by Godman, Jane
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 observers 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.
Jack examined the feelings this little, trusting gesture aroused in him and decided he liked them. Shifting position slightly so that he could slip an arm about her waist, he drew her closer. Her warm familiar scent took his mind back to that January night when she had lain, sweet and warm, in his arms.
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.
“You are most kind, my lord, to concern yourself so closely with Miss Delacourt’s welfare.”
Rosie caught her breath fearfully as she recognised the change in his demeanour.
“I am sure she has already thanked you most generously … in the unique manner she reserves only for you.”
Jack’s hand made a gesture, as if to reach for an imaginary sword-hilt, “Your meaning, sir?”
Sir Clive sneered, “I think you know it, my lord.”
“Then, by God, you shall answer for it!”
“Jack,” Rosie’s quiet voice penetrated the fog of his anger and he paused. “Please don’t do this.”
“I’ll not allow this brute to speak so of you and not call him to account for it.” His words were terse, spoken through lips set in a hard, cold line.
“You must,” she reminded him gently, the words pained her more than she would have believed possible, “He is to be my husband.”
His eyes raked her face hungrily. “Come with me now,” he urged her, “You may not love me, but you cannot accept this treatment. You do not have to marry this oaf.”
Sadly, she gave a tiny shake of her head.
“I do,” she told him simply and Sir Clive threw a triumphant glance his way.
Jack cursed himself for allowing her to get under his skin again. Until today he had been doing a passable job of convincing himself he didn’t care.
“Then you and I can have no more to say on this matter.”
With a stiff bow he turned away and Sir Clive, grasping Rosie’s upper arm in a claw-like grip, propelled her into the house.
Jed regarded the closed door with bewilderment. As Jack, his expression unreadable, prepared to climb back into the gig once more, Jed said in disgust. “You’re going to let her marry him, squire?” When Jack did not answer, he added. “You must have windmills in your head!”
Jack paused, “Mustn’t I?” he said, half to himself. Then, crossly, “Here, you can drive this blasted contraption and have your meagre brain rattled. Give Thunderer to me!”
Two days later, dinner was an uncomfortable affair. Even Lady Aurelia, not the most perceptive of hostesses, seemed subdued, and Harry, as always, refused to sit at the same table as Sir Clive. He chose to eat instead from a tray in his room. Rosie and her ladyship made desultory conversation throughout the meal, to which Sir Clive made no contribution. Instead he sat, at the head of the table, watching his betrothed with an expression of brooding intensity. He did not linger over his port, and he joined the ladies in the drawing room. His presence cast an instant dampener over their discussion about the requisite size and shape of a diamante shoe buckles. Dispensing with her usual coy exclamations about her duties as a chaperone, her ladyship left the affianced couple alone after dinner. In point of fact, she seemed deeply relieved to be able to do so.
Sir Clive joined Rosie, who was seated at a table flicking through the fashion plates in a periodical, and she braced herself for the inevitable.
“It now becomes urgent that you supply me with the funds I require to pay my debts.”
“Clive, even if I wished to do so, you must believe me when I tell you that I do not have access to the capital of my inheritance. It remains in trust until we are married. Which is,” she resisted the inclination to shudder, “After all, not so very far hence.”
“I am afraid
that your capital will not be sufficient to save Sheridan Hall. You must find a way to access your brother’s inheritance immediately.”
Rosie stared at him in consternation, “But Clive, how can this be so? You cannot, surely, have allowed things to come to such a pass that Sheridan Hall itself is at risk?”
“Don’t preach to me!” he snarled and her stomach tensed at the expression on his face. “You are damaged goods, my dear – whore to a rebel, daughter and sister of traitors … Yet you have the audacity to criticise my conduct? I suggest you take a long hard look at your own character first, madam betrothed! You are fortunate to have found a man to offer you the protection of his name. But, by God, do I see any gratitude in you? No! You do your damnedest to thwart me at every turn!”
He was lashing himself into one of the rages that Rosie feared and which seemed to be getting more regular and intense. She said, calmly,
