As if he knew she was thinking of him, he trained his piercing blue gaze on her. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he said in an emotionless tone.
Jemma arched her eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment?” she replied, her irritation at his utter lack of emotion making her forget to temper her tone so she would not sound as snarky as she felt.
“I don’t suppose it is today. Mrs. Featherstone is beside herself that you and Anne slipped out of the house this morning without her. You’re not to go out without your chaperone. Am I clear?”
“Yes, but I don’t need a chaperone. I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Getting into trouble,” he interrupted sharply. “I know of your race in the park today. For a smart girl you make incredibly stupid decisions. You are in London now. There are apparently very different rules for how ladies behave here than those to which you had to adhere in America.”
She fisted her hands behind her. Not really, but she didn’t want him to know that.
“I thought perhaps you might need more time to learn how to behave properly,” he continued, “but Mrs. Young informed me of your curtsy lesson in the garden yesterday and suggested you were willfully playing ignorant to irritate me.” He stared at her, unblinking, and despite how hard she willed it not to happen, heat rose to her cheeks. Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. You will cease trying to irritate me. It’s worked, but you will still debut.”
“But—”
He dropped the magazine into her lap. “I purchased this for you. I thought you might wish to browse the fashions for your trunks once you are married.”
Her plan had failed, which meant she now had to move on to a game of cat and mouse. She was, of course, to be the hunted mouse, with her grandfather, she supposed, as the unbending, ever-controlling owner. Truly, he thought her his chattel to govern as he wished.
Two years. She would be one and twenty in two years. She could do this. She could save the money and run her own bakery. She gripped the magazine so hard that the pages crinkled under her grasp.
Boiling inside, she flipped open the magazine and turned the pages, stopping at a drawing of a gown that looked particularly daring and scandalous with its low cut. Really, it shocked her, but if she ordered all her gowns created like this one, surely Grandfather would not let her go out in them. She had just found a temporary reprieve to beginning the Season! She grinned until a shadow fell over the page. She jerked her gaze to her grandfather’s and forced a smile that she prayed appeared sweet. “When might Anne and I go into Town and order our gowns for the Season?”
He waved a dismissing hand. “Don’t you recall being measured by Madame Alexis when you arrived here?”
Dread curled in Jemma’s belly, but she tried to ignore it. Surely, she had a say in what she wore. “Of course, but I assumed Anne and I would choose our gowns for our debut.”
“They’ve already been chosen by me,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Jemma had to clench her teeth to keep from telling him what he could do with his authoritarian ways and debutante gowns. Everything Mother had said about him was true. He was a cold fish who liked to have everyone and everything around him under his thumb.
She rose on trembling legs. “Might I go now?” she choked out.
“In a moment. I want to speak to both of you of your dowries.”
“Our dowries?” Jemma could not help but gape.
Grandfather nodded. “I’ve decided to settle ten thousand pounds on each of you.”
Anne gasped, and Jemma’s own breath caught in her throat.
Grandfather waved a hand at them. “No thanks are necessary.”
“Thank you,” Anne quickly murmured.
Thank him! Jemma grasped at her neck, finding it difficult to get air. This was dreadful. A dowry would bring out all sorts of rakes desperate to marry her for the money. She could well imagine two long years of trying to avoid marriage proposals. That dowry did her no good. No good at all. She wanted no part of marriage.
Grandfather eyed her for a moment, then said, “My stipulation with your dowries is that they must remain a secret. After my experience with your father seducing your mother right under my very nose, I’ll take no chances with either of you being trapped into marriage with the wrong sort of man because he wants your dowry. Of course, I’m more concerned about Anne.”
Jemma tensed. “And why is that?” she demanded.
He frowned at her. “Because you’ll marry Lord Glenmore, of course.”
Jemma bit her tongue so as not to reply.
Grandfather studied his nails for a long moment before continuing. “A word here, a whisper there. It won’t be hard to convince the ton that I’ve refused to dower the two of you because of your mother’s betrayal. Servants talk, so I’ll be sure to mention it around them.”
Yes, the servants do talk, Jemma thought, her stomach clenching into a big knot. He had never forgiven Mother, and he was only giving Jemma and Anne dowries because he wanted to control their lives. He was high-handed, to be sure, but in this instance, for Anne’s protection, Jemma was glad. Anne wanted to marry, though it boggled Jemma’s mind that Anne could even think of trusting a man.
“Anne, don’t fret.” Grandfather’s words made Jemma’s brow crease. “I’ll find an excellent husband for you, as well.”
Anne’s face drained of color, which Jemma completely understood. Had Anne thought Grandfather was going to let her choose? Maybe now Anne would decide to avoid marriage as Jemma had.
Jemma needed to be alone. Her emotions swirled inside her, and she was afraid she’d forget herself and tell her grandfather what she really thought of his generous dowry. “I’m in agreement. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go bake.”
His mouth turned down. “I’ve allowed it thus far because I know that’s all the two of you knew in America, but really, Granddaughter, ladies do not bake. Or cook. We have servants to do that for you.”
