by Holly Newman
This she enjoyed, she thought, looking around her at the pearl-gray skies and the shades of green and brown in the landscape. She enjoyed the slow sway of the wagon as it rumbled down the dirt lane and the birds that flew before them, disgruntled at the intrusion into their feeding grounds. She enjoyed the time to play the harpsichord and the time to merely sit by a fire or a window to think. She realized she even enjoyed the silence of the night without the calls of the night watchman or the rattle of carriages along the pavement, or the drunken bawdy songs of the town bucks as they made their way home after a night carousing on the town.
She was not made as her parents were, and that identification of the uncomfortable itch on her soul eased some of the turmoil in her heart. She smiled.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering, I'm afraid."
"From a very odd lot of sheep."
"Pardon?"
"Your face, Miss Maybrey. It has run a gamut of emotions. Every time I glanced your way, a different emotion was there. I was so fascinated by the changes I could scarcely keep my attention on driving the cart."
Jocelyn blinked and blushed. She opened her mouth and closed it several times in succession as she thought of, then quickly discarded, one answer after another. Ultimately she realized there was no direct answer to be given.
"Is something troubling you, Miss Maybrey? Aside from my Aunt Bayne, and I beg you not to let her trouble you. I believe she would try the patience of a saint," he said with a soft laugh. "But leaving that unfortunate situation aside, is there anything wrong? I know this is being forward, but I am concerned."
She shook her head. "What troubles me would not halt an ant. It is nothing, my lord. Merely my own silliness. Mother tells me I can be a goose at times."
"That I do not believe. I think you are far wiser than most. . . . There, Anne, do you see that bunch of green high in the oak tree ahead? That's your mistletoe."
"Up there? But how do we get it, Papa? It's too high!" Tarkington laughed. "I haven't done so in years, but I believe I still can climb a tree."
"My lord!" exclaimed Jocelyn.
"Don't you believe I can, Miss Maybrey?"
"Yes, yes, of course you can," Jocelyn stammered, "But what of your clothes?"
He glanced down at his immaculate fawn-colored greatcoat. "Yes, I see your point. Greatcoats are not conducive to climbing." He jumped down from the wagon seat, took off his coat, and slung it over the edge of the seat.
"My lord! You'll catch a chill!"
"Devil a'bit, Miss Maybrey. You fuss more than my mother," he teased. He reached for Lady Anne. "Come on, poppet, down you go. . . . I need you to help catch the mistletoe when it falls." He set his daughter down and wordlessly held out his hand for Jocelyn.
Jocelyn, flustered by his teasing, tripped over the end of the lap robe that had fallen to the floorboard. Tarkington caught her by the waist as she stumbled forward. As her color soared higher, the Marques's grin grew broader. Never did he look less like the serious man of Lady Mary's description.
The intimate feel of his hands around her waist ricocheted tingling heat throughout her body. In shock she raised questioning eyes to meet his only to have their gazes lock. Slowly he set her on the ground, but his hands remained at her waist. The air grew thick between them. Jocelyn saw a pulse beat in his neck and knew he was as strangely affected as she. That knowledge calmed her fears, and the tingling heat grew, spreading throughout her body. Her lips parted in wonder at the sensations she felt, at the warmth of the expression in his gray eyes like sunlight reflecting on a still pond. The tips of his fingers pressed against her back to pull her closer while his muscles tensed, his head dipped, and the pulse in his neck quickened.
"Papa, can I climb the tree, too?"
Tarkington's hands dropped from Jocelyn's waist. He crossed to his daughter's side and swung her up in his arms, his expression shuttered and rigid. "No, poppet," he said in a strangled voice. He cleared his throat. "It's too high a climb for you."
Jocelyn gasped at the realization that he'd intended to kiss her! Red surged into her cheeks, and she turned away from Tarkington and Lady Anne—ostensibly to look out over the countryside, in reality to hide the myriad emotions she knew to be chasing across her face. Vaguely she was aware of the marques setting his daughter back down and instructing her where to stand.
