Morning Song

by Karen Robards

  "Aren't you?" His eyes lifted to hers again. There was an unaccustomed intensity in his gaze that Jessie found both unnerving and electrifying.

  "No." It was a mere breath. Her hands had stilled their movements seconds before, but still they clung to his fingers.

  "No?"

  "No."

  "Ah." It was a curiously unsettling sound. Stuart smiled slightly, crookedly, and his head dipped toward her. Jessie felt her own head start to whirl. Her hands tightened over his, her nails dug into his flesh, and she wasn't even aware of the possibility that she might be hurting him. Her breath stopped, and she wasn't aware or that, either. All about her the night seemed to freeze. The flickering fireflies, chirruping insects, swaying foliage, ceased to be.

  Every nerve ending in her body was concentrated on the darkly handsome face that was descending toward hers; on the beautiful, masculine mouth that in just milliseconds must touch her own.

  His free hand, the hand she wasn't clutching as if she'd die if she didn't, rose to encircle the back of her neck.

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  Jessie's heart pounded. She felt as though it might jump through her chest and take off leapfrogging across the field like a startled rabbit. She swayed, and closed her eyes. . . .

  And his mouth just brushed her lips.

  It was a soft caress, barely felt. Yet heat shot through her body in its wake, heat so intense that her bones seemed to liquefy. Her lips parted, and she drew in a shaken breath. She felt the need to almost gasp for air. His hand tightened briefly on the back or her neck, then withdrew. Jessie realized with the part of her mind that was still capable of functioning rationally that he must be looking down at her bedazzled face.

  She forced her eyes open.

  He was looking at her, his expression inscrutable, his eyes impossible to read in the darkness that now enveloped them. He was close, closer even than he had been before, so close that her full skirt puddled over his boots, so close that her suddenly highly sensitized breasts were only inches away from his broad chest. Her hand still clung to his injured one, she realized, and though she knew she must, she could not quite force her fingers to open and let his go-"You did it quite well."

  "What?" She had no idea what he was talking about. His voice was light, too light for the smoldering heat that coursed through her veins, too light for her to make sense of what he said. She was on fire, burning up, and he sounded as though nothing had happened at all.

  "Your first kiss. It was your first, wasn't it?" This was a nightmare. It had to be. He might talk so to her about any of a dozen mundane subjects. But that kiss had been far from mundane. For all its gentle brevity, it had been the most 162

  shattering experience of Jessie's life. She was still shaken in its aftermath. But gradually, gradually, it occurred to her that perhaps he had not been quite so affected as she. After all, he was a grown man, not a boy, a married man with what she had no doubt was a vast amount of experience kissing women. What had been an earthshaking experience for her had meant nothing at all to him.

  "Jessie?"

  Looking him in the eye and keeping her voice steady were two of the hardest things she had ever done in her life. But she did it, because she had to. If she let him know just how that throwaway kiss had affected her, she would never be able to hold up her head in his presence again. Though her foolish heart hungered for his kisses, the rest of her feared the loss of his friendship. Her life would be bleak indeed without that.

  "Jessie, are you all right?" There was a sudden roughness to his voice, and his eyes narrowed as they scrutinized her. The hand that she'd been desperately clutching throughout turned in hers to grip her fingers, hard.

  "Yes, of course." To her everlasting credit, Jessie even managed a little laugh. She felt as though she were enveloped in a mist that muted all her senses except the hot tingling of her flesh, but she meant to hide her reaction if it killed her. To preserve her pride she had to make him think that that butterfly kiss had meant no more to her than it had to him. "Though as a first kiss, it was not quite what I had expected." His eyes widened. "Are you saying that you're disappointed, minx? You are learning to flirt." His grip on her hand relaxed. As her hand freed his at last, Jessie thought that some of the tension left his shoulders. "Were I Mitch, or any one of the other 163

  boys who might have managed to lure you out here alone, that would be my cue to sweep you up in my arms and give you a kiss you wouldn't dismiss so easily. Then, of course, you would be obliged to slap my face."

