Valor's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “I trust Miss Whinburn is safely delivered to her great-aunt, Steal?” he asked casually. “Are you of the same opinion of her good qualities? You were becoming rather enamored, if I remember rightly.”

  His ward blushed scarlet. “Well, if you must know, I’m dashed well in love with her. If you didn’t have control of my affairs, I’d marry her and to heck with Tresham.”

  “Do you believe Miss Whinburn returns your affections?”

  “Of course she does. But she has the most delicate sensibility, and is too much the lady to express her feelings where it’s not proper.”

  “I see you have it bad.” Michael strolled to the window to gaze down at the street.

  She had threatened to interfere with Peter’s engagement. Was this her chosen method? Could Jessica Whinburn really be so perfidious? He dismissed his sharp pain at the thought and glanced back at his ward.

  “You would no doubt live blissfully in a cottage and subsist on potatoes and green peas. How fortunate that I am your guardian and you may not marry without my permission. Though you may not believe it, I do not wish to see you unhappy. I shall not allow you to cry off from Miss Brandon. Only marriage to an heiress can correct your situation. Unless you really wish to give up your sumptuous wardrobe and the undoubted pleasures of town life?”

  “It’s monstrous!” Peter shouted.

  “Yes, it is rather, isn’t it? However, I ask you to uphold the honor of your name and not do anything foolish. Miss Brandon is to know nothing of this. I will not see her hurt by your thoughtlessness. Do I make myself clear?”

  Peter’s face was splendidly miserable. “I knew you would never understand.”

  “On the contrary, I understand perfectly,” Deyncourt replied.

  As he understood now, watching his ward mooning after the object of his infatuation as they all walked to the gallery.

  Jessica was still arm-in-arm with Miss Brandon ahead of the two men. The sweet curve of her neck and supple back caught at his heart. She kept pace with Caroline’s sedate stroll, yet her vibrant energy seemed curbed, as if she longed to fling aside all restraint to race laughing away into the hills.

  Yet she must marry—and marry well—and that meant impressing the beau monde, or she would never survive the Marriage Mart. Meanwhile, she had a great deal to learn to avoid raising eyebrows, especially when Peter’s obsession was so obvious.

  You are the most accomplished rake in London. Surely you could exert a little innocent charm?

  Lady Emilia still expected that the controlled, sophisticated Lord Deyncourt could harmlessly be Jessica’s teacher?

  Dear God, must he prove himself, again and again, forever—when in truth he was deeply afraid that he could never, in fact, trust himself? Afraid that his honor might not be enough, that he, too, might lose control at a moment’s notice should the hills beckon?

  Yet he was responsible for Peter’s future, for Caroline’s happiness, and to find a suitable match for Miss Jessica Whinburn.

  Lord Deyncourt did not notice, as he deliberated his course of action, that at no time had he given any thought at all to the Incomparable Melton.

  * * *

  As soon they arrived at the gallery, Jessica nudged Caroline to take Peter’s arm, even though it meant she would be stuck with Deyncourt. Peter glanced at her once over his shoulder, misery stamped on his face, before the young couple wandered off together.

  The earl said nothing as he led Jessica through room after room, allowing her to stop and look in absolute silence at whichever work of art caught her attention.

  She tried hard to ignore him—not easy when he disturbed her senses so deeply, not easy when her awareness was fired simply by the tilt of his head or his stunning blue gaze—until they arrived at a hall filled with landscapes.

  “This is what I wanted you to see,” Lord Deyncourt said.

  Light streamed across the paintings, bringing her to a dead stop.

  A lump blocked her throat. Jessica gulped it down. She felt stripped of all other concerns, painfully open and vulnerable.

  “You’re all right?” he asked gently.

  “Yes. No! The air on the fells is just like that. And the sky—so full of water!”

  “This man paints from nature, I understand. Light is his obsession.”

  “Yes! Yes! And look at this one!” Her gaze locked onto another painting by the same artist. She waved her hand to indicate the rooms they’d just passed through. “The rest—all those dreamy vistas with picturesque ruins—are just romantic nonsense, but this—!”

