“Yes.”
“Then who is your father?”
“My father is dead, sir,” she answered quietly.
“Then you have my deepest sympathies. However, that does not help. Your family. Who are they? Where are you from?”
Jessica did not answer. She was not going to dishonor her family name by revealing whose daughter she was. She was also not going to give Margaret the satisfaction of knowing what had happened to her.
At her silence, the General asked, “Could it be, perhaps—and please excuse my being indelicate—that you are the illegitimate daughter of some lord?”
Jessica felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “No!”
The General sighed. “All right, if you cannot reveal your family, then tell us why you have a need for such a large amount of money. I understand that you have won a fortune at cards, yet you live very simply. Where does the money go, my dear?”
Again, Jessica remained silent. How could she explain that her dear stepmother was holding her only brother hostage on his own estate? Who would believe her?
She heard Damien move impatiently. Not even his aggravation would make her reveal her secrets. Let them put her in prison if they wished. She would keep Jason safe and free from scandal.
General Drayton cleared his throat. “I see. You will not tell us. Very well, my dear. I feel I must warn you that your fate still hangs in the balance. If you change your mind and wish to tell us your story, just inform His Grace. Now, if you will excuse us, we have some things to discuss.”
So, she was dismissed. She had told them everything that she had dared. There was nothing more she could do. Damien escorted her to the entrance of the salon and held the door for her. It closed behind her like the door to a prison cell.
She supposed they would decide to bring her to trial, for she could not expect the General to believe her story. It sounded like a fabrication, even to her. Would Damien believe her?
About an hour later, she watched from her bedroom window as the General left. Not long after, a knock sounded on her door. She thought it was only one of the maids, so she called to enter. But Damien walked in. He looked angry.
“How can someone,” he said without any greeting, “who is so shrewd at cards, be so foolish with her own life? You have not helped your cause any by remaining silent about who you are, Jessica.”
“I know,” she said simply, and turned back to stare out the window.
He crossed the room in several long strides, and taking her arm, swung her about to face him.
“Why?” he demanded.
Jessica answered his question with one of her own. “Would you dishonor your family, Damien? Would you not prefer to die in obscurity than drag your family name through the mire?”
He dropped his hand from her arm and blinked. “Jessica, if your story is true, then you have nothing to fear,” he said. “There would be no scandal, for there would be no trial. General Drayton only needs some proof that you are telling the truth.”
“Oh, there would be a scandal. How else would Madame be convicted if not with my testimony? How was it that someone like me came to know a woman like Madame? What was I doing in her establishment?”
Damien raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
Instead of answering him, she asked, “Do you believe that I am telling the truth, Damien?”
He stared at her for a moment, then his gaze slid to the window. “I don’t know.”
Jessica nodded, understanding his indecision. Why should he believe her? He had met her in circumstances that would cause anyone to have grave doubts about her integrity. She had even cheated him in a card game.
“Thank you for being truthful.” Ruefully, she smiled. “I would probably have trouble believing my story, too, if I were not the one telling it.”
Damien looked at her, his eyes reflecting the pain of his uncertainty. Then the instant was gone, and his expression was once more impersonal, that of her jailer.
“I will leave you to think over your silence,” he said. His tone was cool, detached. “Perhaps you will change your mind. If so, just inform one of the servants. They will know where to find me.” Bowing formally, he left.
Chapter 10
Jessica remained in her room for the rest of the day, even requesting to have her meals there. Damien did not come again, and she did not try to find him. There was nothing left to say.
After she’d finished her dinner, she wandered to the window. She seemed to spend a great deal of time staring out at the drive, seeing nothing, thinking less. Her mind was brought back into focus by the arrival of Damien’s landau. She saw him emerge from the house and enter the carriage. He was dressed for the evening. He looked magnificent. His evening cape swirled about his legs and reminded her of how he had been dressed the day of her arrest.
She realized she was truly a prisoner and could not come and go as she wished. She might never again see her brother, walk through the halls of her childhood home, ride across the verdant fields and enjoy fresh tarts in the village. With a sigh, she turned away from the window. She wondered where Damien was going to spend his evening, then put the thought from her mind.
She decided to go to bed. She would not think about anything. She would sleep.
But sleep did not come. For hours, she lay listening to the house become quiet as the servants retired. She knew Damien had not come home, for she had not heard the carriage on the drive. Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, she decided to go in search of something to read. She had not seen a library in the house, but perhaps she would find books in Damien’s study. Slipping into her dressing gown, and taking a lit candle, she started her exploration.
On the main floor, Jessica opened several doors before she found the right one. As she walked into his sanctuary, she felt her pulse quicken. This was where Damien ran his estate, conducted his business. Another side of him revealed itself in this room.