“I enjoy baking,” she said through clenched teeth. It was the one thing that kept her from going insane. It was the only time she could make any of her own decisions.
“Very well.”
A short time later, she was pounding the dough with her fists as one of the cooks gaped at her. She offered a weak smile. “The dough needs to be very flat.”
The cook snorted. “If that dough were once alive, it’d now be dead. It’s flat, Miss Adair.”
Jemma nodded and gave it one extra smack to lessen her anger. She inhaled a long, slow breath and recited in her mind, He won’t lord over me forever, as she baked.
Philip sat in Aversley’s study and faced his longtime friend.
Aversley steepled his fingers and surveyed Philip with eyes too keen for Philip’s liking. “What brings you here today?”
Philip cleared his throat. “The loan. I cannot yet pay you back. I’m sorry.”
Aversley waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”
Philip flinched. “I do think something of it. I borrowed it with a promise to pay you back, and I’m a man of my word.”
Aversley sighed. “I know that, but you are also family now. If you cannot pay the loan back, I don’t care.”
Philip leaped out of his seat and paced in front of Aversley’s desk. “It’s a matter of pride and honor. I will pay you back. I want you to know that.” He stopped, placed his hands on the desk, and stared at Aversley.
Aversley nodded. “Very well. I understand about pride, and I commend you. Do you have a plan?”
Philip motioned to the sidebar. He needed a drink before he voiced his plan. Hell, he needed a drink to be able to voice his plan. “May I?”
“Certainly.”
Philip started toward the sidebar and stopped midway, dragging his hand over his face. He stared down at the swirling pattern of the green-and-burgundy rug. How had it come to this? His father had put them in the debt, but Philip blamed only himself for somehow not managing to get them out of it. “I’m seven and twenty
and on the verge of being destitute. And I am taking my unsuspecting mother and Eustice down with me.”
“Eustice?” Aversley asked from behind Philip. “Who’s Eustice?”
“The cousin I am now sponsoring for the Season,” Philip said, continuing to the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then turned and faced Aversley once more.
Aversley shook his head. “You’re too nice. You should have said no.”
Philip took a sip of his drink. “Is that what you would have done?”
Aversley frowned. “Perhaps at one time, when I was more of a rake, before I met your sister.”
“You were still a rake when you met my sister.”
“True.” Aversley grinned. “She has told me before that all women know reformed rakes make the best husbands.”
The words sprang an idea in Philip’s mind. “That’s it!” he exclaimed.
“What’s it?” Aversley asked, his face a mirror of bewilderment.
Philip strode back to the chair and sat down. “I need to become a rake to catch a wealthy bride.”
“You wish to do what?” Aversley bellowed, his brows dipping together.
Philip sliced a hand through the air, ignoring Aversley’s question and his astonished look. “You and Scarsdale were both rakes who professed not to want love. You both lied to the women you ended up with, didn’t particularly show them love to begin with, and yet you both captured the woman you wanted.”
Aversley’s jaw fell open, and he stared at Philip for a long moment. “I beg your pardon? I must not have heard you correctly.”
“You heard me,” Philip said and took another, deeper drink of his brandy. The liquid warmed his stomach but not his heart.
“There must be another way to pay your debts besides becoming a rake and finding a wealthy wife.”
Philip shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve considered every option. It is my only one.”
“What about employment, since you won’t borrow?”
“And what do you think the ton would say?” Philip growled.
Aversley arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you gave a damn.”
Philip swigged back his drink and slammed the now-empty tumbler on the desk. “For myself, I don’t. But to protect my mother from anything that may make her slide back into the grip of laudanum, I would sell my soul.”
A dark look passed over Aversley’s face, and the man nodded, rose, walked to the sidebar, and came back carrying the decanter of brandy and a glass. Facing Philip, he leaned against the desk and filled both of their glasses. He raised his drink, and Philip did the same.
Aversley took a long breath and said, “May you not regret this.”
Philip took a drink and allowed the liquor to warm him. He swirled the amber liquid around as he stared into his glass. “What do you think my chances are of securing an heiress whom I love?”
Aversley tilted his glass back, drank the brandy, and set the crystal tumbler down. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“How honest are you going to be?”
“I’m certainly not going to announce to the entire ton that I need to marry an heiress because my father was the worst money manager to ever live. Yet, if a woman I’m courting asks me directly if my family is in financial trouble, I’ll not lie.”
Aversley shrugged. “Five percent, then.”
Philip leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hand. His thoughts were too damn heavy to hold his head up any longer. He looked sideways at Aversley. “Would it make me a liar if I don’t offer the truth unless asked?”
Aversley crossed his legs and studied Philip. “Are you asking me or trying to convince yourself?”
Hell if he knew. “Is an omission a lie?”
Aversley opened his mouth, but Philip interrupted him, his thoughts swirling. “I say not. I say it makes me a rake, and from where I sit, rakes win.”
“I suppose you could see it that way, but I feel obligated to interject that your sister changed me. I’m no longer a rake, and I was no longer a rake when I won her.”
