by Mary Balogh
Jessica leaned back against the circle of his arms. Her own were trapped above them so that she was not able to accomplish a very lethal swing. However, her slap did have the element of surprise, and the room was filled for one moment with a very satisfying crack.
"I wish that to be the last time, my lord-the very last," she said, "that you make insulting remarks and suggestions to me. Your assumption that my impoverished background makes me therefore a woman of loose and low morals says a great deal about your own morality. I will not be touched by you again-ever. I trust I have made myself understood?"
He had not moved beyond parting his hands behind her back and dropping them to his sides. He did not say a word or make any attempt to stop her from sweeping past him and out of the room.
It was not wise to gallop one's horse through Hyde Park, Lord Rutherford told himself even as he did just that. Although it was late November and although it was relatively early in the morning, the park was rarely deserted. There was almost sure to be some maid out walking a dog, some tradesman taking a scenic route to his work, or some more fashionable person intent on walking off the cobwebs of the mind acquired the previous night. One was not expected to move at great speed in the park. It was uncivilized to do so. It was also dangerous.
Yet he galloped, the harsh wind of November whipping against his cheeks and causing his eyes to water. Cobwebs of the mind! His brain felt fuller of chain mail.
He did not know quite why he should still feel so furious over the events of the night before. After all, if the woman wished to masquerade as a lady of the ton, and if his grandmother chose to aid and abet her for the sake of amusement during the long and often tedious months of winter, it was really none of his concern. He had sent her to Berkeley Square, it was true, but he had done so in good faith, believing that he owed a helpless servant that much assistance in finding a new situation. And he had clearly explained the circumstances to his grandmother, had specifically asked that the woman be sent away from London.
If between them those two women had concocted some mad scheme for the profit of the one and the entertainment of the other, then he should shrug the matter off and forget all about it. At least he felt himself absolved from the promise he had made his grandmother to give the girl his company and help bring her into fashion. Why allow the matter to affect his whole mood, then? He would give it no further thought. Rutherford eased his horse back to a safer canter.
She had been presented to Mama, Faith, and Hope. He had glanced across the ballroom at a time when he was conversing with an acquaintance from the House of Lords, and there she had been with his grandmother, talking to his mother and Faith. Had Grandmama's wits gone totally begging? It was one thing for her to countenance such a trick on the ton. It was another to involve her son's family. They would all become the laughingstock when the truth was known. And then at the end of the very next set he had watched Hope approach the dowager and her charge of her own free will and converse with them until Godfrey, bless his heart, had borne Jess away.
It must not be allowed to continue, he decided as he had the night before. There was no point in talking further with Jess and appealing to her sense of decency. Clearly she had none. He must call privately on his grandmother that afternoon and see if he could make her see sense. He did not relish the task. The dowager was notoriously difficult to deal with. She had a will of iron and was not to be turned from any enterprise on which her heart was firmly set. He would just have to hope that she would be satisfied with last night's triumph and uninterested in continuing the experiment.
Good God! he thought with a renewed burst of fury, the woman had been a servant, a little scrap of a gray governess a mere two weeks before. She had been a meek little thing who never raised her eyes in public or uttered a sound. She had certainly known her place when she was with the Barries. And he had been misguided enough to pity her. And less than two weeks ago she had agreed quite coolly to become his mistress and had carried her agreement through to the very brink of fulfillment.
And even then he had pitied her. He had considered her a demure, frightened girl who had felt herself forced into giving up all her principles, but whose character had been strong enough at the last moment to save her and to plunge her into an even worse predicament. He had pitied her and tried yet again to help her.
Had she seen the possibility even then? Had she seen how easy it was to lure a gentleman into making such an offer? If he had desired her when she appeared as she did, clad all in shapeless gray, her hair scraped into its unbecoming bun, what might not be accomplished if she could find some way of improving that appearance and some way of gaining introductions to other wealthy gentlemen? His offer to take her to his grandmother must have seemed like a gift from heaven. It was no wonder that she had refused to be taken but had chosen to go alone!
What story had she spun for his grandmother's benefit? he wondered. It must have been clever indeed. The dowager was no one's fool.
Yes, speak to Grandmama he must. Besides, how could he meekly ignore the woman after the challenge she had flung down the night before? He had never been bested by a woman. Not nearly. And he had no intention of making the encounter of the night before the end of the war. Merely an unimportant skirmish.
He had really thought he was succeeding. He had begun to kiss her in frustration, the need to punish and insult her the only way he could cope with her stubbornness and impudence. But he had felt her almost instant response. She had not clamped lips and teeth together as he might have expected. Nor had she removed her body from his after his one free hand had brought her against him. He had felt a certain triumph as soon as her hands came away from his lapels and moved up to his neck and into his hair. He had not missed noting that her breasts had then been pressed more intimately against him.
She had wanted him, he was sure. Even if those reactions had been feigned in order to take him off his guard, there had been the very real surge of heat that he had felt with his hands and his body. He had been careful then to change the quality of his embrace, to woo her with his body. He had even been weighing in his mind how comfortable a bed that chaise longue would make and how safe the unlocked door behind him would be while he sealed their contract.
