by Stacy Reid
Anger darkened Lord Jensen’s mien, and he dismounted, striding to her swiftly. “Do you understand the precarious position you placed your reputation in with your reckless little racing adventure? As your—” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on her lips. “Has this bounder kissed you?”
Payton stiffened in outrage. “My lord, you have overstepped your bounds.”
“I know how your lips appear when they have been well kissed, for I have tasted from them enough times to know,” Lord Jensen growled, anger mottling his face.
Mikhail subtly tensed.
Her heart pounded, and mortification twisted in her. Lord Jensen’s words made it appear as if she were a wanton who traded kisses with any man to pay attention to her.
“I…” Tears pricked behind her lids, and he reached for her.
“Do not touch her.” Though spoken softly, Mikhail’s words were infused with cold command, freezing Lord Jensen.
Payton did not wait to observe his reaction to Mikhail’s order. “Excuse me,” she snapped, and raced past Lord Jensen to her horse.
“Do not presume to tell me I cannot touch my fiancée,” Lord Jensen hissed.
Payton stumbled. Fiancée?
Gripping the reins of her horse, she faced him, her heart thundering in her ears. He was here because her father sent for him.
No. Her father wouldn’t. He had always been her ally in the war with her mother and aunt. She glanced at Mikhail. He stood with his feet braced apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets his eyes remote and carefully masked.
Call on me. She mouthed the words, and tenderness pierced her when a slow smile curved his lips.
Mikhail strolled over, gripped her hips, and helped seat her on Aeton.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and rode away ignoring Lord Jensen’s shout for her to wait for his escort.
She prayed his presence did not mean what she feared, but somehow she knew it did, and the battle she had planned for independence seemed as if it had arrived far sooner than she anticipated.
Chapter Nine
Payton sequestered herself in her room for the rest of the afternoon. She had even declined to luncheon with the rest of the guests, furiously writing down all the reasons she wanted to choose her own husband. Her mother would ignore them, but her father would at least lend a listening ear. Or so she hoped.
Aunt Florence had barged into Payton’s chamber earlier, a whirlwind of excitement, and informed her Lord Jensen St. John was in the smaller parlor. Knowledge of what awaited settled in her stomach like bad ale; he was the last man she wanted an audience with today.
A luncheon tray had been sent to her room, and she had kept him waiting while she ate. After much haranguing from her mother, Payton dressed in a simple lime green day gown, caught her hair in a loose chignon without the aid of a maid, and slipped her feet into walking slippers.
A mere hour later, she moved with determined steps to the parlor.
“I urge you to give him a fair hearing, my dear,” her aunt murmured.
Payton cast a glance down the dimly lit corridor, hoping she could stumble and sprain her ankle, saving her from the conversation about to happen. “Do you know what he wishes to speak of, Aunt?”
Aunt Florence clasped Payton’s arm and gave her an encouraging smile. “I have some idea.”
Denial surged inside Payton. It was Aunt Florence’s shoulder she had cried on so piteously when he’d distanced himself without even a letter. Why had she expected her aunt to be loyal? “Aunt, I cannot—”
“Give him a chance, my dear. At least listen to what he has to say with an open heart. And know your father has already given his blessing.”
With a gentle squeeze of her hand, Aunt Florence stepped back. Nervous energy coursed through Payton, and she took a calm breath, opened the door to the parlor, and sauntered in as if she had not a care in the world. A soft snick sounded, and she faltered. Her aunt had closed the door and left her alone with the dratted man.
Since being jilted she’d received several propositions, from amusing to really vulgar, with which she had dealt with cool aplomb. Yet to see Lord Jensen in the parlor waiting for her with an air of confident expectation had sweat breaking on her brow. “Lord Jensen, this is a charming surprise.” The lie soured on her tongue, but she would be pleasant and ladylike, and would be as firm as possible in denying his request for reacquaintance without being abrasive. “Why have you requested an audience?”
