The Rebel's Promise
Page 13
“How is your so dear betrothed?” Sir Peregrine enquired, with a sidelong glance at her beguiling profile. She was as dainty a piece as he had ever seen, he thought lasciviously. He did not usually consider an impending marriage a barrier to a seduction, but this case was more complicated. Any fool could see his friend Jack was still smitten – more than smitten – by the delightful Miss Delacourt. Which meant she was out of bounds to Sir Peregrine. Really, he hoped Jack appreciated the sacrifices he was prepared to make for the sake of their friendship!
“He is well, thank you,” the words seemed to drain the colour and life from her.
She turned back to look at the rest of the party. Her eyes were drawn to a lone figure standing just to one side of the group. Even at that distance, she could feel Jack’s longing tugging her towards him – as powerfully as if an invisible rope had been tied between them.
Sir Peregrine followed the direction of her gaze.
“Do you know, Miss Delacourt,” he began and, with an effort, she turned her attention back to him, “If ever I am in any kind of trouble, there is one man above all others I would trust to get me out of it.”
Rosie sighed, any attempt at dissemblance abandoned, “Jack?”
“There is no better friend in all the world, Miss Delacourt, I assure you.”
“I know … but there are some secrets that, once shared, will cause a devastation so great it cannot be reversed, Sir Peregrine.”
There was a finality to her tone and, letting the subject go, he steered her back towards the opulent picnic area.
Arranging her skirts decorously around her, Rosie joined her companions on the rug. She leaned back against a large boulder, around which a thoughtful footman had arranged a pile of cushions. Lady Cavendish’s cook had laboured over a dazzling array of delicacies, including a roast beef joint, a shoulder of lamb, several large pigeon pies, a boiled calf’s tongue and a variety of salads. Baskets of fresh fruit sat next to compotes and puddings and, in addition to all of this, there were breads and cheeses. There was ale for the gentlemen. Champagne rested in ice buckets and half a dozen bottles of Lady Cavendish’s celebrated cognac were being lovingly tended by her butler. Rosie’s appetite had deserted her since the date of her wedding had been set, but she tried to do justice to the elegant fare, accepting a small portion of junket and a sliced apple. A group of young ladies and one or two gentlemen, their plates piled high, joined her and she was grateful for their artless chatter. Jack found a spot on the edge of the rug that was furthest away from Rosie and lay down, a pillow under his head and his tri-corn hat over his face. He appeared to fall instantly asleep and did not stir. Even Sir Peregrine, lobbing grapes at him, got no response. Lady Cavendish sipped champagne and chattered animatedly to her guests. In the midst of this idyllic scene, Rosie decided she had never felt so lonely or dispirited.
It was late in the afternoon when the guests drifted back to their carriages and horses. Lady Cavendish caught up with Rosie.
“My dear Miss Delacourt, I had my groom bring Firefly in case I should wish to ride today, but I find I do not,” she indicated a pretty little roan mare. “Can I prevail upon you to ride her home? She needs the exercise and I know Lord St Anton will be glad of your company on the return journey …”
Rosie blushed. What strange notion could have possessed Lady Cavendish that she would relinquish the chance to be at Jack’s side? Unless she wished to illustrate that he was so devoted to her that she could throw the temptation of a former lover in his way and know that he would not stray? It was a message Rosie did not need. She already knew how much Jack despised her. Whatever the reason for her ladyship’s odd start, she would be glad of the exercise, and she very much doubted that Jack would ride alongside her. It was with a feeling of nostalgic pleasure that she allowed the groom to help her mount Firefly. She missed Cleo and her daily rides dreadfully.
Jack, already mounted, had drawn up alongside the landau.
“You have missed your calling in life, Bella,” he told her, an amused twinkle lighting his cobalt eyes. “You remind me of a match-making mama scheming to shackle the highest bidder.”
Rosie brought Firefly alongside in time to overhear Bella’s laughing response, “And you, my dearest Jack, remind me of a man deep in love. Now get you gone and keep Miss Delacourt safe.”
