by Liz Carlyle
Jonet shut off that vein of thought at once, but yet another sprang immediately to mind. “Tell me about Elmwood Manor, Cole. Is it very lovely? Has it prospered?”
Carefully, Cole nudged his horse a little ahead of hers to make way between two parked gigs. When the street widened, enabling Jonet to pull alongside him, he still remained silent for a long moment. “I am told that Elmwood is very prosperous,” he finally answered. “I have not been there since... in quite some years.”
“Why?” she asked softly. “It is your boyhood home, is it not?”
Cole stared straight ahead and into the busy traffic ahead in Portland Place. “Old ghosts, Jonet,” he said with a bitter laugh. “We all have them, I daresay.”
“Ah!” she said knowingly. “At last, a subject on which I am an expert.”
Cole turned to look at her quizzically for a moment, a bright shaft of afternoon sun catching the harsh planes of his face. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I daresay you may be.”
Jonet wanted to press him for details, so that she might better understand this man she had so disastrously Mien in love with. But it was clear that his pain was still raw. She did not have it in her to wound, merely to satisfy her own curiosity. But to her surprise, Cole began to speak again. “I suppose that Rachel is the name of my ghost, Jonet” he explained in a low, unsteady voice. “She was my wife. We lived at Elmwood.”
“I see,” said Jonet calmly, but the pain in Cole’s voice was like a knife in her heart.
And yet, it was a knife she could not help but twist. She wanted to know about this paragon of virtue to whom she would never measure up. “Tell me, Cole, what was she like, your Rachel?”
“I really have no idea,” he replied, his mystified words so quiet she could barely hear them.
“I beg your pardon?”
Roughly, Cole cleared his throat “When she died, I knew her no better than I did on the day we were wed. Can you believe that?” he asked, his gold-brown eyes urgently searching her face, as if he hoped she might have the answer. “Can you believe, Jonet, that two people can share one life, one blood, and yet know nothing of one another? To... to come away with no understanding of that person’s hopes and dreams and passions? Or worse—to begin to fear that they have none?”
Jonet was startled into silence. “No,” she finally answered. “I cannot. It seems a foreign thing to me. I find that I cannot... know a person—or even care about them very much—until I understand which of life’s many hungers drives them. Is it a thirst for knowledge? A passion for art or music? Do they crave wealth or power or sex?”
She forced a self-deprecating laugh. “But as you know, I’m for too unrestrained. One can easily see through me. I daresay a wiser woman would strive to be enigmatic.”
Cole shot her a look which might have been pain. For a long time, he simply stared at her, as if some sort of metaphysical truth had been revealed to him. “You are indeed,” he finally responded, “like no woman I have ever known before.”
Jonet did not know what to make of that remark, and had not the nerve to ask. For several moments, they rode abreast in silence, the streets of Marylebone quieter and less choked with carts and drays. The cricket field was not far beyond, and Jonet was beginning to wish desperately that she had not come on this journey with Cole, for a journey it had surely turned out to be. Regrettably, nothing she had heard so far made her love him or desire him any less.
“I want you to understand something, Jonet” Cole’s voice, tight and emotionless, came out of nowhere. He stared straight across his horse’s head and down the narrow street, his hands tightly clutching the reins. “Rachel and I had a child together. He died. I could not take care of them because I was in Portugal.” Cole said the words coldly, refusing to look at her. “And I will never bring another child into this world unless I am there to provide them with a safe and stable life.”
Jonet bit her lip and shook her head. “But Cole, you cannot think that—”
Cole cut her off as if he had not heard. “You once told me that I did not know what it was like, Jonet, to sacrifice everything for a child. But you were wrong. I learned by not being there. And I can tell you most sincerely that failure is a far harder teacher than success.”
“I am sorry,” Jonet answered gently. Because she remembered what she had said to him that day in the breakfast parlor, and the memory made her feel like a heartless bitch. And because she knew nothing else to say to assuage his pain. Cole would not have thanked her for gratuitous platitudes, and Jonet had learned the hard way that people had a right to work through, and hopefully come to terms with, their own grief. And in their own way.
