She swung away, her breath coming hot and thick in her throat, her chest pounding in reaction. She told herself she would be careful not to look at him again. But his music followed her, his music and the burning awareness of his presence. She wondered if she'd ever be able to hear a violin again without thinking of this sun-filled garden, and him.
"There you are, darling," said Harrison, coming up beside Jessie when she was helping one of her mother's more aged guests to maneuver into the shade of the eastern veranda. "Here, allow me."
With gentle solicitude, he took the elderly gentleman's arm and supported his weight while the man carefully lowered himself onto the sturdy wooden bench. "My pleasure, sir," said Harrison, accepting the older man's thanks with a polite bow.
Standing beside them, Jessie looked at Harrison, at the straight line of his shoulders, at the ruddy color of his cheeks above the flare of his light brown sidewhiskers, and felt a sudden rush of affection for him, only partially fueled by guilt. He had always been like this, Harrison: mannerly and solicitous, kind and courteous. She would be happy married to him, she told herself; in time, she would be able to find happiness with him.
He straightened that smile she liked—the boyish, crooked one—quirking up the edges of his mouth as he turned toward her. "Warrick said you were looking for me."
"Yes." She tucked her hand through his arm and they strolled together along the veranda, the sad, lilting wail of Old Tom's pipes carrying to them on the breeze. The quartet must be taking a break, she thought, and she had to restrain herself from glancing around, although she couldn't have said whether she was hoping she would catch a stolen glimpse of Gallagher's lean, dark figure, lounging at ease in the garden, or afraid she would. And then she felt disloyal for thinking such a thing, for thinking of Gallagher now, when she was with Harrison, with her betrothed. "I've been wishing to speak to you of something," she began in a rush, only to pause when she felt him stiffen beneath her touch. "What is it?" she asked, glancing up at him in surprise.
He stared straight ahead, his chin held high, his stiffly starched collar faultlessly white against the soft brown of his sidewhiskers. He was no longer smiling. "That man," he said sharply. "What is he doing here?"
She followed the direction of his gaze, to where a young, dark-haired gentleman stood looking out over the formal gardens. "Ian Russell? He's a friend of Warrick's—they often hunt together. Why shouldn't he be here?"
Harrison's thin nostrils twitched. "You wouldn't have heard, I suppose."
"Heard what?"
"About his marriage. Can you believe it? The man actually took a common thief to wife."
"A thief?" Jessie's step faltered. "Oh. You mean, he married an emancipist." An ex-convict.
"Shocking, isn't it?" he said, utterly misreading her reaction. "As magistrate, of course, I had no choice but to take away all of his assigned servants. He was excessively unpleasant about it."
"Oh, Harrison ..." Jessie's hand slid from his arm as she turned to face him. "How could you? He could easily lose his land because of this."
Harrison pressed his lips together in a thin line. "He should have thought of that before he committed such an act of folly. I only enforce the rules, Jesmond; I don't make them."
It was true; a landowner could lose the right to be assigned servants for many reasons, and marrying a former convict was only one of them. But she didn't think Harrison sounded as if he regretted what he had had to do. He had very firm views on the proper order of things, Harrison did: an unshakable belief in the sanctity of birth and the importance of keeping ex-convicts out of both business and society.
"At least Russell had enough sense not to attempt to bring the woman here," he said, straightening the cuffs that protruded precisely the correct length below the sleeves of his coat. "Not that your mother would ever have countenanced such a thing, of course—however good a friend he may be of your brother's."
Listening to him and watching him, Jessie was struck suddenly by how very much alike they were, her mother and her betrothed. Beatrice might have bowed to Warrick's insistence that his friend be invited, but no ex-convict would ever be allowed to enter the castle's grounds as anything other than a servant.
Jessie swung away, one hand coming up to rest against the nearby veranda column as she stared out at the crowded garden. "I understand that in New South Wales, former convicts used to be assigned servants themselves," she said with deceptive simplicity. "And they were allowed to marry— even before the expiration of their sentences."