The sound of boots scraping against bark as he climbed the tree matched the emotions inside her. He'd been about to kiss her! And she'd wanted him to! Never had Mr. Bayne attempted more than to kiss her hand. Nor would she have allowed him further liberties. But she would have allowed Tarkington—would have welcomed them!
She brought a cold gloved hand up against her flaming cheeks. What could have possessed her? She was acting the flirt. Was it because he was a marques? Was she enamored with his title? She hoped not, for that would not allow her to think well of herself. Was it his widower circumstances?
Was it his country lifestyle? She acknowledged she did enjoy the different pace, the truth in nature, and the estate. Was it just some reaction of her disquiet, that curious dissatisfaction she'd felt with London and her season?
Why?
She glanced over her shoulder toward the tall oaks. Tarkington was on a high branch stretching to reach a clump of mistletoe. Jocelyn's heart constricted with fear. She closed her eyes tightly, afraid to see him fall.
"Good, Papa!" cheered Lady Anne, clapping gloved hands together.
Jocelyn opened her eyes to see Lady Anne jumping up and down. She looked up into the tree to see the marques edging back toward the trunk, a large clump of mistletoe in one hand.
"Miss Maybrey!" he called out as he worked his way down the tree from branch to branch. "Can you come catch this, please? There is a spot here where I shall need both hands."
"Certainly, my lord." She caught the bunch easily with only the loss of a few of its berries. She hurried to place it in the wagon, then climbed onto the seat before he could assist her. She didn't want him to touch her again. She was afraid if he touched her, she'd go up in flames.
Tarkington looked at her, a wry grin kicking up one corner of his lips, but he refrained from comment. He merely shrugged his greatcoat back on and swung Lady Anne up beside Jocelyn.
She didn't know what was wrong with her or how to control it. She came to Bayneville to celebrate Lady Mary's betrothal and possibly hear a proposal from Charles Bayne. She didn't come to Bayneville to fall in love with the marques!
A small cry rose up in her throat before she could stop it. In love! Where had that come from?
"Is something the matter, Miss Maybrey?"
"What? Oh, no, no, my lord. I just . . . I just had a small twitch in my leg. Reaction to the cold, I'm sure," she babbled against the tight breath in her chest.
"Wrap the lap robe securely around you and Lady Anne. We've gathered enough greenery for this jaunt. If Mother wishes more, she can send the grooms out. Time for some hot chocolate, I should think. What do you say, poppet?"
"Yes, Papa. And can I help dec'rate?"
"What of your nap?"
Lady Anne pouted. "I'm not sleepy. I'm too big for naps."
"Too big? And here I was thinking of napping this afternoon. Am I too big, too?" Jocelyn teased, though her voice was tight with strain and the awareness of the Marques's closeness. She laughed, and there was a touch of hysteria in her tone.
Tarkington frowned, a pensive light in his eyes. "We shall see," he told his daughter.
When they neared the bridge, the marques stopped the wagon and jumped down. He walked around the wagon to Jocelyn's side and reached for her. "Come here, Miss Maybrey."
"My lord, what . . . ?"
He reached up to pull her out of the wagon. Her startled, feeble resistance only caused her to fall heavily against his chest. Her gasp and protest were cut short when he stooped down to pick her up and hold her high against his chest.
A searing anger burned away em
barrassment and fear. She struggled against the strength of his arms around her.
"My lord! Put me down at once! How dare you! Put me down, I say!"
"In a moment, Miss Maybrey."
"What are you doing? What gives you the right? Who do you think you are? You go beyond yourself, my lord."
"Do I?" he asked in a calm, almost laughing tone that sent the heat of her anger burning brighter. "My only wish is to see you across the bridge without that terror."
"Noble sentiments, my lord, that to another might be an excuse but not to me. It will not work. I told you. Bridges make me nervous, but it is something I deal with. I do not ask others to do so, nor do I accept anyone's effrontery that they know more than I. You, my lord, are too full of a sense of self."
"Am I?"
"Yes. Now put me down at once!"
"Certainly, Miss Maybrey." He set her down and turned to walk toward the wagon. Which was on the other side of the bridge!
