by Peggy Waide
She pursed her lips into a tight line, one side slightly higher than the other. "You can surely understand if I question your sudden willingness to accept my memory loss and this marriage?"
He noted the skepticism in her voice. She was right to be nervous. "Only a temporary state."
"True."
While she contemplated his sudden change of heart, Reyn watched her face reveal every reaction. Disbelief, panic, even a hint of admiration. Or was it amusement? He couldn't say for sure, but he knew one thing. She didn't believe him for one minute. Neither did she know his strategy. He would keep her off balance, do the unexpected, become her friend. Then, when her guard was down, he would discover her secrets, help her whether she liked it or not, and take back his freedom.
Jocelyn continued to stare at her toes. Reyn continued to stare at her. He concluded it would be no great hardship to execute his plan. Her lightly bronzed skin, no doubt caused by frequenting the outdoors, served to enhance her high cheekbones, pert nose, and full mouth. Regretfully, he sighed. Perhaps he had been too hasty in declaring his celibacy. This was something new he would have to consider. Technically, she was his wife, and using Agatha's suggested grounds, he could still obtain an annulment. Direct confrontation had proven unsuccessful. Charm and seduction could very well be the tools to use. An easy task when he considered his body's eager response.
Finally, he asked. "Agreed?" With her reluctant nod, he continued. "Splendid. Now, I have an idea to help us discover your true identity. We shall try a new name every day until you find the one that fits like a silk stocking. Hmmm-" he paused. "Perhaps we should follow the letters of the alphabet. We shall begin with Antoinette. After dear, departed Marie. Found guilty of treason, yes, but otherwise a complex woman with many sides and otherwise grievously misunderstood."
He looked at Jocelyn, judged her reaction, and admitted to himself that he was enjoying this little game. He took a final bite of the apple and threw the core to a nearby tree. "Or perhaps Allegra. Latin for cheerful, sprightly. A musical name with a touch of the exotic." When she continued to stare, an astonished look on her face, he said, "No? All right. We shall try for a touch of royalty. Yes, I like that. Does Anne ring any bells, bring any special thoughts to mind?"
She continued to sit, saying nothing. For the first time in days, he felt as though the tide had turned in his favor. Yes, he quite liked this game. He took her hand in his and patted it like a reassuring parent. "You are overcome with joy at my generous offer. I can tell." As an afterthought, he asked, "Oh, by the way, will I require a food taster, or may I assume it will be safe to eat my meals without worry?"
Unable to resist his teasing, Jocelyn submitted to her urge to laugh. "I believe you are a candidate for Bedlam yourself, my lord, or completely without scruples. I made that threat in anger. You will be safe from my skills as long as my temper is not pushed to its limits as it was the other night."
He stood, signaling the end of their conversation. "In that case, I shall tread carefully."
Extending a firm hand, he easily pulled her to her feet, flush against his torso. By the slight quickening of her breathing, he knew she was not immune to their closeness. He smiled. Obviously, she remembered their moonlight rendezvous as well as he. Yes, seduction could definitely be the key to unlocking her mysteries, for he, being a man of experience, would enthrall this female to do his bidding in no time.
From behind his back he produced a pair of pink satin slippers. "I believe these are yours."
Reluctantly, she placed her hand on his arm for support and took the shoes, standing on one foot to put one on the other. She lost her balance, almost tumbling to the ground save for his quick hands, which grasped her firmly about the waist. She addressed his pleated shirtfront. "Please release me, Lord Wilcott."
"Surely you already know my given name is Reynolds. You may refer to me as Lord Wilcott, after my dukedom, or my lord or your grace, but all my friends call me Reyn. I believe, for an intimate love match such as ours, you should as well."
The heat from their closeness quickly spread to his loins. His mouth, eager to demonstrate his statement, hovered above hers. But Caesar demanded equal due. The cat leaped to Reyn's shoulders, sharpened claws penetrating the woolen jacket. Reyn straightened abruptly. "Good God. Is he always this demonstrative in his attentions?"
Jocelyn laughed, a light, lilting sound that filled the sunlit morning. "Perhaps he preferred Antoinette." She enticed the cat into her arms. "He must like you, for he doesn't perch himself on too many people."