  "Now that would be a pleasure," Jessie murmured through clenched teeth hidden behind a fixed smile. The saving grace of anger was starting to set in, thank the Lord. Being furious with him was better than feeling as if she'd been kicked in the stomach by a horse.

  At her unintelligible reply Stuart frowned.

  "What?"

  "I said I might not slap Mitch's face. Or whoever's."

  "Then, my dear, they'd likely think you no lady." "Should I slap yours, then?" How her palm itched to!

  "For that little peck? It was no more than a thank-you for your gentle care of me. Quite permissible between relatives, I assure you."

  "Indeed?" Jessie smiled brilliantly and clenched her fists at her sides behind the sheltering folds of her skirts. "I'm glad I was able to be of service. The next time Celia upsets you, do be sure to call on me.

  He paused in the act of reaching inside his coat for his cigar case to look at her more closely.

  "Good God, you're angry! At me?"

  "I am not," Jessie said through that brilliant, clenched smile,

  "angry. But I am rather cold. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go back to the house."

  She inclined her head at him quite regally, turned on her heel, picked up her skirts, and swept back in the direction from which she'd come.

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  "But, Jessica." His voice, floating after her, was both plaintive and, she was enraged to discover, laced with laughter. "Isn't that a rather extreme reaction to such a disappointing kiss?"

  XXII

  Rage was an excellent beautifier, Jessie discovered. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the long mirror over the Chandlers'

  sideboard, she was startled at the color it brought to her cheeks and the sparkle it lent to her eyes. Indeed, so determined was she to show Stuart—and herself—that his kiss had meant nothing to her, absolutely nothing at all, her manner gained a vivacity that was absolutely foreign to her nature. For the rest of the evening she laughed and flirted and even danced, buoyed by enough furyinspired confidence to trust that her inexperience on the dance floor would not be an embarrassment. And she felt that she acquitted herself quite well. Certainly she never lacked for partners, and by the time Stuart dragged her and Celia away from the celebration, no fewer than four gentlemen had begged leave to call on her at Mimosa. Graciously she granted all four requests.

  She also, for the first time in her life, drank brandy. Mitch gave her the first sip when she clamored prettily to taste what was in his glass.

  "You won't like it," he warned her, but when she persisted he held his snifter to her lips. With a sidelong glance at Stuart, who had joined the men by the refreshment table nearby, Jessie took a sip. As Mitch had warned her, the stuff tasted dreadful. But 165

  Stuart frowned at her as she drank, and that was all the goad Jessie needed. Defiantly she proclaimed her liking for the beverage, and weedled Mitch's glass from him as she took a stroll about the room on his arm.

  Half a snifter later, just as a particularly lively quadrille was striking up, she found Miss Flora by her side.

  "My dear, ladies drink only ratafia," Miss Flora whispered urgently for Jessie's ears alone.

  Looking over Miss Flora's diminutive shoulder, Jessie encountered Stuart's eyes as he scowled at her from across the room. Obviously he had sent his aunt to remonstrate with her. Well, she was clay in his hands no longer, and so he would soon discover! Smiling defiantly, she inclined her head at him, then took another,
too-large gulp of brandy. It was all she could do not to choke as the pungent liquid filled her mouth, but she managed to keep her countenance, and even to swallow. The liquor burned her tongue and throat going down, but after another, more prudently sized mouthful Jessie decided that it truly wasn't so bad. Stuart was positively black-browed as he watched her, which spurred her on to swallow what was left in that snifter and ask for more. She abandoned the notion only because Mitch refused to fetch her another, instead pulling her onto the floor to dance.

  After that, whenever she felt Stuart's eyes on her, she'd beg another sip of brandy or whatever else her partner of the moment happened to be drinking. Wine was slightly more palatable than brandy, she discovered, while bourbon whiskey was almost completely undrinkable. She took only a taste here, a swallow there, while the gentleman she was with watched with an indulgent smile. Stuart's countenance grew steadily blacker. 166

  Jessie almost purred. If she had found a way to make him angry, then she was glad!

