by Esther Hatch
“I’m glad I had the chance to see you again.” Her voice was muffled in his shirt. “I didn’t want you to think back and remember me as being shrewish.”
He laughed. That was definitely not how he had looked back on their time together.
Neither of them moved. The moment they separated, their relationship would be over. Jonathan pulled her closer and inhaled her scent. She smelled differently here in London. Her hair was perfumed with rosewater. He liked it, but he had also liked it when it had smelled of sunshine and glue from the papers she had been putting up at Greenwood Manor.
Miss Duncan was the first to pull away. She kept her hands at his elbows as she leaned back. “Goodbye, Lord Farnsworth,” she said, and then leaned forward and kissed the side of his mouth.
She dropped her hands and stepped away, but the world stilled and he could not let go of his grip on her arm. “Miss Duncan, wait.” She paused, then turned back to him. Her gaze lowered, fixed at a point just above the buttons of his waistcoat. “I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to you yet.”
Miss Duncan’s eyes raised, first to his, then lowered to his lips. She cleared her throat. “You did not.”
“And may I?” He swallowed, his eyes straying to that mouth of hers. Her smile had been the first thing to draw him in; it seemed fitting that a kiss would be the last thing they shared together. “Say goodbye to you?”
She took in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, then her eyes closed slowly. “Please.” A fire lit within Jonathan. She reached for his elbow and squeezed. “And make it memorable so that I might relive it long after tonight.”
Jonathan may not ever have lands that produced income, he may never be the responsible man who could give Miss Duncan the life she deserved, devoid of financial burden, but giving Miss Duncan a memorable kiss goodbye?
That he could do.
He reached for her chin and lifted her head until he could see her face. The only light in the room came from the fire and a few scattered candles, but even in the low light, he could see the smattering of freckles just below her eyes. His thumb traced the softness of her lower lip. Everything about Miss Duncan was achingly beautiful. He had spent the last three months determined to rid his mind of her. He was certain this kiss would rip out the last remaining bits of his sanity. He didn’t care.
Even if he spent the rest of his life tormented by the next few moments, he would not give them up. Not for his peace of mind. Not even for Greenwood Manor.
Sally swallowed and the movement only served as a reminder of all the places he had dreamt about placing his lips—her throat, her eyes, that spot at the base of her neck where tendrils of hair seemed to always rest.
He had dreamed of a long life with her, but this stolen moment in the Harwoods' library would be all he could ever have. He wouldn’t waste it.
He lowered his head not to her mouth, but to the crown of her head. His lips touched the curls that were piled together there. Since the moment she had walked into Oliver’s office, her hair had fascinated him. It was so dark, and yet it managed to shine. He leaned back and once again tipped her head up towards his. She wasn’t smiling, but somehow she was still welcoming and she wasn’t welcoming just anyone, she was welcoming him. This time, he could wait no longer. He dipped his head and caught her lips with his own. She wrapped her hands around his neck and responded with a sigh, sinking into him. His arms went around her waist as if they belonged there, and they did. They truly did. If only he had been born a person without responsibilities, without men counting on him to keep their livelihoods intact, she would have married him, even had he not had a penny to his name. She would have married him even if his name meant nothing to anyone in the world. He could feel it in the way she folded herself into him. Sally would have loved fully in a way he had only dreamed about being loved, but she couldn’t sacrifice all that her family had gained for love. She could marry a man with nothing. But she couldn’t marry a man with less than that. She was much too sensible for that.
He loved her even more for it.
He deepened the kiss and her response was to deepen it as well. She stepped forward into him with the strength of a woman who had run a company, papered a whole manor, and boxed daily in the garden. He had never felt more wanted. He found himself stepping backwards while she continued to press into him. Something caught him from behind at his knees and he landed with a plop on a side table.
Sally’s eyes were dark, but the sight of him fallen and sitting so indecorously brought a spark to them. “Lord Farnsworth, what are you doing down there? I wasn’t nearly done with you.”
He stood and stepped around the side table, then pulled Sally toward him. “I believe I was the one who was supposed to make this memorable. I am not done.”
Jonathan rested his forehead against hers and then lifted his mouth to each of her eyes, kissing each lid, and for each kiss he left a blessing: a blessing of love, that she would someday find a man worthy of her, and that she would love fully, and forget him. He didn’t speak the words, for if he did he would have to acknowledge the fact that he shouldn’t be holding her in his arms now. As a gentleman he should have left her long before this.
His fingertips grazed the velvety skin of her throat, and his lips followed, kissing the hollow of her neck. Sally gasped but only pulled him closer to her, giving him the confidence to move to the base of her hairline just behind her ear. He grasped a soft curl between his thumb and forefinger and kissed that as well. Even here, with her hair perfectly coiffed, some of the stubborn hair had managed to come loose.
“Sally.” He lay his forehead on her collarbone. His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know how I am going to say goodbye to you.”
A soft laugh reverberated in her throat, sending vibrations down his fingertips. “You seem to be saying goodbye very well.”
“I’m a cad.”
