by Lynn Kerstan
With a sigh, he turned around. Jillian stood looking at him with a hint of desperation in her eyes, small hands clutching at her skirts.
“We must come to terms,” he said baldly. “On one thing I shall not compromise. If you return to Kent, a bailiff will be employed to manage the farm. Should any dispute arise between you, the matter will be submitted to me. However, I insist you remain in London for the duration of the Season, and ask that you consider with an open mind the offers you have received and those you may yet attract. Only a few weeks, Miss Lamb. How can it do any harm?”
Dismissing marriage immediately, Jillian took aim at the bailiff. “How can you say in one breath that I am a good manager and with the next hire someone to replace me? What’s the sense of that?”
He wasn’t sure. Probably because she was a female. A bright, tenacious, obviously competent female, but a female nonetheless. He’d already said he wouldn’t compromise, but perhaps he would, although damned if he’d admit it to her now. Let her imagine she’d be subject to an employee. Maybe that would goad her into selecting a husband, and then he could be rid of her with a clear conscience. If she persisted in this hell-bent determination to waste herself on sheep and cows . . .
Mark swiped his fingers through his hair. Lord, he was tired of fighting her. He had a misbegotten urge to wrap his arms around Jillian and assure her everything would be all right.
“Well?” she demanded furiously.
“Have you considered, my girl, that what you have begun so well can continue without you?”
“You haven’t the slightest notion what I’ve begun,” she charged. “Profit and income and bailiffs! We aren’t trying to make money, Your Lordship. We don’t raise sheep or barley or cattle to sell. We take in wounded men with no other place to go and train them to make a living on their own, with dignity. The only profit I add to the account is when an estate hires one of those men. The only reward I expect is not counted in guineas. You and I do not speak the same language at all.”
His eyes narrowed. “I saw no such men,” he said slowly, “nor any evidence of what you describe.” When she began to protest, he cut her off with a wave of his hand. “No, I do not dispute what you say, Miss Lamb. As I told you, things did not appear precisely normal when I was there, and Jock explained there could be no work for shepherds without sheep. All will be restored in due time.” He examined a tiny smudge on the toe of his polished Hessian. “But are you absolutely indispensable, my dear? I am convinced the farm will go on very well without you.” When Jillian failed to respond, he looked up to see her bent slightly over, arms wrapped around her waist, eyes screwed shut.
“Miss Lamb?”
She only shook her head.
What had he said that was so wrong? She looked as if the ground had been pulled out from under her. All he meant was that she’d done a good job and could now pursue her own interests like any other attractive young woman. He took a step in her direction and saw her shudder. Halting immediately, he lowered the arm that had reached for her, feeling suddenly helpless. “You may go home in June,” he said tonelessly. “Until then, Miss Lamb, try to enjoy yourself.” Without another word, he left the room.
Glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder as he closed the door, Mark gritted his teeth. An image fixed itself in his mind: Jillian with her head bowed, tears streaming down her face. Jillian curling up into herself against the pain. He had hurt her. Failed her.
The picture clouded his vision as he drove to the Swan’s Nest, where he planned to make his peace with Angela and spend the night. He continued past without stopping and guided the chestnuts into Hyde Park. For a long time, he circled Rotten Row in the dark.
Chapter Twenty
JILLIAN BEHELD Vauxhall through champagne-bright eyes. Everything seemed to glitter, from the light-strung trees to the jewels sparkling from the throats and wrists and earlobes and cravats of the dancers. The clear sky was brilliant with stars. A cool breeze ruffled her hair.
“Are you enjoying yourself in fairyland?” Ivor Malory reached over to touch her wrist, reclaiming her attention. He’d received precious little of that all evening. The private supper-box was glutted with Jillian’s encroaching cavaliers, and latecomers hovered in the background, poised to leap if a spot opened up.
“Enormously,” she replied, dimpling. “The best thing is being outside, where we can breathe. I must be the only person in London who thinks a ‘sad crush’ is really sad. It escapes me how anyone with a sense of smell can have a good time at a ball.”
“Said the same thing m’self t’other night,” Viscount Toliver chimed in. “At m’club.”
Jillian flashed him a smile, which sloped into a grin when her gaze met Ivor’s mocking black eyes. If she maintained that the sun rose in the west, Toliver would back her up.