  The alcohol's only effect on her, she felt, was to make her livelier and more charming than she'd ever been in her life. Certainly she was charming the boots off Mitch. Clearly entranced, he danced with her twice, and hovered in her vicinity even when she took to the floor with other men. To dance more than twice with a particular partner who was not a close relative was considered improper; otherwise Jessie was sure he would not have let her out of his arms at all. His attentions to Jeanine Scott were no more than perfunctory. The slender brunette was obviously upset by Mitch's defection. Jessie would have been less than human if that had not pleased her to no end. All in all, Jessie's evening was a triumph. So why, beneath the dimpling smiles and flirtatious giggles, did she feel so bad?

  It was not yet one o'clock, and the party was still in full swing, when Stuart came up behind her as she chatted gaily with Oscar Kastel. Bess Lippman was casting the two of them furious glances from the corner of the room, where she sat with her mother. Bess Lippman, the spiteful cat, was a wallflower, while her beau ogled plain little Jessica Lindsay! Jessie glowed with triumph until she felt a hand grip her upper arm. Smiling as she looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Mitch or one of her multitude of new admirers, Jessie discovered Stuart instead, and her smile faded. His urbane smile did not

  Suite conceal the displeased glint in his eyes. So he id not like the way she was behaving, eh? Good! "Good evening, Mr., uh, Kastel, isn't it?" His voice was pleasant, but the hand on her arm was hard.

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  "Yes, sir. Hello, Mr. Edwards. I hear you've got yourselves quite a cotton crop at Mimosa this year."

  "Yes, we do indeed. Jessie, Celia's been taken ill. Much as I dislike spoiling your evening, we'll have to leave."

  "Celia—" Jessie started to protest, started to call him on what she knew full well was a lie, but the warning look he gave her and the tightening of his grip on her arm dissuaded her. Making a public scene would serve no purpose but her own humiliation, she knew. She did not doubt for a moment that Stuart would not hesitate to pick her up bodily and carry her from the premises if she refused to go with him.

  So she smiled at him, quite as falsely as he was smiling at her, and said, "Oh, dear."

  "Quite." His eyes moved back to Oscar Kastel. "If you'll excuse Jessie and me, Mr. Kastel?"

  "Oh, yes. Of course. Miss Jessie, I hope to see you soon."

  "Good-bye, Mr. Kastel."

  Jessie allowed Stuart to drag her away. There didn't seem to be much alternative.

  When the cool night air hit her, Jessie swayed. Stuart's hand tightened on her arm.

  "Tipsy, are you? I suspected as much." He sounded disgusted.

  "I certainly am not," Jessie said with dignity, and to prove it pulled away from his hold and walked to the carriage by herself, without swaying once.

  Celia was already inside, as were Sissie and Minna. Progress sat on the box. Disdaining to wait for Stuart's help, Jessie hoisted her skirts almost to her knees and clambered into the carriage. Celia greeted her with a virulent look. Clearly she was unhappy about their early departure and blamed Jessie. Or maybe she was 168

  still angry because of the scene Jessie had witnessed earlier. Who knew?

  At any rate, Jessie didn't much care. For once Celia's mood meant nothing to her. She was too angry herself, too tired, too fuzzy-headed, and too heart-sore to care what Celia was or was not angry about.

  "Your behavior tonight was a disgrace!" Celia hissed as the carriage got under way.

  "Rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it, Celia?" Jessie asked sweetly. Celia's eyes widened. It wasn't like Jessie to fight back. Then they narrowed again. But with Minna and Sissie as silent witnesses to whatever she or Jessie might say, Celia chose the prudent course and said no more. Jessie guessed that what kept her tongue between her teeth was the fear that her stepdaughter might reveal her guilty liaison with Seth Chandler. Stuart had ridden on ahead, so that Jessie didn't see him until they got back to Mimosa. But when the carriage stopped, he was waiting for them on the veranda, smoking one of his everlasting cheroots. He made no move to help the ladies alight, leaving that to Progress. Celia climbed the steps and brushed by him without a word. But when Jessie would have followed her example, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  "I'd like a word with you, if you please," he said quietly.

