Sick at heart, he returned home. After paying the driver a ridiculously generous fare, plus a retainer for the morrow, Garrick arranged for him to return the next morning, then sent him on his way. No longer buoyed by anger, Garrick trudged the short distance up his front walk with barely enough energy to complete the journey to his door.
Despite the welcoming light that he’d left burning in the front hall, he fumbled the key, nearly dropping it before he got the door open. Once inside, he was about to close the door behind him, when a shadow moved out of the darkness and rushed toward him.
“I didn’t know where else to come,” Jenny cried, throwing herself at him with such force that Garrick stumbled back against the wall.
“Thank God,” was all he could say, though he had the presence of mind to kick the door shut before he grabbed her in a fierce hug that must have squeezed the breath from her lungs. Without any thought for what he was doing, Garrick spun her around, backed her against the wall and kissed her roughly. Forgetting what should have been the restrained tenderness of a first kiss, he dug both hands into her hair and pinned her beneath him so she had no choice but to yield to his suppressed passion, now freed by an overwhelming relief that obliterated all reason. When he finally released her, they were both panting for air.
“I thought you would be angry with me,” Jenny said in a thin, high voice, sounding so much like a child who feared a scolding that Garrick finally came to his senses.
“No, my silly girl.” He pulled her head down against his shoulder to keep her from seeing the consternation he knew to be plainly written on his face. He had crossed a line from which there was no return. Now they both knew the feelings he had struggled for so long to deny.
Jenny nuzzled against his neck and wrapped her arms around his waist. What a tender trap I’ve walked into, Garrick thought ruefully, honest enough to admit that he had no wish to extricate himself. Instead, he scooped her up and carried her into the library, where he dropped onto the armchair, bringing her down with him on his lap.
“I was worried sick about you.” Garrick kissed her on the lips, gently this time, though when he drew back he could see by her pleased look that Jenny sensed the fire smoldering beneath his careful reserve.
She sighed, guileless in her contentment. “I knew I’d be safe with you.”
Garrick had been with many women in his day, and loved only two. But Jenny was the first to make him feel utterly needed. He smiled down at her indulgently.
“Now what am I going to do with you?”
Jenny gasped and clutched at his lapels. “Don’t make me go home. Please.”
“No.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Not until it’s safe.”
“Papa struck Mrs. Cooper. He meant to hit me.”
“I know. She came here and told me what happened.”
“Is she all right?”
“She had a black eye, but it will heal. I sent her to her brother’s house. She’ll be well taken care of there.”
“Good.” Jenny nestled into Garrick’s lap, innocent of the effect on him.
“I think it’s time you went to bed.” He had hoped in this way to remove himself from temptation, but when Jenny hummed with satisfaction, wriggling against him like a tiny creature burrowing into its nest, he knew the benign intent of his words had been lost on her. He stroked her hair, adding as firmly as he could manage, “Alone.”
She gave a little huff of disappointment and pouted prettily. Garrick, already aroused, felt himself go as hard as stone.
“You’ll have to wear one of my shirts,” he said, trying to ease her off his lap. “I’m not in the habit of keeping ladies’ nightdresses at hand.”
“I don’t have to wear anything,” Jenny purred, while her hand crept up his chest. She had already undone his waistcoat before he had the wits to grab her wrist.
“Neither am I in the habit of taking unfair advantage of a damsel in distress.”
“Surely you wouldn’t be taking advantage if the damsel agrees.”
Her one hand still at liberty wandered dangerously close to his trouser fly. Garrick caught her just in time.
“Jennifer, behave yourself,” he said sternly.
She sighed in unfeigned disappointment. “Only if I have to.”
“Believe me, you do. For both our sakes.” Despite his better sense, Garrick gave in to the urge to bury his face in her hair. He inhaled, drinking in her jasmine scent, then whispered in her ear. “I’m only human, my dear, and very near the breaking point.”
To his relief, she relented, climbing out of his lap, then offering her hand to help him to his feet. “Well then, show me to my bedroom.”
“At your command, my princess.” Garrick gave a mock bow, trying to lighten the mood, and hoped she did not realize the truth of his words.
* * *
Garrick never would have thought it possible, but he fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had left Jenny in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, only half joking when he told her to lock the door from the inside. Once Alfred Tate was on the train for San Francisco, he would see her home again, safe from her beast of a father. And, just as importantly, safe from him.
Since he went to sleep with a massive erection, it was no surprise that he awoke with one. But the room was dark and, still half dreaming, he turned onto his side, thinking he had at least another couple of hours before dawn.
He must have immediately fallen back asleep, because he was dreaming of Jenny, her warm body next to his. He pulled her closer, draping his leg over hers, both of them naked, as intimate as it was possible to be without being joined in lovemaking. She sighed, snuggling closer, crushing her breasts against his chest, releasing a surge of lust in him that had him pressing his hard member into the soft flesh of her belly.
Garrick’s eyes shot open. Like an electric light that has just been switched on, he went from deep sleep to complete wakefulness in an instant.
