But as Jess had drawn near to Lord Grimsby, there’d been a spark of something more in his ice blue eyes. She still couldn’t identify it. Curiosity? Interest? Horror? And then certainly when she’d kissed him, when he’d grasped her waist and pulled her closer—that hadn’t been horror. That had been pleasure. She hadn’t experienced much of it in her life, so it had made a lasting impression. She’d never forget the moment when the kiss had turned from an embarrassing, perfunctory act into an experience of heat and sensation she ached to sink into, to lose herself in—to forget about money and Kitty and her father’s blasted bookshop. In that instant she’d needed something more than money. She needed to be desired. For that moment, she needed to be precisely where she was, there in that gallery kissing Lord Grimsby.
The path under her feet began to change as she walked, the grass becoming denser and unkempt as stones appeared now and then. Jessamin slowed her pace, then stopped and looked back. The ground had descended, taking her down a long sloping hill, and she could barely glimpse the spires of Hartwell in the distance. Turning away from the house, she spied a copse of trees and began to walk toward them. Then a movement caught her eye and made her stop again.
He was there. Lord Grimsby. Striding back and forth so quickly he must have carved a bald patch in the grass under his feet. He gesticulated as he paced. Nothing wild, just the lift of an arm here and the movement of his hands there. His mouth—that lovely, familiar mouth—moved, but Jess couldn’t hear his voice. Was the man talking to himself?
It was impossible not to notice how well he looked with disheveled hair and dressed more casually than on the two previous occasions she’d seen him. A honey-colored waistcoat hugged his chest, but he wore no jacket or tie. His black trousers molded to his legs as he marked off a small distance and then turned to travel it again and again.
That fizz of anticipation she’d felt back in his aunt’s sitting room welled up. The prospect of seeing him was nothing to this, to standing a few paces away from him, close enough to see the shape of his mouth as he mumbled to himself. Close enough to be grateful for his unfastened top button that allowed her a peek of the line of his neck and the hollow at the base of his throat.
It was too close. So near he might turn and see the woman who’d shocked him and everyone else with her brazen behavior. The woman who was now supposed to be assisting his aunt in preparing for the arrival of the heiress he planned to marry.
She should turn away, move as quietly and as quickly as she could back to the estate and Lady Stamford’s room. It was only prudent to allow the man’s aunt to be there when they met again. Augusta could explain Jess’s employment, her role as companion, and the likelihood she wouldn’t remain in her position for long. That might reassure him.
Yet he was just there. So close. In the gallery, she’d pushed through a throng to stand before him. Now there was nothing between them but fresh air, nothing surrounding them but grass and trees as far as the eye could see. Once they were back inside Hartwell, all the rules she was so dreadful at following would dictate every word, regiment every glance.
Some wild impulse in her couldn’t resist making a noise. Clearing her throat loudly enough to attract his attention, she took a step toward him. It was as if a force pushed her in his direction, one her body insisted on obeying no matter how much the sensible voice in her head urged retreat.
His head snapped up and he stared at her. Turning his body, he moved into a solid stance, hands on hips, seeming to brace himself as if she might hurtle toward him and knock him over. He looked down at the ground between his feet and then up at her again.
“Are you flesh and blood?”
His husky whisper carried on the breeze, but Jess wasn’t certain she’d heard him properly. She stepped closer, close enough to see the blue of his eyes. His gaze traced her face, paused at her lips, and then skimmed down her body, and Jess would have sworn heat warmed her skin along the trail his eyes had taken. She found herself ridiculously grateful to be garbed in one of the fashionable dresses Lady Stamford had purchased rather than the outdated clothes that had served her well as a failed London bookseller.
“Pardon?” She wanted to hear his voice again. She’d never heard a low rumble quite like his before, and she’d yet to hear it nearly enough.
“The apparition speaks.” He closed the distance between them in three determined strides.