"What? . . . But . . ." Jocelyn floundered. Then as suddenly as her anger grew bright, it dimmed. She began to laugh. She laughed until she could no longer stand. She sank down onto the cold, hard-packed earth.
Tarkington had used her anger, her preoccupation with his effrontery, to carry her across the bridge. She'd had no opportunity for fear to tie her mind and heart into coiled knots. Not only had her anger burned away, but also her fear of him! What a predictable fool she'd been! She buried her head in her arms. At least she now understood his actions when they stopped to gather the mistletoe. He'd said he would make her crossing less traumatic. She supposed emotions like anger were less traumatic. He'd set it up very nicely. He should have been in the military. He'd shown his political acumen to be as good as always.
She sighed wearily and looked up as she heard the jangle of the wagon reins.
"Miss Maybrey?"
"Coming my lord," she said, her voice and face bland. She climbed up into the wagon, pulled a corner of the lap robe across her legs, and sat stiffly staring straight ahead.
"My apologies, Miss Maybrey."
"Nonsense, my lord. Come, Lady Anne, cuddle up against me. It is turning colder. I fear the wind has picked up."
The rest of the trip back to the manor was made in silence. Not even Lady Anne made a sound, burrowed as she was up against Jocelyn. By the time they reached the manor, Lady Anne was sound asleep. A footman would have taken the child, but the marques waved him away and came around the wagon to take her from Jocelyn's arms. As they passed the precious burden between them, their arms touched. Jocelyn's eyes flew to the marques. He met her glance, but she could not read what she saw there. Quickly she looked down at Lady Anne, and when she was certain he had her full weight, she pulled away.
She entered the house after the marques and was surprised to discover he had not immediately taken Lady Anne to the nursery. Instead he stood in the hall talking to someone in whispers lest they wake the child. Curious, she stepped to the side to see past the marques.
"Father!" she exclaimed, then clamped a hand over her mouth. "Father," she said again, this time on a whisper, "you're early! I did not expect to see you and Mr. Bayne until tomorrow! Mr. Bayne did come with you, didn't he?"
"Aye. The meeting was canceled. Too many complained of its proximity to Christmas. It's been rescheduled for after Twelfth Night, if you can imagine that long a delay. Bah! Charles has gone on to see his mother." He scratched his head. "Some dust up, or another bit of nonsense, I gather from the garbled message he received from her addle-pated maid."
Jocelyn blushed, last evening's impassioned defense of the marques on her mind. She looked up to find the marques watching her, an expression of sympathy in his eyes. For some reason that look of sympathy distressed her. She did not want him to feel sympathy for her. She wasn't certain sympathy was needed anywhere! If she had to do it again, she would, and if Mrs. Bayne dissuaded Charles from proposing, well, that was to the better, for she knew now she could never marry him Not now, not when she'd fallen in love with his cousin, whether that regard was returned or not. She could not bear being related to him, seeing him at family functions, and keeping her secret safe and her heart from breaking again and again. But neither did she wish the marques to think her a flirt! Oh, was there never such a coil? Best at least to warn her father.
"Mrs. Bayne and I had a slight disagreement last night."
"Disagreement?" her father asked.
A strangled sound, like a cut-off laugh, came from the marques.
She lifted her head high. "Hadn't you best take Lady Anne upstairs?"
She linked her arm in her father's and led him toward one of the parlors. "Yes, I'm afraid I took exception to a few things she said."
She was gratified to hear the sound of Tarkington's boots on the marble staircase. She relaxed and even allowed herself a small, wry laugh. "All your precepts on political negotiations were wasted, Father. When the moment came to disagree, I found myself blurting it out."
Sir Jasper Maybrey chuckled and patted her hand. "Mustn't refine too much, my dear. Charles will set things to right. Fine chap. Go far in government if he chooses."
"The thing is, Father, I'm not so certain I do wish him to set things right."
"What? What's this?" He cupped her chin in one broad hand.
She shrugged and pulled her head away. "I don't know, Father. I'm not like you and Mother, you know."