“No.” She shook her head and he buried his under her chin. “I kissed you first.”
So practical. So forgiving. “I love you, Sally Duncan. The most devastating loss in my life will always be you.”
This time she didn’t laugh; she made a sound in her throat like she was in pain. He needed to stop this, and stop it now. It was one thing for him to always wonder what might have been, but he had no desire to cause Sally the same affliction.
It was time to leave.
He dropped his hands and, feeling as though he was ripping apart his soul, he stepped back. Suddenly bereft without her in his arms, the air left his lungs. He was empty and hollowed out in every way.
Sally leaned toward him again, but if he accepted that invitation, he didn’t know how he would ever have the self-control to step away from her again—not now that he knew what it felt like to hold her. “I have to go, Sally. I have to.” Her hands lifted and then froze. The room stilled. “Do not reach for me again, unless you are willing to marry me no matter my financial position.”
Ever so slowly, her hands dropped to her sides.
Her gaze fell to his feet, creating perfect crescents of dark lashes on her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
He stepped back once again, needing to be out of her reach. “You are making the right decision.” He pasted a smile on his face. “The last thing I want is to siphon away Victoria’s dowry. If I want to risk money, it will be my own funds. I won’t let that spark I see in your eyes now turn into resentment.”
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to do next, and then he passed by her, stopping for the briefest of seconds to return to her the sweet kiss she had given him, at the corner of her mouth, and then he strode out the door. The last place he would touch Sally would be on her mouth. It was fitting, for it was the first thing that had drawn him to her.
Sally fell backward until she came to rest against the bookshelf a few feet behind her. She grabbed the shelves with both her hands. She would not go running after Lord Farnsworth. She would not.
His kisses, though. She closed her eyes and
for the first of what she was sure would be many times, she relived how it felt to have his fingers in her hair, his head bent and pleading on her collarbone, and his lips, careful and worshipful, on her throat. How could he share such kisses and not desire to work through his financial troubles together? But he hadn’t asked that of her, he had only asked that she marry him no matter what.
Could she do that? Could she give up everything she had worked for, and everything her grandfather had worked for, so that Lord Farnsworth could come home to Greenwood Manor and make her laugh every day? Would Victoria be willing to have a Season without her dowry? She would; she had never counted on it in the first place.
It would be so simple.
But she couldn’t.
Her head fell back, pushing a handful of books deeper into the bookcase. How was she supposed to go back to Greenwood Manor now? That would always be Lord Farnsworth’s home. Every winter the winter garden would bloom and she would be reminded of that poor boy’s mother who had planted every plant in it to bloom for his arrival.
And the library?
She stumbled over to one of the chairs. How would she ever visit her library again? She glanced around at the neat and orderly shelves surrounding her. How would she visit any library, for that matter?
Her head dropped into her hands. She shuddered and swallowed a sob. At least she had apologized. She could go back to Greenwood Manor with her head held high, knowing that at the very least he would know he was welcome to come see the library.
It was a small victory, but the only one she had gained tonight. Everything else was simply lost.
Chapter 23
“Oliver.” After a sleepless night, Jonathan tore through his solicitor’s door only moments after nine o’clock. He nodded to the client sitting in front of Oliver’s desk and proceeded to address his friend. “I need a way to make money. What are gentlemen investing in lately? I need something foolproof.”
Oliver pulled off his glasses and stood. “I’m with a client.”
The man at his desk shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind hearing your advice either.”
Oliver massaged his eyes with one hand and then motioned for Jonathan to sit. Jonathan took the seat next to the older gentleman. They shook hands but didn’t exchange names.
“First of all, what money do you have to invest?”
“Everything I earned from the sale of Greenwood Manor, minus what I will need in order to keep my other estates running for the next three years. If I cannot solve those estates’ problems in the next three years, then I’ll plant different crops or find another way to make more income off of them.”
Oliver nodded as if that was a sensible decision. Jonathan pulled back his shoulders. Sensible—that was what he was. That was what he needed to be. He couldn't allow Sally to marry some boring good-with-money sap, when Jonathan could learn to be just such a boring good-with-money sap himself.
Only he wouldn't be boring, and he wouldn’t be a sap. He would be married, and anything but bored living with Sally and Victoria at Greenwood Manor.
Jonathan leaned forward. “I need to earn enough interest to keep all my properties afloat and save enough money to buy back Greenwood Manor.”
“In order to buy back the manor, Miss Duncan would need to be willing to sell it to you.”
“I will talk her into it.”
“You haven’t seemed overly capable of talking her into anything thus far.”
Jonathan snuck a glance at the man next to him. He raised both his snowy white eyebrows, and a grin spread across his face. Perhaps Jonathan would have been better off to wait until Oliver was through meeting with this man. He faced forward again. “Let’s simply assume I can talk her into it. How long will it take? And what is the best manner of investing?”
Oliver pursed his lips, pulled out a sheet of paper and started some calculations. “Nothing is certain about investments, you understand.”
“I understand.”
“You should only invest what you can stand to lose,” the man sitting next to him said.