Jess noted flowers embroidered on his waistcoat in the thinnest golden thread, a shade that perfectly matched the color of the fabric. She found his fine clothes much easier to study than meeting his searching gaze, which teased at her like the insistent flutter of butterfly’s wings.
“I’m no apparition.” Her voice was soft, shaky, belying the words coming out of her mouth.
He slipped a finger under her chin.
“You shouldn’t touch me.” The man really did have an awful habit of touching her quite freely.
Applying the slightest pressure, he nudged her head up to meet his gaze.
“And you shouldn’t be here. How did you come to be walking the grounds of Hartwell, Miss Wright?”
Jess didn’t see the condemnation she’d expected in his eyes, though some emotion had turned them a shade darker, and the grim line of his mouth and clenched jaw implied anger. Much like the night at the gallery, his eyes and expression telegraphed conflicting emotions. Was there so much dissension in his heart?
Good grief, what does the state of his heart matter?
Unraveling the puzzle of Viscount Grimsby would be Miss Sedgwick’s task, not hers. And he was right. Jess knew she shouldn’t be here, with his skin pressed against hers, his mouth inches from her own.
Guilt rushed in, and she lifted her chin away from his touch and turned. Tugging the full skirt of her dress up a fraction to make walking easier, she began striding away. Then she stopped, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. She owed him an explanation, but accepting employment from his aunt—his aunt—now seemed ridiculous when considered from his perspective. It smacked of a woman far too eager to remain near him, connected to him by any means possible.
When she looked back, he’d returned to his wide-legged, hands-on-hips stance, his golden waistcoat straining its buttons as it stretched across his broad chest. A breeze kicked up and riffled the black waves of his too-long hair.
Jess had never seen a more appealing man in her life.
“I came to Hartwell in your aunt’s carriage. She should explain why I’m here.” She called to him more loudly than necessary, considering the distance between them, in a strident voice she’d never used in her life. She lowered her tone before continuing. “I am sorry for intruding on your . . .” What did one call it when a man stood pacing and gesticulating to himself in the open air? “On your walk, my lord.”
“Wait, Miss Wright. If you please.”
She’d turned back toward Hartwell, determined to stride away as fast as her legs would transport her. But his voice held just the right note of aristocratic haughtiness to make her stiffen and snap her gaze back to him. She was half tempted to tell him he had no right to command her. Yet here, on the grounds of his estate, it seemed a foolish argument.
“You have a most irritating habit of ignoring my questions and running away to avoid answers.”
He spoke as if they shared a long acquaintance, as if he made a habit of questioning her and she a habit of avoiding him. The notion of familiarity between them was so silly, it nearly made her laugh. But he looked too serious for laughter.
The only reply on the tip of her tongue had nothing to do with his accusation, but she couldn’t hold back from expressing it.
“My father used to do that.”
His eyebrows dipped down in a dark vee, just as they had the moment before she’d kissed him. The memory sparked a hum, a vibration of energy in her body, warming her, making her tremble. She prayed Lord Grimsby didn’t notice the effect he had on her.
“I beg your pardon.”
He wasn’t begging at all, and his emotions were no longer difficult to discern. He was irritated. Crossing his arms and tilting his head back a fraction, he put that chiseled aristocratic chin of his on full display. One dark brow jumped up in a gesture that seemed to signal disdain and displeasure all at once.
It made the laughter Jess had stifled moments before bubble up and burst out in a choked sound, resulting in a smile she couldn’t contain.
“He talked to himself and paced about flapping his arms while he did it.”
Lord Grimsby opened his mouth as if to protest, perhaps to deny her comparison. It was rather daring of her to compare a noble lord to her poor, unlucky bookseller father.
But the memory of her father and the quirk the two men shared inspired a measure of mirth she hadn’t allowed herself in such a long time.
“It was a rather charming habit, really.”
She turned then and left him, never looking back to see if he was gazing at her in that haughty manner of his as she retreated or if he’d returned to flapping his arms, talking to himself, and pacing. Whatever his reaction, Jessamin suspected their awkward encounter would mean the end of her employment with his aunt. And perhaps that was for the best. As he’d said, she didn’t belong here, in his home or his world.