"Course you're not. Silly thing if you were. You're your own person. What you're feeling is just nerves, puss."
"But—"
"Trust your father. Everything will be fine once you see Charles again. Mark my words. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just peek in on Tarkington's library. Said I might when I met him in the hall. I hear the library here at Bayneville is a veritable archive of world political history." He rubbed his hands together. "If one must be immured in the country, a good political library is just the tick to take the edge off boredom."
"Yes, Father," Jocelyn said on a soft sigh as she watched him walk away.
Perhaps she really should take that nap she'd mentioned to Lady Anne. She felt exhausted, wrung out like an old kitchen mop. Slowly she made her way upstairs, but when she got to the top she stopped and stood thinking for a moment. Then with a smile she turned—not toward her own room, but toward Lady Mary's. Maybe she could help her sort out her troubled thoughts.
"Jocelyn! Come in! Come in! So tell me, what have you been up to while I've been confined here? I so chafe at staying in bed. But I am getting better, and Edward will be here tomorrow!"
"And you must be at your best for Lord Killingham!" Jocelyn sat on the edge of her friend's bed. "While you have been recovering, I've spent time antagonizing Mrs. Bayne, gathering Christmas greenery with Tarkington and Lady Anne, and generally confusing myself."
"This sounds like quite a story."
"I don't know about that. If it is a story, it is one without end, and boring at that. Last evening Mrs. Bayne said some dreadful things to Tarkington."
"I assure you, Jocelyn, it wasn't the first time."
"Perhaps not, but I could not sit quietly and listen to her malign him in the manner she did."
"What do you mean?"
"She doesn't believe he is worthy of his title. She believes he shirks his responsibilities. She doesn't see that, far from shirking his duties to his family and his title, he is fulfilling them beyond what many of his peers do."
"To be blunt, Jocelyn, my aunt wishes the title for her son. She has always chafed at being one step away from the dignities."
"I know, but I don't know why she believes an endless social round of parties and political speeches would make Tarkington a marques. The land and his people do. It does not matter if he is socially seen. It matters if he is seen by his daughter."
A frown creased Lady Mary's pale brow. "I had not thought of it in that way. . . ."
Jocelyn nodded, eager now to communicate her ideas. "Everyone comments on how he's changed since his wife's death, and they all
say it as if the change has been for the worse."
"But he's not the same, Jocelyn."
"So, is that necessarily bad? What, precisely, is bad? I'd like to know. I'd like to understand. I need to understand! What I've seen is a man who is attentive to his estate and its people, a man who is also loving and attentive to his motherless daughter. Where is the bad in that? Is he mistaken? Is he supposed to place society before those things?"
Lady Mary blinked at her friend, then a wide smile lit her face, chasing away any image of illness. "Jocelyn, you're in love with my brother!"
Jocelyn bit her lip and looked down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a painful blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks. "For my sins, yes," she said softly.
Then she looked up with a fierce, determined light in her eyes. "But do not say that to anyone. And I mean anyone!"
"But why? Why not?" Lady Mary leaned forward to lay her hands over Jocelyn's. "I think it's wonderful. What do you mean?"
"Charles Bayne."
"Oh. Yes, a bit awkward, that." She sighed and leaned back against her pillows. "Are you still going to marry Charles?"
"No. I don't know that I ever would have." Jocelyn rose from the bed and began to pace the room. "When I came to Bayneville, I was feeling uncomfortable about the entire matter. Nothing terribly wrong, just an odd itch. I first attributed it to a desire to leave London just for a spell. But it was more than that.— She shrugged. "I have discovered I do not want to live the same life my parents have. I don't enjoy the endless rounds of parties. They pall after a time."
"And that's the life Charles leads and will continue, for it is in that arena he has chosen to make his fortune."
"Yes. I believe in Mr. Bayne my parents see a kindred spirit and because of that first encouraged me to Mr. Bayne. I admit I like him, and now that I've time to consider, I realize I've felt comfortable with him because he reminded me of my parents. It was a safe, comfortable feeling. But I don't wish to be married to that feeling."
"No, I can see that. What are you going to do?"
