At Augusta’s pronouncement, Mrs. Darnley spluttered, emitting a sort of wet squeak, and Lord Grimsby quaffed the last of his wine before coughing into his napkin.
Jess took a long gulp of her own wine. Her face was now well and truly red. She knew it must be because her cheeks were as hot as if they’d ignited into flames. Every sense told her to flee, to stand up and run from the room, from this house, from this world where she didn’t belong, and go back to London. She might not yet have enough money to sustain herself long, but at least she knew who she was in London. There she had a purpose. Or at least she’d had a purpose once. Surely she could find one again.
“Miss Wright is one of the most industrious and intelligent women I’ve ever met. And her knowledge of books and literature never fails to impress me. And she’s quite political too. She’s taught me a great deal in the last few weeks.”
Lady Stamford’s accolades were doing nothing for the heat in Jess’s cheeks, nor her nerves. The woman had been kind to her from the moment they’d met, yet Jess couldn’t imagine such a perceptive woman had no notion of the embarrassment she was causing.
“Of course she knows about books. She was a shopgirl.” Mrs. Darnley’s softer voice had a bit of a whine to it, as if she was bored with the subject of Jess’s merits as much as Jess was mortified by it.
“She owned the shop, Julia. She was a bookshop owner.” Lady Stamford sounded so proud of the fact. Yet why would she be proud?
Was. Was a bookshop owner. For Jess, the reality of her failure held a potent sting.
“Well done, Miss Wright.”
Mr. Wellesley’s voice was quiet, though Jess guessed Lady Stamford heard him. Jess risked at peek at him, hoping his gaze wouldn’t lock on her flaming red cheeks. Instead, he merely shot her a sympathetic grin and she tried to return it, though her face felt stiff and immobile.
“My goodness. A shop owner. Next you’ll be telling us she’s a suffragette.”
Somehow Mrs. Darnley’s voice, referring to Jess as if she wasn’t even at the table, was far more irksome than Lady Stamford’s laudatory list of her qualities had been.
Jess’s irritation turned to action before she could think better of it. She swallowed a bit more wine and then stood up, pushing her chair back, and spoke loudly and clearly, determined to confess her transgressions for all to hear.
“Yes, I’m a suffragist. Women own shops, even if some of them lose their shops because their fathers are incurable and very unlucky gamblers. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have the right to vote.”
Jess bent a bit at the waist to resume her seat and then remembered something else that needed saying. “And women run their homes and great estates”—she pointed to Lady Stamford before remembering that pointing was a terrible blunder and letting her hand fall to her side—“as the Countess of Stamford does at Marleston. Shouldn’t they have the right to vote and help decide their fate?”
The dining room grew eerily quiet—no sound, not even the clink of silverware against porcelain. All the guests seemed to be holding their breath. Mrs. Darnley stared at her with huge eyes and lips slightly parted. Her husband stared down at his plate. Lady Stamford beamed at her, Mr. Wellesley tilted his mouth in a sardonic grin, and Lord Grimsby pinched the flesh between his eyebrows. His eyes were closed and a grimace marred his handsome face. He finally let out a sigh and she thought she heard him say, “Good God, a suffragette” as he exhaled.
Jess’s tongue felt swollen, too large to fit her mouth, and the suffusion of heat in her cheeks had now spread throughout her whole body, particularly the center of her chest. As she resumed her seat, she was grateful for the lack of motion. Even the mere act of standing and sitting made her dizzy.
Mr. Wellesley leaned toward her and whispered, “How often do you drink wine, Miss Wright?”
“Rarely before coming to Marleston. And only one glass with dinner.”
“You’ve had three tonight.”
“Have I really?”
“Mmm. It’s a defect of Hartwell, I find. These bloody footmen are far too generous.”
“Bloody footmen.”
Jess thought she was whispering as quietly as Mr. Wellesley, but every time she spoke, she saw Mrs. Darnley’s head snap in her direction as if she was a particularly annoying bee buzzing about the table.
Why did the woman loathe her so? Jess had never met her before tonight. Well, unless she counted that silliness at the art gallery. Which, of course, she would.