“Payton—”
“Miss Peppiwell,” she said with a tight smile.
“There was a time you allowed me more than simply calling you by your given name,” he insinuated softly.
Her heart lurched. “And there was a time I thought you a gentleman with honor who was worth according such liberties. Alas, we must learn to live with disappointment.” Three kisses. And she was glad she had not allowed more despite his gentle persuasions.
A look of discomfort flashed across his face. “This is why I wish to speak with you so urgently.”
He had the gall to pat a section of the sofa beside him.
She moved across the room and sat on the chaise farthest away from him. Annoyance shafted through her when he launched to his feet and rushed to her side, kneeling down, gripping her hands. Good lord.
“I admire you most ardently,” Lord Jensen said with an earnestness that would have charmed her several months ago. “I have been foolish, Pay—Miss Peppiwell—and I beg your forgiveness. Nothing would make me happier than if you would consent to be my wife.”
Lord Jensen did not admire her. How could he even think she would believe such a thing possible after his atrocious behavior?
Please do not let their ears be pressed to the door. Payton would not be able to endure the anger of her mother and her Aunt Florence at such an early hour. She stood and, with deliberate steps, she walked to the door and opened it.
Thank heavens.
After ensuring her aunt had not lingered in the hall, Payton returned to the parlor. She smiled gently and regretted it immediately. The look of anxiety in his eyes dispelled, when she had only smiled in hopes of lessening the sting of her rejection. “Please, my lord, stand.”
He stood and sat beside her on the chaise, clasping her fingers. Payton withdrew her hand, uncaring that she might offend him.
She searched for polite words to decline his offer. “Your offer is indeed generous, and I thank you for making it, but I cannot marry you. Please believe me when I say I take no pleasure in causing you discomfort.”
“I love you, and from our many walks I believe you return my heartfelt affections.”
She found him singularly lacking. “While I appreciate your sentiments and the courage it must have taken for you to declare yourself, I do not return your heartfelt affections.”
“What?” He looked genuinely bewildered and hurt. “I love you, Payton.”
She searched for the spark of interest, that sweet feeling of delight, and only felt regret for lost time and a possible friendship. “Forgive me for causing you pain. It is not my intention. But I hold no such affections for you, and I cannot marry you, Lord Jensen.”
It seemed as if her words finally penetrated, because he froze, and the utter shock that filled his eyes had tension shifting through her.
“I do not think you understand,” he said, lips tightening, all affable charm vanishing. “I am offering to make you my future viscountess, despite your lack of recommendations.”
She stiffened, knowing what was about to come. The reminder of her supposed inferior circumstances. “I have given you my answer, my lord.”
He puffed up like an angry bird. “Who do you think you are to reject me?”
Her palm itched to slap the look of condescending hauteur from his face. She rose and graced him with a polite smile. “Good day.”
He rushed to her, grabbing her hands. He pressed a fervent kiss to her cheek, and she jerked from him. “Lord Jensen, please conduct yourself like a gentleman,�
�� she snapped, thoroughly angered by his persistence.
“I cannot stay away from you, Payton, I ache for you.”
She narrowed her eyes in warning. “You are aching for a slap, my lord, one I will not hesitate to give.”
He placed his hands over his heart as if she had pierced him. “Why are you being so stubborn? You said yes to my offer last year, and we never called off our engagement.”
The depth of rage that surged through Payton rendered her speechless for precious seconds.
Seconds he used to tug her closer. “Your father has already given me his blessing.”
She yanked her hand away from him. “How dare you,” she whispered.
“Payton, I—”
“Be silent!”
He flushed, and awareness of her anger seeped into his eyes. A look of regret and possibly shame chased his features, but nothing softened inside of her.
“You abandoned me, you ignored my letters asking for explanation. You do not get to come here and pretend that you did not act abominably. I will not be forced where my heart does not lay. My father giving you permission to court me is irrelevant.”
