by Mary Balogh
Jessica was not necessarily in search of a love match. She knew that if she was to marry within her social class, she would probably marry and be married for any of several reasons. Her grandfather would wish her to ally herself to wealth and rank. She would wish also to like and respect her prospective husband. He would offer for her probably because of her relationship to the Marquess of Heddingly. She would hope also that she would be respected for her modest education and accomplishments.
She would not be married solely because she had a desirable body. And she would not marry a man for whom she felt only physical attraction. No matter how powerful that attraction was. She would never marry the Earl of Rutherford.
Her relief at not seeing him probably stemmed as much from this undesirable attraction as from embarrassment or dislike. When he was there, when she saw him, she was aware of nothing and of no one else. He was tall and athletic and of course impossibly handsome, as his grandmother had pointed out. And there was even a certain integrity in his character that drew her against her will. She knew that no matter what the circumstances, her person would somehow be safe with Lord Rutherford. There was the memory of the night at the inn, when he had entertained her with charming conversation during dinner and afterward insisted that she take his bed.
And always there were the memories of his kisses, of his touch, and the certain knowledge that he would be a lover who could make her forget all her scruples and even her very self if she would let him. And when she was with him, when he touched her, she always came perilously close to giving herself up to his care. To relax into his desire, to give herself to him body and soul, to forget that the person that was Jessica Moore mattered not at all to him, to forget that the future would hold nothing for them except a waning of passion and a long boredom: it was very hard to hold firm against all these urges when she saw him.
She was glad that he had made his offer the way he had. He had been so relaxed, so smilingly confident that she would swoon at his feet with gratitude for the great honor he had done her, so arrogant. Oh, yes, he had quite correctly labeled his own attitude. It had been relatively easy to refuse him. Anger had carried her through. And pride.
But oh, it had been difficult when he took her hand and uncurled her fingers not to lean forward to rest her forehead against his chest. And difficult not to call to him in panic when he strode from the room. Or to run after him down the stairs.
She wanted him, ached for him even when she could not see him. How much more dreadful it would be if she had to meet him as frequently as she had for the days preceding his offer. And how impossibly difficult it would be to see him at Hendon Park after all this time. To be in the privileged company of his family for that most intimate of seasons, Christmas.
Perhaps he would not come, Jessica sometimes thought, when she allowed herself to think of him consciously at all. But that possibility was so dreadful that she would always crowd it out of her mind and think of other more pleasant matters.
She had made several friends, young ladies whom she met frequently at various social functions, gentlemen of various ages, some of whom singled her out for a lone evening of gallantry only, some of whom became regular visitors at Berkeley Square and occasional escorts on the walks and drives that were becoming almost daily occurrences.
There was Sir Godfrey Hall, of course, but he was an easy, amiable friend merely. Jessica enjoyed his company and noted with amusement that whenever she saw him she almost invariably saw Lady Hope too, the latter trying with something less than subtlety to throw the two of them together. Yet it seemed that whenever Sir Godfrey offered to escort her anywhere, he had always asked Lady Hope first. There was Lord Graves, an older man of solid substance and little humor, whom she suspected of the intention to begin to court her seriously. There was Lord Beasley, who liked to show off his high-perch phaeton, a dangerous vehicle for winter conditions and for a man of his bulk, Jessica always felt, as she clung, smiling and apparently relaxed, to the seat beside him. And Mr. Menteith frequently sat beside her at assemblies or danced with her.
It would not be difficult, Jessica concluded, to acquire a husband for herself before the end of the coming Season. Despite her age, she seemed quite able to attract the notice of eligible gentlemen. And even if the fact that she was the guest of the Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh was part of the attraction, it could not be the whole matter, for the dowager had never substantiated that very vague explanation that Jessica was the granddaughter of a dear friend of hers. No one knew that she was the only granddaughter of a very wealthy marquess.
She would wait and see what Grandpapa would do about the dowager's letter. Perhaps she would go home with him and be content to live quietly in the country. Perhaps she would allow him to arrange a marriage for her or wait for one of the gentlemen she knew to offer for her. Perhaps she would be able to find something to do that would take her mind off the dreadful obsession she had with the Earl of Rutherford.
Lord Rutherford rested one booted leg against the velvet upholstery of the seat opposite him in his traveling carriage. He shifted his position and tried to find a more comfortable resting place for his back. Four days of travel, even inside a comfortable coach, were beginning to feel like protracted torture. He would have far preferred to ride the distance on horseback, or at least part of it. But good manners dictated that he stay with his companion. It was some relief to see the countryside begin to grow familiar and to know that there was only one tollgate between them and London. They would stay at his town house for the night before proceeding the short distance south to Hendon Park to join the rest of the family.
"We should be home in good time for dinner, sir," he said. "You will doubtless be as relieved as I to see the end of this journey."
"Never could stand traveling," the Marquess of Heddingly grumbled. "Roads full of potholes. Beds in inns full of fleas. Other places just as full of fools as the places one has just left behind. It always seemed pointless trouble to me."
"My grandmother will be delighted to see you, I
know," Lord Rutherford said. "And of course there will be mutual delight when you are reunited with Miss Moore."