  Devastation seared her heart. This stream could be the Whin. That road winding around the base of those hills might lead straight to Whinburn House. This tiny figure of a lone horseman in a red coat—

  “Ben rode a bay just like that,” she whispered, then clamped one hand over her mouth to stop herself from saying it aloud: Ben Cameron, whose horse had killed him.

  She glanced up at the earl, not caring if her eyes were wet. He couldn’t have heard what she’d said, but he was no fool.

  “God, I was wrong to bring you here,” he said bitterly. “I thought—”

  “That this homage to the Cheviots would make a fool of me? Then you were right. But I am glad that this artist, at least, understands all that sheer beauty.” She blinked back tears, enraged and undermined by her own weakness. “Let’s go on, so that we may admire insipid portraits of romping shepherdesses, instead. No doubt all those pink-and-white cheeks and rosebud lips are more to society’s taste, since it’s obvious that any genuine feeling is frowned upon.”

  She stalked blindly from the room, leaving behind the hills and the light, then spun about to face him.

  “But rakes don’t have real emotions, do they? So I’m sorry if I betrayed any unfashionable sensibility.”

  “No,” he replied with sudden passion, his eyes full of pain. “For God’s sake, don’t be!”

  But Peter and Caroline had found them. The young man abandoned his fiancée and rushed up to Jessica, his face full of concern.

  Quizzing glasses sparkled as every eye turned to look at them.

  * * *

  Lady Honoria Melton was not pleased that Lord Deyncourt was escorting such an absolute nobody around London—a countrified, red-haired chit, of all people! Surely he wasn’t really enamored?

  Since there was no one else she could trust, she unburdened herself on her cousin, who lounged opposite her in her pink drawing room.

  “What on earth does Deyncourt see in Miss Jessica Whinburn, Cranby? They are seen everywhere together.”

  “Nothing but a vague annoyance, I should imagine, that takes his mind off what should be his real pursuits.”

  “Which are?”

  Sir Gordon Cranby laughed. “His plans against me.”

  The Incomparable was beautiful even when she frowned. “Why on earth should he have plans against you? You do say the most absurd things.”

  “If he knew where Lord Steal stood with me right now, I assure you he would have plans.”

  “Yes, but he does not know. As I trust he does not know how you stand with me. It would ruin every chance I have of becoming a countess.”

  “Deyncourt doesn’t even know there’s anything to look for.”

  “Good. Because I’m a lot more concerned about this Jessica Whinburn, and you would be better off finalizing your scheme against Lord Steal, or it may all slip away from you.”

  Sir Gordon raised his quizzing glass and stared at her until she blushed.

  “It will not slip away. The noose is almost closed. Meanwhile, am I to have nothing to amuse me until I am master of Tresham?”

  “I hope to be more amused when Cicely Pratchett comes back and reports to me.”

  “Pratchett?”

  “Oh, really, Cranby! For a conspirator you are too blind. My maid. I left her to spy on Jessica Whinburn for me, and she’s returning here from Lady Emilia’s later this week.”

  Sir Gordon Cranby yawned deliberately
. “And what do you expect to learn from a lady’s maid? That Miss Whinburn paints her eyebrows?”

  Honoria shrugged her lovely shoulders.

  “I have no idea!” she said.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Jessica was standing alone by the window in her aunt’s parlor. She watched in something close to panic as Lord Deyncourt strode up the street and approached the house. His cravat seemed startlingly white against his dark jacket.

  The footman announced him a few moments later. Sunlight streamed into the room, sparking golden highlights in his hair and shadowing the clean line of his jaw.

  He made her his elegant bow.

  “It’s a lovely day, Miss Whinburn. May I prevail upon you to take a turn in the Park?”

  She began to pace. “I can’t.”

  He strolled over to stand at the fireplace. “May I ask why not?”

  “If only you had not forced me into that promise at Tresham! I shall never be able to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Behave correctly!” She dropped onto a chair. “You see I am choosing to be entirely honest with you, which I’m sure is improper in itself. But right now I don’t care. I would rather not be a part of this beau monde.”