"Yes, well, that was New South Wales. Fortunately, we do things a bit better here in Tasmania." He came to stand beside her. "Now, what was it you wished to speak with me about?"
Turning her head, Jessie gazed up at her betrothed's familiar, well-bred face, and knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't set a date for their marriage, not yet. She sucked in a deep breath, as if it might somehow ease the swell of panic within her, but the panic only kept building, building, until she felt an almost overwhelming, absurd urge to pick up her skirts and run. Run away from Harrison and the polite titters of her mother's garden party guests, and the haunting strains of Gallagher's violin, floating toward her on the flower- scented breeze.
"Jesmond?" he said, looking at her queerly. "What is it?"
With effort, she summoned up one of the polite, artificial smiles she'd been trained to display since early childhood. "I was wondering if you'd like to play a game of croquet?"
It wasn't until much later in the afternoon, when the shadows were growing long in the valley and the throng of guests had begun to thin, that they managed to find the time for a game, she and Warrick playing as a team against Harrison and Philippa.
"The problem is, you're standing all wrong," said Warrick in that impatient way he had stepping forward after Philippa had missed the hoop for the second time. "Now pay attention."
He went to stand behind her, his arms coming around hers, his long-boned hands closing over hers as she grasped the wooden mallet. Jessie had been gazing off across the convict- scythed lawn, toward the house, where she could see Gallagher, no longer in tails, helping with the guests' horses. But something about the way Philippa went so very still, something about the sudden parting of her lips, the quick catch of her breath, drew Jessie's attention, and held it.
She loves him, Jessie thought in wonder, watching Warrick continue to bark instructions, totally oblivious to the effect his nearness was having on the woman in his arms. Dear God, she loves him. And it occurred to Jessie, studying Philippa's flushed face, and remembering the way a much younger Philippa had uncomplainingly hauled sails and cleated lines when Warrick took her sailing, or the way she had gamely carried fishing rods and dead ducks and whatever else Warrick imperiously ordered her to tote for him as she trudged in his wake, that Philippa must have always loved him. Only, none of them had ever noticed it, for like all properly brought-up English gentlewomen, Philippa was very good, so very good, at hiding her feelings.
After that, Jessie watched them more closely, watched her brother's good-natured insouciance and Philippa's quiet grace and flawless manners. Only once more did Jessie catch a fleeting glimpse of Philippa's secret heartache, when Harrison said something amusing. Warrick's head fell back, the sun glinting on his ashen blond hair, his eyes sparkling with appreciation, his laughter ringing out rich and manly. For one unguarded moment, Philippa looked at him, such a deep and powerful longing shining in her eyes that Jessie had to turn away.
She stared off across the park, not really seeing the trees moving gently in the afternoon breeze. She wondered how she could have missed something so obvious until now. And then she thought that even if she had noticed that look on Philippa's face before, she wouldn't have known it for what it was. Perhaps a woman had to experience that wild yearning, that burning need, herself, before she could recognize it in another.
That night, Jessie went looking for her brother and found him in the billiards room, knocking balls around the t
able.
"Jess," he said, glancing up from where he leaned over the cloth-covered slate, studying his next shot. The light from the wall sconces glazed the high-bred bones of his face, but left his eyes in shadows. "You still up?"
She paused in the doorway to watch him strike the plain with his cue stick, the white ball flying across the table to knock the red into the corner pocket with a sharp click. "Three points," she said, giving him a crooked smile.
"Want to play?"
She shook her head. "I wanted to ask you something." She pushed away from the door. "I've been thinking about organizing a picnic for next week, with Philippa and Harrison." She hesitated. "Will you come?"
He straightened slowly, one hand reaching for the chalk, his gaze hard on her face. "Are you trying your turn at matchmaking or something?"
She gave a soft laugh. "Of course not."