"Thank heavens. I can only imagine what the ton would say if they discovered I changed the name of my wife daily, watched for odd tastes in my food and possessed a cat that attacked my guests." His ridiculous jesting continued as the trio returned to the house, Reyn silently congratulating himself on his wisdom and intelligence.
Jocelyn veered toward the library, cautious but also curious to discover what Reyn needed. Since their afternoon encounter, she'd questioned the sincerity of his offer several times and had come to one conclusion. The man was up to something.
Peering around the door, she saw Reyn sitting in a winged chair beside the fire, reading from a small leather-bound book. He looked slightly disheveled and wonderfully handsome. He'd replaced his boots with a pair of slippers and wore grey trousers and a loose-fitting cream shirt. The top three buttons were open, exposing enough flesh to spark Jocelyn's memory of their first kiss, the way his muscles had responded to her touch, the texture of the hair on his chest.
"Good evening," Reyn said.
She tore her eyes from his chest to his face. He hadn't even twitched, yet he knew she was there. Staring. Since he was smiling, he obviously found her silent appraisal humorous. She said, a bit more brusquely than intended, "Briggs mentioned you wanted to see me?"
Reyn stood, setting the book on a nearby table. "I missed you at supper, Jocelyn. Or shall I call you Anne?"
"Whichever suits, my lord."
"Reyn," he corrected.
"Reyn. I dined in my room."
As he crossed to her side, he clucked like a disapproving parent. "Jocelyn... Anne, how on earth can we sort this matter through if you hide from me?"
She forced herself to remain calm. Bristling over the matter solved nothing, at least not until she knew the purpose of his summons. "I wasn't hiding."
"I'm glad to hear it." Grasping her hand, he pulled her into the room. "Come. We can talk."
"As in you ask me questions and I answer them?"
"What good would that do? You've lost your memory, remember?" Stopping abruptly, he inspected her face. "Oh dear, have you forgotten that as well?"
Unsure of whether to laugh or clobber the man with the brandy decanter, she simply said, "If you're eager to match wits tonight, I shall have to decline. I'm not in the mood."
He laughed, a deep, rich sound. "Come sit down, Jocelyn. I'll teach you a game and we shall converse like two normal adults. We did quite well in the garden today. Neither of us raised our voice through the entire conversation. Have you played cards before?"
She settled herself in a chair at the small square table. "Your grandmother taught me cribbage."
He grimaced. "A bit subdued for my tastes." He pulled a deck of red-backed cards from a drawer in a nearby desk. Taking the chair opposite Jocelyn, he began to shuffle, his deft hands easily manipulating the cards into a tidy stack. "Now what to play? We have no box for faro, poker is rather complicated, and whist requires four people." He stopped to look at Jocelyn. "Jump right in if any of these games ring a bell."
"Be assured I will."
"I know. We shall play vingt-et-un, a simple yet exciting French game. Can you count to twenty-one?"
"Yes."
He slapped the table, pointed a finger at Jocelyn and proudly announced, "See there. A clue already. You're an educated woman."
As he advised Jocelyn of the basic rules, she couldn't decide if he had chosen a simple game because it wouldn't tax her min
d, or so he could question her without a strain on his. They played several hands while Reyn explained basic strategies of when to take another card and when to decline.
After thirty minutes of play, Reyn said, "Shall we up the stakes?"
She didn't answer, but lifted her brow and awaited his explanation.
"Whoever wins the hand can ask the other person a question. What better way for us to become better acquainted?"
So, the man wanted to play games after all. He certainly lacked subtlety. Realizing she wanted to know more about Reyn, she decided this could work in her favor as long as she guarded her own answers. "All right."
He dealt her a ten and an eight and himself a perfect twenty-one. Grinning, he rubbed his hands together. "I win. Where were you born?"
Since he took no time to think, she decided he already knew the questions he wanted answered. Well, her turn would come. "I remember a place that ends with `shire.' Does that help?"
"Of course not. Half the English towns end with shire."'
She won the next hand. "My turn. Why did you leave for London so suddenly the other night?"
"I remembered I had unfinished business."
