From there morning took a decided turn for the worse. He spied his brother’s luxurious landau through the window, the emblazoned coat of arms brilliant in the gleam of too-early sun. Jasper took a deep breath and opened the front door.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Valerian St. David, Earl of Dashwood, nodded and stepped over the threshold, brushing past Jasper and into the hall.
“Then why are you here so early?” He kept his back turned so Dash wouldn’t see his pained grimace.
“Traveling has affected my sleep patterns and besides, I couldn’t wait to speak to you. I heard an interesting tidbit upon my return last evening. I’ve come so you can deny it and set my temper at ease.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d returned from your wedding trip. How goes it in Athens? Venice? Where were you last?” Jasper led them up the stairs to his study. He was half-awake with his clothing disheveled. It seemed the best option.
“Changing the subject with some trifling discourse won’t work.” Dash discarded his gloves on a nearby sofa table and settled in a chair before the desk as if he intended to have a good long visit.
All thoughts of returning to bed while the sheets remained warm evaporated.
“I inquired because I’d forgotten. Nothing more.” Wishing for coffee, Jasper eyed the nearby brandy decanter anticipating what was to come. “You might have messaged me.” He struggled to keep all emotion from the complaint. Instead of appearing on my doorstep ready to cut up my peace.
“Attempts to deter my purpose won’t be successful.” Dash barked a laugh of disbelief. “By the way, Wilhelmina sends her best.”
Jasper’s distemper eased. “Yes, your lovely wife. I look forward to seeing her again. London has missed her smile.”
“And flattering my bride will hardly get you out of the hole you’ve dug. Have you opened an office on Bond Street? Rumor has it you’ve entered into some cork-brained business arrangement with Beaufort.”
Dash’s question sounded suspiciously like an insulting accusation. There was a deafening moment of silence.
“Hardly.” Jasper managed the one word.
“I knew it couldn’t be true.” Satisfaction relaxed his brother’s posture.
“It’s not at all cork-brained.”
Dash whipped his head to attention. “What?” Disapproval replaced surprise. “You’ll have to close.”
Jasper nodded in the negative. “I’ve already secured a notable client.”
Dash’s expression of skepticism spoke volumes but Jasper wasn’t deterred. He’d lived with his brother’s scrutiny and overbearing criticism for two decades seven years, although he’d never developed immunity. “R. James Caulfied, Earl of Penwick, has invested a tidy sum in my foremost financial opportunity.” Thank the devil, he’d secured the account, otherwise he’d have no collateral to offset his brother’s pessimistic forecast of doom.
“Penwick.” Dash paused as if deliberating. “I don’t know him.”
“You don’t know everyone. You hardly know me—” The words came out in a mutter and again Jasper glanced to the brandy service, but it was just too early.
“Of course I know you.” Dash presented a practiced grin. “You’re the brother who landed us in near ruin last year. The same brother who gambled away the pittance we had, doubled the debt left by our father, and ignored my warning that we were fast on our way to financial devastation.”
The discourse, delivered with uncalled for acerbity and an ample serving of lofty indignation, prompted Jasper to stronger defense. “I take exception to that. Father had gambling fever. I do not. And you’ve omitted how I restored our solvency through creative scheming and keen investment sense. You laughed at the idea of a mousetrap. You said cats would have to become extinct.” Jasper thrust his arm in the air to underscore his argument. “And had you not become a matchbreaker at my insistence, you’d have never met Wilhelmina.”
The last bit brought a startling sobriety to the room. Jasper inwardly rejoiced. For once he’d have the final word although his brother’s dismissal of how integral his role had been in their recovery last year left him madder than a bag of cats. And who was whispering in Dash’s ear as soon as he stepped into London? Was he building a reputation or did society ridicule him behind closed doors?
A few minutes ticked by before his brother continued. “I’m the sixth Earl of Dashwood.”
“As I’m aware.” Howsoever could I forget?
“My brother should not be in trade.” There was a threatening finality in Dash’s adamant tone.
“What am I to do with my time each day?” Jasper pushed off the bookcase where he’d leaned and paced to the window.
“You’ve never found trouble filling the hours before.”
“And you were forever urging me to better myself, accusing me of playing Conker’s and over-indulging.”
“Not in this manner.” Tolerance and long-strung patience were threaded through his reply. “You need to find purpose.”
Jasper huffed a short breath and returned to the desk. “I’m the brother to the sixth Earl of Dashwood. I have no purpose.” At least that’s what you believe.
“That’s ridiculous. Now that we’ve recovered financial security you can pursue a great many opportunities, none of which involve you entering in trade. Having but one client aids your new-found purpose which is now to close your doors. Conclude business and inform this Penwick fellow it was all a big mistake. Then dissolve this fatuous endeavor with Beaufort before it sullies our name.” Dash stood up abruptly, as if leaving with this parting remark would ensure his warning abided.
“I thought Wilhelmina had cured you of pride.” Jasper refused to be ordered about and scolded like a child. He dismissed his brother’s words, unwilling to allow them to perforate his ambition. Or at least that’s what he told himself. “You’ll witness yet another success. Just wait and see.”
