My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3)

by Julie Johnstone

  As she rounded the corner to the parlor, she almost ran into Mr. Sims. Grandfather’s butler stepped to the side. “Pardon me, Miss Adair. I was in a rush to get to your grandfather.”

  “No apologies, necessary,” she said. “I was in a rush, as well.” She started to move past him but noticed he was holding what appeared to be a medicine bottle in his hand. “Is Grandfather ill?”

  The butler opened his mouth, shut it, gave a little shake of his head, and then finally spoke. “Nothing to concern yourself with. A small cold. He told me to tell you and your sister he was going to spend today in his bedchamber.”

  Jemma frowned. He was spending the day in his bedchamber for a small cold? Something didn’t ring true. “Are you certain it’s merely a cold?” Grandfather may be insufferable and stubborn and make her life incredibly difficult, but he was her grandfather and her only living relative other than Anne. That she knew where to find, anyway. Her father may very well still be alive, but where he was, was anybody’s guess.

  The butler nodded. “Yes, Miss Adair, I’m sure he told me to tell you he had a cold.”

  That wasn’t what she had asked, but Mr. Sims’s tone had taken on that formal, stiff note he so often used. Even if Grandfather were on death’s door, the butler would never tell her differently if Grandfather had instructed him not to. Was Grandfather ill? Truly ill?

  Impossible. She would have noticed something. Still...

  “I’ll come see him in just a bit.”

  “As you wish,” the butler replied before continuing on his way and disappearing round the corner.

  Jemma raced toward the parlor at a trot since she was certain she was not going to come upon her grandfather. She burst into the room, and Philip immediately stood. He wore a bottle-green coat, a white shirt, an oddly dangling white cravat, and tan breeches that fit as snug as a glove over his powerful legs. Very careful not to gawk, she met his gaze and hurried toward him so that she could talk low in case any nosy servants came by the open door. Philip, she’d swear, backed up several steps to match the ones she’d taken toward him.

  She stopped in her tracks. “Philip, I was just sending a note to you with my lady’s maid.”

  He furrowed his brow. “You were?”

  She nodded and scooted closer to him. This time, he didn’t retreat. “I need your help. It’s about Mr. Frazier.”

  Philip grimaced. Was he sick of her need for help? “Frazier is why I’m here,” he said in a clipped tone. “I’m afraid your worry in regard to him is well-founded.”

  Jemma’s heart squeezed. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “I fear it’s too late. But what do you know? What did he say?”

  “He admitted he was interested in your sister for the dowry he thought she would bring him. When I told him he was mistaken, that your grandfather would not give her any dowry, he said he would simply take her to Gretna Green and force your grandfather’s hand.”

  Jemma pressed her palms to her suddenly hot cheeks. Poor Anne. Grandfather would never give a dowry to a man who had swept his granddaughter away to Gretna Green as Father had done with Mother. What had possessed Anne?

  Jemma massaged her aching temples. She knew what had possessed her sister to act so foolishly—love. Love made women blind idiots. Love caused women to give away their innocence and ruin their lives. She glanced at Philip, and the concern in his eyes caused her belly to flutter. She was the biggest fool of all. She was coming to care for him, despite everything that had happened to her, despite knowing the plans he had. She would not care. She would not.

  “You must warn your sister not to do anything foolish such as run off with the man.”

  Jemma bit her lip. Philip sounded oddly formal, unlike himself. But no, she needed to concentrate on Anne, not Philip.

  “She’s already gone,” Jemma blurted, feeling as if precious minutes to rescue Anne from her own folly were slipping by. And she wasn’t even sure now if Philip would go after Anne for her. Maybe he wouldn’t want to be involved. He was acting so strange.

  She raised a shaky hand to her throat. “She fled in the night to Gretna Green with Mr. Frazier. She left a note for Mrs. Featherstone saying she would return as a married woman, but that’s all she said.”

  “Good God,” Philip muttered. He glanced between her and the door. Was he going to refuse to aid her? What would she do?