Neither won the next hand, then Reyn let Jocelyn deal. She gave herself two tens while Reyn held a total score of nineteen. Jocelyn asked, "Why were you in Spain?"
"I purchased a sleek new ship from an American friend of mine."
"In Spain?"
"Only one question at a time, my dear."
When she won the next hand as well, he frowned. She grinned. "Why Spain?"
"My friend had other business there as well."
And so the game continued for another half hour, with Jocelyn claiming more victories than Reyn. Finally, Reyn leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. His grim smile revealed just how disappointed he felt about the outcome of the night's meeting. He said, "You played well."
He wasn't talking about the game and she knew it. "As did you."
"However, our time together is just beginning. I did learn that you were born and raised in a `shire,' knew a nameless red-haired girlfriend who giggled, had a maid named Molly, owned a pet rabbit named Hippity and went to school somewhere in England."
"And you, sir, have a penchant for horse racing, love your grandmother to distraction and owned a salamander named Sally. You're twenty-eight, sailed in the Royal Navy for four years and recently bought a new ship. Your favorite color is black, which doesn't qualify as a real color, and you love lamb. Oh yes, you like to play games and you also hate to lose."
"I don't remember telling you that."
"You didn't have to. Should I go on?"
"Rather proud of yourself, aren't you? We shall try this again. With another card game. One at which I can cheat."
"You're incapable of cheating. You hate liars and cheats."
"I'm not sure how I feel about liars right now."
Admit it, she said to herself, you walked right into that one. She stood. "Thank you for interesting evening."
"Wait. Do I not receive a good-night kiss?"
Backing away toward the door, she said, "I'm not sure that is a very good idea."
"Are you afraid of one small kiss?" He closed the gap between them. Grasping her chin with his hand, he dropped his lips to hers.
The gentle kiss set Jocelyn at a slow burn. Sweet, soft, intoxicating. And not near enough. When Reyn withdrew, Jocelyn fought the inclination to lean closer.
"Jocelyn, remember that when I want something, I'm a very patient man. Good night."
The challenge was clearly evident. She'd never backed away from one before and certainly wouldn't now. The smug inflection in his voice irritated her, but not enough to erase the pleasure of his kiss or the evening she had enjoyed. She said nothing, her eyes focused on the floral pattern of the rug as she turned to leave.
He was a bloody fool. And if this charade continued much longer, he'd be a mindless idiot. One week, seven long days and nights, passed, and nothing. He had learned absolutely nothing about Jocelyn. Actually, Reyn conceded, he had learned a great many things about this stranger living in his house, none of which provided a link to her identity.
He had discovered something about himself, though. The physical attraction he felt for her had not lessened, but had increased to almost painful proportions. Why just last night, while playing a simple game of euchre, he'd nearly lost control, his body tormented by the lust churning wildly in his groin. No wonder he'd nearly lost the game. His mind had been tortured by her lips, her delicate tongue, her graceful fingers as she ravished a handful of candied almonds. He vacillated between self-contempt for the licentious thoughts he kept having, and pride for his ability to keep his hands to himself. The good-night kiss he allowed himself every evening wasn't helping matters. It always left him wanting more, wanting all. As he sat on the leather footstool in his bedroom, he wondered how long he would be able to manage his restraint.
Spitting out a string of words better said while alone, he tugged a boot onto his left foot and reached for the other. Where the devil was his valet?
The door to his room slowly slid open. He said, "No need to bother now, Dither. I've already seen to the task of dressing myself." Reyn looked up from his right foot. "Oh, it's you."
Caesar casually strolled to Reyn's side. With a twitch of his ear, a tilt of his head and a slight arch of his back, the cat watched expectantly.
"Come to attack me again? Well, you're too late. As you can see, I've already left my bed, and I can gladly say my toes are all intact. You'll have to stalk the halls for a chance at my trouser legs instead. Better yet, go find Rebel. You've already ruined him for me." Reyn studied the cat for a moment. "Perhaps you can tell me your mistress's full name? Give me a clue to her past?" Reyn crossed his arms and frowned. "No? Well, today's a new day. I shall persevere. She will slip up sooner or later."
As Reyn stood, the cat sat, suddenly more concerned with washing his tail. Reyn looped his cravat into a loose knot. "I can see I've bored you already. You've obviously had your breakfast, so I shall go have mine."