Dash eyed him, his expression one of grim reservation. “That’s why I’m alarmed.”
Chapter 9
“Mother?” Concerned she’d heard crying, Emily tapped lightly on her mother’s bedchamber door and eased into the room to find Bianca seated by the window, a handkerchief clenched in her fist. The familiar scene never failed to pain her. Would the day come when her mother stopped torturing herself? Blaming herself for a situation not in her control? Her father had taken so much already, why must he steal their future as well? Her mother was once a vivacious woman with the light of joy and confidence in her eyes. Now the ever-present shadow of tears replaced any glow of happiness.
“I miss him so much.” A desolate note of hopelessness accompanied the confession.
“I know.” Emily wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulders in comfort. She settled on the banquette and considered which words to choose. Would her mother grow angry as she’d done in the past when Emily suggested they look toward the future? The truth wedged like a dry crust of bread in her throat. She couldn’t bring it up nor could she swallow and be done with it. Instead, the truth choked her, leaving her powerless to act while her mother mourned the loss of a man who wasn’t worth her tears. “Would you like some tea? I can ring for Mary.”
“Tea won’t fix my heartache. Nothing will.” She gave a strong nod with the refusal. “Your father was my world, my everything. Without him, I have so little. I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t want to be reminded of all the things we might have done together. Still I have hope. I keep hope close to my heart and I’m sure the letters…the letters will help.”
Her mother’s distressed tone justified Emily’s fear of uttering the wrong consolation, scared she could drive her mother further into maudlin depression, full of the distorted memories that caused her upset. The truth was best left alone until her mother’s thoughts were more coherent; for when this malaise and conflicted emotion passed. Though as weeks turned to months misgiving dimmed her optimism. Sometimes Emily couldn’t find any rationality in her mother’s perseveration. “Time helps, and having new experience
s. Leaving the house for a short walk could be enjoyable. It’s still early and the weather seems pleasant.”
“No. I can’t leave the house.” Her mother pulled from her embrace and scooted forward on the window seat, as if to secure she couldn’t be removed.
“Of course you can.” Emily dared a soft chuckle hoping to ease her mother’s agitation even though at the root of her mother’s confusion was the belief she’d somehow see her love again. Emily didn’t dare suggest that day would never come. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.” She offered her mother’s hand an encouraging squeeze.
“That doesn’t matter.” Squaring her shoulders, Bianca snatched her hands free. “Stop. You don’t understand and you never will.”
Like a swift blow to the stomach, Emily caught her breath, aware once again she hadn’t handled her mother’s melancholy properly. She’d wished to console and had angered instead. “No, I’m sure I don’t. I’m so sorry.”
Whispered in resignation, she stepped away, each stride taking her closer to the door and away from a battle she couldn’t win. She hurried to the stairwell, grabbed her pelisse from the drawing room and dashed out the door. Fresh air, distance, anything to wipe away the remembrance of her father and her mother’s misplaced wretchedness would be welcomed. There was a time when she wouldn’t leave the house, scared and consumed with worry for her mother’s harsh words. As years passed, things had changed. Emily had hardened her heart and hired a trustworthy housekeeper, allowing Emily a bit of freedom and perhaps, sanity too.
Now she couldn’t walk fast enough, her mind a jumble of memories, her slippers carrying her farther and farther from the town house. Only when she entered the bustling center of London did she slow, allowing the city noise to swallow her up and suffocate the pain inside.
Out of breath and tears, she glanced toward the corner surprised she’d walked so far, all the while lost in the heart-wrenching disparity of her mother’s beliefs and the truth Emily kept hidden. She met the eye of a passing shopper, aware she must look a fright without a bonnet or gloves, her cheeks tear-stained. With forced composure, she swept a palm over her hair to smooth the loose strands then continued at a modest pace toward Bond Street. The sight of the office, her victory and glimmer of hope, the one place she could replenish her soul and find peace for a few minutes, buoyed her spirits.
The league didn’t meet on Thursday and focused on respite, she spared not a glance to the lower office. Confident she’d found privacy, she crossed the street and approached the welcoming door. Emotion still had a strong hold and her hand trembled as she sought the key in her reticule. In her hurry, she dropped it, her eyes chasing the key as it bounced against the cobbles before she stooped to pick it up. Again she moved to insert the key, but an arm reached from behind, a brown glove placed over her bare hand. A beat of panic squeezed her heart. She startled, anxious until a familiar voice near her ear reminded Jasper St. David occupied the office downstairs. He was the last company she wished for now. She looked wretched and her emotions were scattered.
Surrendering the key to his grasp, as there was no use in objecting, she twisted and glanced over her shoulder, at once aware he stood inches from her back, a mere step and she would be flush against him, caught in his arms.
“Miss Shaw. What a pleasant surprise during a rather dismal day.” He flicked a glance in her direction then turned the key and opened the lock.
With an awkward step, she avoided his broad chest, careful her skirts didn’t trail against his legs.
“You’re having a poor day too?” She strove to hide the tremor in her voice but didn’t succeed.
“Let’s label it as wearisome and leave it at that. It’s rather early to be out and about. Is there a meeting this morning?”