They rode in awkward silence behind the cavalcade of vehicles. Rosie’s mind dwelt uncomfortably on Lady Cavendish’s words. How secure in Jack’s love she must be to joke so openly of it! He was mine once, she thought sorrowfully. I was wrapped in the comforting blanket of his unconditional love … until I threw it away.
Jack, watching the play of emotions across her face surreptitiously, felt his heart go out to her. This was definitely not a bride joyously anticipating her nuptials. Bella, with her inimitable turn of phrase, had said Rosie looked like she was ‘on her way to the gallows instead of the altar’. He wished she would confide in him. He knew Bella – curse her interference! – had thrown them together in the hope that Rosie would do just that.
“Shall we cut across the fields?” he had to repeat the question, so lost in thought was she.
“Oh!” Rosie cast a longing glance towards the open countryside, “Oh, yes, indeed! I should like that above all things.”
Bella and Sir Peregrine, watching from the landau as they left the road and promptly disappeared from view, smiled at each other in a congratulatory manner.
Jack spurred his horse into a gallop and Rosie quickly followed suit. She was not exactly dressed for riding, but this was irresistible. When they reined in she was flushed and breathless and, for the first time in a long time, her eyes shone.
They rode across verdant farmland, and a group of labourers doffed their caps at them, reminding Rosie painfully of home.
“Will you tell me something, Rosie?”
She nodded and smiled mistily up at him, and Jack fought an urgent desire to drag her off the horse and kiss the life out her.
“Why are you going to marry a man who is clearly making you unhappy? Why can you not break it off? What is this hold he has over you, Rosie … please, if you will just tell me, I can help you.”
And, in that brief heartbeat of time, it really did seem that simple. Rosie actually opened her mouth to tell him. But, before she could do so, Firefly shied nervously at a field of sheep and Rosie, her grip on the reins loosened and her concentration elsewhere, tumbled from the saddle and landed hard on the grass with a cry.
She was more shaken than hurt, but Jack, leaping from his horse, was at her side in a flash.
“Rosie … darling, ”
He slid an arm about her waist, holding her against him while he loosened her bonnet and brushed her hair back from her forehead with infinite tenderness. His face was ashen and Rosie, amazed at his concern, leaned her cheek gratefully against the unyielding muscles of his shoulder.
A young farmhand, acting with remarkable speed, went to Firefly’s head and calmed her. Before long, a small group of interested onlookers had gathered around them. The spectacle of a well-to-do young couple together with the drama of an accident proved to be more of a draw than labouring in the fields. Several felt the need to offer advice.
“You want to rub mustard on the bruising, sir,” an elderly crone, who sported a lone tooth at the front of her wide mouth, advised him.
“Where are you hurt?” Jack whispered, enjoying the way Rosie’s curls tickled his lips.
She gave a weak chuckle, “My backside! And I do not want any mustard rubbed on to it, thank you!”
“No indeed! It is far too pretty to be accorded such treatment,” he smiled reminiscently into her eyes and Rosie gave a little gasp, her injuries momentarily forgotten. “Can you stand or shall I carry you?”
“I think I can stand.”
Supported by his arm, she got slowly to her feet. When she was fully upright, however, she staggered slightly and Jack, ignoring her protests, swept her up into his arms. The observer
s seemed to consider this action a cause for congratulation. A spontaneous ripple of applause broke out with one rather exuberant gentleman even going so far as to shout out.
“Give ‘er a kiss, guv’nor!”
The old woman – who, it emerged later, was the mother-in-law of the farmer – gestured helpfully towards the farmhouse. Jack followed her, ignoring Rosie’s protests that she could walk. The farmer’s wife seemed somewhat overawed at the invasion into her kitchen of a gentleman of obvious quality, bearing in his arms a ravishingly pretty young lady. Her spouse, who had come to investigate the cause of the commotion, touched his forelock deferentially and muttered something unintelligible, before disappearing back to his fields.
