Regency Romance: The Viscount's Blazing Love (Fire and Smoke: CLEAN Historical Romance)

by Charlotte Stone

  She smiled sweetly. She could not understand how they had overcomplicated things. “Then why have you not asked me?” she wondered with a smile, certain he would reply with words of love.

  He shook his head and took a step back from her. “I cannot.” It sounded as if the words had been stuck in his throat.

  “Cannot?” she replied incredulously. “But you just said…”

  “That is what I want,” he emphasized. “But it can never be that way. You must see that.”

  “I do not see anything,” she snapped, learning toward him, taking him by the shoulders. “Do you not love me? Do you wish to hurt my feelings?”

  He took another step away from her, lifting his arms in frustration. “I just told you I wanted to marry you. Of course, I love you. I have loved you for so long I cannot remember when it began.”

  She stilled completely. She could hear nothing but his voice, see nothing but his countenance. She closed her eyes and smiled as if savoring the feeling. “Oh, John. I…I love you, too. You must know that.”

  It was his time to go still. “I did not know that,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “I never imagined you could. Or would. Oh, Jane.” He closed his eyes, looking physically pained.

  “Why does that make you unhappy then?” she asked quietly.

  “Because we can never be together!” he cried out, his frustration clearly having nothing to do with her and everything to do with the situation.

  “And why not?” she asked stubbornly. “I do not understand. You have just told me that you love me and wish to marry me and I have told you that I love you, too. What else is there?”

  “There is the way I grew up, Jane,” he snapped, all his anger focused inward.

  “I do not care about that,” she insisted with feeling, trying to reach for him.

  He evaded her. “Well, you should. I am sure your sister the countess does, as does your brother-in-law, the earl. And your relatives, the duke and duchess.”

  “That’s not true,” she argued, but there was some hesitancy in her voice for the first time. Did they care? Would they?

  “So they would not care that my father drinks so much he would beat my mother in front of me until I was old enough to take the beatings? That I went hungry so my brothers could eat so my father could buy that alcohol? That the only reason we still have a farm is because of the largess of the previous Earl of Wembley, when it was only I who could work it when the other boys were still too young? They would not care that the only reason I even know how to sign my own name is because you taught me? That I shared a bed with my brothers until I left that house? They do not care that everyone in this town, including all the servants in Pritchford Place, know me to be the son of a drunkard who regularly beat his own wife, who still, according to my brothers, is known to causes a ruckus in town occasionally? They do not care that I did not have a pair of shoes that fit me until I worked for Tom? Or that if not for Tom’s goodness to me, I would still be working on that farm?” He said all of this in a rush, as if it was poison he had to get out. “Do you think they would care if they knew that I once had to brain my own father with the frying pan to keep him from killing my own mother? Or—”

  “Stop,” Jane pleaded. “John, I am so sorry. You never would tell me how bad it really was.”

  “How could I?” he choked. “Do you think I ever wanted you to know that such ugliness existed in the world and that I was a part of it? I never wanted it to touch you.”

  “It does not matter to me!” she insisted. “I do not need you to protect me from where you came from. I love you. All of you. Every part.”

  She had taken her hands in his at her last statement and he slowly removed them, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Jane. Please. This is already so difficult. I know you think that, but I do not know that you have thought it through. Would your guardians say the same? Am I really the type of man they would want you to marry if they could choose?”

  “They are not choosing,” she retorted. But she was also suddenly at a loss because part of what he was saying was finally sinking in.

  “But their approval is important to you,” he reminded her gently. “You have said it yourself to me a thousand times. There is nothing you would not do for your sister.”

  “John,” Jane began with a great deal of uncertainty. “I do not know what they will say. But you also saved my sister. And this is less important to note, but also your circumstances in life have greatly changed.”

  “Perhaps,” John muttered as he kicked at some loose dirt. He could not explain what he felt, to be so close to the very life he wanted, to know that she wanted that life as well, and yet to know it could never be. “But some things stick forever. You could have anyone.”

  “I do not want anyone,” she told him but she sounded less determined, less stubborn, and more unsure. “I will speak to them.”

  “Do not,” he begged her. Then his voice hardened. “And besides, there is no need. I have not asked you.”

  “Pardon me?” Jane inquired as she pulled away with as much regality as she could manage.

  He knew it was hurtful to say, but he thought it was necessary, in order to save her from greater pain. “I have never asked you to marry me.”

  She turned her head as if his words were a physical slap. He had never been so sorry in his life. That is, until she spoke. “You talk about your life growing up, John, and I am so sorry for it. And I think what a miracle it is that you are the man you are, after growing up with so much turmoil and cruelty. I cannot recall a single memory where you deliberately set out to hurt anyone, especially me.” She paused and when she lifted her face toward him, one tear streamed down her cheek. “You think I do not know you? I know you better than you know yourself. Just like I know you said that to be deliberately cruel.”

