Finally, Nicolette peeked at the watch pinned to her spencer and released a loud, distinctly disgruntled sigh. “I’m loathe to be the one who puts an end to our lovely visit, but Mama wishes me to walk Belle in St James’s Park with her this afternoon.” She pulled a face. “Which means she’s probably arranged for a gentleman or two or three to accidentally come upon us. Mayhap Belle will bark and growl and dispel any need for conversation.”
The sweet-tempered pug was more likely to beg to be picked up and petted.
Nicolette still hadn’t completely recovered from being jilted two years ago. She now viewed men as one would a pox sore or a carbuncle. Her mother, a consummate matchmaker, used ploy after ploy to introduce her most reluctant daughter to eligible gentleman.
And Nicolette, being Nicolette, rebuffed them all, refusing to take a chance on love again.
Another round of hugs commenced, with many murmured assurances that all would be well, when in fact, each woman knew that wasn’t precisely true. Jessica had only ever wanted to marry for love. Now her wedding gown was a shroud of ruination, her bridesmaid, a tarnished reputation. At least the groom was pleasing.
She looped her arm through the bend in Ophelia’s elbow as they walked to the entrance.
Ophelia slowed her steps until they trailed several paces behind Rayne and Nicolette. Her soulful hazel eyes searched Jessica’s. “Tell me true, dearest. How are you really? I cannot think you are happy to marry a stranger, no matter how handsome he might be.”
“Miss Brighton is with child.” Why had Jessica blurted that out?
Ophelia’s eyes went round as the moon. “Oh no,” she whispered, her voice equal parts aghast and stunned. She darted a swift glance at the other women then turned her head side to side, before hauling Jessica into a secluded corner. “What will you do? Is it…? Is it Bainbridge’s?”
Jessica filled her lungs.
Is it?
No. She felt confident it wasn’t. She released the breath in a whoosh and shook her head. “I’m confident it’s not. I cannot explain how I know, but there’s a decency in Crispin, which he conceals behind wastrel and libertine ramparts and bastions. He’s not the sort who’d father a child on a woman and leave her to deal with the situation.”
If he were such a cad, he wouldn’t have offered for her. He’d have left her to deal with her tarnished reputation alone.
Jessica brushed her hair away from her face. “He kissed me.”
Her blasted tongue seemed to have acquired a mind of its own today. The good Lord only knew what else might come spilling forth.
Ophelia’s jaw went slack, practically hitting her bosom. Then a wide, delighted smile spread across her face. “And you liked it.” Her grin widened, and she gave a little, excited hop. “You did! Why, Jessica Miriam Emerald Brentwood, you liked it very much, indeed.”
“I did.” Oh, she had. Indeed, she had. She’d like to kiss Crispin again. And again. And again.
What would’ve happened if Victor hadn’t interrupted? For certain, they’d not have ended up naked on the divan. Once in a lifetime was more than sufficient to be discovered as such.
Squinting, Ophelia glanced upward in concentration. “Forgive me for overstepping, but we are the dearest of friends, after all. I couldn’t help but notice the way you’ve watched him these many months. And you admit you enjoyed his kiss. Aren’t you a just little pleased about the match?”
More than a little pleased, and yet dismay also marred what should’ve been joyful anticipation.
“I am, but I wish the union weren’t forced upon us.” It didn’t hurt to admit the truth to Ophelia. She’d guard the secret with her life. “It’s not the ideal way to begin a marriage.”
Jessica dropped her attention to her hands. Untold numbers of people before they had entered into arranged marriages and marriages of convenience and still had managed to carry on with their lives.
Yes, but many had also trudged along, wretched and bitterly unhappy.
“I’d hoped for a love match,” she admitted, unable to keep the forlorn note from her voice.
“But…” Ophelia hesitated, her gaze keen and probing. “Oh. I see.” She leaned near and drew Jessica into her arms. Offering the comfort only a dearest friend who knows one as well as one knows oneself can provide. The kind of friend who never judged but accepted and loved unconditionally. “You love him?”
Do I?
I do. I do. I truly do.