"Huh." He set the chalk aside and turned back to the table. "Because it's a waste of time, if you are. I have no intention of marrying Miss Philippa Tate. Not now—" he sent his ball cannoning into the other two balls "—not ever."
She went to stand with her hips leaning against the table, her arms crossed over the emerald-green bodice of her satin evening gown. "Have you ever thought of how Philippa feels about marrying you?"
He gave her a slow smile that didn't begin to warm his eyes. "What is there to think about? Philippa Tate is the epitome of the well-brought-up young Englishwoman. It would never occur to her to question what's expected of her."
"I think you underestimate how much she cares for you."
"Cares for me?" He bent over the table again. "Oh, I know she has a certain measure of affection for me. And don't get me wrong—I like her, too. I always have. But she's not at all the kind of woman I could ever love. She's too proper, too controlled, too predictable."
"You think you know her, do you?"
He gave a typically arrogant male laugh. "Of course I know her. That's the problem. Where's the excitement in marrying a woman you've known your entire life? Who was betrothed to both your brothers before you, for God's sake. There needs to be at least some mystery, some element of the unknown in a relationship between a man and a woman." He struck his ball, missed the shot, and swore. "I know Philippa as well as I know my boots." He straightened. "And believe me, I don't fantasize about my boots."
Jessie watched him walk around the table. "Do you think that's what love is all about? Mystery and excitement?"
He swung his head to look at her over his shoulder, and frowned. "What do you think it is?"
She braced her arms against the table at her sides, her head falling back as she stared up at the ornate plaster of the ceiling. "I think... I think perhaps love comes from finding someone you feel utterly comfortable with, someone who makes you comfortable with yourself. It's like ... finding yourself, or maybe it's like finding the other part of yourself."
"It doesn't sound very passionate."
She tightened her fingers around the edge of the table, her gaze still on the ceiling, for she found she could not look at him and ask what she wanted to ask. "Have you ever made love to a woman?"
She heard the sharp intake of his breath beside her. "Jesus, Jess."
She turned to look into his pale, fallen angel face. "Have you?"
He stared back at her. "Yes."
"What's it like?"
He raked his hair back from his forehead in a distracted gesture she remembered from their childhood and dropped his gaze to his feet, shifting uncomfortably. "Don't you think this is the sort of thing you should be asking Mother?"
"No. I already know Mother's opinion of the marital act. She sees it as something distasteful. Something women endure."
He fell quiet a moment, then gently set his cue stick down on the table. "They don't all," he said. He was staring down at the table, but she had the impression his thoughts were far, far away. "Simply endure it, I mean."
"You haven't told me what it's like," she said softly.
He glanced up. "It's like ... well, it's a bit like eating, I suppose. It can be something you do simply because you're hungry and you need to satisfy a physical need. Or ..." He gave her his best wicked grin. "Or it can be a delightful feast."
She returned his smile. "What makes the difference?"
"The way you feel about the person you're with, of course."
"You mean, whether or not you love them?"
He shrugged. "Or at least, whether or not you desire them. I've been told there's a difference between love and desire, but I'm not sure I understand what it is." He came around the table to stand in front of her, his gaze hard on her face. "And you've come to realize you neither love nor desire Harrison, haven't you?"
She nodded, not quite able to meet his eyes. She felt the touch of his hand against her cheek. "What are you going to do?" he asked quietly.
She leaned forward, her face pressed against the solid comfort of her brother's chest. He smelled of brandy and cigar smoke, and the wildness that was consuming him. "I don't know. I wish I did."
He cupped his hand beneath her chin, lifting her head so that she was looking at him. "I'll come to your picnic," he said, and smiled when she laughed.
The next day, Lucas was on the south lawn, a hammer in his hand, the sun warm on his back as he worked banging apart the frames he'd built for the Corbetts' garden party, when a shadow fell across him.
He looked up, his eyes squinting against the morning sun as he turned. "Miss Corbett," he said, his voice coming out rough, double-edged. "You stand this close, and you're liable to get hurt."
