My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3)
Page 19
The cook snorted from across the kitchen, and Anne eyed Jemma askance. “No?”
Jemma nodded. “I’m assuredly well.”
The cook snorted again, and Anne rolled her eyes, glanced around the kitchen, and counted something under her breath so only Jemma could hear her. Jemma gritted her teeth as Anne finished counting and then—Jemma was sure—purposely counted again, louder this time to make a point, before smirking at her. “You’ve baked four dozen tarts already today.”
Jemma forced a smile. “I do so love tarts.”
This time Anne snorted. “No. You do so love to bake to forget things, which is why you wanted to run the bakery after Will hurt you, so you could forget him. But I daresay you didn’t.”
Jemma opened her mouth to protest but promptly shut it. Anne was absolutely correct. Will had not been forgotten. The only thing that had been forgotten was how to guard her heart more judiciously against rakes—or rather, poets who were in training to be rakes. Jemma sighed, a long rattling sound, and waved a hand toward the counter where all her supplies lay scattered about. “Bake with me?”
Anne nodded. “I thought you’d never ask.”
From the stove, the cook banged pots and pans around while muttering about how Americans didn’t know how to act like proper ladies. The sisters burst into laughter, which only died down when Anne nudged Jemma with her elbow and whispered softly, “Tell me.”
Jemma’s stomach clenched as she prepared a new batch of batter. “I don’t know how it happened, but I went and allowed myself to grow fond of Lord Harthorne.” She refused to use the word love.
“Hmm,” Anne said nonjudgmentally, for which Jemma was very grateful. “I was wondering why Lord Harthorne had been the one to bring me home. How did that come about?” Anne asked with a slight smile.
Jemma quickly told Anne of Philip’s desire to become a rake and his knowledge of how to help her dissuade Lord Glenmore from asking for her hand. She paused in her story and rolled the dough upon the wood. “I didn’t want to take his help and be indebted to him, so I offered to help him with his goal. Do you know, he is the worst rake!” She laughed, but even as she did, a frown pulled at her lips. He was a terrible rake because he was a true gentleman who had nearly run out of the room after she’d kissed him. All the blood rushed to her face as she thought about her impetuous kiss. “Oh, Anne, I’m such a fool.” She leaned close to her sister so the cook would not hear her confession. “I kissed him.”
Anne gawked at her. “You did what?”
Jemma pressed her lips together. “You heard me,” she whispered.
“Well, yes, but my ears rejected what you said.” Anne hugged Jemma to her. “What sort of kiss was it?”
“Does it matter? Ladies do not kiss gentlemen.”
“Well, no, not normally. But you are rather impetuous.”
Jemma smacked the dough with her fist. “I may be impetuous, but I assure you, I do not go around kissing gentlemen. Will was the only man I’d ever kissed before Lord Harthorne. I was just so overwhelmed that he rescued you from Mr. Frazier and brought you home safely. And I trusted him. Well, I still do. But I should never have kissed him!”
“I think he cares for you. Why else would he go to all the trouble to come for me?”
Jemma shook her head. His reaction to her kiss had proven he absolutely did not care for her. “He came for you because he has a good heart and is a true gentleman. It had nothing to do with his having a tendre for me.”
“You’re blind,” Anne retorted.
“And you’re a dreamer,” Jemma replied.
Anne stilled and held Jemma’s gaze. “Yes, yes, I am. And a fool for telling Ian of my dowry and trusting him. But I’d rather be a fool who risks her heart than consider myself a wise woman who never knows the sweetness of true love.”
Jemma reached for one of her tarts. “This is what I know of love: it hurts.” She popped the tart into her mouth and savored the sweet and sour taste. Yet, even as her heart twisted with pain, the truth hit her so hard that she had to grip the counter.
Anne grasped her around the shoulders as she began to quiver. “Jemma, what is it?”
Jemma shook her head, trying to deny the truth but it would not be denied. She loved him. Nothing else could explain the ache in her heart. She didn’t simply care for Philip. She loved him! It didn’t matter that her mind had wanted no part of love. Her heart wanted Philip. She turned her head and glanced at her sister. “It’s impossible.”