The woman obviously had iron-hard control over her own feelings. He could not have been mistaken about her response. He had too much experience in such matters to be easily fooled. But somehow she had mastered her own desire and had succeeded in dealing him that stinging slap. That too had never happened to him before. He had always sworn that the female who struck him would be struck back twice as hard. And indeed, it had taken no small measure of control on his part to let his hands drop to his sides and to allow her to leave. Instinct had made him long to tip her beneath his arm and wallop her until she cried for mercy. Alas, he had discovered that he could no more strike a female than he could bed an unwilling one.
Physical punishment he could not deal her, then. But he would not stand meekly by and allow her to make a fool of him. She had refused to give up her charade. She had refused his renewed offer of protection. He had given her every chance. Now there would have to be punishment of some sort. The woman was to learn that one did not trifle with the Earl of Rutherford and escape unscathed.
Damnation, but she was a desirable wench, he thought, grinding his teeth as he turned his horse in the direction of home. He could not pretend even to himself that he had been guided solely by his head when he had embraced her the night before. Indeed, he had not really known he was going to kiss her until he was in the process of doing so. And the warmth and moistness of her mouth encompassing his tongue, and the shapeliness of her body pressed against his own had sent his own temperature soaring as well as hers. His sense of triumph had resulted as much from his conviction that she was after all to become his own possession for as long as he chose as it had from the belief that the charade would now come to an end. If he were totally honest with himself, he would admit that he had considered that
chaise longue more as a means of fulfilling an almost overwhelming desire than as a way of finalizing a contract.
She was the only woman who had ever resisted him. Oh, not quite, he supposed. There were always those occasions when he sent out tentative lures only to discover that there was no point in expending further energies on a siege. But he had never been rejected on any occasion when he had made a determined effort to attract and even made a definite verbal offer.
And now he had been rejected-three times-by the same female, and a servant at that, a girl past her first bloom and without a penny in the world. And there was probably the attraction, he realized as soon as he had mentally verbalized the facts. He was experiencing the universal human craving for what cannot be had.
She did not wish him ever to touch her again, she had said. What a thoroughly unnecessary admonition! His very sanity might depend on his staying as far away from her as circumstances would allow.
* * *
The Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh bestowed a benign look on her butler. The man had just informed her that her triumph was now finally complete. He had not said those words, actually. He had merely announced in his well-trained confidential tones that were designed to carry no farther than her own ears that the Earl of Rutherford was downstairs in the hall, requesting a private word with her.
"Show him up," she said.
The butler, long trained not to contradict his lady, looked her briefly in the eye to see if she could possibly have missed the detail about the private interview, understood that she had not, made a stiff obeisance, and withdrew himself from the drawing room to carry out orders.
The duchess meanwhile smiled sympathetically at Lord Beasley and Mr. Menteith, who for lack of other entertainment had been thrown into each other's company, and offered them more tea. It was extremely gratifying to know that her charge was too busy to do more than pass the time of day with two such eligible bachelors. Beasley was somewhat too fond of his victuals and the wine bottle, it was true, and consequently was bound together into one large, creaking bundle by heavy stays; it was true too that Menteith was without title, and most of his fabulous wealth had been amassed by his father through trade. But it was a splendid triumph to see them in her drawing room when dear Jessica had so far made only one public appearance.
Jessica had Sir Godfrey Hall sitting on one side of her, engaging her in spirited conversation, and Hope on the other. Miss Menteith was sitting shyly on a stool at her feet, gazing up at the three conversationalists with an almost worshipful attitude. There were some who would have frowned at the girl's visiting with her brother when she would not be brought out until the following spring. But what could one expect of the off-spring of a gentleman unconventional enough to go into trade and galling enough to repair the family fortunes thereby?
"The Earl of Rutherford, your grace," the butler announced in tones that clearly but silently added, "and don't blame me for the consequences neither."
"Ah, Charles," the dowager said, advancing on him with one hand extended, her expression all gracious innocence. "I have been expecting you, m'boy."
It said something for the boy's experience with life, she thought approvingly, that he stopped abruptly on the threshold of the room for only a moment before recovering himself and advancing into the room to make his bows to all its occupants. He was unable to summon a smile, but then modern manners were not what they had been in her day.
She forced him to accept a cup of tea and limp his way through a stilted conversation with Beasley and Menteith for all of five minutes before taking pity on him finally and laying a hand on his arm.
"Charles and I have some private business to discuss for a few minutes," she said graciously to the room at large. "Do, pray, excuse us."
"Certainly, Grandmama," Lady Hope said, while several of the others gave low assenting murmurs. "Do come back before leaving, though, Charles. I rely on you to escort me home as I dismissed my maid when I arrived. And Mama will certainly be happy to see you. You have called at the house only twice since returning from the country, you know."