God, help me. That’s what this…this turmoil is.
How could she not have been aware all these months?
This weighty, aching sensation wasn’t at all how she’d anticipated love would feel. No rainbows and stars and gaiety. No dizzying sensations of floating. No sparkling eyes and incandescent smiles.
She’d expected a fluttering pulse whenever she’d seen Crispin. For warmth to spiral outward from her middle when he spoke to her. His presence to muddle her thoughts and despondency to cloak her whenever they were apart.
What she felt at present was excruciatingly magnificent. An agony of splendor. A mélange of hurt and joy so entangled it was impossible to distinguish the pleasure from the pain.
She loved Crispin. Adored him.
When had it happened? How had it sneaked up on Jessica, catching her unawares?
How could she not have recognized falling in love with the seductive scoundrel?
Oh, love—the tricky devil—had wooed her. Won her.
Steadily. Stealthily. Slyly.
She was in the thrall of the insidious emotion. Snared, well and good. Much like a drunkard’s dependence on spirits. The process wasn’t instant or overnight. Nay. The twin demons of time and exposure gradually worked their wiles until, one day, one realized they craved the substance—were miserable without it.
Or as in her case, only felt whole when she was with Crispin.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. How could Jessica have been so foolish?
Blinking away the moisture stinging her eyes, Jessica gave a shaky, self-deprecating smile. “Is it that obvious?”
Likely, her dratted calf-eyed glances had given her away, despite her valiant efforts to mask her sentiments.
“No, it’s not, if that reassures you.” Ophelia stepped back, still holding Jessica’s forearms. Forehead furrowed, sympathy shone in her eyes. “You’re not happy about it, though, are you?”
Happy? Hardly. It was one thing to give her body to him.
But her heart? Her soul?
Such vulnerability terrified Jessica. She might very well lose herself, her identity, her self-respect.
“He doesn’t love me. Yes, he wants my body, but I’m not completely convinced a man such as he is capable of enduring fidelity, Ophelia, let alone love.”
A week after Brighton’s unpleasant visit, Crispin marched up the six well-scrubbed steps to the Sutcliffes’ ostentatious residence, complete with double doors painted a vibrant ruby-red. He was expected for tea, a guise to see Jessica contrived by him and the Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffe.
The stubborn woman had not called upon him again, which both relieved and exasperated him. Her absence provided an undistracted opportunity for his head to heal while he put mechanisms in place to prove Lilith Brighton and her father the bold-faced liars they were. It also gave him time to discover what foul hole Brookmoore had scuttled into or what rock he’d crawled beneath as well as report his crimes to the authorities.
Why, only this morning, his detectives had reported seeing Brookmoore slithering into his rented rooms, looking much the worse for wear.
Jessica, the maddening, darling woman, hadn’t responded to his daily notes, and that worried him no small amount. He feared Brighton’s libelous declaration had put her off. Raised qualms and questions.
Today, Crispin meant to set her straight on the matter.
He would’ve done so the day he proposed, but he’d all but passed out after Brighton’s thunderous departure from the drawing room. Weak as a kitten, Sutcliffe supp
orting him on one side and Barlow on the other, he’d barely been able to raise his head to beg her pardon. To assure her, all would be well. That Brighton was lying through his yellow teeth.
Crispin had never even danced with Lilith Brighton, let alone bedded the chit. The notion repulsed him, making him realize all the more he could never have wed her and fathered a child on her. The dukedom would’ve gone to a distant cousin perched somewhere in the extensive family tree.
Pale, her delicate features taut, Jessica had stared at him, her gaze searching. Probing. Seeking. Not accusing, however. Several other emotions had flitted across her face: worry, fear, uncertainty, concern, doubt. The last lingered, shadowing her gorgeous blue-green eyes, and it was that uncertainty that lanced him afresh every time he summoned her exquisite face.
She didn’t trust him. Why should she?
Because of their kiss. It had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
Even after their soul-shattering kiss, she had misgivings. It was only natural, he reminded himself. She couldn’t know what they’d shared had been beyond rare, the fusing of spirits. Immediate. Unbreakable. Profound.