When Reyn gained the dining room, it was empty. The porridge on the sideboard was cold, as was the toast, tea and coffee. No warm, succulent meats, no sweet breads, not a small slice of cheese awaited him. Even his morning paper was absent.
Prepared to right the wrong, Reyn veered toward the kitchens and shoved open the door.
A sudden burst of laughter stopped him cold. It seemed the entire household was gathered in this one room. Rowers lay everywhere. Daffodils, hyacinth, primroses, foxglove, bluebells. Yellows, pinks, whites, purples. Some in baskets, some in vases, many still bundled on the table and any flat space available. In the middle of the chaos, surrounded by the explosion of color, sat Jocelyn.
"Did someone die?" Reyn asked, placing enough sarcasm in his voice to indicate his annoyance.
The room seemed to exhale with a collective gasp.
"Good heavens, no."
"Grandmother? Is that you?"
Agatha waved a bit of pink lace from behind a huge bouquet of green and yellow wood spurge and gold prickly gorse. Rebel hid behind her chair. "Yes, darling. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Wonderful doesn't adequately express how I'm feeling right now. Is that grandfather's prized soup tureen? I can't imagine what he'd say if he knew you used it to feed the dog."
"He would be thrilled that this monstrosity finally served some purpose. It is crude. The king had very bad taste, if you ask me. Imagine, awarding a wedding gift covered with drunken peasants involved in various states of, shall we say, merrymaking. Besides, Rebel deserved a reward. The poor dear finally came back into the house." She waved her arms in the air. "What do you think? Jocelyn decided to bring a bit of spring indoors to celebrate my return to the living."
Turning to Jocelyn to judge her reaction to his arrival, he sucked in his breath. God, she was beautiful. Her hair, in shades of red and gold and slightly curled, fell to her shoulders. A vibrant, da
ring red rose lay behind her left ear. Within moments he found himself thinking about the things he could do with a single red rose and one particular, very naked woman.
Vanquishing that image from his mind, he forced himself to remember his poorly attended breakfast. "Agatha, I'm thrilled you managed to leave your room for breakfast. Jocelyn, I assume there is at least one flower left in the garden for Martin to prune. And I sincerely hope that someone in this room can find me a simple cup of hot coffee."
A little squeak escaped the cook's mouth when she realized the gravity of the situation. They'd forgotten the duke altogether.
Jocelyn interrupted. "I apologize, my lord."
"Reyn," he said, correcting her.
"Reyn. After Agatha and I ate, I personally commandeered the staff into helping me this morning. If you wish to retire to the dining room, I will see you served directly. Agatha and I will join you."
"Are you finished in here?" he asked.
She gazed about the kitchen at the work yet to be done. "No, but I shall see to it later."
"Do you find the task enjoyable?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Keep on with it. I can never, in all my life, remember eating in the kitchen. I shall break my fast here." A copper pot fell to the floor with a resounding bang. "That is, if Cook doesn't fall into hysterics."
With the quick efficiency he expected, the servants snapped into action. Reyn nodded his approval and crossed to stand beside Jocelyn.
She asked, "Are you angry?"
"Actually, no. Now that I understand the circumstances and know I will be fed. I am a most considerate man. Don't you agree?" He winked. As he continued to stare, Jocelyn fidgeted and lifted her arm to remove the flower from her hair. "Leave it," he said as his hand drifted across her cheek to her jaw, tipping up her chin. Ignoring their audience, he allowed himself the luxury of an early morning kiss. "Lovely."
The husky timbre in her voice revealed the effect of his touch. "The garden is filled with such specimens."
His thumb continued to stroke her cheek. It pleased him when she turned into the caress. "I spoke of you. The color matches your lips." Her face flushed a delicate shade of pink. Yes, Reyn thought confidently, today just might be the day he discovered something of import. When Jocelyn expected a fit of temper, he offered kindness and understanding, leaving her off balance. As he sat, he leaned down to whisper, "The letter for the day is G. I thought we might try a Scandinavian name. What do you think, Gerta or Gunda? Perhaps there is a muscle-bound, hedonistic husband who resembles Thor in search of you."