by Godman, Jane
The blush deepened, “You are quite incorrigible,” she told him with mock crossness, but spoilt the effect by adding, with a hint of wistfulness in her tone, “I have never learned how to flirt. It is not something my governess ever taught me. ”
Jack gave such a shout of laughter that he collapsed back onto his pillows, “Sweetheart, I will undertake to teach you to be the finest flirt in Derbyshire … if not in the whole of England!”
When Rosie entered the sickroom on the following afternoon bearing a tray containing broth and bread, she was surprised to find that Jack had won his battle to sit propped against his pillows.
“Please ...” he forestalled her, as she raised the spoon , “... I can do it myself.”
Something in his voice, a note of pride tinged with fear – the fear of helplessness – prevented her from arguing. She handed him the spoon but remained where she was, watching him as he ate. When he had finished she nodded her approval and moved the tray to a side table. As she was about to rise, Jack clasped her wrist in his hand and Rosie raised her brows in a silent question.
“Stay and talk to me,” he pleaded, patting the edge of the bed.
Ignoring the warnings of her rational self about the danger of his nearness, Rosie submitted instead to the promptings of her heart and obeyed. Suddenly shy, she looked down at the embroidered coverlet for long moments before raising her head and encountering a look of suffocating intensity. Not a word was exchanged between them but all at once she was cradled within the circle of Jack’s good arm. A thrill of longing and anticipation surged through her veins.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked softly, a smile trembling on her lips.
“About the fact that I cannot resist being so close to you without ...”
Jack’s head dipped towards her and Rosie was mesmerised by the blaze of light in the sapphire depths of his eyes. Tenderly, his lips brushed hers. This tiny, deliberate caress ignited a new fire which blazed through her body, making her tremble for more. With a tiny moan of surrender, Rosie returned the increasing pressure of Jack’s lips and he responded with a triumphant, masculine purr of possession. His tongue flicked a command across her lips and they parted instinctively. She thrilled as his tongue caressed her mouth with hungry urgency. Shyly, Rosie emulated his movements and used her own tongue to explore in return. Instantly, Jack tangled his hand in her hair, turning her head to the angle he wanted, deepening the kiss to bittersweet fervour. Rosie encircled his torso with her arms, allowing her hands to explore the velvet sinews of his back.
A heavy step in the passageway outside signalled the arrival of Tom and they sprang apart immediately. Blushing, Rosie turned away and busied herself with the tray she had brought earlier, bending her head over her task until she had regained some composure.
When she raised her eyes she found Jack regarding her steadily. Her own feelings were mirrored in his expression, telling her everything she needed to know. Her heart gave an odd little thud, secure in the knowledge that the longing which absorbed her was returned.
Chapter Two
Seated at his bedside in her nightdress and wrapped in a large woollen shawl, Rosie studied Jack as he slept. He had expressed a deep and irrevocable loathing for Mr Delacourt’s’s best nightshirt and cast it aside. Rosie allowed her gaze to wander freely over his firm, sleek upper body with its fine musculature. Unaccountably, her breath came a little faster as she studied the coarse hair of his chest which became finer as it tapered over the taut slab of his abdomen before dipping lower. She imagined herself tracing its downward passage with her fingers and had to pull in a sharp gasp of air at the rush of sensation which seized her.
When the house was quiet, she gave into temptation and crept beneath the bedclothes to join him in his bed, cuddling up close to the warmth of his body. Jack, awakened by this scandalous action, found her physical presence reassuring, but he remonstrated with her and tried to impress on her how wrong it was for them to share a bed. Rosie laughed at his cautiousness, and looked so beautiful in the candlelight, with her ebony hair tumbling about her shoulders, her smoky eyes smiling into his that he could not resist her. Instead he held her close in the crook of his good arm and wished these precious moments could last forever.
As his strength began to return, however, his body started to react to her in the most natural but insistent way. Jack worried that the time would come when he would not be able to stop at kisses. This was a very real danger as Rosie had no hesitation in pressing her body against him innocently and trustingly. That made the blood pound at his temples and in other, more basic, parts of his body. Claiming her as his own, possessing her completely, was what he wanted to do more than anything in the world but he was not in a position to offer this darling girl his hand and his heart in marriage. Determined not to compromise her, he gently, but firmly told her she must sleep in her own bed from now on.
Rosie leaned on her elbow and studied his face, with wide, troubled eyes.
“But I enjoy sleeping here with you, Jack,” she told him plaintively, “I thought you liked it too.”
He laughed, “Rosie, I do like it. Believe me, I like it far too much!”
He explained and her eyes widened further as his meaning dawned on her. A becoming blush stained her cheeks and she buried her face against his chest in embarrassment. Her leg brushed his body and she felt his hardness throb against her. A shiver which was a combination of fear and pleasure ran through her as she exulted in this evidence of the power she had over him.
She propped her chin on his chest so that she could study his face, “I don’t know very much about such things, Jack,” she admitted, the blush deepening, “But, I think that means you would like to make love to me?”