He extended his arm so she could pass through the door and into the small square foyer before the stairs led upward. Sunlight permeated the space otherwise it would be unusually dark within.
“Not today. The League of Virtuous Equality meets on Tuesday and Friday.” She started to climb, careful to go slowly; casting an occasional glance toward Jasper so were he to follow, his boots would not step on her hems.
He followed, seemingly aware of the same concern for he focused intently on her skirts.
“And what exactly does the league discuss at these meetings?”
He asked the question with intelligent curiosity and none of the usual skepticism or mockery that accompanied inquiries from less enlightened people.
“My hope is to bring women together and empower them to succeed in the same manner as gentlemen. Males rule society, yet there is so much more females can offer if allowed. Women should be permitted to live and act independently without being labeled a spinster or bluestocking. We are equally as intelligent and resourceful.”
They’d reached the top of the stairs and she opened the secondary door and walked inside. If anything Jasper had distracted her from the tormented emotions of the morning, and she found she enjoyed their conversation. Clever, how he’d managed to fill a little of the empty feeling she always carried within.
“I see.”
She wondered if he truly agreed, but then he continued.
“All visions of beheadings and tribal dancing have been cleansed from my brain.”
She giggled despite herself.
Jasper smiled and began to move about the office. “Equality is all right and good, but people need one another at times. No one is completely independent.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Shall I remind you of our waltz, Miss Shaw? And by the way, are you hiding a hideous moniker or do you feel uncomfortable with me addressing you by your given name? I rather thought we were becoming friends.”
He punctuated his little speech with another smile that distracted her more than anything else. Did he really need to look so dashing? His eyes spoke volumes of emotion and his carefree congeniality was contagious, no matter she had little intention of knowing him better. And those long lashes…
Unsettled, she pushed for more sensible conversation. “You mention our waltz, and in that you’re correct, but you’d be hard pressed to supply another instance when a woman couldn’t succeed in a task without the assistance of a man.” She watched as he removed his gloves and placed them on the table beside the vase of fiddleheads. The arrangement looked inordinately fresh despite they were nearly a week old. How peculiar.
She trailed her eyes after him as he lit two lanterns and started a fire in the hearth. Whatsoever was she doing? Standing around like a brainless bird-wit while he assumed the role of protector. It chafed against everything she believed in…that the league signified.
“Another example?” His evocative grin declared she’d taken his bait and he stepped in her direction, pausing when a mere stride separated them.
Time stood still as they faced each other in the slanted sunlight from the large glass window. In wait of his answer, her eyes wandered to his mouth although some secret part of her whispered the question; What would it be like to kiss Jasper St. David? And from there she became a lost cause.
As all females do, she’d fantasized about her first kiss. Not having ever had one, her prodigious imagination had created the ideal first encounter. In her mind’s eye, the gentleman would look at her face with genuine sincerity, his eyes searching deeply for the connection that led them into each other’s arms. He would touch her cheek, a slight caress that sent shivers through her bones to settle in her heart. In this daydream, night dream, she would allow her eyes to fall closed so sight would no longer have control, but instead, her other senses would discern each nuance. She would feel his fingertip tilt her chin, sense his hesitation as he stalled above her lips, the warmth of his nearness almost too much to bear in anticipation of his kiss. Then she’d experience the taste of his lips, the thrill of being desired, worshiped, if even for just one moment.
Emily snapped her attention to the present with hope her face hadn’t revealed ex
actly where her thoughts had wandered; to a fantastical image borne of fiction and illogical hopes and dreams.
She flared her eyes wide. This life was reality. She would do best to remember that.
“Miss Shaw?”
“Yes. You were saying?” Was she flushed with embarrassment or some other ridiculous emotion because heat rose in her cheeks and her clothes suddenly seemed too confining? The warm undercurrent in his question couldn’t possibly be the cause.
“You suggested I name another situation when a woman couldn’t accomplish success without the help of a man.” He glanced in her direction with a twinkle in his eye.
Perhaps he would try to trick her. She smiled with satisfaction, assured he had no such example and offered her full attention with a proud tip of her chin.
“Kissing, of course.”
Her face lit afire. Could the man read her mind? Look into her soul? Howsoever could her thoughts become his in the span of a few heartbeats? She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, in an effort to hide the inevitable, the tinkling sound of her new charm bracelet laughter to her folly.
Jasper closed the width between them. She noticed the tips of his very fine leather boots as she looked toward the hardwood floor. Slowly she raised her gaze, taking in the man in front of her. His tight-fitted trousers and well-cut waistcoat were of the smoothest Kersey wool, his cravat, white and sharply pressed, was tied simply, in kind to the easy attitude of the man who wore it.
“Miss Shaw?”
She shot her eyes to his, all at once lost in his gaze. Eyes, brilliantly green with specks of gold, entranced her, as if caught in a spell. Her heart pounded in her chest, his words knocking, seeking shelter there. Something about Jasper made her abandon the strict rules she’d adhered to ever since she’d witnessed her mother’s devastation and made a vow to keep herself clear of fancy men and their wealth. Ever since she’d promised to be her own woman, dependent on no one.
She didn’t move when he reached forward and brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek.
Undone by His Kiss Page 6