It wasn’t a dream.
“Jennifer!” He tried to push her away, but she clung to him like a limpet to a rock.
“I was so lonely.”
“Good God, you have to leave. Now.”
“I love you, Richard.”
“I’m old enough to be your grandfather,” he said weakly, knowing he needed a better strategy to fend off her advances.
“I don’t care.” She began planting kisses on his neck and chest.
“Stop it, please. Christ.”
He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back against the bed to get her off him. This move proved a big mistake, one of many. She grabbed his shoulders in turn and, surprisingly strong, pulled him on top of her, spreading her legs wide. He moaned and tried to pull away, but she wrapped her legs around his waist, arching her back and inviting him to enter her.
“I want to please you, Richard. Show me what to do.”
“No, Jenny. Jesus.” He peeled her legs off him and threw himself back, nearly falling off the bed.
She started to cry and plead with him at the same time, which he found harder to deal with than her desperate attempt at seduction. “I’m not appealing to you. You don’t want me. You don’t even like me,” she wailed.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said harshly.
“I’ll never be pleasing to you, even a little. Oh . . . ” She sniffed back her tears, then started to sob. “I don’t mean anything to you. I might as well be dead.”
“Be quiet, for God’s sake.” At that moment, he wanted to strangle her almost as much as he wanted to have her. “You’re the most exasperating child I’ve ever encountered.”
“I’m not a child! I’m eighteen—almost.”
“And I’m fifty four. Do you know your sums? Can you calculate that I’ve lived three of your lifetimes? Think about it, Jenny. Accept the numbers, they don’t lie.”
She clapped her hands over her ears. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I DON’T CARE!”
“Do you know what people wil
l say? That you’re an innocent young girl debauched by a lecherous old man.”
“That’s a lie. Why should we bother about other people’s lies?”
“They won’t care a fig for the truth of the matter, either, which is almost as bad—that I’m a middle aged fool who has fallen in love with a beautiful young girl I have no right to desire.”
Beside him, Jenny went so quiet that he slid his hand across the sheets to touch her, just to be certain she was still there and not a dream after all.
She jumped when his fingertip grazed her thigh, then blurted out her question. “Did you just say you love me?”
Now he was done for. He could tell she was holding her breath, waiting for him to answer.
“Yes, God help me. This old man loves you.”
“You’re not an old man. You’re my knight, my hero—my rescuer.” She started to roll on top of him, and he had to fend her off again.
“Because I love you, I refuse to take your innocence,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “And you should value yourself as highly as I do. You should save yourself for marriage.”
There was a brief moment of intense silence, when Garrick could have sworn he heard the gears turning inside Jenny’s head. Then, with a persistence that could wear down a saint, much less a mere mortal like himself, she snared him with his own words.
“Then you’ll just have to marry me.”
Garrick laughed in spite of himself. “You never give up, do you?”
“Isn’t that a quality to be admired?”
He laughed again, a real belly laugh, giving himself up to the ridiculousness of the situation. “I do believe I admire all your qualities. Especially your tenacity.”
“Will you?”
“What?” he asked, befuddled by laughter and lust and all the rest of it.
“Marry me.”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to ask that question.”
“Oh!” Her quiet exclamation was followed by a wounded silence, until finally she asked in a tiny voice, “Does that mean no?”
She sounded so forlorn, he wanted to gather her in his arms and comfort her, a gesture that would, unfortunately, only worsen his predicament.
“It means that you must learn to wait for the proper moment, darling. And in the meantime, stay on your side of the bed and keep your hands to yourself.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes, unless you say otherwise.”
“Go to sleep now,” Garrick answered, refusing to say yes, and unable to say otherwise.
The mattress shifted as Jenny obediently turned away from him onto her side. Garrick turned in the opposite direction, perching on the very edge of the bed. Staring into the darkness, knowing sleep to be an impossibility, he spent the rest of the night asking himself the same question over and over, with no hint of an answer.
Dear God in heaven, now what?
Chapter Forty four
I shall not trouble you again.
There had been an ominous finality to Jonathan’s words, an angry determination in the way he turned his back on her. If only he would quit pressing her for an answer she could not give. She never meant to hurt him, but she had. Deeply. And now . . .
Now he hated her.
Isabelle thought she had been wandering aimlessly through the house, but standing now at the foot of the stairs, she realized her self deception. From the moment Jonathan turned his back on her, she had known what she must do. Yet knowing it was the right thing to do made it no easier.
Isabelle mounted the steps with grim determination, feeling like a condemned prisoner climbing toward the gallows. She wouldn’t plead for mercy. No. Refusing to beg for pity was the only dignity left to her.
At the top of the stairs she looked blindly to her right and left. The upper storey was swathed in darkness. She hadn’t thought to bring a lamp—truth be told, she hadn’t been thinking at all. Jonathan’s room could be anywhere.