Would she never overcome that rash and scandalous act? She’d come to think of it as a private moment between them, but of course it hadn’t been. It had been contrived to be as public as possible, to cause Lord Grimsby as much mortification as possible. It was a wonder the man didn’t loathe her. Perhaps he did.
Jess felt suddenly drowsy, and nothing seemed more appealing than resting her head for the night, forgetting about the viscount, and giving up on trying so hard to be elegant. But even as she considered excusing herself, a footman slid a beautiful dish of custard onto her plate.
“The custard.” She smiled across at Mr. Wellesley, who’d already taken the first spoonful and scooped it into his mouth.
Jess lifted her spoon and was just about to dig into the dessert when she felt Mrs. Darnley’s chilly glare on her. The woman’s wrath spoiled Jess’s enthusiasm for the custard, and she dropped her spoon with what seemed to her ears to be a deafening clatter.
Mrs. Darnley’s eyes weren’t the only ones fixed on her. Across the table, Mr. Wellesley’s gaze had gone wide. On her left, Lady Stamford swiveled toward her and, at far at the end of the room, Lord Grimsby’s brow furrowed as he drummed his fingers on the table and watched her. The weight of their stares pressed down on her, chipping at her resolve to behave properly, to keep Kitty’s secret. She loathed secrets. Father’s secrets had ruined their lives. The truth was just there, longing to escape, and she could only think of the sweet relief it would be to let it go.
She stood again, though she held on to the table edge to stop herself from listing. Goodness, if this was what intoxication felt like, she couldn’t imagine why her father had been so keen on it. He’d been a man who prided himself on his intelligence, yet at the moment Jess wasn’t certain she could recall her full name if called upon to do so.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Darnley.” Or was it Lady Julia? The rules were so confusing. She was an earl’s daughter, yet she’d married a mister Darnley. “Er, Lady Julia. Do forgive me. Yes, you saw me kiss your brother in Mayfair. But it was only for money. Quite a lot of it. I tried to give it to the bank, but they wouldn’t take it. Wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.”
Her words sped up and tumbled over one another as she spoke and a great weight, like a heavy drape, drew down around her. She bent to sit, but either the chair had moved or she’d missed it completely. She sank down to the floor, only her stiff petticoat with its small attached bustle and the frame of her corset keeping her from melting into the carpet completely.
She heard, as if from far away, Mrs. Darnley shriek. The woman certainly did exclaim a great deal. And then that voice, as dark and deep as a bottomless pool, the one that haunted her dreams—Lord Grimsby. He was angry.
“No, I shall take her. Eat your blasted pudding, Robert, and kindly take your hands off of her.”
“I have smelling salts.”
“She hasn’t fainted, Julia. Miss Wright has had a bit too much wine.” Jess’s chest warmed to hear the same note of concern in Lady Stamford’s tone she recalled hearing in her mother’s voice whenever she’d fallen ill as a child. “Careful, Lucius. Gently.”
Jess felt herself lifted, scooped up and collected into arms much bigger than her own, and pressed against a firm chest, a man who smelled achingly familiar. She couldn’t resist turning her head toward his shoulder to take a deeper breath of him. Lord Grimsby smelled like cloves. No, maybe not cloves, but some spice, rich and evocative, for which she didn’t know the name.
As Lord Grimsby carr
ied her from the dining room, she heard Mr. Wellesley call out. “Do save her some custard. She’ll be cross she missed it.”
Jess couldn’t help grinning.
“He amuses you, does he? He amuses many women.”
They were so far away from the dining room when he finally spoke, Jess had already forgotten about Robert Wellesley. She’d nestled her head against Lord Grimsby’s shoulder and was enjoying his scent and the warmth of his body, even delighting in the way a strand of his soft black hair brushed against her nose as he moved.
“You smell like spice. And starch. And a bit like leather, like a new leather-bound book.”
He smelled delicious, much more appealing than the custard. And she felt safe in his arms, just as she had in the gallery. Even with the glares, condemnations, and gasps of outrage, his arms around her and his gaze locked with hers had insulated and protected her for that single moment of pleasure. He’d managed to exude strength and solidity, even in that heated, reckless moment.