“Is this about that blasted man you raced away with earlier? I made some inquiry, and the man is nobody, Payton. It is shocking that you rode with him without a chaperone and allowed him to kiss you.”
“Please excuse me.” She owed him no explanation, and she did not look back as she fled to the sanctuary of her chambers.
Several hours later, the door to the Rose Room swung open without a knock. Payton lifted her head in startled surprise. This was where she escaped to etch her drawings and to craft the stories. Hardly anyone ever intruded after Lady Calydon made it known the Rose Room was to be Payton’s sanctuary whenever she visited.
Aunt Florence stood in the doorway looking flustered.
Concern curled through Payton, and she closed the book with her drawings. “Yes, Aunt?”
“You are needed in the smaller drawing room, my dear. Your parents await you.”
“Mother and Father?”
“Yes.”
She’d tried to speak with her father after leaving Lord Jensen, but her father had indicated he was busy and would call for her at his earliest convenience. Payton had wanted to speak with him alone.
An audience with her mother and father was never a good thing. It meant they were in perfect agreement with whichever torturous command they would soon inflict. She stood and tucked the leather-bound volume under her arm.
Could it be Lord Jensen had taken his asinine demands again to her father? Dear God, she hoped not. More than two hours had passed since she rejected him, and from the windows in her chambers she had witnessed him walking on the lawns with Lady Ophelia Clayton, and Payton had hoped he’d accepted her rejection. She moved rapidly to keep pace with her aunt and arrived at the smaller drawing room in short order. Payton paused and took a deep breath, steadying her nerves, and then entered behind her aunt.
Her father stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. He turned at the closing of the door, and Payton’s heart jerked at his serious expression.
“You asked for me, Father?”
His gaze roamed over her, searchingly, but he did not speak. She glanced at her mother who sat stiffly on the chaise in the far left corner, her lips thinned with displeasure.
What is it?
She stepped farther into the room, while Aunt Florence went to sit beside her mother and clasped her hands.
Sudden fear jerked through Payton. “Are Phillipa and Phoebe well?”
“Your sisters are well,” her father said, his voice neutral.
Relief pulsed through Payton, and a heavy sigh escaped her lips. “Thank heavens.”
“You will marry Lord Jensen St. John within the fortnight.”
Surely she misheard.
“I was compelled to ask His Grace for his assistance in obtaining a special license. You will marry the honorable Jensen St. John.”
It was as she feared, and shock held her immobile. A dull roaring sounded in Payton’s ear. “A special license?”
Her father waved toward the corner, and it was then she noticed the duke standing by the mantel, his face carefully blank.
“Yes,” her father snapped, his face mottling.
She pressed her clasped fingers to her stomach, hoping to stop the churning nerves that would see her chucking up her light luncheon. “Forgive me, Father, I do not understand. I have no wish to marry Lord Jensen. He made an offer earlier, and I rejected it. I have expressly told Mother and Aunt Florence I am not—”
“It matters not what you wish,” her father roared. “I have accepted his offer, and you will marry him or so help me God…”
The anger he vibrated with had Payton’s stomach plummeting. What was wrong? He had always been her most avid supporter. “Father—”
“I allowed you too much freedom. I indulged you and Phillipa, and disgrace was almost brought to this family. If not for the honor of Lord Jensen, we would have been none the wiser of your behavior, young lady.”
My behavior? Confusion rushed through her at the sob from her mother. What was going on? Nothing would induce her to marry the man who had treated her with such contempt, and Payton knew she had a fight on her hands. “Will someone please tell me what is happening? Mother is crying and, Father, you are speaking of matters of which I am ignorant.” She did nothing to hide her exasperation, though she feared her anxiety bled into her demand, betraying the depth of her nervousness.
“Lord Jensen has informed us of the shocking encounter he had with you last season at Lady Graham’s midnight soiree,” Aunt Florence said softly.