She stumbled on a stone hidden in the deep grass and kicked at it with the toe of her boot. The notion of parting ways with Lady Stamford brought a wave of sadness that made Jess’s throat tight and tears gather at the corners of her eyes. The lady had been kind to her, offering an opportunity when she’d needed it most. Lady Stamford had never even asked her to explain the events in Mayfair, and despite Jess’s inadequacies as a companion, the countess praised and encouraged her each and every day.
As the tower and gables of Hartwell came into view, another anxiety weighed on her mind. What if Lady Stamford refused to dismiss her? This might be the first of many awkward encounters with Lord Grim during the fortnight house party.
She’d need a new strategy for avoiding him. One that didn’t involve giving in to the urge to approach him, no matter the pull, like a magnet drawing metal, that seemed to rise up whenever he was near.
Surely she could survive two weeks near him for a wage that would secure her future.
Chapter Eleven
LUCIUS STOMPED UP the wide staircase leading to the doors of Hartwell, swung the left door abruptly enough to make a housemaid jump like a frightened cat, and nearly slid on the damnably well-polished marble floor before reaching the haven of his study.
But he didn’t find solitude beyond its door. One glance at the scene before him and his frustration whooshed out in a deep sigh. His aunt stood embracing his father, a tear trickling down her cheek. Though it was tempting to think of his father as his worry alone—heaven forgive him, his burden—Augusta’s presence reaffirmed that his father was more. He was a brother, a man his aunt looked up to since childhood, the eldest son, and the man who bore the titles and owned the estates that had been in their family for generations.
His aunt must have sensed his presence. She turned to him and hastily lifted a handkerchief to her cheek before releasing his father.
Maxim settled back in his chair by the fire, and Lucius noticed the old man was a bit glassy-eyed too. Though it hadn’t been long since the siblings had seen each other, Lucius knew his father’s illness caused Augusta to worry unceasingly about him.
Augusta approached and embraced Lucius, kissing each cheek before looking up at him expectantly.
“Is all ready for our visitor?”
“Only one? I thought you had a list. A list I’d like to have a glance at, by the way. And, yes, everything should be ready in time for Miss Sedgwick’s arrival. Have you not seen the staff scurrying about every which way?”
She smiled, a bright, charming expression usually reserved for persuasion. She was clearly pleased, and Lucius surged with pride for Hartwell and the diligence of its staff. He allowed himself a momentary quirk of his mouth, but his expression fell as he recalled the matter between them.
“Speaking of guests, I wonder if we might speak of the companion you acquired since we were last in London.”
Lucius leaned toward her as he spoke, lowering his voice so his father didn’t hear.
Augusta turned to glance at Maxim, but he sat gazing at the low, flickering flames beyond the grate.
She whispered her reply. “Mightn’t we save this conversation for later? Let’s take tea first. Both of you can come up to my sitting room.” She turned to Lucius’s father again. “Would you care to join us for tea, Maxim?”
Just as his father opened his mouth to answer, Mrs. Ives appeared in the doorway of the study.
“Sorry to intrude, my lord. I came to fetch Lord Dunthorpe.”
Lucius glanced at the clock on the mantel and noted the time of his father’s daily nap. Schedules and regularity seemed to ease his condition, while exceptions and change kindled the chaos in his mind. Lucius knew Mrs. Ives was making an effort at discretion by not mentioning her reason for collecting his father.
Lady Stamford looked crestfallen, but Lucius watched as his father dutifully rose from his chair and shuffled toward the door, patting his sister on the arm as he passed. He grinned at Mrs. Ives as he approached her, apparently quite content to stick to his schedule and take his daily respite.
“Ah!”
Lucius and Augusta turned their gazes toward the door, surprised by Maxim’s outburst.
His father pointed a finger toward his sister. “Your companion.”
“Yes? My companion. What of her?”
