by Lynn Kerstan
The Earl suspected those were not the same country dances favored in London ballrooms. “Miss Lamb, you have run wild too long,” he said kindly. “It is not your fault, so take no offense, but from this time forward you will do exactly as you are told. You will be dressed and groomed as a proper young woman, schooled in manners and decorum, and when I deem you ready, you will make your debut in society. There, enhanced by your own considerable fortune and the dowry I intend to provide, you will attract a number of suitable offers and make your selection. If you are as intelligent and resourceful as I expect you are, this can all be accomplished within the Season. If not, you will remain under my aunt’s supervision and my own until the Little Season. Your father was a baronet, and your mother’s birth unexceptionable. No doubt we can fire you off to our mutual satisfaction.”
She leapt to her feet again, quivering with fury. “I should never have come here!” she exclaimed. “If I’d stayed in Kent and seen things through without the allowance, you’d never have known I existed. And you can bloody well forget that I do. Keep the money. I’ll get home the best way I can. We’ll . . . I’ll . . . make it without you, and good riddance on both our parts.”
“You will not go home unwed, my dear,” he said imperturbably, “and your husband will determine where you are to live. I imagine he will beat you if you make as much trouble for him as you seem determined to make for me.”
“Beat me?” Jillian’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You would hand me over to a man who would beat me? You think a husband has that right? Dear God!” Mark shuffled uneasily in his chair. “I do not, but others feel differently. And you will have the husband of your choice, Miss Lamb, provided he meets the proper standards. Otherwise, you will remain under my control, and if you continue as you’ve begun, I could change my view about methods of disciplining recalcitrant females.”
“Insufferable brute!” Jillian held out her arms and lifted her chin. “Here I am, Milord. Take your best shot. Go on, hit me.”
The Earl gazed at her patiently. “Sit down and behave yourself, little girl. I am not quite finished with you.” It was The Voice, the one that ensured attention, but Jillian was several leagues past it, riding the tail of her comet temper.
“You think to turn me into a primping, simpering debutante?” she sneered. “You expect me to flutter a fan? Pluck harpstrings? Dabble with paint? Well, I’ll not jump through any hoops for you, nor will I embroider on any. You want to dress me up like a doll and wind me up like a top? Get this straight, My Lord Earl of Coltrane. I am not your toy. I am not a plaything. I am not a wet cat you found on your doorstep when you were in a passing mood to adopt a pet.”
“Control your—”
She flew at him, claws out.
“Metaphors,” he finished, seizing her wrists easily. Cold blue eyes clashed with eyes of flaming brown as Jillian and Mark stared each other down for a long minute.
Suppressing a wholly inappropriate urge to laugh, the Earl broke contact and sat back in his chair. “Hellcat,” he said almost affectionately.
“Toad!”
“Undisciplined brat.”
“Self-righteous know-it-all!”
“Are we even yet?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Not by a long shot.” Jillian planted her hands on the desk and glared bullets at him. “You said we could talk, but you’ve been doing all the talking so far. Now it’s my turn, and if you don’t like anything you hear, that will make us even because you haven’t said one word I liked, either. Except the money part, and I’ve already decided to wave it goodbye. You can’t keep me locked up in a room forever, My Lord, and you can’t want to bother yourself chasing me down when I get out. I’m nothing to you except a great deal of trouble, and trust me, you haven’t seen anything approaching the trouble I can be. Really, what is the point of all this? What can you possibly gain by taking on something neither of us wants?”
“Are those rhetorical questions, Miss Lamb?”
“Oh, cut the pompous drivel. I hate you when you talk that way. Just look at me, will you?” Pulling herself upright, Jillian spread her arms and slowly pivoted in a circle. “Does this strike you as Debutante of the Year? Would you care to stake your precious reputation on what you see? You can dress me up, but you can’t take me out in public because you’ll never be sure what I’m going to say or do. And the more it’s likely to embarrass you, the more I’ll itch to say or do it.”
“Are you threatening me, Miss Lamb? I warn you, dare me at your peril. I never refuse a challenge.”
“No, My Lord, I am not throwing down the glove. I’m merely abandoning the field. Going home, where I belong. And you can’t stop me.”
He could, and they both knew it. The question was, would he? Mark didn’t doubt for a moment that she was capable of humiliating him, and he understood why his father had left her in Kent out of harm’s way. Which could very well be, he admitted to himself, why he was so determined to take her on. Still fighting the old man, and still choosing stupid, quixotic ways to do it. Spying in the court of France mid-war. Presenting Jillian Lamb to the ton. No question about it, spying was easier. “Jillian . . .” he said softly.
Her head shot up. It was the first time he’d called her by her first name, and his voice was different. Serious.
“If you need to vent your temper—and apparently there is no stopping you—please confine these assaults to me. Margaret is most anxious to shepherd—ah, truly I didn’t mean to say that—to sponsor you in society. Indeed, when I told her about you, it was the first time I’ve seen her really interested in anything since Trevor was killed at Vimeiro. He was my cousin and great friend, and her only child. If nothing else, you will be a consolation to her and take her mind from her grief. I beg you, reserve your bad language and uncontrolled behavior for me.”