  “What has happened? Someone has been actively cruel? Am I to assume that the dowagers have paid their morning calls?”

  “How did you guess? Lady Vane and the Dowager Countess of Hawksley came to visit while Aunt Emilia was out.”

  “I see,” he said gravely. “And you neglected to invite them to sit?”

  She glanced up at him. He didn’t seem uncomfortable. His casual stance by the grate only accentuated his lithe grace. Her anger disappeared as she burst out laughing.

  “Oh, heavens! Pray, take a seat, Lord Deyncourt.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a smile. He took the chair opposite hers.

  “You see, I cannot learn,” she said simply.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I offered greetings to the ladies in the wrong order of precedence. I fumbled the tea things and dropped a spoon on the carpet.”

  “Which anyone can do.”

  “Yes, but I picked it up myself.”

  “Ah! Thus depriving the maid of her duties.”

  Jessica leaped up and began to pace once again. “Lady Hawksley said I was charmingly unusual. She said it in French.”

  He instantly resumed his stance at the mantel. “So she would.”

  “I don’t speak French. Lady Vane translated. It was an insult.”

  “I’m not surprised. Especially if you walked up and down like that.”

  Jessica spun about to face him. “Like what?”

  “Like a soldier on parade. Ladies are supposed to mince. You must take the tiniest of steps, as if your ankles were hobbled together.”

  “But I shouldn’t get anywhere walking like that.”

  “Alas, ladies aren’t supposed to have anywhere to go.”

  She glared defiantly into his blue eyes. “I’ll never be a lady. That was certainly your opinion at Tresham.”

  The earl walked up to her and took her hand. Her pulse beat hard beneath his cool fingers. “Because I kissed you? Ladies get kissed all the time.”

  He raised her hand to kiss her fingers. His lips were sensuously soft and warm against her skin.

  “As part of a meaningless, exploitative game,” she said. “The flirtation of a rake.”

  “Don’t you know that rakes have the simplest of rules? Flirtation is always harmless, but there are ladies for the night and ladies for the day. The great-niece of Lady Emilia Shay is by definition in the second category. I am trying very hard to prevent your mistakenly giving the wrong impression. Let us go for a sedate drive in the Park, shall we?”

  “Don’t!” Jessica felt stripped of her defenses. He must not! For she wanted it far too much. “However much you conspire with my aunt to find me an eligible match—so I am to be taken to Almack’s and paraded at routs and assemblies—I don’t need or want your help, since I do not intend to marry. I’ll stay here for a month as I promised, then I shall follow my own inclination.”

  “Is there no room in your plans for love, Miss Whinburn? The world would be a sorry place without the lovely dance of dalliance.”

  “But a more honest one.”

  “As Virgil said: Quis fallere possit amantem?”

  “Who can deceive a lover—but flirtation is the very definition of deceit. I shall try to avoid scandal for the sake of my great-aunt, and thus I shall not drive in the Park with a rake.”

  There was no change in his expression as he made his exquisite bow and left the room.

  Suddenly bereft, Jessica buried her face in her hands as hot tears scalded her cheeks.

  * * *

  Several days later Lord Deyncourt rode into Hyde Park with Dover at his heels. It was a bright, blustery day, dappled with broken sunshine.

  In spite of the fretful breeze, the walks were a display of fashion. Horses and carriages paraded up and down the rides—the ton at its most self-indulgent, eager only for the latest gossip, seasoned always with an arch and pitiless wit.

  Good God, if he had not blocked Steal’s precipitous rush toward Jessica at the gallery, Lady Vane’s cruel comments would have been even more pointed.

  Miss Jessica Whinburn couldn’t help herself, could she? Whether or not she really wished it, she would destroy his simple, kindhearted ward as casually as a flame annihilates a moth.

