by Lynn Kerstan
“But Jillian—”
“Just . . . do it, Malory. I’ll take care of Jillian.” The Earl studied the paths leading away from the Pavilion, muttered a little prayer, and chose one a bit darker than the others. Soon it ended at a gaily spangled, lantern-lit garden where couples strolled arm in arm. With an oath, he retraced his steps and set down another path. This one snaked around Grecian follies and fountains, dimly but adequately lit. Back to the Pavilion and a third path, bright at first but darkening quickly. From the sheltering trees, he heard teasing laughter and insinuating words. Sometimes low moans of pleasure. As he drew nearer the river, he could smell the dank, pungent odor of the Thames to his left, and then . . .
“Ahhhhgh! Dammit, you little bitch.” The sound of flesh hitting flesh fired the Earl like a rocket. He broke into a clearing and spotted a burly man climbing out of a small dinghy tied up to a tree. Kelton, struggling with a clawing, kicking virago, clearly needed help. Mark launched himself at the boatman and planted a jarring right to his jaw. The man staggered back, recovered, and swiped a fist, which Mark caught on his forearm before delivering a hard punch to a flabby belly. Doubling over with a moan, the boatman was out of the action.
Delacourt pivoted just in time to see Kelton swat a stinging backhand at Jillian’s cheek. After that, he saw nothing but red. With a steely arm, he swept the girl onto her behind, and then he pummeled Kelton with one punishing fist after another, until the man was teetering at the river’s edge.
“In you go, bastard,” swore the Earl, lofting him up, out, and into the water with a fierce left to the chin. Darryl Kelton sank, rose, sank again, and finally managed to grab the dinghy and hold his sputtering mouth above water. “Get in that boat and start rowing,” Mark thundered. “Paddle down the river and across the channel without looking back, because if I see your face again, I’ll be sighting down a pistol.”
He looked back at Jillian, who sat staring at him with a look of awe on her face. With an oath, he seized her elbow, pulled her roughly to her feet, and towed her away from the clearing into a copse of trees.
For a long minute everything was very quiet, except for the distant sound of music and their panting breaths. Then the small grip the Earl maintained on his temper snapped into fury. Digging hard fingers into Jillian’s shoulders, he shook her until her teeth rattled. “You idiot!” he roared. “You simpleminded, impertinent, stupid little brat! I ought to throw you in the river along with Kelton. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I w—wasn’t—”
“That’s more than apparent. What did you imagine would happen when he got you in that boat? A sightseeing cruise on the Thames? You were on your way to ruin, lady!”
“I wa—”
“The devil you weren’t. Answer me!”
“Did I tell you he was no good? Yes. Did I warn you to stay away from him? Yes. Don’t you know a young woman can’t go off with a man alone? Obviously not. So what do you have to say for yourself?”
“If you—”
“If I thought it would do the least amount of good, I’d throw you over my knee and wallop your backside. But that would only incite you to defy me the more. Someone should have put a collar and leash on you years ago. By God, if I had a grain of sense, I’d lock you up and throw away the key. For your own good. For the good of everyone. What? Nothing to say?”
“My Lord—”
“Don’t you My Lord me. It implies a respect you never had.” Letting go at last, the Earl stepped back and glared down at her. Jillian’s head was bent, and he could see only curly hair and quivering shoulders. Blood-streaked shoulders. Dear Lord. He reached to her collarbone and ran his gloved finger over her soft skin. “What has he done to you, Jillian?” he asked in a shaking voice. “Where does it hurt?”
Her head shot up. “Hurt? He didn’t—”
“You’re bleeding, child.”
“No, I . . . ,” Jillian twisted her head and saw something dark on her puffed sleeve.
“Come with me.” The Earl led her to a small pergola lit by two pink lanterns, sat her on a marble bench, and stroked his fingers around her sleeves and bodice, searching for a wound.
