by Cheryl Bolen
For an instant, Christian was taken aback by the innocent question.
The look in her eyes told him she had no inkling what it seemed she was asking. A rueful smile curved his lips, for he hadn’t, didn’t she know.
“I mean to say... I know that my father—”
“I’d as soon not discuss your father,” he snapped. His jaw working, and then he said, softening the angry sting of his words, “If you don’t mind... not now.”
“O-Of course,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
Seeing her anguished expression, the way she turned from him, Christian felt his gut twist.
After a moment, her long lashes fluttered open, and she turned to him. He wanted so much to reach out and wipe the corners of her eyes with his thumb—before the regrets could come. He didn’t think he could bear it if she cried. If possible, her eyes became greener, brighter, in the wash of unshed tears. Their gazes held, and then hers skidded away.
He swallowed the lump that tried to strangle the words into oblivion. “I came,” he began, hating himself for being so callous with her feelings.
She waited expectantly, her chin lifting, her eyes alight with hope as she awaited his response.
Ah, Christ... he had the greatest desire to kiss those eyes closed once more lest she discern the fateful emotions that warred so violently within him, to feel the silky curl of her lashes against his lips, to soothe away her troubles once and for all. She didn’t deserve the grief that lay in store for her... the heartache he was sure to give her.
Damn her brother for an uncaring ass.
She needed someone to protect her.
The question was... could he be that man when he was the greatest thing she had to fear?
“I’m—” His voice caught at her hauntingly tender expression. She went so still that he suspected she’d ceased to breathe.
God damn him to hell, the reassuring words would not come, no matter that he desperately wanted to speak them.
Anything he said right now would be binding. Was he ready to drag her along his life path, when his life was never more uncertain?
“I’m not sure,” he said finally, shaking his head, gritting his teeth against the lie. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes swam with tears as he said again, softly, “I don’t know, Jessamine.”
* * *
Bloody hell if he didn’t.
Tossing down the last swig of his brandy, Christian poured himself another, emptying the second decanter for the night. Disgusted with himself, he set the snifter down and lifted the container, staring down into its crystalline depths as though somehow he might find the answers revealed to him amid the acrid-sweet fumes within.
What the devil was he supposed to have said to her? I came, Jess, my love, because your whoreson brother offered me a tidy little sum to break your goddamn little heart?
Turning the decanter, he examined the beautiful etchings, a delicate floral scrolling pattern. The extravagant bit of glass had graced Hakewell’s library for as long as he could recall.. his father’s... his father’s before him... damn them all to hell.
Damning himself as well, he hurled the decanter at the lapping flames across the room, aiming too high; it struck the mantel with a deafening crash, shattering into a profusion of multicolored shards.
He shouldn’t care—had trained himself not to—but the simple truth was that he was fast losing his heart to the little twit. God’s blood, but he should wed her and end the torture once and for all.
Wed her.
The thought wasn’t altogether unappealing.
Scowling, he resisted the urge to glimpse over his shoulder to be certain there wasn’t some demon angel perched there, whispering noble suggestions into his ear. There was nothing noble about him, and he’d be doing her a disfavor, bringing her into his life... his world... his disgusting secrets...
Secrets that could destroy him.
Secrets that could devastate her.
The firelight cast the room in an eerie light, basking all it touched in deep orange-red hues. Squinting against the shadows, he slouched backward into the elaborately carved damask chair, surveying the room before him. Upon entering, he’d drawn the curtains to let in the muted afternoon light, but the sun had long since set and the night mist cast an opaque veil over the half-moon rising.
His gaze shifted from the window to the vast shelves of books occupying the far wall. This should have been his study. His, and not Philip’s. Everything might have been different then, if only his brother had not stolen his birthright. Aye, for then he might have wed the late... great... son of a bitch’s daughter all those years ago, without the dissent he was now plagued with.
Damn.
Retrieving the snifter from the desktop, he swirled the amber liquid within, envisioning his life as it might have been; the anger that might have been forsaken, the loathing he might not have felt...
He imagined coming home to sweet Jessie, imagined her waiting, tucked prettily between the sheets—their sheets. He imagined taking her the first time, the second time, every time thereafter. His lust was rekindled just so easily, if indeed it had ever been extinguished; blazing white heat shot through his veins.
Christ, the ways he would have her...
What did he care what had passed before? What might have been? She still could be his... if only he might cease brooding long enough to ask for her hand in marriage.
And she needed him.
St. John desired her for one reason, and one reason alone... because Christian had been denied her. It hadn’t hurt matters much that she’d turned out to be such a beauty. And even if Christian wasn’t the reason... everyone knew the way St. John dealt with his women, bloody whoreson that he was. Why would a wife be treated differently? Christian felt an incredible violence stir within him, imagining St. John’s hands upon her—anyone’s hands, for that matter.
If he were to hurt her...
He couldn’t live with it.
But what if Jessie’s fool brother denied him?
Again.
His eyes, narrowed thoughtfully, for he’d simply have to see to it that Westmoor didn’t refuse him.