  Nevertheless, he was determined to avoid her unsettling company for a few days. Her fire was just as dangerous to him as his—should he fail to keep it banked—might to be her. Yet because of his promise to Lady Emilia—

  A commotion broke out ahead. Michael stopped his horse. A crowd was gathering beside the artificial lake known as the Serpentine, craning their necks at something in the water.

  Some boys ran off, laughing and shouting, on the far side of the lake.

  Jessica and Caroline Brandon stood together near the edge of the crowd. Miss Brandon grabbed at her friend’s arm and pointed.

  Her voice floated across the water. “Oh, it’s a puppy! How horrid!”

  Michael’s horse bounded forward.

  A black-and-white puppy was swimming valiantly, but a kite had been tied to its tail. The breeze tossed the paper diamond in a mad dance, dragging the struggling animal farther and farther from shore.

  Miss Brandon clutched in vain at Jessica’s arm. The sun blazed on her bright hair as Jessica dropped her shawl, tossed off her bonnet, and bent to pull off her shoes.

  She leaped into the water.

  Caroline ran along the bank, carrying Jessica’s shoes and clothes. The crowd exclaimed and tittered, but nobody else moved.

  Michael sprang to the ground and furiously stripped off his coat and boots. The Serpentine was deep enough here to drown both her and the dog. Yet if he rode his horse in, splashing and chaotic, he couldn’t be sure of rescuing them both.

  He swam strongly, carving through the water, but Jessica also seemed to be swimming very competently toward the puppy.

  Devil take it! Couldn’t she see that this would be ruinous?

  The wind turned. The kite lurched, then hit the surface. Instantly waterlogged, it dragged the animal down with it. The black-and-white coat sank out of sight.

  Jessica reached the struggling puppy just in time and grabbed at it.

  Michael swam up and seized her from behind. She was treading water, clutching the dog to her breast. Her hair had come loose, dark red strands streaming wildly about her head.

  “Pray, Miss Whinburn,” he said in her ear. “Allow me to rescue you.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” she asked indignantly. “I am the rescuer.”

  “I am talking about your reputation.” He allowed her to turn a little in his grip. “Look at the bank!”

  Jessica glanced where he indicated. A gaggle of London’s most fashionable gossips still milled about, gestic
ulating and pointing.

  “Oh, Lord,” she said ruefully. “I suppose this will set the cat among the pigeons.”

  “Not if you will admit to having taken a fainting fit and fallen in. Please start drowning, so that I may complete my gallant rescue. Not for your own sake, but for that of your great-aunt, who loves you.”

  Still holding the puppy’s head above water, she dropped below the surface, before spluttering up again.

  “Like this?”

  “That’s an excellent start, though I’ve a good mind to hold you under until you beg for mercy.”

  “Pray don’t, Lord Deyncourt! Though I held my breath under water once for several minutes in an attempt to break the stable boys’ record at Whinburn House.”

  He smoothed the wet hair from her face. “And did you?”

  “Not a chance!”

  “Well, to nearly drown is your only hope now. It will turn you from a subject for scandal into an object of concern.”

  “Damn it all!” she replied. “I suppose this is much worse than a teaspoon, isn’t it? Oh, God, I have caught my foot in my skirts! And the current—”

  She dropped down like a stone, her hair eddying above her.

  His heart lurched. He dived beneath her, dragging his penknife from his pocket. In one stroke he cut away the kite. In the next, he renewed his grip on Jessica’s limp body and began a strong kick toward safety.

  The water smelt strongly of duckweed. Waves broke over her floating skirts and eddied around her face, but though her eyes remained closed, she had all along kept the puppy’s head above water—and there was very little current.

  She had not fainted.

  Yet her flexible spine moved seductively against his body and her unbound hair flowed over them both as she allowed him to haul her to shore. He did not want to be aware of her like this.

  Michael unceremoniously dragged her from the lake and dumped her onto the grass. Caroline stood ready with the shawl. She wrapped it around Jessica’s shoulders, dropped her shoes on the grass, and caught up the wet puppy.

  “Good thinking, Miss Brandon,” Michael said with a wink. “Pray, set up a cry that Miss Whinburn fell in!”