"Headstrong girl," the marquess said. "Too much like her grandfather, I suppose. We never could agree on anything for more than five minutes together. I am glad to hear she has finally come to her senses, anyway."
"And she will have a secure future," Rutherford said. "Of that I can assure you, sir. She will not want for any luxury or any care as my wife."
"It is just as well," Lord Heddingly said, turning to look keenly from beneath bushy white eyebrows at his companion. "It is perfectly clear that you must marry the girl, Rutherford, as you have admitted yourself. But no great harm is done, I believe. I could not have chosen a more eligible husband for the girl myself."
"Thank you, sir," his companion said. "I would have been very careful, of course, not to compromise your granddaughter had I realized who she was. But she has never been willing to tell me. One is not always so careful of the honor of a governess."
"Typical of Jessica," the marquess said. "She probably don't even realize that she is bound to marry you. Will she have you without fuss, do you think? Does she care for you?"
"I have reason to believe that she does," Rutherford said after a pause. "But she is stubborn, sir, if you will pardon me for saying so. She will not take kindly to being told what she must do."
"Hm," the marquess said. "Leave her to me, my boy. Though Jessica has never been known to do as I say merely because I have said it."
"My grandmother will perhaps be my best advocate," Lord Rutherford said. "I believe Miss Moore is fond of her."
"And so she should be," the marquess said, "taken in off the street as she was. Dratted girl. She would probably have gone to the poorhouse sooner than come to me for help. I hope you will be firm with her when she is your wife, Rutherford. I do not believe that fool of a father of hers ever once gave the girl a good thrashing. Would probably do
her the world of good even now."
Lord Rutherford did not reply. He turned his attention to the window to view the final tollgate at which the carriage had already stopped. He felt a wave of amusement although he did not allow his expression to show it. He was quite sure that if he ever did persuade Jess to marry him, he would feel regular urges to pinion her beneath his arm and wallop her until she was too sore to sit down. He was equally sure that if he ever tried it, she would be sitting down in comfort long before his eyes recovered from their rainbow colored bruises.
But would she ever marry him? That was the key question. And he was far from confident even though his discoveries of the past few weeks had made it quite imperative that she do so. Confronting her with his new knowledge would only make her so much more stubborn and contemptuous, he did not doubt. He had a powerful ally in her grandfather, but it seemed that she could defy him too in a grand manner when she chose to do so.
And to think that he had once labeled Jess Moore as a little mouse, a gray governess, Rutherford thought with a grimace of wry humor as the carriage lurched into motion again.
Granddaughter of the Marquess of Heddingly, indeed! The only direct descendant of that legendary aristocrat, a man rarely seen but fabled to be enormously wealthy and very influential in the affairs of his country despite his physical retirement on his country estate. Jess was his granddaughter! And rather than submit to allowing the marquess to bring her out and arrange some sort of brilliant match for her, she had taken a situation as governess with those unspeakable Barries and become the colorless, demure creature he had first encountered. It was almost unbelievable.
It had taken him an irritatingly long time to find out the truth. All he had known for certain-and indeed he had not been thoroughly sure of even that-was that her father, one Adam Moore, had been a country parson in the county of Gloucestershire. Who could possibly have guessed that there would be two Adam Moores with parishes in that county and that he would have the misfortune to investigate the wrong one first? However, he had finally been brought face to face with the incredible truth. And he had taken himself off to call on the Marquess of Heddingly.
He was not quite sure why he had rushed away from London after her rejection without telling anyone he was leaving and without taking even the indispensable Jeremy with him. He knew he was going in search of her background, but why he did so he had not stopped to consider. She had refused him in a very definite manner. There seemed no possible way he could persuade her to reconsider. Indeed, he had not even wanted to change her mind when he left. He had been more furious than he could remember being for a long time. Had she had to treat his offer with such open contempt? Did she not understand what an effort of nerve it cost a man to propose marriage to the woman of his choice?
Perhaps he had been hoping to find that the worst of the stories she had told about herself were true. He did not know. He could not remember. Perhaps it would have soothed him to know for certain that he had narrowly missed allying himself to someone quite unsuitable for the rank of countess. Perhaps he had no clear motive at all. Perhaps there had just been the unconscious need to keep some contact with her.
He had certainly not dreamed of finding a very powerful reason for going back to her and insisting that she reconsider. When he recalled his relationship with Jess in light of his meeting with her grandfather-the attempted seduction in the Barries' library, the very nearly consummated seduction at the inn, the unchaste embrace and renewed offer of carte blanche at Lord
Chalmers' ball-he shuddered with embarrassment. He had never before dreamed of doing more than kiss the fingertips of an unmarried lady of her rank. He had had Jessica Moore in bed, his hands roaming and exploring every inch of her body! He had been within moments of violating that body.
She would have to marry him. Surely even a lady of her stubborn independence must see that. She had been hopelessly dishonored, her reputation compromised beyond repair. The only way out for her was to wed her would-be seducer. Once her grandfather arrived at Hendon, once he had talked to her, once everyone knew her real identity, she would realize for herself that she had absolutely no choice in the matter. Even if she hated him, even if she was repulsed by him, she must marry him.
