He thought it likely so—no doubt another devilish form of torture she’d devised. All evening she’d danced so light-heartedly, smiled so brilliantly with all her beaux—as though nothing in the world troubled her.
And aye, she’d managed to make his heart bleed all over again.
Before he could be tempted to go to her, he sat upon the ironwork bench, watching. God help him, he was drawn to her like a drunkard to wine, knowing she was no good for him, and yet... craving her with a need that was too painful to deny.
This time he would resist.
Closing her eyes, Jessie wished herself away from the smiling faces and blissful couples she envied so.
Though she was glad for them, it was much too difficult to watch their gaiety when every promise of happiness had vanished from her life. Lord, how she wished she’d never set eyes upon him again—more than that, even, she wished she’d never known him at all.
If only she’d known then what she knew now—that he was a contemptible blackguard who cared only for his own mean pleasures. He’d used her heartlessly, without so much as a thought for her feelings.
From the bottom of her soul she wished herself back in time... so that she might undo her mistakes—or, at the very least, prayed she would open her eyes and find it had all been a dreadful nightmare, that she would awaken and find herself capable of feeling again. Turning her face up to the stars, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a fervent, “I wish...”
“What is it you wish, m’mselle?” a painfully familiar voice inquired, startling her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and for a moment she was paralyzed with dread. Panicking at the thought of facing him again, she drew the domino mask over her face at once and spun around.
She had to search a moment to spy him.
He was seated upon the arm of an ornately carved bench, his arms crossed, his legs spread before him, linked casually at the ankles. He stood slowly, flinging a lit cheroot upon the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before coming forward out of the shadows, regarding her all the while with an expression of supreme boredom.
Please, Lord, she begged, don’t let him realize it is me.
Her heart thundered painfully. She glanced about anxiously, hoping for a hasty retreat. God curse them, her feet refused to move. And then it was too late, he was standing before her.
His dark lashes fell momentarily, masking his eyes, and then he glanced up once more, meeting her gaze directly. “You were wishing for?”
Her nerves were near the breaking point, and his scrutiny managed to fragment her composure completely.
Should she lie? Should she run? The truth barreled out. “I-I was merely indulging in a whim, my lord. Woolgathering you might say.” She frowned behind her mask, hoping he wouldn’t read the truth behind her words.
His gaze left her as he considered her answer, and in that brief instant Jessie was able to observe him unheeded.
He was as handsome as ever—God curse him for that. Dressed in black, he blended consummately with the night. Like Ben. Unlike the other guests, however, he wore neither costume nor mask. She prayed he didn’t know it was her.
But when he looked at her again it was with narrowed eyes, and his cold, unmerciful gaze took her breath away. In that discomfiting instant, she knew... concealing her face from him was pointless. Her mask might have been made of glass, for all it seemed to conceal. His gaze converged upon the glove she’d removed from her hand, and then reverted to the font, lingering there an excruciating moment before returning to her.
His smile was chilling. “You make an alluring picture, my love,” he said at last. “Tell me... was that performance entirely for my benefit... or would you by chance be meeting a lover?”
His question stung like a slap to the face.
Her eyes misted traitorously at his accusation. “I-I was merely seeking air,” she told him, suppressing the urge to slap his wickedly handsome face. She wanted to kick at him, and rail at him, and might have given in to such childish ravings had her dress not restricted her so. She loathed these trappings, loathed the social order that forbade an open show of her anger.
God help her, but she wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her!
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said instead, her hands trembling. “I-I believe I shall leave you to your solitude—my apologies if I have intruded!” With halted breath, she stepped around him, but he caught her arm and drew her back.
Jessie gave a cry of despair as he snatched the hood from her head. She snatched it back, her fingers tightening about the gold and silver cloth as a cruel smile touched his lips. His grip tightened upon her arm.
“Release me!” She jerked her arm free, and lifted her skirts to bolt past him, but his hand shot out once more, seizing her wrist, jerking her backward.
Her heart lurched. “Please,” she whispered, desperate to be away from him. “Let me go...”
“Nay, damn you!”
God help him, he couldn’t.
And damn him, too, because he shouldn’t have to think of her every waking moment—because he shouldn’t want to touch her even now—because he shouldn’t know the compelling desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
He’d come to the garden for a minute’s solitude, away from her haunting green gaze, her ingenuous smiles, only to have that peace intruded upon by none other than his tormentor herself.
Had she truly thought to hide behind that silly mask of hers? Foolish—one need only glimpse into those witch’s eyes to know her.
Only a blind man could not see.
“Damn you, Jessamine!” he swore again, drawing her to him and crushing her against him.
She cried out but did not resist him at once.
“Damn you, damn you... damn you,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers.
“Don’t!” she cried, and tried to break free. “No!” He paused briefly to look into her eyes, and then his gaze fell to her mouth, lingering there.
“Jess,” he said, lifting a dark curl that had fallen from her coif and stroking it between his thumb and forefinger.
He put his finger to her mouth, caressing her lips, wandering to her cheek, stroking it softly as he held her gaze.