Shivering, Jillian felt his touch like a candle-flame. She hurt nowhere, except where he touched, and those places felt on fire, Then she realized what had happened. “It’s you, My Lord,” she protested softly. “You’re the one bleeding. Hold still.” Carefully, she stripped off his torn, filthy gloves. Beneath them, his fingers were swollen and his left hand was bleeding. She raised it to her lips and gently kissed his battered knuckles.
The Earl stopped breathing
Chapter Twenty-One
“MY, WHAT A FIGHTER you are,” she said admiringly. “I’d never have imagined it. Have you a handkerchief?”
Mark passed her a monogrammed linen square and she deftly wrapped his bloody, hand in a makeshift bandage, tying the corners into a small knot. “That should hold it.” Then she reached up and tilted his chin to the light. “Never got in a single punch, did they?”
He couldn’t remember.
“I’d have been so mortified if you were hurt trying to rescue me. Not that I needed it, of course, but thank you anyway.”
“You needed it! Devil take it, there were two of them.”
“Yes, but not when we started out. The boatman was a surprise, I must admit. Do you suppose Mr. Kelton planned all this?”
“Planned? He stalked you like the naive little rabbit you are. I’d wager he had a scheme in reserve every time he thought there was a chance to get you away alone.”
Jillian frowned. “But why? What could he possibly gain by paddling down the river with me? I know you told me he needs money to pay his debts, but I haven’t enough to cover him,”
“You have more than you think, Miss Lamb, although you are right in saying, you can’t rescue Kelton from his creditors. But I can, and he knows it.”
“You? But why would you? Even if he’d compromised me and I’d agreed to marry him, which I would not, it would only buy him a little time . . . time spent wishing he’d never set eyes on me. I guarantee, My Lord, that Darryl Kelton would rue the day he carried me off.”
“And where would that leave you, child?”
She sighed. Home, in disgrace, but home where she belonged. “Never mind. It didn’t happen. And I’ll not be so foolish again.”
He sat back in some astonishment. “You admit you were foolish?”
“Oh, dear me, yes. Beyond words. Certainly beyond explanation. I thought we were going to dance, and then he said the fireworks were about to start and he’d take me to the best place to see them, by the river, where it was dark.”
“You believed that?”
“Of course. I certainly didn’t think he was after my money because I’m not accustomed to having any, and I knew he wasn’t after my . . . well, you know . . . and it didn’t cross my mind that he’d try to blackmail you.”
“But why the devil not?”
“Because you’d never let him get away with it. Only a chowderhead would take you on and hope to win, My Lord.”
Mark shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Forget the money. Why did you think he wouldn’t be interested in your . . . that is . . . why wouldn’t he want to . . . I mean . . . your virtue?”
Bright incredulous eyes flashed at him. “Me?” she gulped. “Good heavens, whatever for?”
“For”—Mark waved his bandaged hand a hairsbreadth from her bodice—“this. For you.”
She giggled. “Really, My Lord, your imagination is running away from you. I’m a sharp-tongued, bad-tempered little farm girl, remember? A nine-days’ wonder, accepted because of you and Aunt Margaret, and because I’m a novelty. Next week all those men will be buzzing around some other Queen Bee because she is temporarily fashionable, as I am now. It will all
go away. They will all go away.’’ And will go away, she thought bleakly. To be forgot, even by you.
The Earl took one of her hands between his own. “Jillian, you knew better than to go off with Kelton. Why did you?”
She bit her lip. “I can’t explain, My Lord. It was silly. Too much champagne. Please don’t ask.”
“I don’t know what to do with you,” he said meditatively. “I can’t lock you up, I can’t let you run loose, and I won’t send you home. You must be married, and soon. Is there no one among your suitors you favor? Ivor Malory?”
Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her flushed cheeks. “Shall I accept someone to make you happy? Harold Toliver? Lawrence Pemberson? Perhaps Ivor? Would it please you if I married one of them?” That was not a question he could answer. Not right now, when half of him wanted to throttle her For putting herself in danger and the other half wanted to . . . do something else. He wiped her face with a corner of his cape. “Not unless it pleases you, imp,” he said airily. “For now, I’ll take you back to
Margaret and see you both home. You must admit, it’s been a long night.”