Philip nodded. “Yes, yes. I know.”
Aversley’s gaze widened. “Then, I suppose, your decision is made.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve never been a rake, but I’ll become one in hopes of marrying a woman whose dowry can set to rights the mess my father left me but whom I also love, or if worse comes to worst, someone I can stand to have by my side the rest of my life.”
“Harthorne—”
“Not yet,” Philip grumbled, feeling as if he were much like sails finally catching wind. He wanted to surge forward before he lost momentum. “I want to love my wife, damnation, and I want her to love me.”
Aversley nodded. “Definitely wise.”
Philip bounded to his feet, feeling as if he could no longer sit still. “The best chance I have of achieving that result quickly is to become more like you and Scarsdale. Do you agree?”
Aversley tugged on his cravat. “I’m almost afraid not to. Your face is mottled red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you worked up. You’re usually the calm one.”
“This is the new me,” Philip growled. “Being calm has gotten me nowhere.”
“Does the new you have a candidate in mind?”
All the wind left Philip’s sails then. He sunk further into the chair and propped his booted feet on Aversley’s desk. The old him would have never been so rude, but this was the new him. “No. That is a minor problem in my plan.”
Aversley smirked. “Does the new you even know which debutantes in the ton have large dowries?”
“No. Which is one of the reasons I’m here. Do you know?”
Aversley barked with laugher. “Why the devil would I know that? I’m married, for one, and I never cared about that, either. You know who would be privy to that information, though…”
“I cannot involve my sister,” Philip snapped. “She’d never approve. She’s a woman and has never understood about a man’s pride.”
When the door to the study creaked, Philip twisted around to see Amelia sashaying into the room. “Philip!” She rushed over to him and, leaning down, hugged him. “I was thrilled when Colin told me you were coming to supper.”
Amelia was grinning at Philip as if she were up to something, and that usually meant she was. Philip stood, wishing he and Aversley had been able to finish their conversation but not willing to linger and be waylaid by his sister’s machinations. God only knew what scheme she was concocting. He took a step toward the door, and Amelia moved in front of him and placed a hand on his chest.
“Sophia told me you raced Jemma in the park today.”
Jemma. Philip liked Miss Adair’s given name. He’d not known it previously, but it suited her. Jemma was a gem, a rare breed of woman who spoke her mind and didn’t seem to care a thing about the “rules,” nor what people might think when she broke them. Maybe it was because she was American… No, he didn’t think so. Her sister was American, as well, and she was perfectly behaved.
Amelia poked him, bringing his gaze to his grinning sister’s face once again. “How did it come about that you raced Jemma?”
An image of how Miss Adair—no, he could no longer think of her as such; she was Jemma—had looked earlier today when she’d challenged him flashed in his mind. She’d flung her unruly red hair over her shoulders and boldly met his gaze with her bright blue-green eyes. Her appearance would make any man with blood coursing through his veins want to tame her. “She challenged me.”
Amelia cocked her head. “Bold, isn’t she?”
He laughed. “I suppose so. Which, I am sure, is why you are friends.”
Amelia laughed, too. “You know me so well, Brother. Do you think she’s pretty?”
“She has a spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.” That he found adorable. It whispered of her free spirit and love for the outdoors.
Amelia frowned. “That does not answer my question.”
Philip shifted his we
ight. Jemma’s voluptuous curves made his hands ache to slide over the gentle swell of her hips, but he couldn’t say that. Her mouth, too plump to be fashionable but perfect for kissing, was both enticing and surely to be her downfall, but he couldn’t say that, either. Devil take it, he didn’t even know why he’d thought it. He hadn’t even known he’d noticed these things about her, not really, until this moment.
He pulled on his cravat. “She’s lovely, and I’m quite sure will give any man who dares to court her a merry chase.”
Amelia leaned close to him. “Would you dare to court her?”
“Why the devil would you ask me that?”
Amelia bit down on her lip. “Well, Jemma is going to be debuting, and her grandfather is not going to settle a dowry on her.”
“How do you know that?”
“My cook’s sister is the Duke of Rowan’s cook, and she overheard him say as much. So I’m worried neither she nor her sister will have any suitors, and I thought perhaps, well, Sophia said she thought she saw a spark between you and Jemma and—”
Philip couldn’t stand listening to any more. He couldn’t just court anybody he wanted to. Not that he wanted to court Jemma. But even if he did, he couldn’t do it now that he knew she had no dowry. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
Amelia plunked her hands on her hips. “Why not?”
Aversley started to cough, and Philip shot him a silencing look.
“Because I cannot simply decide to court someone just because you don’t want her to be without suitors.” That was true enough. The fact that he could only court women who had money didn’t need to be shared with his sister. His palms dampened at the despicable thought.
“That makes sense,” Amelia said. “Luckily, I’ve invited Jemma for dinner, and the two of you can become better acquainted.”
Hellfire. The last thing he needed was his sister trying to match him with the dowerless Jemma, no matter how enticing the lady was. He shook his head. “I cannot stay for dinner.”
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 85