“Miss Delacourt needs to rest,” Jack said, ignoring Rosie’s murmured protests and carrying her up the shallow staircase after Martha Scoggins, as the lady of the house introduced herself. Mrs Scoggins made her own bedchamber available for her unexpected guest. Jack was relieved to note that, although somewhat basic, it was clean and comfortable. Backing out of the room whilst dropping a series of curtsies, Mrs Scoggins left them alone and Jack placed Rosie on the bed.
“Indeed, there is no need for all this fuss …” she assured him, trying to spring back up but biting her lip as a sharp pain shot through her nether regions.
Jack pushed her back down again easily, saying bossily, “You are going to rest, and I am going to stay here and watch over you to make sure that you do.”
“Yes, nurse,” she replied with a trace of her mischievous twinkle. She was instantly transported back to Jack’s convalescence when he had jokingly used the same words to her. If Jack remembered, he gave no sign of it, but there was a warm light in his eyes as he removed her shoes and bonnet and drew the coverlet over her. There was no chair in the room so he sat on the bed next to her and, as promised, watched while she rested and eventually – to her everlasting surprise – slept. The sun was fading to dusk when she woke, confused at the unfamiliar surroundings. Gradually, the day’s events came flooding back. She turned, expecting to see Jack in the place he had occupied when she fell asleep, but he was standing by the window, apparently lost in thought. Rosie struggled to sit up and the movement drew his attention back to her.
“How do you feel now?” he asked.
“Foolish!” She replied, sliding cautiously from the bed, “And a little bruised around my tail end … how my father would have scolded me for taking such a tumble!”
Carefully, Rosie followed Jack down the stairs to the kitchen where Mrs Scoggins begged her to be seated. Rosie winced a little at the hard wooden chair beneath her bruised posterior, prompting Jack to enquire innocently, “Would you like me to examine your injuries?”
Rosie cast him a fulminating glance and turned to apologise to Mrs Scoggins for the intrusion into her home.
“I am sure I will be able to set off again soon.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so.” She had a feeling that Jack was enjoying her predicament, “You are most unlikely to be able ride again for several days.”
“But what is to be done? We cannot remain here overnight!”
Mrs Scoggins, with a blush, assured them that they were welcome to stay as long as she needed to. At that moment, her second son, a young lad of some sixteen summers, peeked into his mother’s kitchen. He hoping to catch a glimpse of the gentry who had unaccountably descended upon it. Upon spying Rosie, who was trying to smooth her shining ringlets back into some semblance of order, Master Jed Scoggins was struck with a sudden inability to breathe properly, and his jaw developed a worrying tendency to drop. His fond mother eyed him in amusement but, beyond making him blush by calling him a ‘great gormless gaby’, made no comment. Heartened by her words, he lumbered into the room and took up a position at one side of the capacious fireplace. Unable to believe the luck which had brought this fairy-like vision into his mother’s kitchen, he was content to sit and gaze adoringly at her. He looked away in embarrassment when she happened to smile in his direction.
Jack was being particularly unhelpful, in Rosie’s opinion. Seated at the wide wooden table with a tankard of ale and a plate of bread and cheese in front of him. He seemed impervious to the urgency of the situation. He almost appeared to be enjoying himself. Smiling at Rosie, he pointed out that, if she was forced to stay for a few days, Mrs Scoggins might show her how to bake some of the delicious pies that were currently reposing in the oven.
“You may have need of such housewifely skills, given the rumours abounding about Sir Clive’s financial straits,” he informed her helpfully.
Mrs Scoggins seemed to find his utterances hilarious and tittered constantly, which only inflamed Rosie’s annoyance.
It was almost dark when Mr Scoggins, with his two other sons, returned and crowded into the already full kitchen. Jack, finally relenting, asked if there was a conveyance to be hired so that he could drive Rosie back to London.
“There is the old gig that Martha uses for market,” Mr Scoggins conceded, regarding the fine attire of his visitors dubiously, “But it’ll not be suitable for Miss Rosie, here. And,” he wondered solemnly, “How will you get the horses back, sir, if you are to drive the gig?”