And what will you do if he doesn’t cow? a voice within taunted. Drive him to suicide as you did their father? Clamping his jaw shut, he groaned, as though to deny the nagging presence that was bent on giving him conscience.
He was what he was.
And if Jessie didn’t wish to wed him... well, then... so be it. He could leave despising her for it, and all would be as it was.
Tossing down the last swallow of liquor, he shook his head, shuddering away the effects, and thrust the snifter none too gently across the mahogany desk. It slid, stopping just before plunging over the edge. It hung there, suspended, contrary to the laws of nature, more of it resting off than on. The sight of it wrung a wry smile from his lips.
Damned if he didn’t feel as though he was going off the edge himself
* * *
“Wake up,” demanded a frantic Hildie. “Wake up!”
Jessie lifted the covers over her head, shielding herself from her maid’s scrutiny, moaning. “Go away. I feel sick!”
And it was true, she did, for she’d spent long hours worrying herself that way over her appalling behavior with Christian. She’d practically thrown herself into his arms, after all. She’d ensured her own ruin yesterday, and ruined, she was.
“Sick?” the maid said, sounding worried. She shook Jessie’s tightly bundled form.
“Please... please, just go away!”
Jessie felt like weeping. God’s truth, but she never wanted to show her face again!
The maid sighed regretfully. “I would, lovey, if only I could, but ye’ve a guest downstairs to be attending. Amos said to fetch ye, will ye nill ye.”
No, Jessie fretted silently.
No, no, no—not Christian!
She couldn’t face him, as yet—didn’t want to—especially with Amos there to scrutinize them together!
She felt different.
“Lord Christian?”
Hildie shook her head regretfully. “Nay, m’lady. ’Tain’t Lord Christian. Come, now, up and dress yourself.”
Her brows drew together. “Who, then?”
Since their father’s death, few had called at Westmoor. Even their closest acquaintances had ceased to visit after hearing the ugly rumors of Westmoor’s death, never mind that they were as yet unfounded.
Hildie mumbled something under her breath, and though Jessie hadn’t heard a word of the maid’s disclosure, her sorrowful expression made Jessie’s suspicions rear. “Who is it come calling, Hildie?”
The maid peered at her anxiously. “Lord St. John, m’lady... all the way from Charlestown.”
Chapter 10
Christian’s mouth felt parched. His head ached—effects of the liquor, no doubt, though perhaps in part it was also a result of the momentous decision he’d come to last night.
God’s teeth, but he was glad for Quincy’s aid this morn, he thought, as he observed the wrestling match between man and boot.
White-haired Quincy had come to him along with Rose Park—a shabby, run-down estate and a dilapidated old man. Fitting pair. Still and all, Christian felt a certain attachment to the decrepit old fool, as he did to Rose Park. Knowing no one else would have hired him in his advanced days, Christian had kept him on. It seemed old age made Quincy an unwanted relic to be discarded as useless, and Christian felt a certain empathy for his plight.
He winced as the boot was shoved onto his foot, at long last, with more force than was credible for the old man. And then his brows collided as Quincy suddenly gave an offensive snort. He watched incredulously as the old man lifted his thin upper lip, spraying spittle through his teeth. The repulsive sprinkling landed squarely upon Christian’s right boot.
Christian reconsidered his employment at once. “God’s teeth, man! What the devil do you think you’re doing!”
“Buffing your shoes, m’lord.”
Using his faded sleeve, Quincy proceeded to buff the spittle from the tip of Christian’s boot.
Christian groaned.
“’Tain’t nothin’ quite the likes o’ good spit, to tidy a man’s leather.”
Christian grunted in response, too distracted by other matters to protest further. “If you must do so in future,” he added, “do it when I’m not about to witness it.”
Quincy chortled, and Christian grimaced, pressing his hand to his forehead to still the hammering in his brain. And raking his fingers through his hair, he willed himself to bloody blue blazes—perchance there he would be somewhat less tormented!
“Ye goin’ to Westmoor this morn, m’lord?”
Christian eyed the old man with an arched brow. “Aye,” he relented.
“To see the li’l miss?”
God’s blood, but the old man was bold. He frowned as Quincy grunted knowingly.
“That’s quite enough polishing for the one boot,” Christian announced.
Quincy peered up from his handiwork, nodding with pleasure. “Certainly, m’lord,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, and then left off with the polishing to retrieve the boot that was still lying upon the wooden floor. He rose to his knees, extending it for Christian’s foot. Christian proffered it, bracing himself for the impact of Quincy’s weight. Grunting, the old man shoved, but the boot proved more stubborn than he, and Quincy thrust again, harder this time. Caught unexpectedly, Christian was propelled backward over the bed. In the blink of an eye, Quincy leapt upon the mattress with him and stood above him, battering the upturned sole of his boot, threatening it physical harm. For a long moment, Christian could only stare, his expression screwing in disbelief. And then he came to his senses. “Enough already. Get off!” Then, more forcefully when Quincy made no move to obey, “Get the devil off my bed! I’ll put the damned thing on myself,” he groused.
Quincy ignored him still, shoving more forcefully, and the boot rewarded him by popping into place at last. That done, he lifted a sleeve and spat upon it.