  She turned and began to walk away, whipping around just a second later. “Do not follow me. I do not want to be around you just now. Not when you are pretending to be someone you are not.”

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  10

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  THIS CHAPTER WAS OVER. …

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  CHAPTER TEN

  A Heart to Heart

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  Ben and Cat met John in the room where Ben conducted most estate business. There was a large desk he could remember both his father and grandfather sitting behind, and he was sure generations of Frederickson men had also sat behind it. But there were also books lining the walls and sunlight streaming into the room. There were two roomy couches and sometimes in the afternoons, Cat would bring the boys in, if for some reason he was holed up. In the corner. Ben spotted a few left over wooden blocks from the last time that had happened.

  Ben had asked Cat where she wanted to do it and the only thing she had asked for was privacy. Growing up at Pritchford Place, this had been the most private room in the house. When Papa had the door closed, he had known better than to knock on it. And though his rules of keeping the house were much different, he supposed he suggested that room with some leftover feeling of childhood.

  John sat before them, looking nervous. He rubbed his hands together and then on his own legs, before finally folding them in his lap. Ben was not sure what made him so uncomfortable. He could not claim that it had anything to do with the conversation about to happen, not when Jane seemed to be in a fit for the whole of the day. He loved Jane as a brother and would do anything for her. But some part of him felt for the man in front of him. After all, it had only been a few years ago that Ben himself had been in love with the eldest Watson sister with no idea what to do about it. He could remember the agony and ecstasy of that.

  “Well,” Ben began. Then again, maybe John was nervous about this conversation. Ben could not claim that his own nerves were not wrung tight. “Thank you so much for coming, John. We cannot tell you how much it means to b
oth me and my wife.”

  Cat smiled. She was pale but resolute. She knew how she felt, and she only hoped she had the words to convey it.

  John nodded. “It was not any trouble. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

  “John,” Cat murmured, her hands gripped tightly in her own lap. “I wish…I wish there were adequate words to describe my feelings about both your heroics and the extreme humility you seem to have in admitting that what you did was heroic. I know it makes you uncomfortable.” In fact, his face had flushed at her compliment. “But, John, I cannot overlook what you did.” Her eyes filled with tears as she leaned forward. “I owe you my life.”

  “Lady Wembley.” John felt frozen by her tears. He could barely remember that night, only that he had seen the fire start and been so confused. When the house was starting to be eaten by the growing flames, he had seen Mr. and Mrs. Watson run out, screaming for their eldest daughter. He knew her because she was a few years older than him with bright yellow hair. Her mother had been screaming in such a way that John had been moving before realized it, entering through the unlocked cellar doors and calling out the girl’s name. He had not known it until that night, until he heard Mrs. Watson scream it: Catherine.

  So, he called it now. He had found her upstairs and hitched her limply to his back, the way he would play with his younger brothers. He wanted to protect her face from the growing flames. He could remember that, and the heat of that room he now knew to have been Jane’s. He left the same way he came in, down through the cellar, his lungs aching from the smoke. He remembered being dizzy, depositing her as far as away from the house as he was able, peering anxiously over the girl, as she breathed shallowly. When she opened her eyes wide and screamed in pain, he had scampered off.

  All of that was a haze in his mind, as if actual smoke permeated the memory. He had to force himself to remember any details. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that by the time he had made it back home, his father had been awake and mostly sober. What had been so strange had been his father’s rage, which was usually tied to the bottle. But no matter how quiet he had tried to be, his father took one look at his sweaty face and smoky clothes and began to beat him within an inch of his life.

  In the morning, when he had woken up, his clothes were gone and he had been washed thoroughly. His father, still sober, which was more startling than the open lashes on his back had whispered menacingly into his ear, “If ye ever speak of last night, if you even think of it, I will know and then I will kill ye.” At that age, no one and nothing terrified him as much as his father, especially after the beating. He had taken the instruction to heart and he grew used to actively not thinking about it.

  It had only been for Lady Wembley’s sake that he had tried to remember over the last few days.

  “John?” she asked in a way that made it clear his mind had wandered. She was so kind. “Please. Would you call me Catherine at least? I owe you my life. I do not want to have any titles between us.”

  “You do not owe me anything,” he insisted. He looked her in the eye. “I promise. It was not as if I thought it through. I hardly remember it myself. I just…I just did it.”

  “And I am so thankful for that,” Catherine emphasized.

  “As am I,” Ben echoed.

  “I wish my parents could have known what you did.” She had to clear her throat because of the emotion of the memory of both the fire and the loss of her parents. The weight of both losses was a heavy one to carry at one time. “They would have cried all over you.” She managed to smile. “I am trying not to do the same. And I wish they would have known more, because I am sure they would have…tried to interfere more when you were growing up. I know my father thought it was not his business. But I am just so grateful and so sorry at the same time.”