Why, he’d have scoffed at such tripe if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand.
Jessica Brentwood was his. His. And, by damn, he was hers, whether she knew it or not.
He must somehow convince her she could trust him. That they could build a future together. The beginning might be a mite precarious, but that was no fault of theirs.
Brighton, the feckless bounder, had successfully planted a seed of suspicion. It stung how easily she’d believed the rotter, but Crispin couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him well. He’d honed a devilish reputation, one he’d asked her to believe wasn’t true without giving her any foundation for doing so.
Despite his doctor’s orders that he should rest for a few more days, he’d left his house yesterday. There’d been a constant stream of people in and out he’d summoned since Brighton’s harshly slung accusation, but there were tasks Crispin must attend to himself.
Only a niggling ache now annoyed him where the blow had fallen. That, and the blasted stitches. They itched something awful.
Since Jessica’s departure, he’d been restless and edgy, needing to see her. Needing to assure himself she was well. Almost as if he anticipated Brighton or Brookmoore would spring another foul surprise upon him.
Or upon Jessica. Perchance both of them again.
He couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t entirely safe and had conveyed his concern to Sutcliffe. Rather than disregard Crispin’s worries, Sutcliffe agreed to take additional security measures at home and when they ventured out.
Never before had Crispin felt such an overpowering need to protect another. To ensure someone’s safety and wellbeing. There were no lengths to which he wouldn’t go to safeguard Jessica. To make her his duchess.
Only, according to Sutcliffe, she hadn’t peeked her delicate nose outdoors since she’d left Crispin’s house the day he’d proposed. Evidently, upon their departure, they’d gone home by way of St. James’s Park, after the duchess had insisted the fresh air might do her younger sister good.
Well acquainted with the workings of London Society, Sutcliffe had believed they ought to go directly home, but his wife was not to be dissuaded. The weather had been pleasant, and her grace had erroneously believed a turn about the park might lighten her sister’s somber mood and lift her low spirits.
Jessica, in particular, was fond of the numerous fuzzy, dappled, ducklings paddling near Duck Island or drowsily sunning themselves upon the shore.
Crispin would have to see to it that he acquired a few ducklings and goslings for her to raise. A puppy, too, since that was what had lured her to the hothouse.
Until recently, the Duchess of Sutcliffe had also lived her entire life in a warm and welcoming community. Her inexperience with the sharp-tongued, critical haut ton had, most unfortunately, made her sister an easy target.
The outing, which was to have been followed by ices at Gunter’s, had proved a colossal mistake, according to Sutcliffe. They’d encountered several members of the upper ten thousand, and Jessica had been given the cut direct by more than one.
Ladies had pulled their skirts aside while making blistering comments accompanied by smoldering looks of contempt. And, as Crispin had feared, many of the men had lewdly sized her up like a new type of pastry they couldn’t wait to sample.
Sutcliffe cursed himself for a thousand kinds of fool for not anticipating what would happen. He’d honestly hoped that if Jessica were in his company, no one would dare turn a gimlet eye upon her.
He’d been dead wrong.
Which raised more concerns. Le Beau Monde had passed judgment, and it would take more than a duke’s championing her to restore things to rights. The unpleasant encounter had only confirmed Crispin’s suspicions.
There was no more time to delay. Arrangements must be made for their immediate marriage. It was astounding what quick nuptials could remedy. Crispin had seen that miracle work more than once, by God.
One day ruined and, the next, married and welcomed back into the haut ton’s capricious bosom. Such bloody damn hypocrites. How many of those self-righteous pricks were sneaking in and out of bedchambers themselves? Most, truth be known. Or if they weren’t now, they had in their heydays.
The banns were supposed to have been read two days after his proposal. But someone—probably that bastard Brighton—had whispered in the bishop’s ear. Likely after donating a considerable sum to the Church.
More blasted hypocrisy.
Crispin squinted slightly and pulled his earlobe. Didn’t Brighton have another connection to the Church? He couldn’t precisely recall the exact nature, however. It would come to him eventually.