Jillian sat down and leaned her head against the padded chair, staring at the ceiling. “Oh, unfair, My Lord,” she protested in a low voice. “You ought not to play on my sympathy like that, when this is really between you and me. And if you cared about your aunt, you wouldn’t ask her to be a part of this. I cannot do her credit, you know.”
“Would you like a glass of sherry, Miss Lamb?” She closed her eyes. He sounded almost kind. “No. Thank you.”
“Margaret has agreed to meet you. That’s all I’ve asked. If she decides against sponsoring you, then I’ll not force the issue. Tomorrow you will be on neutral ground. Make your case however you will, but promise me you’ll abide by her decision. And that you will cooperate if she decides to keep you.”
“Why in blazes should I promise you anything?” she flared.
His eyes iced over. “Because the alternatives would make you shudder, little girl. Under no circumstances will I permit you to continue as you have done, without supervision. When you are settled with my aunt, I intend to inspect your farm for myself. With luck, I shall leave the day after tomorrow, so you can cease your worries about the problems there. I’ll make sure any repairs needed are begun, and employ a local bailiff if one is to be found. From now on, your farm will be managed as I see fit, and you will henceforth confine yourself to pursuits appropriate to your rank and gender. On the whole, you’ll do better to take your chances in London, where you can escape from me into the protection of a husband. You have few choices, child. Make the best of them. And . . . please . . . don’t be unkind to Margaret.”
She stood, straight and pale as a calla lily, eyes shining with tears. “I would never be unkind to anyone who is kind to me,” she said simply. “And I can control myself, believe it or not. It’s true I have a temper like a flashpan, but as a rule I’m fairly civilized. If you’ve seen the worst of me, it’s because I am so very afraid. Don’t you understand that I’m fighting for my life?”
“I would never hurt you, Jillian.”
“Oh, yes, My Lord, you would and you wil
l. All with wonderful intentions and a self-righteous sense of duty and a cold-blooded assurance that you know what’s best for me.”
Mark rested his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers and studying them intently. For some reason, her accusation struck home. “Most young ladies would swoon with delight at what you’ve been offered, my dear,” he said. “You have just discovered that you are very wealthy. A lady you will come to love wants to take you into her home. You will dance through the finest ballrooms in England, where you will have your pick of men for a husband. You can shop to your heart’s content, at my expense. Any other girl would be thanking me.”
“Yes, I expect you are right about that,” Jillian conceded bitterly. “You offer every dream a girl is supposed to have, but those are not my dreams. That girl is not me. I’ve a life of my own, and responsibilities I cannot abandon for the pleasures of a new bonnet and a waltz with a stranger. You must not try to make a future for me, My Lord, because I already have one . . . a future based on a past I do not regret. I was happy, until I came here.”
Suddenly, he felt very cold. “I do not wish to make you unhappy, Miss Lamb. But perhaps there is a better way of life for you, one that you have not considered.”
“There are a thousand possible lives for me, Mark Delacourt, but I want to live the one I have. If you try to change it and make me over, you will destroy me.”
Her words seemed to echo in the room long after she was gone, and Mark emptied the decanter of sherry into his glass. He didn’t want to destroy her or hurt her in any way. She was like some elemental force, pulsing with life. But how could it be wrong to send her off with a fortune and the man of her choice? Surely that would be better than milking unhappy cows and fixing leaky roofs. Jillian Lamb was a provincial, and the world had just opened up for her. One way or another, he was determined to see her turn her svelte back to the barnyard and captivate a husband with her rather wonderful smile.
Chapter Ten
JILLIAN PACED HER room in bare feet, smothering a senseless urge to howl like a cornered animal. In two days the Earl would be on his way to Choppingsworth Downs, and even if she managed to get word there ahead of him, even if everyone kept quiet and behaved perfectly, he could still find out. A chance word, one slip, and he’d be onto her secret.
Maybe it was time to tell him the truth and get it over with. Her situation could scarcely be worse than it already was, and he might see reason.
And pigs might fly. He was too sure he knew best about everything. He would never let things go on, as they had done nicely for years, without interfering. At worst—and she’d better expect the worst from him—he would tear her life apart and inform her he was setting it all to rights. She sat cross-legged on the bed with her chin propped in her hands, considering a course of action. Nothing to lose by trying, she told herself bracingly.
No letter sent through regular channels would beat him to the Downs, and her staff needed time to get things in order. She required a messenger immediately, but who? She had only enough money for her return fare on the mailcoach, not enough to hire anyone even if she knew anyone to hire. Jillian racked her brain trying to think of some acquaintance in London, but she couldn’t think of a soul.
If she had money, she could get a hack to Lombard Street, which was the only other place in London she’d ever been. There were always people hanging around the Post Office, and one of them might hire himself out. Take off with the money and never be heard from again, she thought unhappily. Still, it was a chance—if she had the funds and if she could get out of the house undetected. Under the circumstances, not a good plan.