  “You need not be sorry,” John replied gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “Please,” she begged. “Do you think you can at least accept my gratitude? My thankfulness that you saved my life so I could grow up and be a sister to Jane and then eventually a wife and mother? I have to believe that God had me remember you in that moment for a reason.”

  John cleared his throat of emotion. It appeared that he could not deny either of the Watson sisters anything. “I can accept that.” He paused for a beat. “Catherine.”

  “And mine as well,” Ben spoke up. “I did not wish to interfere with your conversation. I just had to thank you, too. There is no way for me to explain to you what Cat means to me and therefore how grateful I am for what you did for her. And, inadvertently, for me and our boys.” Ben had to admit that he had practiced the words. He wanted to make it as simple as possible, for John’s sake. That was as simple as he could summarize his feelings. He also tried to smile for John’s sake. “And I must insist, along with my wife, that you dispense with my title and call me Ben as well.”

  “You two are quite the team,” John replied with a small smile. “I can accept your gratitude. But please, I would hate for us to dwell on this.” They seemed relieved to express their feelings and John was glad for them. But now they could move on. He did not expect them to thank him every day for the rest of his life. This chapter was over.

  “All right,” Cat agreed. Briefly, she closed her eyes. She thought that she may be able to sleep tonight. She could close this door and focus on her life now and her family. She would not have to think about the fire again.

  What no one in that room could have foreseen was that the mystery of the fire was far from over.

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  11

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  SHE WAS WRONG, OF COURSE. …

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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I Know It in My Bones

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  J ane was in agony and for the first time in her life, she had no idea what to do about it. It was a strange feeling since a part of her did not want to share her feelings of sadness, wanting to keep them all to herself. She knew she could talk to Cat, but she pretended the reason that she did not reach out to her was because she knew that yesterday Cat had finally had the emotional conversation with John regarding her rescue from the fire. Jane told herself that her sister had enough on her mind. But that was not the complete truth, not even close to it. Actually, Jane did not know how she felt and was far from having the words to explain it.

  In the moment, in John’s arms, with his lips on hers, her heart felt desperate and full. She knew that she loved him and wanted to be with him and that no one else would do. But both times that it had happened, albeit with two years separating the instances, he had been the one to stop it. He had been the one to try and reason why they should not be together. The first time, she had been young and confused. His feelings and her own had taken her by surprise. That had not been the case yesterday.

  No, at first she was willing to argue with him, to fight with him, and anyone frankly, who thought that because of his upbringing they could not be together. But then he had gone into such detail. Now she was sure he had done it to shock her. And it had. She had never imagined it had been so bad. She had not wanted to imagine that. She did not know how she could have borne it to know that was how things had been for him.

  Before she knew it though, his insidious logic was sneaking into her own head. People would talk if they married. In Pritchford, it would be particularly vicious, because they knew exactly what kind of home he had grown up in. And in London, though it would not hit as close to home, she knew it would be vicious in a different way. Who was this upstart who was the new heir to Lord Marlington? And how had he convinced Miss Jane Watson to marry him? It had to be for the dowry or because he had gotten her into trouble. No one knew him there, not in the circles Jane ran in, and she had seen the way they could ice outsiders out in the vilest way.

  When she thought those scenarios through, she knew she could bear it though, if
it meant being happily married to John. She could bear mostly anything. It would not be particularly fun but sooner or later someone else would capture the imagination of London and well, if Pritchford gossiped about them until their dying day, she could handle it. But when John had brought up her sister’s opinion, Jane had given pause.

  The moment of doubt was just a gasp of breath, the time it takes to unclench a fist, a single heart beat skipped. Others would have been able to ignore it and most would not have been able to notice in the first place. But John had seen it in Jane, and Jane had felt it in herself. Her sister loved her and would do anything to ensure her happiness. Furthermore, she knew her sister had nothing against John. In fact, it was quite the opposite. But would Cat want her sister to secure her future to John’s when he had such a past? Would she want Jane dealing with the mean gossip here or in London? Above all, she knew Cat wanted Jane’s happiness. Then again, Cat had always wanted more for Jane than she ever wanted for herself. Everything she had done in her life, until she was reintroduced to Ben, had been for Jane’s future happiness. She could imagine Cat fretting over this match, not over John’s intentions or over how he would treat her, but the repercussions of it and how it would affect Jane. It was one thing to take on those consequences oneself. It was a whole other thing to watch the person you loved go through it.

  So, Jane had mentioned nothing to Cat, though her heart ached.

  And she was so angry at John! He thought he could play mind games with her. He thought he could twist things around so she was confused over what she wanted. He thought if he hurt her, he could save her. How stupid of him. So today, against the dreary rain, she had retreated to the library and folded her feet under her dress on the divan as she settled in with the well-read volume of Austen their father had given Cat years ago. If only she had the assurance that she would have a happy ending like the heroine in Austen’s story. She sighed and bit her lip, trying to focus on the words.