Holding up her candle, she looked around. There were no lamps lit, but the fire burned brightly. Evidently, this was where he secluded himself when he returned home. It was a typically masculine room with walls paneled in rich, dark mahogany and the floor covered in a deep, red Persian rug. The various chairs, large and comfortable looking, were upholstered in red or black leather. Along one wall, from floor to ceiling, were bookshelves filled with volumes. In a corner of the room was a massive desk of dark, polished wood. A portrait above the fireplace caught Jessica’s eye, and she went to examine it more closely.
The man portrayed in the painting bore a marked resemblance to Damien. Except for the color of the eyes and the wig the man wore, it could have been Damien. Even the expression was similar. She had seen Damien’s eyes glint in just that way. The nameplate attached to the frame told her that this was the fifth Duke of Wyndham, Damien’s father. She wondered if this man had been as adventurous as his son.
Jessica turned her attention to the books. For a small collection, it was very diverse. It contained many works of the older writers, as well as those of the modern period. She took down a volume by Sir Walter Scott. It had been signed by the poet with a personal inscription to Damien. She replaced the book on the shelf. One of Shakespeare’s comedies was what she needed to lighten her spirits. Curling up in one of the chairs by the fire, she began to read.
Several hours later, a noise startled her awake. She was about to uncurl from the chair and scurry back to her room when the door opened, and Damien walked in. His gait was careful, as if he expected to step on something at any moment. Jessica realized he’d been drinking heavily.
As he stopped before the fire, she stood, the book falling unheeded from her lap. She wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He swung about in a crouch, ready to pounce, surprised at finding someone else in the room. A small, sharp, deadly-looking knife appeared as if by magic in his hand. Jessica remained pinned where she stood.
When he saw her, he straightened, and a slow grin spread across his face. He pushed the weapon back into his sleeve where Jessica assumed he must have had a sheath. His gaze fell on the book lying at her feet.
“What is this?” he drawled. “A raid on my library? Or were you waiting up for me?”
Jessica could smell brandy. She wanted to get out of his way. His mood was dangerous.
“I could not sleep, so I came to find something to read,” she explained as she began to edge away. “I only meant to stay for a little while.” Out of his reach, she turned to leave.
“Wait,” he ordered.
She stopped.
“Turn around.”
Slowly, she did as she was told. She did not believe he would harm her, but decided she should not take any chances.
“Why do you still wear the nightclothes of a young maid?” he demanded. “Is it to disguise yourself, Witch?”
Jessica’s mouth dropped open at his unexpected question. She remained frozen as he approached. He untied her dressing gown and unbuttoned several buttons down the front of her nightrail.
“There,” he breathed. “That is better.”
Jessica immediately began to re-button her gown. Her heart could not endure another night of making love with Damien.
“I think I had better leave,” she said firmly.
“Why? To recite your incantations and weave your spells, Witch?”
“Damien, you’re drunk.”
He grinned. “I know. You should feel great remorse, Witch. It is because of your sorcery that I am in such a sorry state.”
“I’m going to retire,” she said, ignoring his comment.
“Ah, now that, Witch, is a very good idea.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I believe I will come with you.”
She slid out of his grasp. “Damien, please.”
“Please? Do you not wish me to see your cauldrons boiling with your magic brews? Are you afraid to let me see your lair, Witch?”
“This is your house. You may go where you wish.” She stood coolly before him and hoped her manner would dissuade him from any thoughts of making love.
“You are right,” he agreed. “It is my house, and I wish to walk with my arm about you up the stairs to your room. You have fallen into your own trap, Witch.” He smiled triumphantly and chucked her under the chin.
Jessica ground her teeth together in exasperation as he put his arm around her shoulders once more. His grip was tighter this time, and she knew he would not let her go again. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes.
“Beware, lest I turn you into a toad,” she warned. She could not help the flutter in the pit of her stomach at the feel of his hard body pressed against her.
He chuckled. “So, the sorceress shows her true colors. Perhaps it is you who should beware. Being a toad, I could give you warts.” He laughed at his own cleverness.
Jessica rolled her eyes. They climbed the stairs together, and she brushed his lips away from her neck several times before they reached her room. He walked in after her and closed the door.
“This is a very pleasant room,” Damien observed. He took off his coat. “I believe I will spend the night here.” He removed his stock and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Oh, Damien,” Jessica said in dismay. “Please, don’t.”
She began to re-button his shirt. Her fingers shook. She very much wanted him to spend the night with her, but he could not.
He caught her hands to stop their clumsy fumbling. “Look at me and tell me no,” he ordered quietly.
She looked up into his eyes. “Please,” was as far as she got. His mouth stopped any other words she might have said.
Jessica melted against him. She hungered for him, wanted him so badly. Her mind told her that she was being stupid, that she would despise herself in the morning for being so weak, but she did not care. Urgently, she helped Damien out of his clothes and removed her own. Naked, kissing, touching, exploring each other, they staggered to the bed. When Jessica shivered in the cool air, Damien pulled the blankets over them. As they snuggled under the covers, he gave a huge yawn.