Anne sighed. “It’s not. Talk to him.”
Jemma shook her head. What would she say? I love you! I love you, though I didn’t want to. I love you, though you are trying to be a rake to find another. I love you, and by the by, I gave another my innocence.
Philip would run from her again and rightly so. It was most assuredly, most resolutely an impossible love. And to make her heartache worse, if she had fallen in love with Philip, that meant she could no longer deny she wanted love. Yet she could not imagine loving anyone but him.
Jemma stood under the twinkling stars with the crowd gathered around the Vauxhall Garden pavilion for the Keetons’ fete. Their chattering voices hummed around her. She’d never seen any place that came close to the marvel of these gardens. Normally she would have been utterly enthralled to be here, where social constraints seemed lessened and thousands of lanterns illuminated the darkness so prettily, the music from the orchestra swirling in the air. She looked around at the vaulted colonnade and the supper boxes that lined the Grove where people dined during the party—all of it was quite amazing—but her heart ached, and each breath made the ache deepen.
Jemma stared up at the dazzling sky, as if she would find the answers there, and took a sip of punch that a passerby had pressed into her hand. She nearly spit out the liquid it was so strong. A cough racked her body, and Anne and Grandfather, their faces etched with concern, both smacked her on the back.
When the coughing subsided, her eyes were watering and her throat burning. She eyed the contents of the glass in her hand. “Whatever is this?” she rasped.
Grandfather glanced at her cup and frowned. “Attack Punch. Lethal stuff and not fit for a lady. Hand it to—”
“Good evening,” Philip said, stepping out of the darkness and into the light of a lamp that hung from a cast-iron pillar.
Jemma’s fingers curved reflexively around the cup she was holding as her pulse beat a frantic rhythm. She’d known he would come in search of her. It was why she could not relax and enjoy the amazements around her. After all, she was to help him become a rake and catch another woman. She barely held in the strangled laugh of hysteria that blossomed in her chest, pushed into her throat, and vibrated her vocal chords.
As Grandfather exchanged greetings with Philip, Jemma openly stared. She simply couldn’t help it. He looked devastatingly handsome in his formal black evening attire stretched almost imperceptibly, to one who was not ogling him, across his broad chest. He stood with his legs slightly spread—so tall, commanding, and confident. Damp curls clung to his neck in a deliciously enticing manner. It hadn’t been raining so he must have just washed it. To her horror, she had a sudden image of Philip naked, arms raised and muscles flexed as he worked to clean his hair.
She was a wanton woman, that’s what she was. She’d stupidly given her innocence to Will because of it, and now she was paying the price.
She quickly raised the cup in her hands to her lips, took a fortifying breath, and drank down the powerful punch in several greedy gulps. She’d never had spirits in her life, but she could not think of a time she might need it more than now.
Grandfather stopped mid-sentence and caught her wrist as she raised the glass to her lips once more to make sure she’d emptied the cup. He snatched it away, tilted it so he could look inside, and frowned at her fiercely as he shook her head. “Whyever did you drink that when I told you it was lethal?”
She couldn’t very well say she needed to calm her nerves because of Philip. She
caught the flesh of her cheek with her teeth and bit down as she tried to come up with a suitable excuse. Anne, Philip, and Grandfather stared at her as one. “I was thirsty,” she finally managed, her mind refusing to come up with anything better.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you pass out from that punch,” Grandfather growled.
“I feel perfectly fine,” Jemma protested, though her head was already swimming.
“Perhaps we should go,” Grandfather suggested.
“No!” Jemma and Philip cried at the same time, though clearly not for the same reason. Anne pressed close to Jemma, grasped her hand, and squeezed it in a supportive manner. Her reassurance was welcome.