In any event, the man of God had refused to read the banns until the matter of the broken betrothal was resolved. The issue was resolved. Brighton’s daughter had colluded with Brookmoore to ruin Jessica and smack Crispin over the head, and now the girl’s belly swelled with Brookmoore’s seed.
The contract was null. Void. Invalid. And Lilith had provided the means for the dissolution. As spelled out in elaborate detail on page seven, paragraph three.
The resignation in Jessica’s eyes upon hearing Brighton’s contemptible lie had nearly fractured his heart. Lilith Brighton was not the first woman to falsely accuse a man of fathering her child. In Crispin’s case, he could prove he hadn’t. When he explained the truth of it to Jessica, he was confident he’d reassure her. He must. He’d not wed her having her believe another woman carried his issue.
If he did, she’d see him as the basest sort of bastard.
Yesterday, he’d met with his man-of-affairs, his solicitor, and the investigators hired to poke around a bit about Brookmoore’s clandestine meetings with Miss Brighton. It hadn’t taken much sleuthing by the detectives to confirm the chit was indeed breeding.
Truthfully, it was somewhat astonishing, and not a little disturbing, what tattle might be learned from the mouths of domestics. Once located, Brightons’ laundress confessed with alacrity—incentivized by a heavy coin purse—it had been months since she’d laundered any menstrual cloths in the Brighton household. At least since December, which meant Lilith Brighton was four months gone into her pregnancy and would show very soon.
The current fashions helped hide her swelling belly, and that she was plump to start with also played to her advantage. No wonder she’d gone along with Brookmoore’s scheme. Or had she concocted the plan and ensured the viscount’s assistance with promises of a considerable dowry?
The blackguard’s pockets were always to let, and he was in debt up to his inadequately starched neckcloth.
Was Brighton truly so stupid he couldn’t add two and two—couldn’t recall that Crispin had wintered at his country estate? His servants could attest to that. He’d also attended Sutcliffe’s Christmastide house party and dozens more country assemblies over the past few months, including Twi
stleton’s musical soiree in March.
He could produce dozens of witnesses to swear he’d not left the country or been seen in London. Unlike the majority of the upper ten thousand, the Brightons lived in London year-round. Brighton ought to have considered those details before slinging false accusations at him.
Unless the man knew and didn’t bloody well care. That seemed more the gist of it. Why settle for a viscount, even if he had compromised Lilith?
Crispin had refused to be bullied into marrying the girl before, but now that she’d spread her legs for Brookmoore… He snorted, loudly and contemptuously. Satan would be making snow angels in hell before Lilith Brighton became his duchess.
He damn well wasn’t marrying her and essentially proclaiming to all and sundry the child she carried was his. For God’s sake, she might well bear a male child; no by-blow of Brookmoore’s would inherit the Bainbridge dukedom.
It certainly did make one wonder if both Brookmoore and Lilith had taken leave of their senses. Their plot was doomed to failure from the beginning. They would’ve had to have killed him to prevent him from naming them as the guilty parties.
His wound took that moment to twinge. Mayhap killing him had been their intent. Had they succeeded, Jessica would’ve been left with no defense whatsoever.
A grimace twisted his mouth. Why hadn’t he considered that before? Because no man liked to think his betrothed detested him so much, she’d conspire to see him dead.
Brighton wouldn’t spread word of his daughter’s delicate condition. Not if he wanted to maintain his position on Society’s outer fringes. He’d not been so foolish as to have Lilith examined by a physician or midwife either. Crispin’s detectives had explored those avenues thoroughly.
Nonetheless, except for bribing the bishop, Brighton had been eerily silent. It raised Crispin’s hackles. He had no doubt the blighter was plotting. But what?
As he rapped upon the bright door, he looked up and down the street. Several people regarded him with avid curiosity. A few haughty matrons lifted their chins and turned their faces away, but the men smiled or winked. The double-standard galled. Women snubbed Jessica, and men admired Crispin’s prowess, and yet they were each as much a victim as the other.
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance Page 27