“I fear my endurance is at an end, Witch,” he said. “What spell did you put on me to make me so weak?”
Jessica giggled. “How much brandy did you consume this evening?”
“Oh, gallons.” He nuzzled her neck and held her close. “Stay with me, my love,” he whispered.
As Jessica held him close, a soft snore reached her ears. Smiling, she fell asleep, cuddled against his warm, hard body.
The next morning, Jessica awoke with a wonderful feeling of contentment. The other side of the bed was empty, but the pillows gave testimony that Damien had slept there. She ran her hand over the sheet beside her, remembering the night before. Sleeping the night in Damien’s arms had been wonderful. If only her life could be like that forever. Knowing that it could never be, her sense of peace faded.
Damien had already breakfasted and was about his business by the time Jessica arrived in the dining room. But the room was not empty. The man who had escorted her into the house when she had first arrived was seated at the table. He rose when she entered the room.
“Please.” She smiled. “Sit down and finish your meal.” She slid into a chair across the table from him. “I hope you don’t mind sharing the table with your prisoner.”
“Not at all, Lady Jessica,” he replied. “It is a pleasure to share the table with one so lovely as yourself.”
“You are very kind, sir.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “I feel I am at a great disadvantage, for you know my name, yet I do not know yours.”
“Forgive me, my lady. I am Edward Johnson, Viscount of Winslow, third son of the Earl of Mark, Leftenant in His Majesty’s Army.”
Jessica smiled at his thorough introduction. “Then I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Leftenant. You must find the duty of guarding one woman rather tedious.”
“As I said, my lady, the duty is a pleasure.”
He smiled back at her, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. Jessica decided she liked this man.
“But would you not prefer to be attached to some unit that is fighting Napoleon in Austria? Or perhaps Italy?”
“We have been fighting Napoleon, my lady, but not in the manner you suggest,” he replied, then grinned. “This duty is much more pleasant than some others I have been assigned.”
“Oh? Have you been under the command of His Grace for very long?” she asked.
“As long as I’ve been in the army,” he replied. “About four years.”
“Then you must know him very well.”
The soldier shook his head. “Not as well as you might think, but better than most, I suppose.”
“Do you know why he joined the army? It is so unusual to find a duke with a commission.” Jessica knew she was prying, but thought he might be a good source of information about Damien. She was not about to let her chance of finding out more about the Duke escape her.
Leftenant Johnson gazed at her for a moment, obviously trying to make up his mind how much to tell her. Finally, he said, “He was not supposed to inherit the title. He had an older brother.”
Jessica blinked. “Had?”
“Yes, he was killed in a duel about four years ago, just after I entered the army.”
“How tragic!” she exclaimed. She shook her head. “Dueling is such a waste. Why can’t men find some other way to settle their differences?”
“Perhaps because men often duel over women,” the Leftenant said. “Someone has to be the victor and take possession.” His smile was mischievous.
Jessica smiled back at him. “Women aren’t possessions, sir. I think you have been with His Grace too long, Leftenant. You sound suspiciously like him.”
“I consider that a compliment, my lady.”
>
Jessica regarded him seriously. “You respect him a great deal, don’t you?”
“It is deeper than respect,” the Leftenant told her. “He has saved my life several times, as I have saved his. That creates a strong bond between men.” He drained the last of his coffee and stood. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I must attend to some things.”
Jessica nodded and watched him leave the room. She remained at the table and played thoughtfully with the food on her plate. So, Damien had an older brother who had been killed in a duel. She remembered her father had been in a duel once, when she had been much younger. She was not supposed to have known, but she had heard her father and Margaret arguing about it. Jessica had never heard him so angry. Evidently, it had been because of Margaret that he had been forced onto the field of honor. At the time, she thought dueling to be very romantic, her tender age preventing her from seeing the truth of it. Now, she knew it for what it was: a stupid and dangerous tradition. Her heart ached for Damien. What a devastating way to inherit a title.
Her appetite had left, so she decided to retrieve her book from Damien’s study. The door to the room was closed. She knocked, and Damien’s deep voice bade her enter.
Opening the door quietly, she stepped inside. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I wish all my interruptions were as pleasant.” He held up her book. “I was wondering when you would come to get this.”
Jessica took hold of the book, but he would not let it out of his grasp. Instead, he guided her around the desk, so she stood before him. Embarrassed at revealing her desire for him the previous night, she kept her gaze lowered.
“I only came to retrieve the book, Damien. I did not know you were here,” she said.
“I will not keep you from your reading. Witch.” He whispered his last word.
Was he mocking her? She met his eyes. His gaze glowed with desire. Her cheeks flamed, and she turned away.
“Do not look at me so,” she said. “Someone may come in.”
The Duke Who Loved Me: On His Majesty's Secret Service Book 1 Page 14