Grandfather looked from Jemma to Philip, and she knew by the small smile tugging at her grandfather’s lips that he mistakenly thought she and Philip truly did share a significant interest in each other. Grandfather waved his hand toward the supper boxes surrounding the perimeter that had been rented for the fete. “Very well. Who am I to stand in the way of—”
“Grandfather, after we dine, you really must take me to watch the acrobats! They are to perform at the stroke of ten,” Anne blurted, interrupting whatever he’d been about to say.
Jemma was alternately grateful and furious with Anne. With one sentence, her sister had stopped Grandfather from saying something mortifyingly embarrassing, and Anne had tried to manipulate the situation so that Jemma would be left in Philip’s care.
She was about to protest when her grandfather spoke. “That’s a splendid idea! We shall all go watch them.”
“Oh, no,” Anne said as she shook her head. “Jemma would swoon. She’s horribly afraid of heights and I’m told the acrobats here climb very high.”
A wry smile came to Philip’s mouth as if he knew Anne was lying, which, of course, she was. Jemma shot daggers at Anne with her eyes. “I do believe I’ve gotten over my revulsion of heights.”
“I’ll not take the chance!” Anne exclaimed with false wide-eyed innocence.
“Now, Anne,” Jemma started, determined to thwart her sister’s obvious ploy to force her to be alone with Philip—or as alone as one could be in a swarm of people. She may have to help Philip become a rake still, in order to keep her part of their bargain, but she would find a way to do it without being alone with him.
Anne shook her head. Rather dramatically, too. Jemma felt her mouth twist with amusement, even as irritation bubbled under the surface. Did neither man see through Anne’s games?
Grandfather was smiling gently. Obviously, Anne had duped him good and well. But Philip, with his eyebrows arched high and his mouth in a devilish smirk, saw through Anne’s charade. Yet Jemma knew she’d receive no help from him.
Anne plunked her hands on her hips. “The last time you convinced me you were over your revulsion to heights you lost your accounts all over my only pair of good slippers.” Anne cocked her head, the little minx. “Do you really want to take that chance, Grandfather?”
“Certainly not,” he said, winking at Anne while proffering his elbow to her. “We will all dine together, and then I feel certain Lord Harthorne would not mind keeping a watchful eye on Jemma.”
Philip, the devil, shook his head.
“Excellent,” Grandfather boomed, and he and Anne strolled ahead of Jemma toward the Grove and the supper boxes.
Philip extended his arm to her. “Shall we?”
She stood rooted to her spot as she stared at Philip’s arm. She’d promised herself never to touch him again, nor allow him to touch her, but how could she refuse without looking as though his mere touch left her heart racing, her head spinning, and her knees shaking? She bit hard on the inside of her cheek and twined her arm with his. The moment her hand settled on his forearm, she imagined that his muscles jumped under her fingertips, as if her caress had affected him. How dreadfully dull of her.
She struggled not to allow her fingers to settle too firmly when, suddenly, his gloved hand pressed against her back. A tremor shot through her as Philip led them toward the supper boxes. Despite her head not wanting to touch him—her brain logically knew better—her body seemed to crave his contact. Her skin tingled where his palm rested, and her heart... Well, if it pounded any harder she might drop dead. A slight breeze blew, rustling his russet locks and wafting the scent of liquor and pine, an oddly intoxicating combination, from him to her.
“You and your grandfather seem to be rubbing along. Did Glenmore not inform him that he didn’t want to marry you yet?”
“He did,” she answered, truly not wanting to say too many personal things to Philip any longer. The more concern for her that he showed, the more her heart ached.
Philip’s brow furrowed. “Well, Rowan doesn’t seem angry, as I would have thought he’d be if his aim was simply to control you.”
She darted her gaze to her feet. “Er, no. We settled some things.”
“I’m very glad,” Philip replied leaning toward her, his heat surrounding her and making her want to lean toward him and beg him to wrap his arms around her. Instead, she stiffened her spine. His mouth pressed close to her ear. Dangerously close. Intoxicatingly close. Her stiff spine turned to aspic.
“You smell divine,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Sweet, almost like—” he quirked his mouth in the most adorable way “—a tart.”