Dejectedly, Jillian examined her stubby nails, and as she did her eye fell on the small ruby ring that had belonged to her mother. It wasn’t worth a great deal, except to her, but it might do the trick. She wasn’t at all sure she could bring herself to part with it, but if she told the messenger to bring it back for redemption in cash . . . yes, that might work. The Earl would surely give her pin money for all those shopping sprees he promised. Maybe he’d give it to her today, if she asked nicely. Then she could slip out for a few hours and . . .
And those flying pigs might land on the moon. No, he would not let her out of this house. He was too smart for that. She had to write a message, find someone to take it, and there was no time to waste. Springing from the bed, she rifled through every drawer in her room and found not a scrap of paper. Damn. She would have to see her insufferable guardian again. Ask him for paper and pen. To her profound astonishment, a tiny, dissolute part of her looked forward to the encounter.
The Earl barked an annoyed “Come” at the rap on the door and regarded his ward with displeasure. All his attempts to get some work done had failed, Jillian having danced through his thoughts like sparks in a hearth, and now here she was in person. Her hands gripped her skirt in two fistfuls and she wore a suspiciously friendly smile. “I’m not in the mood for any more arguments,” he told her bluntly.
The fists clenched tighter and the smile became more patently false. “I just thought I’d try to catch you before you went out for the day,” she said artlessly.
“What makes you think I’m going out?”
“Oh, you must have lots to do, leaving town and all. Places to go. People to see.”
He did intend to see his mistress, but that was for much later. What was going through Jillian’s fuzzy little head, and why was she so anxious to be rid of him? Surely she wasn’t planning to bolt for home because he was headed there himself. Suddenly intrigued, he leaned back in his chair. “And why did you wish to catch me?”
“This and that. May I sit down?”
So this wasn’t to be a battle after all. Jillian liked to be on her feet in a fight. “Please do,” he said amicably. “Shall we begin with this or with that? Perched on the edge of the chair, she looked like a sparrow in a room with a very large cat. “I wish to write some letters home, My Lord, and hoped you would consider taking them with you.” She fiddled with her skirt. “I have no paper.”
“Ah.” He opened a drawer and lifted out a sheaf of fine linen stationery with matching envelopes. “These bear my crest, but if that troubles you one of the servants may have something plainer.”
“No need. I’ll require a pen and ink.”
He produced both, noting that her hands were shaking as she accepted them. Something was clearly troubling her, and it was serious. Briefly, he wondered if she might confide in him if he prodded her, then decided not. He was the enemy.
“You plan to go Thursday?” she asked.
“If possible.” The Earl could not leave town if Margaret refused to take Jillian in hand, but he saw no reason to tell her so. “I’ll be glad to deliver your letters, Miss Lamb.”
She stood, gazed somberly at him for a moment, then turned to leave. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder.
Inexplicably reluctant to see her go, he suddenly noticed her bare feet. “Is there some reason,” he inquired stiffly, “why you are eschewing footwear?” She spun around. “Not wearing shoes, you mean? Why do you always speechify like a pompous toad? My shoes got wet, both pairs I brought, and now they hurt my toes.”
“I could send someone to replace them,” he offered, “if you bring me a pair of your old ones for the sizing.” He couldn’t resist. “Perhaps Jaspers.” To his astonishment, Jillian giggled. “Can’t you just see his face?” She held out her arm as if dangling a pair of particularly odorous slippers from her fingers and minced across the room in a fair imitation of Jaspers’ tight-rumped prance. “The Old Earl would never permit such a thing,” she huffed, chucking the imaginary shoes into the fireplace.
What a strange child, he thought, suddenly in charity with her again. She could snap from rage to a joke in a flash, but she had been in deadly earnest when she first came into the room. Plotting something, he was sure. No doubt she’d take off the minut
e he left the house. So much for spending the night with Angela. Blast the little imp for compelling him to play watchdog, and how was it he was the one wearing the leash?
“Would you care to join me for dinner this evening?” he inquired, surprised to hear the words. They seemed to come from nowhere. “It will give us a chance to get better acquainted,” he added uncomfortably.
She peered at him from under thick eyelashes. “A truce, My Lord?”
He shrugged. “The battles are all your doing, Miss Lamb. I have no desire to squabble with you.”
“No, l am sure that you do not. You are like a great big rock that just keeps rolling over everybody in your path, and you don’t understand why anyone would want to push you off.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps I’ll come to dinner with you, if I feel up to it.”
“Good. I shall look forward to it.” She might let something slip at dinner, if he played her just right. Oddly, he rather hoped she’d join him for other reasons that were not too clear. At least with Jillian, things were never dull.
“Don’t bother about the shoes,” she said, “unless you mind terribly if I go barefoot around the house. I can scrunch into the ones I’ve got for the visit to Lady Margaret.”
“As you will,” he said indifferently. “Dinner will be at eight, but you can have a tray in your room if you’d rather not dine with—what was it—a great big rock?”
She didn’t smile. In fact, she was noticeably subdued as she left the room without her usual bounce. Mark stared at the closed door for a long time, wondering what was wrong and, most of all, what she was up to. Whatever it was, she couldn’t get in trouble writing letters while he was in the house.