The darkness offered a welcome excuse to turn back. Then, as if to mock her fleeting hope of reprieve, a light appeared like a beacon to guide her. It was some distance away, just a thin sliver of light escaping from a crack beneath an ill fitted door. Isabelle took its appearance as an omen. There was no choice but to follow the light, no choice but to accept the inevitability of her shame.
She proceeded cautiously, one hand feeling the air ahead of her, the other trailing along the wall. A single careless move, and she might send an antique vase crashing to the floor, or some other priceless bric a brac that cost more than she could hope to earn in a lifetime.
In fact, it was a dispiriting thought, practically anything in this house was worth more than her miserable life. What did she have to show for her years, except having hurt the only kind, gentle man she’d ever known? The only man who made her feel safe, who made her feel . . . She couldn’t describe how he made her feel.
Outside Jonathan’s door Isabelle came to herself, the way a sleepwalker suddenly wakes to unfamiliar surroundings, confused and disoriented. It was like coming to the end of a long tunnel with no memory of how she had gotten there.
A sudden panic welled up inside her and with it a wild urge to turn and run. Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood throbbed in her temples. Darkness bore down on her, smothering her, until each breath became a painful struggle to suck air into her lungs.
She had come this far, she could not turn back now. If it meant standing there until daylight, then so be it.
The anxiety slowly passed, or at least diminished to a level that allowed her to breathe and to move again. She knew it would be foolish to wait any longer. The fear might attack again at any moment.
Isabelle lifted her fist and knocked on Jonathan’s door with as much boldness as she could muster. A long silence followed. After the fierce struggle with her fears, after winning a temporary victory of sorts, she had never considered that Jonathan might simply ignore her. That he might simply refuse to acknowledge her presence.
She was gathering her courage to knock again when the door abruptly opened. Jonathan emerged into the darkness like an apparition, his white shirt dazzling her light starved eyes.
“What do you want?” His voice was a rough growl. He blocked her entrance, leaning his arms on either side of the doorjamb, making it clear he was less than pleased to see her.
Isabelle stared up at him, blinking rapidly against his radiance. He looked like an angel. A bright, shining, angry angel with no face. Instead of the careful apology she had hoped to make, she artlessly blurted out the truth.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
Behind the mask, Jonathan’s eyes were two dark shadows. They held nothing for her. No forgiveness. No mercy. Not even belief.
Isabelle fought the urge to beg. The only thing that kept her from dropping to her knees, from wrapping her arms around his legs and clinging to him, was the certainty that he would slough off such overwrought behavior in disgust.
“Please,” she whispered, begging in spite of herself.
Jonathan stood his ground, looming over her. A full minute must have passed before he finally spoke, and then it was to utter a single harsh word. “Why?”
Jonathan stared down at her, unblinking, silently demanding an answer.
“Because I need you . . . ” The rest of it caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, then managed to finish in a whisper. “ . . . to believe me.”
Jonathan’s hard stare softened. After a slight hesitation, he lowered his arms and stepped back slowly, half hiding behind the door as he motioned her into the room.
Isabelle went a few steps past the threshold before stopping. She looked around the room, not really seeing any of it.
Jonathan closed the door and motioned her toward a chair near the window. He waited for her to seat herself, then took the chair opposite. They sat in uncomfortable silence, each avoiding the other’s eyes.
Jonathan drew an audible breath, letting it out slowly in an obvious effort to gain self control. Eve
n so, the irritation showed in his voice when he repeated his question. “What do you want?”
Stupidly, all she could think to say was what she had already said.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
He made a slight, dismissive wave with his left hand, then returned it to his lap, covering his deformed hand.
Hiding his scars from others had become second nature to Jonathan, Isabelle realized. The observation struck her as unbearably sad.
“And yet I seem to hurt you at every turn.” She raised her eyes to his, hoping he would see the sincerity in them. “I am sorry.”
Jonathan turned his head aside, partially shielding his face from her view, as though he feared she could see through his mask to the scars beneath. Or perhaps it was simply because he preferred not to look at her.
“It is I who should be sorry.” His voice dropped so low, he seemed to be speaking to himself. “To dream that someone as beautiful as you would agree to share my life, even in the most diminished capacity.”
Isabelle frowned. She was the one meant to be apologizing. “You are wrong. You do yourself an injustice.”
Jonathan faced her again with a defiant tilt of his chin that revealed more hurt than disdain. “I wear this mask to avoid doing you an injustice.”
Jonathan’s quiet statement recalled to her the cruel words she had flung at him when they last parted. She bowed her head, staring at her lap to avoid meeting his gaze. “I should never have made that remark.”
Jonathan kept his silence. He was too kind to agree with her, and too honest to deny the truth.
“You are not, you have never been ugly to me. I know you believe otherwise, but . . . ” Isabelle could not bring herself to finish the thought. Jonathan would never believe her if she told him that the scars on his body were not nearly as hideous as her own.
“I allowed you to touch my face. Do you wish I hadn’t?”
His question shamed her, reminding her of yet another way she had hurt him. “I wish I hadn’t asked you to reveal what you preferred to keep hidden.”
A Bed of Thorns and Roses Page 37