Christian rolled from the bed, coming to his feet at once. “Damn it! ’Tis not my boots in need of acceptance, but my bloody proposal! Stay clear of me with that spittle-sodden sleeve!”
“But, m’lord!” Quincy objected. And then his eyes bulged. “Proposal, you say, m’lord? Well, now! Ye can’t go with one boot shiny as a copper and the other dustier’n me gran’s attic—specially not today. ’Tain’t right,” he objected. “What would the little miss say?”
Christian glared at him. And then, shaking his head with mute disgust, he slid into the nearest chair. What would she say, indeed? If Jessie didn’t agree...
Christ, he loathed the thought of making a fool of himself over some slip of a girl.
Quincy stared expectantly, and he sighed wearily, proffering his boot. “Do it,” he said sullenly. “But do it quickly.”
Grinning, Quincy at once dropped to his knees, snorted, and spat, then set about the task of buffing with quiet determination. “You won’t be sorry, m’lord!”
Damned if he wasn’t already, Christian thought morosely.
* * *
Lord St. John was a balding, self-loving bore, with more hair than wit—though he didn’t have much of that!
Jessie thought if she heard once more about how influential he was, she was going to rip out his three remaining hairs, one by one.
Botheration!
And this was the man her brother would have her spend the whole of her life with? She shuddered at the thought.
“Really,” he was saying. “You’ll love Charlestown, m’dear—so much like London.” He gave her a meaningful smile, and boldly tapped her skirt with a finger.
Jessie started at his touch, jerking away. “Truly, m’lord?” She choked back the contempt from her voice. She loathed London! And she detested the man sitting beside her all the more! The very sound of his voice made her shudder. She hugged herself protectively, hoping he wouldn’t notice her disgust.
“Oh yes, indeed,” he crowed, grinning with pleasure over her feigned interest. “Some like to refer to it as Little Londontown, even. It was named after old King Charles, don’t you know!”
Jessie turned from him slightly, rolling her eyes. “Yes, my lord, so I’ve heard. In fact, I believe I heard it from you, quite recently,” she added, giving him a sweet little smile. She resisted the urge to ask him if he was addlepated. He must be, for it’d been a mere quarter of an hour since he’d last recounted that very thing to her. She peered anxiously at the door. What was her brother doing? Why wasn’t he back yet? He’d abandoned them so long ago. And where, she wondered crossly, was Eliza? Certainly she’d made herself visible enough for Christian. Jessie scooted forward impatiently, toward the edge of the settee.
Lord St. John cast her a questioning glance, as though to discern whether or not she mocked him. Apparently resolving she did not, much to her dismay, he carried on with his incessant rambling.
A discreet cough brought Jessie’s attention to the doorway. “Griffin!” She sprung from the settee at once, grateful for the butler’s interruption, and made her way to where he stood, leaning forward to hiss into his ear. “Where is my brother?”
“Er, yes, m’lady,” he said, not truly answering her question. “He bade me tell you to remain here in the salon, and to assure you he and Lord St. John will return anon.” Turning to St. John, he announced, “His Lordship awaits you in the Lib’ry, if you would be so kind to oblige, m’lord.” Gesturing with a hand, he urged St. John from the room.
“Yes, of course,” St. John replied. He turned to fix Jessie with a frightening smile. “I shall ret
urn in an instant, m’dear. Do not fret yourself over it.”
Jessie cringed as she watched him go, and was filled suddenly with a terrible foreboding.
Just what had Amos been up to for so long in the library when he knew full well that she was inappropriately ensconced in the salon with a man she barely knew? that her reputation might suffer because of it? True, she had managed to be alone with Christian, but never with Amos’ knowledge or approval. All but for a handful of times, Amos had been made aware of Christian’s presence, and had made certain Hildie was near to keep a watchful eye upon them.
Something was amiss... and be damned if she didn’t intend to discover exactly what it was. She waited until she was certain the way was clear, and then headed to the library after them.
Chapter 11
“Bloody hell!”
For the last hour, Christian had tried in vain to convince Westmoor of his intent to wed his sister, but the son of a bitch seemed to have turned a deaf ear to his words.
“Damn you! I don’t want your blood money, not now—or ever!”
“I was under the impression, Haukinge, that we’d come to an agreement concerning my dear sister already.”
“Agreement, hell! You spoke, I listened, and you took my silence as an alliance!”
“I see,” Amos said stiffly. “Well, then, just what is it you require of me, sirrah?”
Christian’s jaw ticked with anger. “Jessamine,” he said with quiet menace. “I wish to have your sister’s hand in matrimony, and nothing more—as it should have been years ago!”
“Impossible, she’s already betrothed—”
Amos halted his explanation as the library door creaked opened, revealing a mottle-faced Lord St. John behind it.
“Well, now, there he is!” Amos smiled broadly. “Jessamine’s intended himself!” With great satisfaction, he then decreed, “Haukinge, you may take great pleasure in making the acquaintance of Lord St. John, lately of Charlestown. It is to him I have granted my dear sister’s hand in matrimony. So, then,” he concluded, “as you now know, your request is far from a reasonable one.”