Over the field at St. John’s Wood, the afternoon sun was settled high in the west. The forward fence of Lord’s was coming into view. Their moment of intimacy was almost at an end, and Jonet was relieved. She wanted desperately to reach out to comfort Cole. But it simply would not do. And so instead, she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, watching as, on the corner beyond, a huge traveling coach drew up to disgorge a half dozen boys who looked to be a little older than Stuart. Giggling and jostling one another, the boys paused on the footpath to form a queue, and despite the emotion of the moment, Jonet found herself laughing. On the reverse of their coats, each wore a bright canvas letter pinned to the fabric. “H-A-R-R-O-W,” she spelled aloud. “Please tell me, Cole, that is not your competition?”
Cole managed to flash her a weak grin. “No, we probably couldn’t beat them. This is just an informal mix-up for alumni —a sort of last huzzah before rheumatism sets in.”
But suddenly, his smile faded and his gaze focused straight ahead. In the shadow of the big coach, two gentlemen were rounding the corner and striding along the foot-path toward them. The younger of the two was clearly dressed to play, while the elder walked with his hand laid lightly upon his companion’s arm. Cole’s smile shifted to a distinct scowl, but there was no avoiding them, and they clearly had no intention of allowing Cole to pass without a greeting.
“Ho! Amherst!” shouted the younger, a handsome man whom Jonet recognized at once. The sight made her regret the impulsiveness that had brought her here, but she could hardly turn her mount around now without looking excessively rude. She prepared herself to be snubbed.
Cole reined in by the footpath and touched his hat in turn. “Afternoon, Madlow. And Colonel, you are looking exceedingly well.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man with an irritable toss of his hand. “As are you, one must suppose. Now introduce us, my boy, to this lovely young lady whom Terry tells me you have at your side.” A smile played at his mouth, but his disapproving expression was painfully telling.
Mortified, Jonet wanted to sink through the street. Her presence must be an embarrassment to Cole. But if it was, Cole gave no indication of it. Carefully, he reined his horse closer to the footpath, and Jonet had no choice but to move up and draw back her veil. “Lady Mercer,” he said calmly, “may I present Colonel Jack Lauderwood and his son-in-law, Captain Terrence Madlow? Gentlemen, my— er, cousin, Jonet, Lady Mercer.”
Jonet leaned down and offered her hand, murmuring something suitably polite. But to Terry Madlow, she dredged up her courage and smiled. “Captain Madlow, is it now? What a great pleasure to see you again after all these years.”
Jealousy bit like a horsefly at the back of Cole’s neck as Terry Madlow’s face split into an adolescent grin. “I should not have thought you would remember me, ma’am. I believe we have not met since your come-out. It has been too long.”
Jonet’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “Much too long, sir, and I daresay a little age has crept up on all of us. Indeed, my cousin here was just complaining to me of his rheumatism.”
Insufferable minx! Cole could not bear the sweet look she was giving Madlow. How could she be so cool, so graceful in her manner, under such trying circumstances? And to Cole’s undying frustration, it seemed his friends meant to keep them standing in the street all afternoon.
Jonet laughed charmingly. “You may certainly say it, sir, though I rather doubt we shall any of us believe it.” Her eyes apparently took in his white attire. “Do you play today, Captain Madlow?”
Terry looked up at Cole and grinned. “Yes, for Harrow,” he answered. “And I mean to hit a six on this big devil here—or die trying.”
“How is Louisa?” interjected Cole stiffly. “I hope she is well?”
Terry’s face went blank for a moment. “Yes! Yes! Very well, indeed. But like most women, she has no taste for cricket.”
Throughout the exchange, Cole noticed that Colonel Lauderwood’s eyes had never left him. Now, he gruffly interjected himself into the conversation. “Louisa brought your spectacles, did she not?”
“Yes,” confirmed Cole, just as he noticed Jonet looking uncomfortably over her shoulder. In the street at either side of them, two brewer’s drays were waiting to pass. “And now, gentlemen, we must walk on. It appears we are slowing the wheels of commerce. Madlow, I shall see you in the pitch shortly.”