He groaned softly, pressing a kiss onto her temple. “You will never know how much!” he told her, trying to keep his voice light, “But I am not sunk so far beneath reproach as that, my love.”
She sighed, “Would it be so very bad?” she asked, a slight crease between her brows, “Because I think I would like it very much too ...”
Jack shook his head. “You don’t know what you are saying ... how could you? Rosie, my love, you are so innocent you can have no idea how wrong it would be.”
“It doesn’t feel like it would be wrong, Jack” her voice was coaxing, her hand stroking his chest, “It seems to me that this ‘innocence’ you talk about is just a barrier to our happiness. I wish you would take it away from me. I’m sure I won’t miss it, you know.”
“Enough, you shameless hussy!” he muttered, resolutely moving away from her, “You don’t know how tempting you are, or what you are asking. Now stop trying to wheedle me into forgetting that I am a gentleman and let us change this subject for one less dangerous.”
Rosie regarded him speculatively from beneath her lashes, making him chuckle appreciatively.
“Very well, I won’t tease you further ... for now,” she acceded reluctantly.
Rosie relented and allowed Jack to leave his bedchamber for lunch. This meal was taken in the breakfast parlour. With its family portraits on the walls, tapestry covered chairs and gold silk draperies, it was a cosier setting than the formal dining room. As they lingered over the meal, he tried to explain his loyalty to Bonnie Prince Charlie.
“My mother was a Scotswoman and could, in fact, claim kinship to the royal Stuart clan. My father was a close friend of the Old Pretender, so it was in some ways inevitable that I should throw in my lot with his son. I completed the ‘grand tour’ after Eton, and I first met him then.” He passed her an apple he had peeled, and she received it with a smile of thanks. “I truly believe he is more fitted for kingship than the Hanoverians who currently occupy our throne,” he went on, watching her neat, white teeth bite into the crisp fruit, “They are provincial and boorish in comparison.”
Rosie had been reared by her father to view James Stuart as the rightful king and his son, Prince Charles, as the heir. As a girl, she had delighted in h
earing about the Young Pretender’s heroic looks and dashing exploits. Now his designs on the throne were having a direct impact on her life and, privately, she wished he would return to the continent and stay there.
“What will you do next?” Rosie enquired, longing to know Jack’s plans but dreading to hear him talk of leaving, “I mean, when you are fully well. Where will you go?”
He sighed and gazed out of the window for long minutes at the wintery scene, “My life changed that day at Swarkestone Bridge,” he said simply, avoiding the question momentarily.
Rosie nodded her understanding, “You came so close to death.”
“No, my life changed that day because it led me here, Rosie,” he held her gaze across the table and her heart gave that strange little leap that only Jack could cause it to do. “Before that day I would have died for the Jacobite cause, but now I have come to realise that I owe a greater obligation to myself ... and to my family name ... than to another man’s cause,” His eyes were infinitely sad and Rosie ached to go to him and put her arms around him. “I do not know the prince’s plans but I expect he will fight on across the border,” he told her bleakly, “I swore an oath of allegiance to him, and I will always be proud that I stood by his side. But my priorities have changed. Unless King George will issue me with a pardon, however, I am wanted for treason, and England is not safe for me. I must go to the prince in Scotland and explain my case, before asking my uncle, who is respected by King George, to petition for clemency.”
“Must you go? Can you not stay here and continue to be my cousin Jack?” Rosie asked, with a catch in her voice that made him ache to hold her close.
“Rosie,” she lifted her face and his eyes raked her enchanting countenance longingly, “I must gain that pardon so that there is no longer a price on my head. If I can clear my name I can return to my estates and begin to live a normal life again. While I stay here and do nothing I cannot ask … any lady … to be my wife.”
“Is there a lady you wish to ask?” her delightful lower lip trembled.
He regarded her steadily, “There is,” he said sombrely.
The desire to sweep her into his arms and count the world lost forever was overwhelming. He fought the impulse and stayed where he was.
“But I would have to be the worst cad in the world to ask her to share my shame.”
Rosie bit her lip to stop it shaking, “Perhaps she would not care,” her voice was pathetically tinged with tears now. Aware that she was perilously close to begging, she swallowed her pride and ploughed on, “Perhaps she would rather share your exile than be without you?”
“The lady I love must not accept damaged goods,” he said proudly. “She is worth infinitely more than I can give her.”
Rosie got to her feet jerkily and came towards him, “Why don’t you ask her what she feels, Jack?”
Jack forced himself to remain in his seat. Thankfully, his resolve was not tested further because, just at that moment, Mr Delacourt bumbled into the room looking for a book he had mislaid that morning.
Rosie slipped away. Her father might be absent minded but he could, on occasion, be remarkably and quite annoyingly perceptive. Retreating to her bedchamber and throwing herself down on the bed she indulged in a bout of weeping that left her exhausted. Mrs Glover overheard her and peeped into the room in concern.
“Are all men proud ... and stubborn ... and doltish about nonsensical things such as honour ... and innocence ... and people’s reputations and good names?” Rosie demanded angrily, punctuating her tirade by giving her pillow a series of vicious thumps.