Reynard Chumley reached over to stack her plate with paper-thin slices of ham, Lawrence Pemberson gallantly buttered a fresh roll, and Darryl Kelton topped off her champagne glass. Jillian felt like a princess in the Royal Box, the center of attention, the focus of the evening. Impossible not to be giddy, after dancing until the soles of her slippers were ragged. The ham made her thirsty and she swallowed more champagne.
Malory’s eyes narrowed as he saw her glass refilled by Kelton’s ready hand. He was surprised Margaret allowed him in the box or that the man even dared to make an appearance. Surely Delacourt had warned him off. The baronet was a known gamester, drank as deeply as he played, and was well in debt to the cent-percenters. Unless he found a rich Cit’s daughter greedy for a title, Kelton would soon be on his way to Fleet. Summoning a waiter, Ivor requested a pitcher of iced lemonade and surreptitiously edged the champagne glass from Jillian’s reach.
“When are the fireworks?” she asked, plucking at his sleeve. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“They are in your eyes,” Kelton said smoothly.
Jillian giggled. “Oh, well said, Darryl. Very poetical.”
“That was my exact observation t’other day,” Toliver informed her. “Eyes like fireworks.”
Jillian lifted a quizzical brow. ‘In your club, My Lord?”
The Viscount reddened. “Not the thing to talk of ladies there,” he disclaimed. “Not the thing to talk of ladies anywhere.”
“Why, what an excellent rhyme! You are a poet, Harold.”
“Uh . . . that’s it exactly. Said it in a poem.” He preened. “I am composing a sonnet to your beauty.”
“But how charming. Will you quote us some lines?”
“Meant for your ears alone, Miss Lamb. Got to tell you, though, Jillian ain’t an easy name to rhyme.”
Her forehead wrinkled. ‘I suppose that’s true. How about: I once fell in love with fair Lillian, but soon threw her over for Jillian. Or: this morning I dueled with a villain, who dared to insult darling Jillian.”
Malory winced.
“Methinks you’d have better luck with Lamb,” she advised Toliver merrily. “Lots of words rhyme with Lamb. Ham, jam, gram, dram, da—”
“Lemonade?” Malory held out a full glass, which she accepted with a wink. Minx, he thought, chuckling. “The fireworks will commence within the hour, Miss Lamb. Have you ever seen a display?”
“No, never. Well, once, at a country fair, but there was rain in the afternoon so the rockets got a bit damp. They shot up in the air, went spoof, sent off a little smoke, and showered ashes on our heads. But sometimes there were colored sparks, like red and green fireflies, and they were glorious. Will we be able to see from here?”
“Not very well,” Kelton asserted. “The effect is spoiled by the lights.”
“We’ll move to a better spot when it’s nearer the time,” Malory assured her.
As the orchestra dispersed for some refreshment, a troupe of gaily clad jugglers moved in to entertain the crowd. Jillian watched for a wh
ile, sipping at her lemonade, wondering why the evening had gone so flat. It ought to have been perfect, this balmy spring night swirling with lights and music. Handsome men hanging on her every word. The heady exhilaration of champagne. The promise of fireworks. She even felt attractive in her pale gold sarcenet gown with matching silk slippers and buttery kid gloves.
But she was bored, and she knew why. Margaret had insisted that a quiet evening was long overdue, but when Ivor Malory showed up with a surprise at teatime, the Baroness quickly changed her mind. Colonel Pottersby, an old friend from her late husband’s regiment, was home from the Penn for a brief respite. Deciding that a celebration was in order, they settled on, a small private party at Vauxhall, but in the bustle of getting ready to go, no one thought of sending a message to the Earl. Actually, Jillian had thought of it, and then thought better.
She was tired of him always hanging around, like a sheepdog protecting his flock of one from the ravening wolves. It would be good to get away from him, away from that lifted eyebrow when she said something outrageous, away from that implacable hand at her elbow when someone he didn’t approve—and there were a great many of those—asked her for a dance. The Earl didn’t like anything she said or did, and ought to leave her alone so she could enjoy herself.
So he had. And she wasn’t. Not very much, anyway. There was a kind of electricity in the air when he was with her that was missing tonight. Like . . . she grinned to herself . . . like the promise of fireworks.
“My dear?”