They’d reached the door of her sitting room. Her bedroom was just a few steps away, but it wouldn’t have been proper for him to take her there. She could reach her bedroom through a connecting door in her sitting room, if she managed to walk that far.
He turned the doorknob without dropping her and carried her to the long settee in front of the fire. He bent to place her on the furniture gently, almost as if she’d sustained some injury. Then he sorted out her dress, making sure her skirts were settled just right and even slipping her flimsy but fashionable shoes from her stockinged feet. His ministrations felt lovely. Jess had never been fussed over so tenderly in her life.
“I’ll have some tea sent up.” He’d already stepped away from her and was halfway to the door.
She didn’t wish him to go, but she knew propriety dictated it.
“Please.” Her mouth felt suddenly dry as dust, but the word came out with a rasp. She had no idea what she was pleading for, didn’t want to think about what she might be asking.
He looked as confused as she, but he crossed the room toward her again. He crouched down, examining her from head to toe in the dim fire glow.
“Are you well, Miss Wright? Were you injured when you fell? There is a doctor in the village—”
“No.” Her voice was hoarse, though she couldn’t recall saying much of anything in the past few hours. “I am well,” she managed, though the edges of the walls tilted around her.
Lord Grimsby seemed the one stable object in the room and she reached for him.
He reached for her too, and she thought he meant to touch her, caress her, that she might get to taste his kiss again. Instead he laid the back of his hand against her forehead as her father had done when he feared she might have a fever. Lord Grimsby’s skin felt refreshingly cool against her own. Perhaps she was feverish.
“You’re a bit flushed.” He turned his hand as he spoke, running his fingers across her temple, down, sliding across her cheek. “Your skin is warm.” He cupped her face in his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth against her flesh. “And so soft.”
Jessamin licked her lips, and he shifted his gaze to her mouth. Surely the warmth he’d felt on her forehead had all rushed to her lips. Her mouth burned in anticipation. She’d kissed him once because she had to, and once he’d touched her as if he wished to kiss her, but now she wanted his kiss, ached for it. His kiss. Only his.
He took a deep breath and pulled his hand away. She spluttered, not unlike his sister. A little moan of frustration erupted from inside and she saw him bite his lip before he stood, turning away from her and toward the fire.
Head throbbing, Jess just wanted sleep. If the spice-scented man wasn’t going to kiss her, she wished him gone so she could sleep and, please God, not dream about him.
After several moments of silence, her eyelids grew heavy. Fighting the drowsiness, she watched the dark outline of the viscount, limned by the amber firelight. But the fatigue was winning. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, promising herself she’d open them again. She only managed one, peeking at the viscount as he stood, head down, his palm braced on the fireplace mantel.
Then he turned swiftly, approached, and leaned over her, one hand on the back of the settee, the other on the pillow near her head, capturing her but not touching her.
“I have one bit of advice for you, Miss Wright. Heed this. Robert is no man to set your cap at. He is inconstant.” He had been watching her, but he bowed his head a moment before meeting her eyes again. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
If not for the serious look on Lord Grimsby’s face, Jessamin might have laughed. She wasn’t the kind of woman a man deserved or didn’t. She was no great catch, nor did she wish to be. An equal, a partner—that’s what she might be lucky enough to find one day. But she wouldn’t find him among this aristocratic world of viscounts and earls and second sons of second sons.
Lord Grimsby bent his body closer to hers, leaning toward her so that their chests nearly touched. She could sense the heat and weight of him above her and fought the urge to lift her arms and pull him closer.
He kissed her forehead, his lips firm, his breath warm against her skin. “Remember that next time he amuses you.” Never lifting his head, he skimmed his lips down from her forehead and pressed a brief kiss against the tip of her nose. “Remember it next time he flirts with you.” He titled his head, his mouth hovering over hers. He breathed in deeply before turning his face to the left, brushing his lips across her cheek, lingering near her ear, nuzzling her there before pulling back. “Remember it when he tries to seduce you.” His kissed the corner of her mouth, touching his tongue to the seam just at the edge of her lips.