Lord Rutherford bowed in the direction of his sister, carefully avoiding the eyes of Jessica, the dowager noticed with certain amusement, and followed his grandmother from the room and into a small study.
"Grandmama!" he said, clearly rattled. "You did not misunderstand my message, I take it?"
"That you wished to see me privately?" she asked. "I assumed you did not realize there were visitors and would not wish to appear rude, m'boy."
"You know very well why I asked to see you alone," he said. "It will not do, Grandmama. She has no business in this house. Certainly not as a guest. And certainly not socializing with the likes of Hope and Beasley and Menteith. Your joke is quite distasteful."
"Sit down, m'boy," she said, motioning to a brocaded chair on one side of the desk while she took one on the other side. "You are far too tall to argue with. Puts me at a disadvantage. I assume you refer to Jessica?"
"You know I refer to her, Grandmama," he said. "She is a governess, a servant. And one not even in good standing at present. To my knowledge she has no money, no prospects. Without your mad intervention she would now be walking the streets. And I begin to think that that is where she belongs."
"Oh, I think not," the dowager said with maddening calm. "I do not for a moment believe that you think that, Charles. You think that she belongs in your bed. Can't say I altogether blame you. A pretty and quite delightful little thing."
"If it is in my bed she belongs," Rutherford said, "it is as my whore, Grandmama, paid for the services she renders there and forever kept apart from the sort of company with whom she now mingles in the drawing room. She is there now, for goodness' sake. With Hope. My sister."
"If Hope has not already been contaminated by contact with you," the duchess said soothingly, "I doubt she will be by Jessica, Charles. After all, you have been whoring for ten years and more."
He got abruptly to his feet. "That is an entirely different matter," he said. "I am a gentleman."
"Utter poppycock!" his grandmother said coolly. "Sit down, Charles, and lower your voice, m'boy. Nothing is ever gained by losing one's temper. I thought the gel did very nicely last night, didn't you? She would have been a great success even without your gracious assistance."
"It was a damned trick, Grandmama!" he said, putting his clenched fists down on the desk and leaning across it toward her. He had not obeyed the order to sit down. "You deliberately lured me there last night to witness what dupes the two of you could make of Lord Chalmers and all his guests. All right, you succeeded. But the matter must be left there. Find the woman employment. Let her go. This way, someone is going to get hurt. Probably even her. You are giving her ideas beyond her station."
"Calm yourself, Charles," the dowager said, leaning back in her chair and spreading her hands, palm up. "Actually, we have no quarrel with each other. I happen to agree that Jessica belongs in your bed. But not as your fancy piece. Far too vulgar. As your wife, m'boy. As your countess."
7
Lord Rutherford rested his fists on the desk and stared for a moment into his grandmother's eyes. Then he gave vent to an incredulous bark of laughter.
"You want me to marry Jess Moore?" he said. "The woman who was governess to your last choice of bride for me?"
"I imagine her education and talents were very much wasted in the post," the dowager said. "I think she would make you an eminently suitable bride, Charles. The gel has beauty and breeding. She has character. More important, she has spirit. She will be able to keep you in line after your marrige. And you really must settle down, m'boy. Middleburgh-your grandpapa-had his sidelines, you know, but he was ever discreet. I grant him that. And you are the future Middleburgh, though I wish long life to your father. Won't do for you to settle a mousy wife in the country breeding while you continue to sow your oats in town."
"I agree with you on essential points, Grandmama," Rutherford said. "But how can you possi
bly suggest that woman as my future duchess? My wife must at least be of the same social class as I."
"Jessica is a lady," his grandmother pointed out.
"Oh, yes," he agreed, "she is somewhat above the rank of scullery maid, I grant you. Her father was a country parson, Grandmama. She admitted as much to me last night. She even added that he was impoverished and unable to afford to send her to school."
"Gels also have mothers," the dowager said.
He made an impatient gesture. "Her mother was probably one of the royal princesses, of course," he said. "I will not do it, Grandmama. I will not even consider the matter. And I will not see the woman again. You may stop trying to throw us into company together. You will be wasting your efforts."
"Your mama will disapprove of your not spending Christmas with the family," the dowager said innocently.
"At Hendon Park?" he asked with a frown. "Of course I shall be going there. I always do."
"Then you will be seeing Jessica again," she said.
A dull flush colored Rutherford's cheeks. "You are never taking her there," he said. "To our private family Christmas, Grandmama?"
"She is my guest for the winter," the dowager said. "Where else would she go, Charles? And how would I look back with clear conscience on the memories of my dear friend, her grandmama, if I left her here?"
"Which fictitious character doubtless has a name, a home, a history, and a genealogy reaching back at least five centuries," her grandson said.
"Don't sneer, Charles," she said. "It spoils your looks. You are quite right, of course." She paused, looking sharply at him, waiting for the question that did not come. She nodded briskly. "Now, dear boy." She rose to her feet and reached for his arm. "We will return to the drawing room where Hope will be waiting for you. And you will have the chance to be civil to Jessica. She was otherwise occupied when you arrived."