After a protracted and – in Rosie’s opinion – unnecessarily detailed discussion, it was decided that Jack would convey Rosie back home in the gig while Jed rode his horse and led Firefly. Jed would then be given a room overnight at Jack’s home and would drive the gig back early in the morning.
This arrangement prompted Jed’s older brother to grumble under his breath. The gist of his complaint appeared to be directed at parents who made their favouritism obvious by allowing mere striplings to go on visits to the metropolis ahead of their more deserving elders. His mother rapped him sharply across the knuckles with a wooden spoon, and he slouched moodily out of the room.
Jed’s face, when he was informed of the treat in store for him, went a brick red colour and he bobbed his head gratefully. There was then a flurry of activity during which Martha bemoaned the shabby nature of the gig and set about arranging a blanket on the seat to cushion Rosie’s injured posterior. It was fully dark by the time Jack took the reins and the vehicle creaked reluctantly into life.
“It will be close to midnight by the time we get back to Lady Aurelia’s house.” Rosie grumbled.
She was tired, aching and irritable. Lady Aurelia and Harry would, understandably be worried about her. And what would Sir Clive’s reaction be to her apparent disappearance? It was unlikely to be sympathetic … or even rational.
“I regret that I will be unable to break any records for speed in this old bone-breaker,” Jack informed her, “And the horse has, I believe, been brought out of retirement especially for this occasion.”
There was enough moonlight to permit her a glimpse of his heart-stopping smile, “Stop worrying, I will get you home safe.”
His words, and the tone in which they were spoken, brought an unexpected lump to her throat. Jack was the sort of man who would take care of the woman he loved. He would cherish and protect her as though she was the most delicate, precious object in his life. It hurt to know she would never again experience that sort of devotion. The man with whom she must spend the rest of her life was … her tired mind searched for an adjective. She shied away from the first which occurred to her, settling instead on ‘unstable’. There was that in his nature which precluded the possibility of him caring for or cosseting another human being.
Jack was aware of her fatigue and the fact that, when she set out, it had been a fine, sunny morning and she had not covered her summery dress with a cloak. Now that night had descended, the air was crisp and chill, and the only heat he could offer her came from his own body. There was very little space on the gig’s seat. Rosie was glad of his long thigh pressed close up against hers and the pressure of his upper arm against the side of her breast. Before long, overwhelmed by tiredness, she leaned wearily closer to him, her head eventually flopping onto his shoulder.
It was some time later when Jack reined in the gig outside Lady Aurelia’s tall, narrow town-house. Sir Clive appeared on the doorstep, obviously having been on the watch for her return and his expression resembled a lowering thundercloud. Rosie, having been awakened when they first reached town by the cart clattering noisily over cobbles, stretched sleepily and smothered a yawn. Jack sprang lightly down and came to assist her. She was glad of his strong arm as her limbs, aching after the jolt of her fall, had stiffened. She smiled gratefully up at him, her expression changing as she glanced up and saw her betrothed.
“Thank you for bringing me home safely.” She murmured, and made to move away.
Jack, however, retained possession of her hand and tucked it into his arm, leading her to Sir Clive before releasing her. For a moment the two men stood a foot apart and the differences between them were more marked than ever before. Jack was taller and slighter of build with a sinewy strength that lent grace to his every movement. His aristocratic features were finely carved and could appear aloof until the beguiling twinkle lit his eyes or his enchanting smile dawned. Clive, in contrast, was heavily built – no spring lightened his step – and lumbering. His colouring was dark, as was his whole aspect. It occurred to Rosie that the only time his smile was genuine was when he succeeded in hurting someone else. ‘Charming’ was the last adjective anyone would ever use to describe him.
“Miss Delacourt took a nasty tumble from her horse.” Jack explained, bowing courteously before Sir Clive, “And I was fortunate enough to be on hand to offer my assistance. You must have been most concerned as to her welfare, Sir Clive. As you see, she is safe and sound, if somewhat bruised and shaken.”
Sir Clive, his lower lip thrusting out sulkily, appeared to fight a brief battle with his emotions.