided nothing, and she wouldn’t let that stupid organ rule her head until she did.
She managed to make it through the first three courses without making a complete fool of herself. Mike was more relaxed than normal, and that eased her nerves somewhat too. By the time dessert was brought in, she was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they might be able to somehow make this work.
She poked at the sweet custard with her spoon. “So, what’s the latest gossip in the upper crust?”
He crooked a brow at her and swallowed the bite of custard he’d spooned between those sinful lips. “Gossip?”
“Yeah. What’s the newest scandal? Has Lady Folderol been seen without six layers of petticoats? Lord Fiddle-dee-dee got drunk and spilled punch all over Miss Whosit’s cleavage?”
“Nothing so interesting, surely,” he said with a smile. He took another bite of custard before answering, “No, the latest on-dit is of a more serious nature. But gentlemen do not gossip.”
Jamie snorted, and he looked at her with a crooked brow. “Don’t give me that. Leah’s granddad, Pawpaw Milton, is glued to Entertainment Tonight every evening at seven sharp. Guys care just as much about gossip as girls do.”
He shook his head. “It is not seemly.”
“Oh, come on. I don’t know any of these people. It’s like an imaginary story to me.”
With a sigh, he complied.
“Lucas Humphries, the Baron of Easterly, eloped three days ago.”
“Oooh,” Jamie said, leaning forward slightly. “That is juicy!”
“He eloped with his mistress.” The expression on Mike’s face stopped her amusement in its tracks. All traces of his former mirth were gone, and in their place was a deep disapproval lurking in the corners of his downturned mouth.
“Okay. So she was his mistress. And he’s going to make an honest woman out of her. That’s good, right?” Jamie spoke slowly, trying to make sense of the situation, and Mike’s super-negative reaction to it.
Mike shook his head vehemently. “It is not that simple. Lord Easterly has left his estate in ruin. He has broken his engagement with Lady Elise, the daughter of the Marquess of Glastonbury. The only reason he was able to keep the creditors at bay before was his impending marriage and the promise of the healthy dowry that would accompany it. Now, the families who depend on him for survival, his servants, the residents of the farms at his country estate, his mother—they are all left destitute because of his selfish actions.” The disgust fairly flew from his mouth at the end of his tale. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, and she almost felt bad for the bowl of custard that bore the brunt of his displeasure.
Jamie looked down at her own dish. “So, is a nobleman not supposed to marry for love? Not ever?” It was the most important question she’d ever asked him, so she couldn’t quite get all of the tremble out of her voice.
“With position comes responsibility. Duties to one’s house, to one’s name. To throw all that away in the name of an emotion? Despicable.” He dropped his napkin beside his plate with unnecessary force. “Love will not feed the villager’s children. Love will not keep his family clothed and out of the poorhouse. While he is touring the continent with his new bride, the vultures will pick the bones of the barony.”
And with those words, Jamie felt her insides crumble.
She laid her spoon down with a clink. Wiped her trembling fingers with the cloth napkin. What the hell do I do now? she thought, trying desperately to keep her features calm.
“Miss Marten, are you ill?”
She glanced up at him. God, he was so beautiful. But he was as far away as the hero in a historical movie. She had a better chance of being with the real Colin Firth than she did with Micah Axelby, Earl of Dunnington. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat enough to answer.
“No, I’m fine. Just…tired.”
She turned her attention to the food. The rest of the meal was tense, quiet. She gave one-word answers to all of Mike’s questions, the roiling discomfort in her guts not allowing her to be more effusive. What was the point, anyway? This whole thing had been a waste of time. Mike’s duty was more important to him than any relationship she could have had with him.
When the torturous meal was finally done, she scraped her chair back. “Thanks for the great meal, my lord.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and turned to go.
He rose quickly, a bewildered look on his handsome features. “Please stay. I had hoped you would agree to play the pianoforte for me after dinner.”
Her eyes fluttered closed. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
An extended silence opened her eyes again. Mike stared at her, lips pursed in confusion. “I will bid you good evening, then.”
“Good evening,” she repeated woodenly, and left the room, her infant dream of their relationship lying dead and burnt behind her.
***
He’d bungled that properly.
Micah lined his fork and knife up beside his plate, brow furrowed in consternation. Whatever had caused Miss Marten to look as though her heart was breaking? He’d imagined that they would spend a pleasant evening together after they dined. Perhaps even culminating in another kiss or three. Instead, he rose and left the dining room quite alone.
His estate room was cold, the fire banked in anticipation of an evening spent with much more pleasant company. Instead of calling a servant, Micah stoked it himself. The orange flames licking up the sides of the wood reminded him of his damnable failure to treat his houseguest with more care. He’d consumed her bright nature, just like these hungry flames. The softness in her eyes had died as surely as if he’d smothered it with his own two hands. He sat back on his heels, breathing deeply as he searched for clues in the leaping blaze.
Baron Easterly. His elopement. What in that discussion could have possibly caused Jamie hurt? Or was she truly ill and felt poorly enough to cut their evening together quite short? Micah shook his head and stood. It mattered not. The whole damnable charade was insupportable, and he’d been just as blind and stupid as Lucas Humphries.
He splashed brandy into a glass and downed it in one go. Why was he pursuing her? He had duties, for God’s sake, duties that were binding and unavoidable. Marking time with Jamie Marten would be the height of folly. It would jeopardize his planned engagement, stir up another bumble-broth within the ton, and quite possibly cause his distant relatives more grief. They were already planning his demise quite happily over the Louisa scandal.
No, damn it, he was through. He dashed the glass into the fireplace, the glass shattering and the tiny droplets of liquor causing the angry flames to
spark blue. Enough. It was outside of enough.
His duty, his name, those were the important things. Not a strange girl with striped hair and eyes the color of the sea. He strode from the room, demanded his cloak from a surprised but silent Thornton, and went out into the dark London night.
Fifteen
Jamie barely slept that night. She snuggled next to Baron, who’d been extremely happy to resume his position as her nighttime bodyguard-slash-hot water-bottle. She kept remembering Mike’s face, the disgusted look on it when he’d said, “With position comes responsibility. To throw all that away in the name of an emotion? Despicable.”
She turned over.
Despicable. He’d almost spat the word out like it tasted bad.
He’d never defy convention and marry some nobody who knew nothing about his time. He needed the perfect countess—a woman who knew her place, who had money and property and would act like a countess should. Not some jumped-up gamer chick with depression issues and a flighty muse. She was no better than Lord Easterly’s mistress in his eyes. And she’d never be, because she was born in the wrong place and time.
She refused to cry. To cry would be to admit to herself that she’d lost something. The truth was she’d never really had anything at all.
A soft knock drew her attention.
“Yeah?”
Mrs. Knightsbridge appeared in the doorway, shutting the door softly behind her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brushed a lock of hair from Jamie’s forehead.
“I heard your conversation in the dining room. You must believe, dear.”
“Believe what? That this is a complete waste of time and no way in hell will Mike ever ditch his responsibilities to be with me?” Jamie tried to smother the telltale waver in her voice, but it wasn’t easy.
Mrs. K smiled. “Come time for the ball, he will be professing his love for you.” The housekeeper brushed a motherly kiss over Jamie’s forehead. “And if I am wrong, Wilhelmina shall open the portal for you the next morning. You’ve nothing to lose.”