Shivers coursed down her spine.
Jessie wasn’t aware he released her until both of his hands tangled within her hair. His fingers curled about her neck, holding her steady for his kiss.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat as his lips descended once more. “Nay,” she beseeched him, trying in vain to avert her face; he held her imprisoned. “Don’t... don’t... please...” She whimpered.
“Jessie,” said with a groan, urging her to face him, forcing her to acknowledge him.
The sound of his voice was low and tormented, undoing her completely, and then his mouth met hers with savage determination, coaxing her trembling lips. Like liquid fire, his tongue slipped within to brush hotly against her own, and a jolt of almost painful pleasure surged through her. His other hand slid down to splay across her back... pressing firmly, forcing her to acknowledge the rest of him as well.
God help her, she responded wantonly to his tender coercion, letting him take whatever he would in that instant. He tasted of brandy, his mouth so warm and sweet with the taste that she could almost feel the burning liquor gliding down her own throat. He smelled of it, too... the scent heady to her senses. Her hands dropped helplessly at her sides, and the mask and glove slipped forgotten from her fingers.
“Jessie,” he murmured. “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie…”
She shook her head, some last vestige of her pride clinging to reality. What was wrong with her that she would weaken so? Even after all that he’d done to her? A sob caught in her throat as she acknowledged the truth. She was in love with him—would always be in love with him—regardless of what he was, regardless of what he’d done to her.
And she loathed him for it—herself even more!
With a strength she didn�
�t know she possessed, she broke free. “Get away from me!”
With trembling fingers, she swiped his kiss from her lips. Glaring at him, she bent to pick up the discarded mask at her feet, overlooking the satin glove that lay just beneath it. He stepped forward, and she raised her face to look into his eyes. “Stay away from me!” Her eyes misted traitorously. He reached for her and she twisted away. “I loathe it when you touch me!”
It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it.
He arched a brow. “Really?”
Her heart pounded.
“It seemed to me you wanted that kiss as much as I,” he taunted. He reached out to place a finger beneath her chin, raising it slightly. “Don’t dare deny it, love.”
She slapped his hand away from her face. “I am not your love!” she hissed. “You don’t know the meaning of the word!”
He stiffened. “And you perchance do?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she backed away another pace, ready to bolt if he advanced upon her again, but he merely stood, glaring at her with that soul-searing gaze.
Six months ago, that very same blaze in his eyes had broken her heart. Now it only infuriated her. And fury gave her the courage to ask the one thing she needed to know of him. “What sort of man are you, that you would accept payment for breaking a woman’s heart?”
For a long instant he merely stared at her, his jaw working, and then he answered, “What kind of man is your brother that he would invite me to do so?”
“I am not asking you to defend my brother’s honor!” she countered. “Merely your own! And I ask you again—what kind of man are you that you would take payment for such an ignoble deed? Certainly no gentleman!”
Again he stiffened. “If you find me no gentleman, m’mselle... it is because you are no lady.”
He laughed then, the sound harsh, and stooped to retrieve her glove from the ground. His accusation wrenched at her soul, for she very much feared it was so. He brought the glove to his lips for a heartless kiss, and tossed it angrily at her breast. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him in mute rage.
With trembling hands, she replaced her hood and mask, and after a moment followed him into the house, hoping he intended to leave, because she, as yet, could not. She cursed Ben to perdition for leaving her here at his mercy. Her heart continued to pound traitorously.
She found Kathryn still on the dance floor, laughing gaily, and so she stood aside, watching the shimmering silk and satin dresses promenade by. After a moment—or it might have been a lifetime—Lord St. John appeared at her side. Silently she wished him to blazes, as well, but managed to give him a pleasant smile, nevertheless.
“Jessamine, m’dear,” he crooned. “You look absolutely ravishing this eve.”
She resisted the urge to kick him squarely in the shin. “Thank you, my lord,” she said sweetly. “However did you know it was me?” She extended her hand in greeting, and he brought it to his lips. Behind her mask, she recoiled at his touch. Only after everyone else in Charlestown had given her such a warm welcome had Lord St. John even bothered to call upon her, fickle fool that he was—not that she wished him to, mind you, but he seemed to flow with the tide of public opinion, wanting her one moment, despising her the next.
Much like someone else she knew.
Her gaze searched the room.
“You,” he murmured, kissing her proffered hand, “are simply unmistakable, m’dear.”
She sighed. “And why is that, my lord?” she asked through clenched teeth, thankful for the mask that concealed her expression of disgust.
“Why, your eyes, of course,” he declared. “They are the rarest of jewels, you see...”
At his declaration, Jessie fought to hold back the tears. Christian had once said the very same thing to her, and she wondered irately just how many women had been privy to such disingenuous drivel. How many others had Christian whispered such endearments to? The very thought left her bereft, furious too.
