Jasper collapsed hard against the earth, and lay back, staring up at the fat, white snowflakes as they fell from the sky. He closed his eyes a moment, and then rolled to his side to study the quiet stranger.
She lay with her knees pulled close to her trim waist, her arms folded across her chest. Tremors wracked her lithe body. Jasper cursed.
Christ, at this rate the young lady would have survived her plunge under the water’s surface only to die of a chill.
He searched around for his cloak, and found it on the opposite side of the gaping hole left from the missing slab of ice. Then in a great show of irony, at that very moment, his black cloak slid into the surface of the water. With a sigh, he shrugged out of his somewhat damp coat and tossed it atop the lady. “Here,” he said.
His jacket, too large for her diminutive frame, hung upon her, making her appear even smaller. She burrowed deep into the folds.
“Th-thank y-you,” she said, between teeth that chattered.
He waved his hand.
“I-I c-can’t ever re-pay you.”
He raked a gaze over her. “Madam, you have nothing I want, nor anything I need.”
She appeared to flinch and Jasper wasn’t certain if it was his bluntly spoken words or the cold ravaging her frame.
Something stirred inside him, something he’d thought dead—emotion. Guilt dug at him. Jasper cursed. He didn’t want to feel guilt for his treatment of the lady. He didn’t want to feel anything where she was concerned. Hell, he didn’t want to feel anything where anyone was concerned.
Jasper shoved himself to his feet. “Here, now,” he said gruffly, and held a hand out to her. She eyed it a moment, and then placed her fingers in his.
A charge like the kind one received when walking in stockinged feet across a carpet, surged through him. He dropped her hand as if burned.
“Where is your chaperone?”
She shook her head. “I-I’ve not b-brought one.”
With another curse, he scanned the area.
“D-do y-you a-always c-curse in fr-front of l-ladies?” she shot at him.
Ah, the ice princess was back. He found he preferred the snapping, spitting catlike vixen to the nearly drowned, destitute creature he’d pulled from the river. “Ladies do not run around London without a chaperone.”
Her brown brows knitted into a single line. Her eyes slid away from his.
Jasper followed her glance to a point beyond his shoulder. “Bloody h—” He snapped his lips closed, remembering her earlier charge. A crowd of observers stood at the central portion of the river eyeing the cracked ice, and Jasper, and…and…
The Ice Princess.
He stood, and staring down at her was struck by how frail and helpless she appeared under that icy veneer. Something shifted inside him again. Jasper shook his head, dispelling all hint of emotion. He was now a man who operated under stiff logic and reason.
Fact. The woman had nearly drowned.
Fact. He might be a heartless bastard but he couldn’t have let her drown.
Fact. She was a shivering mass of slim, graceful limbs.
Fact. He needed to return her home immediately or she’d perish from cold.
His jaw tightened. And he’d not caused a great scene, and risked his own miserable life to save her from the frigid waters only to die of a chill.
Jasper scooped her up.
“Wh-what a-are y-you d-doing?” she squeaked. It didn’t fail to escape his notice the manner in which she buried herself close against him, like a kitten seeking warmth from its master.
He stiffened at the feel of her nubile body pressed to his. In spite of the cold, her skin against his, heated him.
Jasper tamped down the irrational yearnings. He’d been without a woman for more than three years. His body’s reaction was a physical one, nothing more than that.
“I am returning you home,” he forced out between tight lips.
The sooner he could be rid of the creature the better off he’d be.
Chapter Three
Katherine’s body ached as though jagged icicles had pierced every portion of her skin. A chill filled her inside and out until she wondered if she’d freeze from the cold. Her disjointed thoughts still murky from her near drowning dulled logical thinking.
He’d saved her. This great, hulking, frowning bear of a man. The same stranger who’d nearly bowled her over and raked his gaze condescendingly over her person, had risked his life to pluck her from the frozen river.
His flinty glare, the dark expression on the harsh planes of his face, suggested he regretted the decision.
“I am returning you home,” he said again. His voice emerged a kind of growl that would give most small children night terrors.
Katherine burrowed deeper into the damp folds of his too-large, black jacket.
For a moment she wondered at what life had done to turn him into such a miserable, odious creature. Because certainly no person could be so deliberately callous…so deliberately unfeeling, without reason.
“Has the ice dulled your wits,” he snapped.
She gave her head a clearing shake. “I-I c-can’t l-leave.”
There was the matter of her sister, Anne. Katherine’s eyes slid closed as she imagined their mother’s fury. They would be fortunate to live to see the eve of Christmas. But then, considering her fall into the Thames, she was fortunate to have lived even the day.
He gathered her close against his oaken-hard chest. For a moment the events of the day melted away; her and Anne’s clandestine efforts to find a silly pendant, the chilling terror of the ice cracking, her submersion under the frozen water…the certainty of death. This stranger’s arms filled her with a soothing sense of calm she’d never before known from another person. He strode toward the pavement, handling her as easily as if she were a porcelain doll. Katherine closed her eyes a moment and selfishly stole of that warmth provided by his body.