“I understand that, as well. Which is why I will be withholding the money I need.” He turned back to Oliver. “With the sale of Greenwood Manor, my expenses have gone down. I am operating at a deficit, but it is much smaller than it was when I had to maintain Greenwood Manor as well.”
Oliver nodded but didn’t look up from his paper. He knew that already, of course. Jonathan’s foot tapped a staccato beat on the floor as he waited. Finally Oliver looked up.
“There isn’t a safe and expedited way to earn income from investments. All of this takes time, but if invested properly, I can see to it that your overall investments increase from year to year. Railroad mania threw the whole system apart, unfortunately. There was a time when I could have doubled your money in the railroad, but I've seen many men lose significant amounts of their fortunes in it in the past year.”
“No railroads, then.”
“There isn’t really an investment to be had in the railroad anymore. I only say that to warn you against investing anywhere that guarantees a quick and easy rate of return.”
Jonathan nodded. He was fine with it taking some time. He could be patient.
“Well, you have enough money to diversify with both foreign and domestic endeavors, so you should be able to cover the costs of your estates in the next year. The following year you should be entirely in the black, and you could start saving to buy Greenwood Manor.”
Jonathan swallowed. One year until he could start saving for Greenwood Manor? Exactly how patient was he going to have to be?
Oliver scratched a few more numbers on the paper in front of him. “If my calculations are correct, I would say conservatively you should be able to come up with enough capital to buy Greenwood Manor in roughly thirteen years.”
Jonathan sagged into his seat. Thirteen years. He could be patient, but thirteen years? There had to be another answer. He needed to find a quicker way. “I must admit I am disappointed by that number. The way Riverton talked last time I met him, money was just pouring in with his investments.”
Oliver put his glasses back on. Never a good sign. “Riverton has more to invest than you do.”
Ah. Of course he did.
Thirteen years. Investment would have to be only part of his solution. “What are pugilists making these days?”
Oliver’s eyes widened, and in his half-inch thick glasses the result made it look as though his eyelids touched the brows above them. “You want to actually become a pugilist?”
Jonathan shrugged his shoulder. “You’re the one who made me realize it’s the only thing I am good at.”
Oliver shook his head. “That isn’t true.”
“It feels true.”
Oliver pushed his papers aside and leaned forward. “You are a good friend, Farnsworth, and that is immeasurable. I will find you some very good investments. I’ll talk to Riverton and see if he has anything new that is safe and is producing well. We very well might get that number down to ten years. Not many people can earn enough in investments to buy an estate in ten years. You should count yourself lucky.”
The white-haired man seemed to agree. But then he leaned over in his chair. “I’d pay a good deal to see a clean-cut gentleman like yourself in the ring with the likes of The Tipton Slasher.”
Oliver furrowed his brows. “There is a reason gentlemen don’t become pugilists.”
“It would mess up their pretty faces,” the older man said.
“No.” Oliver frowned, and then tipped his head to one side. “Well, perhaps that and the general aversion to pain, but it doesn’t pay well.”
The man beside him sat up in his chair. “The Tipton Slasher is proposing 200 to 500 pounds a side if Bendigo will fight him. The Slasher wants the purse and the championship belt.”
That was no small amount of money. A few fights of that caliber could change his fortune.
Oliver grunted. “He is offering that to Bendigo, and
Bendigo has the belt, which is what he is really after. How many matches did both of them have to fight in order to get to that level?”
The older man shrugged.
Oliver turned to Jonathan. “It wasn’t one or two. And each match comes with serious risk of bodily injury. You have no heir. It would be irresponsible to take on such a dangerous prospect, not to mention the fact that no one will want to strike a peer of the realm.”
The old man coughed.
Oliver looked to the ceiling and let out a breath of frustration. “No pugilist is going to want to risk the repercussions of striking a peer of the realm. If they did you serious harm there could be significant consequences. Money makes money, Farnsworth. You simply have to give the investments time.”
Ten years if he was lucky. Jonathan’s shoulders sagged. The weight of being alone for what felt like a lifetime settled heavily on him.
There was no getting around it—Sally would be married by then, and he had no right to ask her to wait anywhere near that long. He ground his teeth together. Oliver knew what he was talking about; he always did. “I’ll sign whatever I need to sign. Let’s start the investment procedures.”
Ten years was at least a sliver of hope, and he would take even a sliver at this point.
Chapter 24
“Will you be spending any of the Season in London this year?” Mr. Sterling tapped the top of his knee, a nervous habit. His tea would be cold by now. He had been visiting with Sally and Mrs. Merryweather for the past half hour and had barely sipped from his cup. Did he even like tea?
“Yes, Victoria and I will. Last year we visited for a few weeks, and it was good to see Mama.”
Mr. Sterling furrowed his eyebrows. He lived in Weymouth and owned two popular stores in town. He had started visiting Sally three months ago, and when it became apparent his intent was to court her, Sally had invited Mrs. Merryweather to come live at the manor and act as chaperone. He was a good man, and serious. From all accounts, his businesses were running at a great profit. Sally’s head wanted to like the man.