Cole exited the street and escorted Jonet away from the stands and around the bridle path that led to the far end of Lord’s Cricket Ground. There, the crowd was sparse and the shade more plentiful. As a rule, Cole was inordinately fond of the game; prior to the war, he had played for Cambridgeshire, and following his return to London, he had quickly gained entree into the MCC along with many of his fellow officers.
But today, the chastising look on Lauderwood’s face had soured his mood. He was in no humor, particularly in the wake of last night’s emotional encounter, to bear the brunt of the colonel’s criticism. Cole tried to ignore his temper, and while Jonet’s groom took the horses, he tossed out a blanket beneath a sheltering oak and settled Jonet onto it. “You seemed to remember Terrence Madlow very well,” remarked Cole noncommittally as he bent down to brush a little grass from the edge of the blanket.
Jonet looked up at him in some surprise. “Yes, quite. He courted me most assiduously during the early weeks of my come-out, and for a time, I fancied myself rather madly in love with him.”
“Did you indeed?” Despite his astonishment, Cole tried to maintain a conversational tone. “And what happened to disenchant you?”
Jonet looked suddenly far away. “My father quickly dispensed with any illusions I might have had about romantic love,” she answered vaguely. “But I daresay I did not know then just how deep and complex that particular emotion could be.”
After that, Jonet said little as Cole sat down upon one corner of the blanket to exchange his riding boots for shoes. No one paid them any heed, until a tall young man approached from the east end of the field, whistling a tune and swinging his bat as he went.
“Oh, bugger me!” hissed Cole under his breath when the man’s face came into view.
Engaged in straightening the pleats of her habit, Jonet looked up from her position on the blanket. As the man drew up before them, Cole wondered if his day could get any worse.
“Why, what a vision of summer beauty!” remarked Delacourt, opening his arms in an expansive gesture, elegantly dangling his bat between two fingers of his right hand. “This blissful scene wants only a picnic basket and a book of sonnets.”
“David!” exclaimed Jonet happily, bracing herself as if to leap to her feet. With a sharp jerk, Cole drew taut the lace of his shoe, very nearly ripping it apart. Delacourt tossed his bat into the grass and bent down to brush the back of his hand across Jonet’s cheek. Cole could have sworn the bastard was watching his reaction out of the corner of one eye. “You are looking splendid today, Jonnie,” the viscount said a little wistfully. “Why do you not give me a scrap of that veil and let me be your champion?” Delacourt turned to look at Cole. “Amherst is a good chap. He shan’t mind, shall you, old boy?”
“Do what you will, Delacourt,” Cole sourly returned, “if you think it will help your game.”
Delacourt tipped back his head and gave his elegant laugh. “Good God, Amherst! You grow more amusing with every passing day. One cannot but wonder what you will say next!”
“David—.’” said Jonet in a warning tone.
Cole sprang to his feet and picked up his bat, giving his left instep a vicious whack.
“Please tell me, Delacourt, that you do not play for Eton.”
Delacourt grinned broadly. “Alas, no,” he remarked. “I believe we find ourselves on opposing teams. Rivals, so to speak. What will that be like, do you think?”
When Cole made no reply other than to glare at him, the viscount turned his gaze to Jonet. “You know, my dear, that you are expected to dine at Delacourt House tonight? I trust you will not be late.”
“Yes, of course I remember,” she answered a little defensively, shining uncomfortably on the blanket. “I very much look forward to it”
Cole turned his back on the pair. “If you mean to play, Delacourt,” he said, swinging his bat over one shoulder, “you’d best get on with it. It’s time to open the innings.”
And then, with unchristian bloodlust hot in his heart, Cole headed down the embankment toward the pitch.
———
Jonet knew little about cricket In the social whirlwind which had constituted her life prior to Henry’s death, she had rarely attended anything other than the most fashionable routs and balls. But cricket was becoming a popular fixture of the Season, and as she watched the gentlemen warm up, she began to see that the sport did indeed have some advantages.