She didn't move. She was wearing a dark blue muslin dress with a tapering white collar and large sleeves gathered at her thin wrists by a matching white band. He let his gaze travel along the length of her, from the jaunty straw bonnet set at a rakish angle on her head, to the tips of her expensive dark blue kid ankle boots, then back again to her face. "I want to go for a ride," she said, her chin coming up as she met his gaze steadily.
"You don't look dressed for riding."
"It won't take me long to change."
Deliberately, he turned his back on her, his hammer slamming against the rough lumber with a loud clatter. "I'm doing this," he said, not looking at her.
She came around to stand in front of him, her dark blue skirts swaying about her ankles with a gentle swish that filled the air with the sweet scent of lavender and starch and her. "I've already told Warrick to arrange to have someone else do this."
He looked up again, his throat swelling with an emotion he didn't want and couldn't afford. "And where would you be wanting to ride to, then?"
She tilted her head, the brim of her hat framing her face with a striking effect that took his breath. "There's something I want to show you."
He made his voice cold, curt. "And here I'd taken the im- pression you'd decided to heed my advice, and stay away from me."
"I had. I've changed my mind."
He stared at her, at the silken curve of her cheek, and the fullness of her lower lip, and the gentle rise of her breasts as she breathed. "It's dangerous, what you're about. You know that, don't you?"
He waited, knowing he was a fool, yet still unable to stop the heavy beating of his heart as he watched a smile spread across her face, a saucy smile that was like a siren call, beckoning him on to destruction. "I know."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Seagulls dipped and wheeled, their white wings catching the brilliance of the sun, their harsh cries barely audible above the roar of the waterfall that shot over the stark face of the granite cliff to tumble white and frothy and quick to the sea, three hundred feet or more below.
Lucas reined in his horse near the grassy edge of the bluff, his gaze narrowing against the sea- and sand-intensified glare as he stared at the small inlet far below. The surf was gentle today, a lazy, light-sparkled turquoise swell that rolled onto the distant narrow crescent of shingled beach with a softly rhythmic swish and drag.
Mounted on h
er dainty black mare beside him, Jesmond Corbett turned her face to the sea. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, one leather-gauntleted hand coming up to grasp the brim of her jauntily masculine top hat as the breeze caught its long cream gauze veil and floated it gracefully out behind her. She had a new riding habit, of black worsted, with wide military-style cuffs and twin rows of brass buttons marching down the front, and a creamy lace jabot at her throat. She looked haughty and expensive and so vibrantly full of life, it made his throat ache, just to look at her.
"Aye," he said, his voice rough, and swung out of his saddle to go help her dismount. "Is this what we've come to see, then?"
She twisted her head to look down at him, the brim of her hat tilting, her crooked elbow pointing to the sky as she tightened her grip against the wind. A wash of golden sunlight fell across her face to glaze the elegantly high bones of her cheeks as she shook her head. "Not yet. What I want to show you is at the base of the cliffs."
"So there's a way down, is there?" He held out his arm to her. Only, instead of taking it, as was proper, she put her hands on his shoulders and smiled down at him with her eyes.
He went utterly still beneath her touch and watched her smile turn teasing, naughty. "Think you can manage the climb, Mr. Gallagher?"
Reaching up, he grasped her slim waist, felt the strength of her young body, full of life and promise, beneath his hands. "I think you're asking for trouble, lass."
She kicked her foot out of the stirrup. "Perhaps I am."
She slid from the saddle in a rush of fine cloth and feminine softness. For one stolen, dangerous moment, he let his arms close around her, held the warmth of her body close to his, breathed in the scent of her sun-kissed hair and skin. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her head coming back, her mouth parting as she stared up at him. The wind gusted around them, rustling the long grass at their feet and bringing with it the briny scent of the sea and the quiet rush of the gentle surf. Her eyes were dark and wide, her body soft and yielding, and anyone, anyone could come along at any moment and see them.
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