  Jemma was trembling. Philip began to shake, too. He shouldn’t touch her, shouldn’t comfort her.

  Keep your hands by your sides, man.

  He balled his fingers into fists, but before he could mentally gather the will to stop himself, he cupped her cheek for one brief, glorious moment. “Don’t worry,” he said, though it came out as a gruff whisper. “I’ll go after her. And even if I’m too late, I swear to God, I’ll help make things right for her.” Philip forced himself to pull his hand away, and as he did, Jemma flung herself at him. His breath whooshed out of him as her body thudded against his.

  Her hands slid up to his shoulders and grasped them, and she buried her head against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I thought—” Her voice broke on a sob. “I thought you were going to refuse to help.”

  He was acutely aware of her in a thousand ways at once. Her heart beat quickly against his chest through her fine silk gown. She had a strong grip but slender fingers. She smelled of lavender with an undertone of lilac. She fit perfectly under his chin and against him. She radiated a warmth akin to the sun’s.

  Her sobbing broke his heart in a way he could write a thousand lovelorn poems about and still never capture just how much he wanted to erase her pain. If circumstances were different, he suspected he could fall for her so deeply that finding his way to the surface of sanity would be impossible, yet he’d be blissful where he dwelled with her. But circumstances weren’t different, and he could not fall. He released her, and as he did, she swiped at her damp cheeks.

  His chest tightened mercilessly, and he ached to wrap his arms around her. He exhaled a long breath and took another deep one in the hope that his voice would not give away exactly how much he wanted to touch her.

  “I will bring your sister back to you and do everything in my power to help you.” Before she could respond and say anything that would break the small thread of self-control he still possessed, he sketched a quick bow. “I better be off.”

  She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice wobbly.

  He quickly departed and went straight to fetch his sister. She would keep the secret, and he needed a woman to travel with him in case he should encounter anyone of the ton. Amelia would also provide respectability if they caught up with Jemma’s sister and could bring her home before it was too late.

  When he arrived at Amelia’s home and explained the situation, she joined him without a second thought.

  As the carriage raced down the road out of town and toward Gretna Green, Philip stared out the window. He wasn’t particularly interested in the scenery, but he wasn’t interested in answering any prying questions from Amelia, either. He hoped she would catch the hint that he didn’t want to talk, but when she got up from the seat across from him and planted herself beside him, he knew the hope to be futile. Still he faced the window until she cleared her throat for the third time.

  Finally, he acknowledged her. “Yes?”

  “This seems an awfully large favor to do for a woman who is simply a friend.”

  “Does it? Do you draw the line at how big your favors are by distinguishing between friendship and love? I wasn’t aware of that method.”

  Amelia frowned, and he almost chuckled. It was hard to best his sister much of the time. She had one of the quickest wits he’d ever encountered in a woman. In fact, before he’d gotten to know Jemma, he would have said Amelia had the quickest wit, but now he’d say it was Jemma, with his sister a close second.

  Amelia fussed with her dress for a moment before answering. “All right. That was fair enough. I don’t do lesser favors for friends than say, yo
u, Mother, or Colin, but the point is, I love all the people for whom I would do such an enormous favor. For a mere friend, I might help as I could, but I’m sure I would not go scurrying off to Gretna Green to retrieve a wayward lady and deal with a rake.”

  “I certainly hope not,” Philip said, careful to avoid the trap she was trying to set for him. “You are a lady, and ladies should not deal with rakes who have persuaded other ladies to rush off to Gretna Green to marry.”

  Amelia stomped her foot. “Philip, you know what I’m trying to say! I think you must be in love with Jemma to do this for her.”

  “I am not in love with Miss Adair,” he said, supremely glad it was true. He could be in love with her, if he allowed it to happen, but he would not allow it for both their sakes.

  “Oh.” Amelia’s shoulders slumped. “That’s too bad. I had hoped—”

  “Don’t,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear what she had hoped because it was likely the very thing he desired himself.

  She thrust her chin out in her stubborn way. “I had hoped maybe the two of you had grown fond of each other.”