Then he pulled away slowly, hesitantly, and left without another word.
Chapter Fourteen
JESS WOKE WITH a start, overwhelmed with fear that she’d forgotten to lock up the money box in the bookshop’s office. She sat up quickly and instantly regretted it. A thunderous banging echoed in her ears. No, in her head. And when her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the fireplace, she realized she wasn’t in her room above the shop at all. She was at Hartwell, and it had to be quite late because she’d already dined and . . . Oh no. Please no.
Dribs and drabs of memories came back—mouths drawn down in disapproval and gasps of shock as she’d uttered awful things. She’d said something of her politics and—why oh why?—confessed to kissing the viscount for money. She’d fallen, or had nearly done so. Who would have guessed she’d ever feel such gratitude for her corset? In the end, it was the only thing that held her up.
Along with the thumping in her head, embarrassment and regret bubbled like a sickly stew in her belly. Why had she allowed herself so much wine? And why had she let her tongue race ahead of her good sense? Despite all that had happened in the last month, she still believed she possessed a bit of it. Whatever Father’s flaws, he’d been a decent man at heart, and though her mother had been with Jess only fourteen years, she’d done all she could to teach Jess how to be a practical, honorable woman.
Neither would be proud of her behavior tonight.
Jess winced at the memory of her graceless tumble, but when she tried to recall how she’d gotten into bed, her recollections went dark around the edges. Then a fragrance—an alluringly familiar mix of starch and spice—tickled her nose. Lord Grimsby. He’d been here, or touched her, or somehow been close enough to imprint his scent on her.
She struggled to recall if he’d spoken to her. Surely she’d remember if he’d kissed her again. Lifting a hand, she traced a finger across her mouth, as if the memory of it might have imprinted itself there. But she felt certain of nothing. Vague images in her head, of Lord Grimsby lit by firelight, and then closer, his mouth gliding over her skin, could as easily have been a dream. Heaven knew she’d dreamed of the man often enough.
Pushing the covers back, she eased out of bed slowly, trying not to rile the orchestra in her head. Someone had removed her dress and gotten her int
o a nightgown, and she prayed it was Tilly.
With her head thumping, Jess couldn’t imagine going back to sleep. More than anything, she longed for a steaming cup of coffee. Father had preferred coffee too, but she hadn’t enjoyed a single cup since coming to Marleston. Lady Stamford took tea and only tea, and that was that.
Perhaps if she had a cup of the aromatic brew from her favorite London coffeehouse, she could clear her head enough to get some writing done on the speech Alice would deliver at the next Women’s Union event. Jess missed attending the meetings, but not nearly as much as the round of discussions afterward and being able to keep abreast of developments with the group’s charitable initiatives. Though Alice sent her letters and pamphlets, even clippings from the newspaper, she missed their face-to-face debates most of all. Perhaps if she survived her two weeks of trying to avoid the viscount, Lady Stamford would allow her a train trip to London, if even for a day. Assuming she could stop blurting to everyone about kissing the man.
No more wine for me. Bloody footmen. Jess grinned, recalling Mr. Wellesley’s condemnation. Biting her lip, she recalled more—giggling with Wellesley like a silly schoolgirl and being carried. Carried by a man who warned her off Wellesley. Carried by Lord Grimsby, who’d touched her and pressed his mouth to her skin, and made her wish to be kissed more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
No. She had no business kissing Lord Grimsby. She wouldn’t regret the first kiss, but that had to be enough. Whether because of his aunt’s insistence or his own graciousness, he’d allowed her to remain at Hartwell. And while he might not have loathed her before tonight, what did he think of her now? Now that she’d admitted taking money to kiss him.
That disturbing thought fueled her. She needed to turn her mind to something other than Lord Grimsby. She hooked herself into her corset and searched the wardrobe for the simplest gown Lady Stamford had ordered for her, a blue day dress with matching bodice. It was such an unfussy ensemble, she could easily dress herself.
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