“Oh no! I can’t go now, My Lord. Not before the fireworks!”
“To hell with the fireworks,” he retorted crisply. “On your feet, Miss Lamb, We shall stroll down this path like a proper guardian and ward, chatting inconsequentially while I invent some excuse to explain our absence.”
She stamped her foot mutinously. “I won’t go home before the fireworks!” Taking hold of his lapels, she gazed up at him with pleading eyes. “Oh, please, let me stay to see them. Then I’ll do whatever you say. Tell whatever lie you want later, but now let’s go find a good spot. It must be almost time. Then we can leave.”
“Hear me, brat. Margaret is worried about you. We must let her know you are safe.”
“Fine. Yes, we must do that. But then we can watch the fireworks.” Jillian read surrender in his eyes. “Oh, thank you,” she exclaimed, forestalling an argument as she tugged his cape around his shoulders. “Remember to hide your hands. When we get close, I’ll wait while you explain to Aunt Margaret. I can’t go into the light with blood all over my dress. Then we’ll find a wonderful place where we can see everything. Bring my cloak, will you? And champagne would be perfect.”
To his own astonishment, the Earl followed Jillian’s instructions to the letter. When he rejoined her in the sheltered alcove, a shimmering gold velvet cloak was draped over his arm and he was struggling to balance two glasses and a newly opened bottle of champagne in his sore hands. Cloth napkins were stuffed in his pockets.
In silence, he led Jillian to a grassy hill overlooking the Thames, spread his cape on the ground, and with difficulty poured two glasses of champagne. For several minutes they sat looking over the river to the lights of the city, overhead to the stars and thin sliver of moon, anywhere but at each other.
Tentatively, Jillian stepped into the quiet that had nearly become awkward. “Are you very angry with me?”
“Yes.”
The silence that ensued was definitely awkward. “Is there something I can do to make you forgive me?” she begged. “Truly, I am so sorry you were hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” he grumbled.
“You were awfully brave,” she ventured after another stretch of eerie quiet.
“And you were excessively pea-witted,” he countered. Then he sighed. “Ah, Jillian, what am I to do with you? I never figured on this. Never imagined you’d have London at your feet and fortune hunters sniffing at your skirts. You astonish me. Amaze me.” Jillian frowned. “You sent me out, expecting me to fail? That was cruel.”
“I knew you would not.” She saw the flash of his teeth. “You are too stubborn to fail at anything you set your mind to.”
“You are p—pleased with me then?” she stammered.
He gave it some thought. “This is not, perhaps, the best possible time to ask me that, imp. But yes, you have done well.”
“Faint praise, My Lord.”
“I am trying to be honest, which will be a significant change between us, don’t you think? I begin to suspect you have deceived me from the first.”
“We aren’t going to quarrel, are we?” she evaded, anxious to change the subject. “Not tonight. Everything is so beautiful.”
“Lovely. So far I’ve sparred with a kidnapper and a flea-bitten boatman, lied to Margaret, come within inches of wringing your neck, and probably—” No, best not to mention Angela. The Swan was no doubt concocting recipes for stewing his liver.
“Probably?” Jillian prodded.
“Er . . . overextended myself for one evening. Not that I haven’t a few words to say to you, my girl, but they can wait.”
“Oh dear. More fireworks tomorrow. Well, if you must, but truly you’ve already made your point. That slug Darryl Kelton made your point. I was wrong, no excuses, and never again. What can there be left to say?”
The Earl chuckled. “I am afraid, Miss Lamb, that you are going to find out.” In the dim light, his eyes were suddenly serious. Leaning forward, he pinned her little chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I was afraid for you, Jillian.” Her skin was warm and soft as he stroked his knuckle up her cheek.
A trumpet fanfare, distant but penetrating, rang through the night. Voices stilled for a moment, the music held for several long measures, there was a sound, like an explosion, and suddenly the sky exploded in light.