  “I am fond of her. As a friend. And that is all it will ever be.”

  “Why?” Amelia demanded. “You two are perfect for each other.”

  “Amelia,” Philip snapped, “we are not perfect for each other. She is perfect, I grant you that, with her dazzling smile, wry humor, quick wit, hundreds of lovely freckles, and those eyes.” He clenched his teeth to stop from saying more. “The point is,” he said, reeling from the realization that he thought Jemma as close to perfect as a woman could get. “The point is,” he tried again, though his thoughts swirled in his head, “she is not perfect for me. And I am certainly not perfect for her, or even close to worthy.”

  He scrubbed his hand over his face, and when he looked up once more, Amelia was grinning at him. “Why the devil are you smiling like that?”

  “Because,” she said with a chuckle, “I just realized I can quit worrying about you. Your problems will resolve themselves.”

  “And how will that occur?” he demanded. How could his problems find any good resolution? His sister had no idea of the financial woes that still burdened him.

  “Perfectly,” she answered, patting his hand. “It will occur perfectly.”

  Jemma met Dr. Talbot on the stairs as she made her way up to her grandfather’s bedchamber. The conversation she’d overheard in the privy the previous night flooded her mind, but she thought it might be best to start with how her grandfather was doing before she demanded the man tell her his secrets.

  “Dr. Talbot, how is Grandfather?”

  The man gave her an almost strangled look, as if he found what he was about to say unpleasant. Whatever was that about? She’d asked a simple question, hadn’t she?

  “Er, he’s really not getting any younger, Miss Adair.”

  Now she was sure she wasn’t imagining things. The physician sounded positively uncomfortable. She narrowed her eyes. “I’m aware of that. Is there something you would like to say to me?”

  “Not really, but I find I’m compelled to.”

  Compelled to? Jemma frowned.

  Dr. Talbot quirked his mouth this way and that, as if trying to force the words out. “What I wanted to say last night was that it’s plain to see you blame him for everything that befell your mother, but you are wrong. Your mother was to blame for what befell her, and you need to stop being cold to him because of her.”

  Jemma snapped her gaping jaw shut, then slowly spoke. “Did you once love my mother?”

  “How did you—” His shoulders drooped. “Yes.”

  Jemma felt her jaw drop open again.

  Dr. Talbot drew his bag up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, his fingers tapping against the dark leather. “She claimed to love me, too.”

  Jemma thought about the gossip she’d overheard the night before as her heartbeat pounded heavily. Her mind began to think strange things. Impossible things. “Was my father what drove you apart, or was it my grandfather?”

  “It was not your grandfather.” Dr. Talbot offered her a regretful smile. “He approved of me, even accepted my request for her hand, and then she met your father and ran off to Gretna Green with him. Your father was a charmer. I am not.”

  His words tore at the beliefs she had long held about her mother and her grandfather. Why hadn’t her mother ever told her any of these important facts? She’d let Jemma believe that Grandfather had been angry with her all those years because she had ruined his plans for her to marry a rich lord.

  Confusion made her temples throb. “And Mother knew how Grandfather felt?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly, “she knew.” He shrugged. “When Rowan found out your mother was secretly meeting your father, he grew desperate to rescue her from your father’s influence and decided to allow others to court her, lords she might find more dashing, I suppose. That’s when Rowan tried to make a match between Lilly and another lord.”

  Jemma blinked her eyes, feeling as if she were swaying with disbelief.

  “Lilly wouldn’t have anything to do with the man. She made quite a scene at the last ball I ever saw her attend. Called the man boring and predictable to his face and gave him the cut direct when he came to dance with her. She was gone the next day to Gretna Green with your father.”

  Jemma’s gut clenched. Just like Anne!

  She could hardly believe what she’d just heard, but what reason would Dr. Talbot have to lie? She wrapped her arms around her waist. Could she really have misjudged her grandfather so horrendously? But no! He was trying to rule her life and bend her to his will by forcing her to let Lord Glenmore court her.

  Wasn’t he?