“The good ones are, child,” Mrs Glover patted her shoulder sympathetically.
***
Sir Clive Sheridan was in a cheerful mood. He had recently returned from a trip to London. He was looking forward to sharing the latest news from the capital, together with the military gossip from Derby, with his neighbour, Mr Delacourt. Even more than that, he was relishing the thought of seeing Mr Delacourt’s beautiful daughter again.
Sheridan Hall, Sir Clive’s family estate was the largest property in the neighbourhood and, as its owner, he was known locally as ‘the Squire’. His father had fulfilled that role to admiration and had been widely and deeply loved in the local community. There had been rumours throughout the district about Sir Clive's mother. A fragile beauty who, so the scandal-mongers reported, was possessed of a reckless streak. Which did not sit well with the austerity of her position as wife of the Squire. She had come to an unhappy end, just a few short weeks after the birth of her son, when she drowned in the river which flowed through her husband's land. There was still some local speculation about the circumstances of her death. Mrs Glover, whenever the subject was mentioned, would purse her lips and say that no good ever came of trying to cultivate a wild flower.
Sir Clive, unbeknownst to most of his acquaintance, was fighting an on-going battle with his twin addictions of gambling and prostitution. Systematically gaming and whoring away a respectable fortune had brought him to the point where the acquisition of a wealthy wife was not only a means of adding to his comfort and consequence. It was also an absolute necessity. The protection of the legacy of respectability, bequeathed to him by his esteemed father, had recently become something of an obsession with him.
Sir Clive considered the matter of his marriage dispassionately. There were at least three young ladies of his acquaintance who would make better housewives than Miss Delacourt. None of the others, however, affected him in the way that Rosie did. He did not dream of their pretty lips and laughing eyes. Not once had he cast even one of the other ladies a sidelong glance and pictured himself releasing her soft bosom from the confines of her gown. The fact that Rosie had a flash of spirit only added spice to his desire. He would know how to bring the independent Miss Delacourt to her knees … and the very thought made him breathe a little harder. The marriage bed would be the place to extinguish some of that fire of hers, and – by God – she would see the world differently on the following morn! No, Sir Clive had made up his mind that Rosie Delacourt must become ‘my Lady Sheridan’ so that his obsessive, but amazingly pleasant, fantasies about her could be made reality.
It helped that Mr Delacourt was by far the wealthiest gentleman in the neighbourhood and it was well known that his daughter would have a generous dowry and an enviable inheritance. It was unfortunate that she had a younger brother, who would inherit the bulk of the estate. But the lad was only twelve and anything might happen between now and the attainment of his majority. Sir Clive almost licked his lips at the thought of the bounty that would enhance both his coffers – and his bed – when Rosie became his. It was in just such a state of pleasurable anticipation that he was admitted into The Grange by Mrs Glover. She told him that Mr Delacourt was shut up in his study but that Miss Rosie and Mister Jack were in the parlour. Sir Clive’s brows drew together at the mention of the hitherto unknown visitor, but he waved the housekeeper aside, assuring her that he knew his way.
The parlour door was open and he heard Rosie’s laughter as he approached. She was seated at a small table and was engaged in a game of chess with a man – presumably the ‘Mister Jack’ Mrs Glover referred to – who had his back to the door. Rosie was holding one of her opponent’s chess pieces in her hand and he was admonishing her, in a softly spoken, cultured voice, to stop cheating and return it immediately.
Rosie promptly responded by smiling tauntingly before placing the piece inside her bodice. Sir Clive, appalled at such wanton behaviour, decided he would not yet make his presence known. Instead he watched from one side of the doorway as, oblivious, it seemed, to anything else, they confronted each other. Rosie got to her feet and danced away from the table, casting a roguish look over her shoulder as she did. The man rose too and Sir Clive noted with dismay the grace with which he carried himself, the sinewy strength apparent even in the ill-fitting clothes he wore. A glimpse of finely chiselled, aristocratic features made the covert observer’s heart sink further. T
he stranger followed Rosie, who allowed herself – without much effort, Sir Clive noted angrily – to be cornered in the window embrasure.
“Rosie, you little wretch!” Sir Clive bristled at the familiarity his words betrayed, as the man placed a hand against the wall either side of her shoulders, effectively encircling and imprisoning her. Rosie did not appear unduly perturbed at this action. In fact, from her sparkling expression, it might be even inferred that she was very much enjoying herself.
“Do you think I won’t take it from you?”
The saucy look left Rosie’s face at his words and she replied in a voice throbbing with deeper meaning, “But Jack, I wish you would! Indeed, have I not pleaded with you night after night to take it from me?”
Sir Clive had the oddest feeling that, with those words, she caused the very air around them to crackle with static electricity. With a spluttered exclamation, he strode into the room just as the gentleman, with a short, husky laugh, bent his head closer.
They moved apart without surprise or embarrassment and, as Rosie came forward to greet Sir Clive in her usual friendly way, he felt rather foolish at what now appeared to be an overreaction on his part.