The first display was an announcement, in green and gold, red and white, flashing and soaring against the black night. It was a ballet of color, a dance of fire. Jillian, caught up and swept away, lifted her face to the sky. Her lips were moist and slightly open, her eyes brighter than the light they caught and reflected. She gasped and made tiny noises in her throat as color piled upon color and billowed over the trees. All around, shadows of raised heads, like wor-shippers, poised in wonder.
Mark scarcely noticed the fireworks, intent on the joy lighting Jillian’s face. He saw everything through her and with her. When she smiled, so did he, but he never looked to see what she pointed at.
“Oh my,” she breathed as a girandole radiated directly overhead. Her hand stole out, reaching for something, and the Earl took hold of it. Even through the thick bandage, he felt the heat of her and the pulse at her wrist. His thumb massaged her palm, and her warmth sent tingles up his back. She didn’t seem aware that he was touching her.
The second movement, adagio, was echoed in solitary, flashes of green, blue, purple, red, gold, and white. Almost languidly, rubies took shape, coiled, spun, and drifted in a spiral. Then came sapphires. Amethysts. Diamonds. Emeralds. Long solos of color, followed by intricate duets of red and white, blue and green, changing partners until they scattered in a shower of gold.
There was only the music, the black sky, the glory of lights, and the Earl’s beckoning heat. Jillian sank to it, leaning into the circle of a strong arm until her head nestled against his chest. She pulled his arm closer, across her shoulder, around her waist, and pressed the back of his hand until she felt his fingers against her ribs. His chin rested on her hair as she cradled in his embrace. The moment seemed suspended in time, disjoined from hard truths and promises. She let herself pretend her dreams were real and surrendered to the magic of being in love. His heartbeat pulsed at her ear. Her own heart sang with the night music.
She’d never been so happy and would never be again, but how blessed she was to have known Mark and loved him. She would always have this night to remember. It seemed as if they were airborne. A small stillness, when the lights faded and the music paused, held them both suspended mid-flight, poised in expectation. If only we never had to come back to earth, she breathed silently.
But she knew her love was as brief, bright, and insubstantial as the lights in the sky. Tonight was a gift, but tomorrow she must surely tell him the truth.
And when he knew, it would all be over. She couldn’t hold to the lies any longer, not even for one more precious chance to be with him, to squabble and fence, to argue and laugh. It wasn’t fair to the men who danced attendance on her, hoping. Not fair to Mark, who deserved better than anything she could give him. Not fair to the one who waited for her to come home.
“Is it over?” she murmured sadly.
The trumpets shouted a denial. Again the night, blazed with man-made stars, defying the darkness, a dazzling triumph of light. People were singing, oohing, and aahing. In the distance, cannons beat tympani as they fired in rhythm to the paean of joy. It was a hymn to the end of the war, yet to come, and a promise of victory. A patriotic display for the people who suffered year after year as the long struggle dragged on. A celebration of what could be, if they all held true and steadfast.
Lifted to their feet by the excitement, Mark and Jillian stood with her arm looped around his waist and his draped over her shoulder. Every man and woman heard private music, cherished hopes and visions and dreams those last few minutes, none more fervent and futile than those of the Earl and Jillian Lamb.
It seemed bright as noon when the last brilliant colors shattered the blackness. The night was a shimmer of white and red and gold. And then it was over. The final chord echoed and was gone. The lights winked out, leaving only the darkness, fired with stars. Jillian’s heart raced. Always stars. The enduring lights. She leaned into the firm masculine embrace for one last moment, creating a memory to endure when he was gone. Her path was traced before she knew him, before she loved him. Like the stars, she’d no choice but to continue her course alone.
Gently, deliberately, she pulled away and turned to face him. “Thank you, My Lord,” she said simply. “This was a very special night. I am so glad we shared it together.”
Reality lowered over them like a heavy pall.
This is wrong, he thought vaguely. I can’t feel like this. Tomorrow none of it will matter. “We must find a hack,” he said woodenly. “It won’t be easy in the crowd.”