  She was so confused. Only one person could make sense of it for her.

  “Will you excuse me?” she asked Dr. Talbot. “I need to speak with my grandfather.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied and stepped aside.

  She marched up the stairs and knocked on her grandfather’s door. Mr. Sims opened it at once.

  “Is my grandfather awake?” she asked.

  Mr. Sims raised a haughty eyebrow “Yes, but he’s very tired.”

  She didn’t miss that Mr. Sims was speaking to her in the same disapproving tone Dr. Talbot had used before they started talking more honestly. Surely she could not have completely misjudged her grandfather. The fact remained that he had demanded she marry Lord Glenmore if the odious man would have her.

  She stiffened her spine and brushed past the butler. “I’ll only stay a few minutes. I simply want to check on him for myself.”

  The butler mumbled under his breath. She could not quite make out all the words, but she did catch inherited willfulness. She frowned as she strolled through the sitting room. There were dark-green chairs and a huge fireplace on one side, and bookcases crammed with books on the other. She’d never been in here, and the sight of a portrait of her mother side by side with a portrait of a woman that could only be Jemma’s grandmother riveted her to the spot. Her mother looked to be around twenty in the portrait. A cold, hard man who held no love for his daughter would not keep a portrait of her in his sitting room. Jemma drew in a sharp breath. If her mother’s huge smile was any indication, she’d been very happy when sitting for the portrait. Jemma studied the painting of her grandmother for a moment, and she grinned. She’d always wondered from whom she’d inherited her red hair.

  She strolled toward the bedchamber door and knocked.

  “For God’s sake, Sims, just come back in. You know damned well I’m lying here like a useless old man. I suppose you want me to say I’m sorry for yelling at you to get the hell out.”

  Jemma couldn’t help but smile. Really, she should tell him that it wasn’t Mr. Sims, but it was so insightful to glimpse this side of him she hadn’t known existed. He was capable of remorse and knowing when he was wrong. Doubt swirled in her mind about what she thought she knew.

  “All right, Sims. You win. I’m sorry,”
he choked out, sounding exactly as he did whenever he spoke to her. She’d assumed it was due to dislike, but he clearly held a gruff affection for his butler. Did that mean he held that same gruff affection for her and simply didn’t know how to show it?

  Her chest tightened. Did she even care? She had not thought she had, but yes, yes, she did care. She wanted to be wrong about him. She wanted there to be some other explanation for why he wanted her to marry Lord Glenmore besides what she believed. She wanted Grandfather to love her.

  Longing stole her breath. She stood there for a moment before finally regaining her breath and speaking. “It’s not Mr. Sims, Grandfather. It’s Jemma. I’ve come to speak with you. May I come in?”

  “Knowing you, you’ll come in no matter what I say.”

  She grinned. He did know her.

  She pushed the door open with a slight creak, and she entered the darkened bedchamber. The curtains were pulled, and Jemma blinked to adjust her eyes. Grandfather was lying in bed, leaning against a stack of pillows. The bed was enormous, which should have made him look small but he appeared larger than life. He motioned her closer, and for once, she obeyed immediately.

  She inspected him as she drew near. He didn’t look unwell, except perhaps a slight flush of his cheeks, but that could have been from being tucked under the coverlet on a day that was overly warm. She could demand answers, but perhaps it was best to start slower and build to that.

  “Mr. Sims tells me you’re very tired, and Dr. Talbot tells me you’re not getting any younger.” She eyed him, hoping he’d elaborate.

  He cracked a smile. “Hoping I’ll meet my maker, are you?”

  “Certainly not!” However angry he had ever made her, she had never hoped for that. “So, are you ill?”

  He shrugged. “My heart is giving out on me slowly but surely.” He leaned toward his nightstand and picked up a piece of folded paper. “I awoke to this note this morning,” he said, tapping his fingers against the foolscap.

  Jemma stared at it, dread building in her throat and causing her to swallow repeatedly before she could speak. “Anne wrote you a note?” Jemma finally managed to whisper.