They passed a throng of on-lookers and Katherine blinked, remembering…
“My sister!” she blurted. She could not leave Anne to find her own way home.
“How old is your sister,” he rumbled.
“Nineteen.”
“Then she can certainly find her way,” he said, not breaking his stride.
Katherine gasped at his ungentlemanly reaction. “Y-you a-are a m-monster,” she stammered.
Since she’d first stumbled into the gentleman, the unyielding expression gave way to a smile; it was a dark, hard, rendering devoid of all merriment and it chilled her like the frozen River Thames. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
He stopped beside a black lacquer carriage with a golden crest emblazoned upon the door. A lion reared upon its legs, a blade clenched between its vicious teeth.
The sight of it gave her pause, and she shoved against him. He was a monster.
A servant attired in crimson red livery with gold epaulets pulled the door open.
The monster tossed her unceremoniously inside the carriage. Katherine landed amidst the thick, upholstered red velvet seats. She crawled into the corner of the conveyance, and huddled into the folds of his jacket.
“R-release m-me. I-I need t-to f-find m-my sister.”
He climbed inside, and the enormous space shrunk, filled instead with his overwhelming presence.
The door closed behind him and he settled into the seat as though he were King George himself. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the point above her forehead. “Where is your residence?”
She glanced at the back of the carriage, until she realized he was in fact directing his question her way. He refused to meet her eyes, as though she were some kind of Medusa…her lips flattened into a hard line. Well, with his unbending countenance and hard coldness, he’d been turned to stone long before her. “I demand…”
He leveled her with a hard glare, and her breath caught.
Perhaps he possessed the potent stare of Medusa.
She wet her lips.
Katherine provide
d the address of her residence.
He barked the directions of her Mayfair townhouse, and then the carriage lurched forward.
Katherine gulped as the carriage wheels rolled along. They picked up in speed, and her heart’s rhythm increased until her pulse pounded loudly in her ears. Her sister was alone….and yet, she trusted Anne would take the very same hackney that had been paid to wait for them back, without difficulty. After all, Anne was the mastermind of all the great schemes and scrapes they found themselves in.
The budding panic blended with the terror that had consumed her that day, only exacerbated by the foul stranger’s presence, and she reached for the carriage handle.
He settled his large, hand over hers.
Katherine jumped.
“I suggest unless you merely want to trade death by drowning for death by the wheels of a carriage, that you release the handle, madam.”
His flat, emotionless tone conveyed boredom. Why, he might as well have been commenting on the weather or offering her tea.
Katherine snatched her hand back, feeling burned by his touch. “You are a m-monster,” she repeated.
He tugged free his wet gloves and beat them against one another. Drops of water sprayed the carriage walls. “Your charge grows unoriginal and tedious, madam.”
And in that moment it occurred to Katherine just how ungrateful she must seem. The towering stranger might be a foul-tempered fiend, but he’d saved her. Her lips twisted. Whether he’d wanted to or not.
“Forgive me, I’ve not yet thanked you.” She took a breath. “So thank you. For saving me. From drowning,” she finished lamely.
His shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. “I’d hardly ruin the amusements of the day by watching you drown beneath the surface of the Thames.”
She expected she should feel outraged, shocked, appalled by those callously delivered words…and yet, something in his tone gave her pause. It was as though he sought to elicit an outraged response from her. Instead of outrage, Katherine was filled with her first stirrings of intrigue, wondering what had happened to turn his black heart so vile.
Katherine did not rise to his clear attempt at bating her. “My name is Lady Katherine Adamson.” Pause. “I imagine I should know the name of my rescuer.”
He said nothing for a while, and Katherine suspected he had no intention of answering her. She sighed and reached for the curtained window.
“Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge.”
Her eyes widened. “You are a duke,” she blurted.
He arched a single, frosty black brow at her. “You’d be wise not to make designs upon my title, madam. I’d not wed you if you were the last creature in the kingdom.”
She blinked. Oh, the dastard. Katherine jabbed a finger at him. “And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the King decreed it to spare my life.”
His lips twitched. But then the firm line was back in place, so that she suspected she’d imagined the slight expression of mirth. “It is good we are of like opinions, then, madam. We are here,” he said.
She angled her head. And then the carriage rocked to a halt.
The sudden, unexpectedness of the stop, propelled Katherine forward, and she landed in an ignominious heap atop the duke’s chest.
It was as though she’d slammed into a stone wall. All the breath left her. She looked up at him through her lids, and found him coolly unaffected by the weight of her figure upon his person.
He yawned.
Yawned!
The lout had the audacity to yawn, as though he found the whole of this day—boring.
He set her back into her seat and rapped on the door.
The carriage door opened.
She glared. She felt frozen through. She didn’t think her teeth would ever cease chattering. And she knew she should really be more grateful considering he’d risked his life and limb to pull her from the river, but he was…was…bloody miserable.
And Katherine didn’t curse.
Not when she’d found out Father had left them destitute.
Not when the creditors had come to claim every last one of her books.
Not when they’d been forced from their cottage in Hertfordshire Estate while Mother had looked on, weeping piteous little tears.