  "I'm tired." Jessie tried to pull her arm from his grip as Sissie and Minna, each clutching parcels containing the afternoon's finery, slipped by.

  "Nevertheless."

  He was courteous, perfectly so, but the fingers circling her arm could have been forged from iron. Clearly he meant to have his own way. Jessie scowled, then capitulated with a jerky nod. If he 169

  thought to rake her over the coals, then he was in for a surprise!

  Her blood was up, and she meant to give as good as she got.

  XXIII

  The library was a small room toward the back of the first floor, little used until Stuart had taken up residence at Mimosa. He had claimed the book-lined room for his own, had it dusted and aired and furnished with a massive mahogany desk and comfortable leather chairs. It was to the library that he led Jessie, standing back courteously to allow her to precede him into the room, then closing the door behind him as he followed her in. With the candle he had taken from a stand near the front door, he lit the tapers on either side of his desk. The flickering light that resulted sent dancing shadows into every corner of the room and, as he turned to face Jessie, also hid his expression.

  "Have a seat." He indicated the chair closest to where Jessie stood in the center of the room.

  "Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I'm assuming that this won't take long?"

  She faced him defiantly, chin up, eyes bright. He looked her over for a moment without saying anything more, moving to sit on a corner of his desk with one long, booted leg swinging idly. The highly polished black leather gleamed as it moved. Jessie's eyes were caught by that gleam. Swiftly they traveled from that swinging boot up over the formidable length of the man wearing it. As always, he was

  immaculately turned out. Despite the vicissitudes of his day, his breeches were creaseless, the biscuit-colored knit clinging to the 170

  powerful muscles of his legs as if they'd been painted on. His brocade waistcoat fitted his wide chest and slim midriff without a wrinkle. His long-tailed coat of blue superfine hugged his broad shoulders lovingly. Nary a spot marred his impeccably tied neckcloth, and his shirt points were as crisp as they had been when he'd donned the garment that morning. If his hair was a trifle disordered by the wind, the disorder was highly becoming. A tousle of blue-black waves fell over his forehead, framing the classically handsome face. In the candlelight his eyes glinted very blue.

  Conscious of her own disorder—despite Madame Fleur's promise, the wind in her hair on the drive home had contrived to loosen long curls that now straggled down her back, and the front of her lovely gown bore a definite spot—Jessie viewed his sartorial
perfection with something less than pleasure. In fact, she scowled at him.

  "Since you've brought me in here to scold me, you might as well get it over with so that I can go to bed." Something, either her words or her snappish tone, amused him. The resulting wry twist of his lips maddened her.

  "You must not drink spirits at parties, you know. The good folks hereabouts will say you're fast."

  If he had been angry with her at the Chandlers', his anger seemed to have faded. His voice was no more than gently chiding. In fact, he sounded very much like a fond but weary parent scolding a wayward child. But she was no child, not anymore, and he was definitely not her parent!

  "Don't you dare criticize me! I wouldn't even have gone to the stupid party if you hadn't insisted. And it seems to me that your 171

  behavior tonight was far more reprehensible than mine. After all, I didn't knock my host down—or kiss my stepdaughter!" She hadn't meant to say it, but her anger was such that it had just bubbled out. The words lay between them like a gauntlet. Stuart's hps tightened fractionally. It was clear that her unexpected counterattack both surprised and displeased him.

  ' No, you didn't, did you? You merely flirted madly with all the halfway eligible men present, and got yourself royally tipsy in the bargain. Pretty behavior, for a wet-behind-the-ears miss!"

  "No worse than yours! Or Celia's! And don't you call me a wetbehind-the-ears miss in that patronizing tone!"

  "Certainly no worse than Celia's—and I'll call you what I please," he said, sounding placid enough, although his eyes belied his tone. They were beginning to show a decided glint, and Jessie realized that she was making him angry. Good! She wanted him angry! As angry as she was!

  "What business is it of yours what I do, anyway? You'd do better putting all this effort into keeping track of your wandering wife! She's the one you found in the greenhouse, remember, not me!"