Once again her gaze swept the room, this time meeting his over a snifter of brandy. He raised the glass in silent tribute. She could scarcely read his face from the distance, but she suspected he was congratulating her upon Lord St. John’s renewed quest for her hand. The man was becoming a boor in his pursuit of her. This week alone, St. John had called upon her near a dozen times, and each time she’d claimed an attack of the vapors. Nothing seemed to dissuade him. He simply came again, and again, and again.
She averted her gaze, pretending interest in Lord St. John’s one-sided discussion. It was insufferable that both men who had caused her so much anguish all those many months ago in England should be here now, so many miles away, making her miserable once more. God was surely punishing her!
“And where is Ben tonight?” St. John asked, his gaze turning with unconcealed disgust toward Christian. “Jessamine? Are you listening, m’dear?”
Chapter 15
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she answered sweetly. “What did you say?”
“I was inquiring over your cousin,” St. John said, silently cursing her. It had not escaped him the way their eyes continued to meet across the room—never mind that their expressions were full of veiled contempt. The woman could barely listen to him for his presence. How many times must he forfeit to Haukinge?
“I really don’t know, my lord,” she replied, sounding bored.
St. John gritted his teeth, wanting to smack her for her cut of him once again. He forced himself to remain calm and shook his head gravely. “Well... I daresay... I do hope he doesn’t find himself near the docks this eve...”
He’d come to believe in her innocence, and that as much as anything had kept his tongue stilled about the incident, but with the way Haukinge watched her now, as though she were a coveted lost possession, he had to consider her part in the affair all over again. He smiled then, for what sweet justice it would be to woo Jessamine from under his very nose.
“Oh? Why is that, my lord?”
If she would only cooperate.
Why, he pondered irately, was Haukinge not with his men tonight?
His eyes widened with feigned disbelief as he bent to whisper low, “You mean to say you’ve not heard?” He glanced at Haukinge. The man was rabid, he could see. St. John could feel his tension, even with the distance between them. His gaze returned to Jessamine. Perhaps he wouldn’t lose this round after all...
Perhaps he could use their mutual attraction to his advantage...
Jessie shook her head, her brow furrowing.
“Well, m’dear, they’ve seized two of Laurens’ vessels! It seems Daniel Moore—who is a very, very good friend of mine, incidentally—had reason to suspect him of smuggling. And that is not all! Moore has also received word that the infamous Hawk will attempt to smuggle in arms this very night—perhaps as we speak—to those rebel traitors he abets. Imagine that!”
Watching her expression, he continued, “I daresay it would serve those devils right if each and every one was assigned the gibbet tonight!” Gazing at Jessie speculatively, he then added suggestively, “I do hope your cousin is wise enough to keep his distance from those rabble-rousers... and, of course, the docks... at least for the night...”
Jessie’s heart began to race wildly.
“Yes, of course, my lord! Ben would never!” She tried to mask her concern from St. John, smiling and saying, “In truth, I expect him any instant.”
“Do you?” He smiled softly, his expression oddly triumphant.
Jessie smiled wanly in return, though her blood ran cold. If Lord St. John spoke the truth... then Ben could very well be with them now—she just couldn’t bear to think of the price he might pay. Recalling the lights flickering at the dock, she remembered Ben’s rapt attention upon them... as though he were watching... a signal? She shuddered at the notion.
“Very good,” St. John said, “Because I daresay Adger’s wharf is no place to be tonight.”
Jessie followed the direction of
his gaze to where Christian stood, and wondered at the fact that St. John made it a point to raise his chin in greeting, when she knew they despised one another. When St. John’s gaze returned to her, he was smiling victoriously, and another shudder seized her.
“Dance with me, dear,” he entreated, giving her no opportunity to resist, for he took her hand and led her without delay amidst the dancers.
Unwilling to create a scene, Jessie went, though her gaze strayed once more across the room.
Christian watched them together, his fury barely contained.
It was obvious by the expression on St. John’s face, and by the way the bastard’s gaze kept straying in his direction, that he had burned Jessie’s ears with information intended for him. Maggot. He smiled in disgust. Little did he know that he was investing in the wrong stratagem; Jessie would never willingly come near him—particularly after what had transpired between them in the garden. She’d studiously avoided his gaze ever since.
Damn St. John.
Damn her.
Well, by damn, he felt compelled to oblige—if St. John wished to convey information through her treacherous lips, he was certainly willing to hear it. He moved purposefully through the dancers and bent to whisper in her ear.
“Might I have this dance, m’mselle?”
Startled, Jessie swung about to discover Christian behind her, smiling coldly, though for once, not at her, but at Lord St. John. St. John’s gaze, too, held some private, undecipherable message, and she shuddered at the feeling that came over her suddenly—as though somehow she were caught in the midst of some war raging between them.
Releasing her, St. John smiled as he stepped away. “Of course,” he said, relenting much too easily.
Jessie started to protest, but he gave her no opportunity. Without awaiting her assent, Christian swept her into his arms, leading her away from St. John.
“I don’t believe I recall agreeing to dance with you, my lord,” she said evenly. “You’re rude, to say the least!”
Three Redeemable Rogues Page 37