Cole looked good on the field. Eagerly scooting forward to the edge of the blanket, Jonet watched the methodical movement of his arm as he pitched and caught the ball, and she remembered all too well the fine musculature and strong tendons that lay just beneath his clothing. In the afternoon light, with his dark blond mane catching every ray of the sun, he looked more glorious than any other player. He was taller, yes. But he was leaner and more agile, too, while his tanned skin made him look at home beneath the summer sun. When the teams went out to take the field, Cole took the position as the initial bowler, easily dismissing the first batsman, who just happened to be Terry Madlow. Captain Madlow merely grinned, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his cuff, and moved on.
Teams changed sides, with fieldsmen, batsmen, and bowlers alternating so frequently that Jonet quickly became confused. But as the afternoon progressed, Cole and another dark-haired man whom Jonet did not recognize rotated to bat, making several hits between them. Both batted with extraordinary skill, clearly frustrating the opposition and heightening the tension of the game. At some point, David had come into the field to take up one of the mid-positions, but Jonet paid him scant heed. She was far more interested in watching Cole’s body move across the field.
Finally, the bowler pitched a good-length ball, and the striker hit it, but with measurably less skill. Both he and Cole began running; crossing and making good their ground with time to spare. Suddenly, Cole turned on his heel to return, his partner following suit, but even Jonet could see that this time it would be a tight race to the stumps.
In the foreground, she saw David’s muscles bunch as he leapt up and out to catch the throw from the fieldsman. But Cole was still plowing ahead and straight for him. David made a lucky catch, snaring the ball in midair, but with a ruthless expression, Cole barred his teeth and pushed on, just as David’s foot came down near his path. They came together and tumbled to the ground in an explosion of arms and legs, the wicket shattering, and bits of dust and grass settling over them like a snowstorm.
“Run out!” shouted a gloomy-faced gentleman behind the wicket, staring down into the fray with a disgusted expression. Dropping the ball, David stumbled to his feet, one sleeve pressed to his nose. There was no mistaking the bright red bloodstain which was rapidly flooding forth.
An
d there was no mistaking the fact that Cole had caught him across the face with a sharp—and almost certainly intentional —jab from his elbow.
———
By the time the arduous game ended, Jonet and her groom had apparently gone home. Cole was not disappointed. In truth, he had been dreading the ride home by her side. But his reluctance had little to do with her probing questions and insightful gaze, and everything to do with the fact that he was deeply ashamed of his behavior on the field.
He’d struck Lord Delacourt in a fit of masculine jeal ousy, and that’s all there was to it. Two dozen people had doubtless seen him do it. What was worse, he had whole-heartedly wanted Delacourt to hit him back. The fact that they were in the middle of a gentleman’s sporting event had escaped him completely. In his heedless rush toward the wicket, all he had seen was Delacourt—not Delacourt leaping up to catch the ball, but Delacourt bending down to caress Jonet.
But that was no excuse. Cole had behaved abominably, and the eventual return of good breeding had required him to choke back his bile and apologize as soon as the inning was over. The fact that Delacourt had merely thrown back his head in laughter, proclaimed it an accident, and cheerfully pounded him on the back did nothing to alter the fact that what he had done had been coarse and ungentlemanly in the extreme.
His blood still boiling, Cole took his horse from a waiting groundsman, unstrapped his boots, and sat down beneath a copse of trees to remove his shoes. Halfway across the empty field, Delacourt was doing the same. Catching Cole’s eye through the waning crowd, the viscount lifted his hand, grinned shamelessly, and gave Cole an almost affable wave. Presumptuous bastard! Did he take nothing seriously?
Suddenly, Delacourt looked uncharacteristically serious about something. His gaze still focused on Cole, but his eyes had narrowed to a glower that was pure evil. A chill ran up Cole’s spine, and suddenly, he was struck with a feint misgiving about having made an enemy of a man who could focus his gaze with such pure spite. But what the devil had he done now?