Augusta shot Lucius a chastising glance. Clearly his whispers hadn’t escaped Father’s keen hearing.
Maxim’s eyes lit with amusement as if terribly pleased with himself. “I’ll wager she has auburn hair,” he said as he followed Mrs. Ives out the door.
“What the devil was that about?” Augusta watched her brother exit with a smile on her face.
“The man is far more cunning than any of us suspect.”
Augusta let loose a laugh, full-bodied and throaty, the kind she used only among friends and family.
“I’ve always known his crafty ways. You have no notion how he tormented me as child.” She looked wistful for a moment and Lucius found it difficult to be truly angry with her.
But he had to address the matter of Miss Wright.
“How could you bring her here? She shouldn’t be here.”
Never mind that he’d stared at the back of the new housemaid not an hour ago, convincing himself it was Jessamin Wright, and letting the opposite notion tease at his mind.
Augusta frowned at him a moment as if unsure of whom he spoke, but then she stood up a bit straighter and met his gaze squarely.
“Miss Wright is my companion, my employee, not my captive. I assure you she came very much of her own volition.”
Lucius indicated the two chairs arranged before the fire, and Augusta swept toward the one his father had vacated. When they were both settled, Lucius arranged his elbows on the chair’s arms and steepled his fingertips under his chin.
“Do you think it appropriate?” Even Aunt Augusta couldn’t think it appropriate for the woman who’d kissed him so publicly to reside at Hartwell during a house party designed to introduce him to a potential bride. Distraction didn’t suffice to describe how unsettling Miss Wright’s presence would be. Hell, she already was.
He picked at invisible fluff on the arm of his jacket, swiping down the fabric before grasping the buttons at his cuff and settling them so that the etched design on each aligned.
His aunt sighed wearily, as if his concern with propriety was a very great bore.
Of course, Augusta did not know, could not know, that Miss Wright had hardly left his mind since she’d marched up to him at the gallery in Mayfair.
“Propriety is more flexible than you might imagine. It often bends to practicality. The girl needed employment. I needed a companion. She’s helped me immensely in
the last few weeks. I’m not certain I could do without her now.”
Now it was Lucius’s turn to sigh. His aunt seemed determined to mistake his meaning.
“I am not referring to the woman’s suitability as your companion, though many would question it. I am referring to—”
“You kissed her.” His aunt interrupted him in a tone implying he could say nothing that she hadn’t already considered and dismissed, and she wished to put the whole subject to rest.
“I did not kiss her!”
It wasn’t true and his lips burned, accusing him of the lie. Other parts of his body ached too, and he stood up, trying to ease the tension, the frustration thoughts of Miss Wright always inspired.
He turned toward the mantel and arranged the items on the deep marble shelf—framed photographs, porcelain dogs, a beautifully sculpted crystal rose his mother had purchased in France. He spaced the items evenly, turned the photographs just so, and placed the dogs near each other, both facing toward the window on the west wall. Whoever tended the room apparently had little concern for replacing the items with care after dusting.
He sensed the weight of his aunt’s gaze and turned to find her watching him with a knowing expression curving her lips. He bristled under the examination.
“My goodness, Lucius. Do you fear the girl? Has she truly affected you so?”
Lucius couldn’t answer, could barely consider the question. He turned away, refusing to let his aunt read his thoughts, as she was far too talented at doing.
“Jessamin is an honorable young woman. I’d wager she’d never even kissed a man before. Her skill can’t have been so great as to scramble your wits.”
It was too much. Hearing her name spoken with such warm familiarity by his aunt—to hear her name at all. And discussing kissing, that kiss in particular, with the woman he held in as high esteem as his own mother. It was all too much, and Lucius wanted nothing more than to head out for another walk, a longer one this time, up hills and over ravines, until he’d exhausted body and mind and couldn’t manage a single thought about women or dowries or Miss Wright’s auburn hair. But he heard himself speaking, felt the words reverberating in his chest, playing across his tongue—the truth, unvarnished and irrepressible.
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