She jabbed her finger across at him. “You sir…”
“Your Grace,” he corrected.
“Are a miserable monster.” Katherine leaned across the carriage and jabbed her trembling cold finger in his chest. “Which I know is redundant…and I’m not. Redundant. Ever. But you are foul. And odious. And if you didn’t want to risk your life and limb to save me, then you shouldn’t have.” Katherine fell back against the cushions, her chest heaving from her near brush with death. The driver stuck his head into the carriage. “Not that I’m displeased with being saved,” Katherine clarified. “Because I, unlike some odious, miserable beings, enjoy being alive.”
The servant gulped and ducked his head out of the carriage.
The duke’s black brows dipped, and his eyes narrowed into deep impenetrable slits. If Katherine hadn’t had a brush with death a short while ago, she expected his expression would have terrified her a good deal more. As it was, she was, cold, hungry, and too tired to fear a duke with a black scowl. His rudeness had exhausted her patience.
“Are you finished, madam?” The words contained a satiny edge as smooth as the side of a blade.
She swallowed, and tugged his jacket free. “Here,” she said. “I’d not care to impose any more on your hospi…” A squeak escaped her. “Wha-what are you doing?” she stammered as he tossed the thoroughly rumpled garment back over her shoulders and picked her up. “Your Grace…” He leapt from the carriage, holding her as though she weighed no more than a mere babe.
A vein pulsed in the corner of his eye. He stopped and glanced at the row of stucco townhouses.
The servant cleared his throat and gestured to the modest white front townhouse she now called home.
The duke strode onward, up the steps, and rapped on the door.
“Y-you m-may p-put me down, Your Grace.”
He rapped again.
“I said…”
“I am not deaf, madam.” He raised his hand to knock again when the butler opened it suddenly.
Ollie’s small blue eyes went wide in his ancient, heavily wrinkled face. “Lady Katherine,” he boomed.
The servant, fast approaching his seventieth year insisted on retaining his post. “Ollie,” Katherine murmured.
The duke’s frown deepened. “May I enter?” Mocking condescension underlined that question.
Oh the ba…lout, she silently amended.
Ollie blinked. “Enter?” His high-pitched voice thundered. “Er, yes, right, right,” he stepped aside and motioned the duke forward.
His Grace swept through the front doors as though he were in fact the owner of the modest townhouse.
Katherine looked up and swallowed at the sight of her mother descending the long staircase in a flurry of burgundy skirts. “Ollie, whatever is…?” Mother’s words ended on a gasp. “Whatever has happened?” she asked, her tone well-modulated, perfectly ladylike to match her sedate, unhurried pace.
Katherine sighed. Mother had always been a stickler for the rules of decorum. A lady must never run.
Not even if one’s daughter should appear in a stranger’s arms, thoroughly bedraggled, rumpled, and near death.
“Your daughter took herself off to the Frost Fair, unchaperoned, and was rewarded for her efforts by nearly drowning in the Thames.”
Well, that was a rather methodical, emotionless recount of her day by the duke. Accurate, but unappreciated.
“Mother…” Katherine began.
Mother glared her into silence.
Katherine burrowed closer to the duke, accepting support in the unlikeliest of places.
He glanced down the bridge of his hawk-like nose at her. Katherine’s breath caught and for the first
time, she truly noticed him. Several inches well beyond six feet, his broad chest and arms were thickly chorded with powerful muscles, so very different than the gentlemen of the haute ton. Not one to be considered handsome by conventional standards, the angular planes of his face would be considered too harsh, his narrow lips too hard, his…
He quirked a brow.
Katherine felt the first real warmth that day and it came in the form of the mortified heat that stained her cheeks. “Er, well…”
“Might we know the name of the gentleman who so gallantly rescued my daughter?”
His mouth tightened, and for the slightest moment Katherine thought he might ignore her mother’s request, turn on his heel, and leave.
“Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge.” That was all.
No bow. No polite discourse. Just five words, one number, and a cold, unfeeling tone.
He seemed to realize in that moment that he still held her in his arms. His body froze, and it was as though he’d turned to granite. He glanced around, as if searching for someone to relieve him of his burden.
Katherine frowned. It didn’t matter that he appeared desperately eager to be rid of her. She should want him gone posthaste from her foyer.
She should.
She did.
As if a cue had been delivered, the tall footman came rushing forward to relieve the duke of his burden.
The duke hesitated, turning his black glower on the handsome footman, Thomas, and then he turned Katherine over to the servant.
“Your Grace, allow me to extend an invitation to din—”
“No.”
Her mother blinked several times. However, as the Countess of Wakefield and not easily cowed, even by a powerful peer, Mother was undeterred. “Surely you must allow us the courtesy of—”
“Madam, the only thing you might do for me is to keep a more watchful eye upon your daughter.” He sketched a brief bow. “Good day,” he said curtly and without another word, turned on his heel, and made his way to the front door.
Ollie had the good sense to pull the door open, and the duke continued forward, his stride unbroken.
The door closed behind him with a firm click.
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 36