But it was not as bad as that. She did not hate him, Rutherford convinced himself. She was certainly not repulsed by him. It was just that their relationship had made a very poor start, a purely physical start, and she was convinced that he saw her as a sexual object only. Her pride was hurt. But she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. She just needed to be persuaded that marriage to him was the answer.
He just wished that there were someone more tactful than he to do the persuading. Somehow he did not seem to have the gift of talking to Jess. He was always so conscious of her, of his great need for her, that he could not possibly act naturally with her. Always he seemed like two persons, the one taking the most disastrous approaches to communicating with her, the other standing back and watching in dismay.
Unfortunately, he did not believe there was any more tactful advocate of his cause. Obviously her grandfather was not the man. The marquess himself admitted that he and Jess had never been able to agree on anything for any length of time. And she had rebelled in no uncertain manner the last time he had tried to order her life. And Rutherford was not convinced that even his grandmother would be able to change Jess's mind once it was made up. The dowager might have a will of iron, but he suspected that perhaps she had met her match in Jess.
Lord Rutherford sighed as he gazed about him with some satisfaction at the buildings of London. Jess. How would he ever get her out of his blood if she refused him this time? He might have agreed with her a few weeks before that his need for her was a purely physical thing, that if he could once bed her a few times, the obsession would disappear and she would become merely a woman to be used until all pleasure gave way to boredom. But it was not so. How absurd ever to have thought it.
Jess was part of his very being. He did not know her very well. She had never allowed him close enough to the person that she was. But he knew one thing. The one goal of his life, the one activity that could make it worth living, was to reach beyond the self-imposed barriers and learn to know her as well as he knew himself. He wanted her in his bed, yes. Nothing had changed that desire. But that would not be enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted Jess in his home, in his life. In his heart.
If he had discovered one thing during his long and tedious travels of the previous few weeks, he had discovered that. He loved Jessica Moore.
"We will be home in ten minutes, sir," he said, turning to his silent traveling companion with a smile, "and I do believe we will have time for a rest before dinner. I am sure you could use one."
"Damn the rest," the marquess said. "A hot bath and a good stiff drink will go a much farther way to restoring me, Rutherford. I shall spend long enough in my bed, doubtless, in the coming years unless I have the good fortune to pop off suddenly."
11
Lady Hope was looking almost pretty, Jessica decided. And it was strange really, because that lady was not dressed up in any of the finery that she usually wore when Jessica saw her. She was wearing a warm woolen dress, which had obviously seen better days. And even that was not wholly visible behind a large paint-streaked bibbed apron. Her dark hair, usually schooled into a tidy and smooth chignon, was less than immaculate, stray wisps having escaped from their bonds all over her head. Her cheeks were glowing with color.
The two ladies were relaxing on the window bench of the nursery at Hendon Park, favorite country seat of the Duke of Middleburgh. Lady Hope had been on all fours on the floor, one shrieking nephew on her back, a cousin's infant yelling to be allowed up as well, when Jessica had come to visit. The game of horsy had come to an abrupt end despite Jessica's laughter and protests. Lady Hope had scrambled to her feet, apologizing for her loss of dignity, her less than immaculate appearance, and the paint that her young niece had daubed her with earlier as they h
ad tried to reproduce the scene from the window.
And now she was trying to appear dignified as she perched beside Jessica, ignoring the pleas of niece and nephews and other young relatives to come and play.
"I daresay I would quickly tire of playing with the little dears if I had some of my own," she said. "Foolish, is it not, my dear Miss Moore, to enjoy romping with the youngsters at my age?"
"Not at all," Jessica assured her. "I am sure they all look forward vastly to seeing you, Lady Hope. I believe too many times children see all too little of their parents or other adult members of their family until they are old enough to join them at adult entertainments."
"Just look at that child!" Lady Hope said with an indulgent smile. "No, no, Robbie, my love, it is not gentlemanly to pull your sister's hair. You see? Now you have made her angry. Don't slap, dear. Yes, I know he pulled your hair, but it is not ladylike to retaliate. There. Robbie will apologize, will you not, my love?"
"Mm." Jessica drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I do believe a person can smell those mince pies all over the house. Christmas does have a special smell all its own."
"I do wonder where Charles is," Lady Hope said. "Only two days to Christmas and not a word from him. Mama will be very upset if he does not come, not to mention the rest of us. We have never had Christmas without our all being present. I remember how empty it seemed the first year without Grandpapa, though I was a mere girl at the time."
"Perhaps he will come yet," Jessica said, schooling her voice to casualness. "Surely he would have let her grace know if he were not coming at all."
Lady Hope sighed. "I do wish Charles would marry soon," she said. "My youngest niece is four years old already, and I am quite sure that Faith does not intend to have any more. It is high time Charles set up his nursery. He will be thirty on his next birthday. He just does not seem to be interested in any of the young ladies of the ton. It is said-though I should not repeat such gossip to someone of your years, Miss Moore-that he is too busy with his high flyers to be interested in more refined ladies. I do hope someone of exceptional beauty and breeding will appear next spring. Someone to catch his eye."