The memory of the night scythed through Payton, and she visibly jerked, a blush staining her face.
“Good heavens,” her mother cried, quite theatrically. “It is true.”
The room went deathly quiet with the crackling fireplace the only sound. What could she say? He had kissed her, more than once, and she had returned his embraces. He had just proposed, and the excitement of helping her family attain what they had longed hoped for had swept her away.
“I believe this is where I exit,” the duke said, his fathomless gaze piercing Payton. “This is a family matter best discussed in private. I will procure the license.”
She clasped her hands to hide their shakiness. “Please, Your Grace, I beg you not to. I cannot marry—”
A growl slipped from her father, and he rose to his intimidating height. “You will marry the man you thoughtlessly gave your virtue to. The man who has sought to do right by you, and whom you have ignored every step of the way. He thought there was a child, Payton. Lord Jensen believed this was the reason we had rushed you off to the country…to hide the child you had created,” her father ended on a near shout.
She blinked stupidly at her father. A child? Who had a child? Clarity broke through her muddled mind with sharp precision. She stiffened, outrage pouring through her. “I assure you my virtue has not been compromised. Lord Jensen only kissed me!” Mortification burned through Payton, but she held her father’s volatile glare.
He gave her an incredulous look. “Do not believe me to be a simpleton, daughter. I may have been neglectful in doing my duties since I have been in England, but no more.”
Anger nearly choked her. “You cannot be serious. Lord Jensen and I…I…never…” Her entire face burned to be having such an intimate discussion with her father, and in the presence of Calydon. Why would Lord Jensen behave in such a despicable manner?
She moved closer to her father. “I swear to you, Father, on the night he proposed to me, he kissed me twice, very chastely I might add, nothing that would warrant a wedding.”
“Why would Lord Jensen, the heir to the viscountcy, lie about—?”
“How do you know they were chaste kis—?”
Her parents broke off their simultaneous questions to glare at her.
“Lord Jensen would not lie.” Her mother spoke first. �
�He is a gentleman. The son of a viscount. You must allow him to do the honorable thing and marry you.”
Payton stared at her appalled. As if Lord Jensen’s title elevated him above being despicable. “He is lying,” she insisted. “I cannot fathom his reasons, but I assure you, Mother, I never acted in the manner he is insinuating.”
Aunt Florence exhaled with relief and gave her a small encouraging smile.
Her father ignored all of that, clasped her shoulders, and peered down into her face, his eyes blazing with anger. “How did you know St. John’s kisses were chaste, young lady?”
What?
“Father, this is utter madness.” She wanted to throw her hands in the air and scream. She felt attacked from all sides, without a supporting face in the library.
“How?” he roared, and she jumped, pulling from his tightening grip.
Instinctively her gaze flicked to Calydon. A blush heated her face, and she saw awareness dawn in his eyes, then a pleased smiled curved his lips. Why was he pleased?
“Father…I…I am assuming, I am not sure of anything at this moment,” she ended, ashamed to feel tears burning behind her lids. “I would appreciate it if you would lower your voice.”
Her father advanced, and she retreated. Never would she have imagined this confrontation at being summoned. Why would Lord Jensen do this? According to his mother, Payton’s possession of a sizeable dowry was her only recommendation, and it had not been good enough.
Acting on the instinct of flight, she rushed to the door.
“You will not leave this room until you have answered my questions to satisfaction,” her father snapped. “Lord Jensen alluded he saw you riding alone with…with a horse breeder, and I had not believed my daughter could act with such wanton impropriety.”
Her mother gasped and then swooned, quite dramatically.
“Mr. Konstantinovich is not a stable hand. He is His Grace’s man of affairs and a friend. Yes, I rode out with him, but we were in view of the croquet party.” Not quite true, but she could not bear to reveal any more. The entire situation was mortifying and heartbreaking.
“I am ashamed,” her father said quietly, and she flinched.