“I beg your pardon?” she snapped.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound complimentary, but it is. Believe me. You smell as if I could eat you in one bite.” He halted and jerked a hand through his hair. “Christ!” he swore, wincing. “I’m sorry. Doubly so. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” she barely choked out, inundated by images of him ravishing her in exactly the same way that she had sucked the batter off her fingers this afternoon as she baked. “I smell like tarts because I baked them this afternoon.”
“You bake?” Astonishment rang in his voice as he maneuvered them in and out of the crowd. Somehow he kept his gaze trained on her, yet never lost sight of her grandfather up ahead.
“Yes,” she said in a tone that dared him to criticize her, but somehow, she didn’t think he would.
He smiled, and the dimples she adored appeared. Just once, she wanted to lay her finger in one of those impressions. As if he somehow read her thoughts, his smile deepened, making those dimples bigger. “How did you learn to bake?”
His question was earnest, curious, and not at all judgmental. Why did he have to be so kind, so good, so blasted gentlemanly? “My mother owned a bakery in New York, and my sister and I worked there.”
“That’s remarkable. I cannot believe we have never talked about this before.”
The admiration and awe in his voice warmed her and drew a smile to her face without her consent. “Thank you. I imagine most men of the ton would not think it remarkable or even care to discuss it with me.”
“Most men of the ton are fools.”
“But not you,” she said archly, unable to quite squelch the ridiculous hurt his rejection of her kiss had caused.
He paused mere few feet from where Grandfather and Anne were now sitting, a waiter hovering beside their table. Philip’s eyes locked on Jemma’s, and it seemed as though he was almost imploring her to understand something. But what?
“I don’t know,” he replied in an achingly earnest tone. “There was a time when I did not think myself a fool.”
“And now?” Her hammering heart made the vein in her neck pulse so hard that she wanted to still the rapid movement with her fingertips.
“And now,” he said, his fingers moving gently back and forth over the top of her hand. “And now I’m not certain. I suspect, though, I may be the biggest fool of them all.”
Was he trying to tell her he regretted pulling away from her kiss?
Before she could even allow the question to take root in her head, he released her and made a sweeping gesture toward the table. “I do believe you should eat something quickly. You are swaying on your feet.”
“No,” he said gently but with a grin. “The Attack Punch is living up to its name. Try not to say much until you’ve eaten. You’re slurring your words, and I wouldn’t want your grandfather to hear you and make you go home.”
“You wouldn’t?” She had to lean on him a little more to keep the ground in the correct position. A warm, fuzzy feeling filled her. He didn’t want her to go home.
“Certainly not,” he said. “Who would help me become a rake?”
That warm feeling vanished as fast as it had appeared, leaving a hollow pit in her stomach. She was a blithering fool! Of course he only wanted her to stay to help him become a rake. She released his arm, the earth shifting at once, but blessedly, she stayed upright.
“I think,” she said, trying to keep her hurt feelings out of her tone and the world from spinning at the same time, “that you are well on your way to becoming a rake without my help, but I will stay, as per our bargain.” Before he could say one more blasted word to wound her further, she spun on her heel, a decidedly bad decision given her woozy head.
She reached for the table where Anne and Grandfather were sitting. She missed it by a hairbreadth and would have gone down face-first, but strong hands—his hands—grasped her under her arms and hauled her against his hard chest. Everything fell away—the music, the spinning, the bright glow from the lamps that seemed suddenly too harsh—and what remained was Philip’s heartbeat pounding against her back, his searing warmth, his masculine scent, his breath gusting against the delicate skin of her earlobe. She gasped, and then so did Anne.
“Jemma, are you all right?” her sister asked.
Jemma blinked, and the world came crashing back in. Her grandfather’s fierce frown was the first thing she noticed. With a will that was long overdue, she straightened herself up, nodded, and grasped the edge of the table before wiggling out of Philip’s hold. “My slipper caught on a root,” she lied as she sat down. Grandfather eyed her skeptically but didn’t say a word.