Jillian looked up to find Ivor Malory on his feet, towering over her.
“Will you mind very much if I leave you for a few minutes? Lord Camberfield has sent a message asking to speak with me, and he has difficulty walking these days. Gout, I’m afraid. It would be kinder if I joined him.”
“No, of course I’ll not mind. I have plenty of company.”
“Too much company.” Malory sliced a pointed glance at Darryl Kelton. “Don’t wander off, Miss Lamb. I’ll be back in time for the fireworks.” When he was gone, Jillian resumed her observation of the jugglers, pretending a rapt concentration while her mind flickered like the lights in the tree branches. When Kelton spoke at her ear she waved him off, pointing to the brightly colored balls flying through the air like birds. He pressed the stem of a champagne glass into her hand and she took a long drink. The bubbles tickled her nose, dancing through the pale liquid like the balls dancing in the air. Things were definitely more fun with champagne, she decided-She wished the orchestra would come back. She wanted to dance and dance, like the balls and bubbles. Shoot off like fireworks. Explode into color and light.
The jugglers launched into a grand finale, with leaps and tumbles and a blaze of objects crowding the sky . . . and then she saw him. Jillian’s heart skipped several beats. Something heavy settled into the pit of her stomach.
The Earl appeared from a darkened path, stepping just into the light at the edge of the circular dance floor. Through the colored balls she saw him, tall and elegant in a black cape lined with white satin. One flap was tossed over his shoulder, freeing his arm for the tall, lissome beauty clinging to it possessively. The Swan.
Her silvery-blond hair was arranged a la grecque, and the flowing lines of her classic gown, white satin like the lining of the Earl’s cape, molded her perfect body. She was magnificent. So was he. The lights caught his pale hair and made it glow. They shone, the two of them. When the Swan rested her head against his shoulder, stroking his arm with one long gloved finger, he leaned down to whisper something in her ear.
Jillian wanted to drive a stake through her heart. No woman had a right to look like that. To look at Mark Delacourt like that. Gulping the rest of her champagne, she slumped in her chair, trying to make herself invisible.
“Delightful, are they not?” asked Darryl Kelton, offering her another full glass.
Jillian seized it gratefully. “Wh—who?”
“Why, the jugglers, of course. You seem positively mesmerized by them, Miss Lamb. But I must confess, dancing is more to my taste. May I hope you will favor me with the next waltz? You’ve danced with nearly everyone else this evening. Have I done something to offend you?”
“Indeed, you have been all that is pleasing,” Jillian replied absently. With effort, she wrenched her gaze to Darryl Kelton. He was handsome, too, in a rakish kind of way, almost as tall as the Earl, with wavy brown hair and oddly pale grey eyes. His smile was warm and flattering.
“And you are all that is beautiful,” he said silkily. “I have been on the town these many years, Miss Lamb, but never have I witnessed such a triumph. Indeed, I am honored to be a foot soldier in your army of admirers.”
“Do you admire me, Darryl? Truly? May I ask you why? There are so many women I’d give my eyeteeth to look like.” Just one, really. Suddenly, she craved male attention. Reassurance, She heard herself almost begging for it, feeling as if she were overhearing the conversation from about two feet above the Pavilion. Her head was spinning.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he quoted. “Thou art more lovely, and more—”
“Temperamental, I fear,” she interrupted gloomily. “I make a poor subject for poetry, Milord. Look, the orchestra is coming back. Do let’s dance.” While Margaret’s attention was focused on Colonel Pottersby, Kelton eased Jillian away from the supper-box. Suddenly, she didn’t want to dance anymore. Not out there, where the Earl would see her. Would see how small and drab she was. Besides, he didn’t approve of Kelton. He would stare down his nose while she waltzed, and ring a peal over her later. No, she wanted to get away from him, where she couldn’t see that intimate, knowing smile on his lips, directed at the woman she wanted to be. When Kelton tugged her away from the bright circle toward a path illuminated with swaying lanterns, she followed without protest. A walk in the air would clear her head.
Mark did not see her leave. He’d spotted her immediately—how could he miss that covey of nodcocks fluttering around her—but when the dancers moved into place he was distracted, and when he looked back she was gone. His gaze swept over the waltzing couples. No Jillian, and Kelton had disappeared, too. Bloody hell. Didn’t the little goose have sense enough to stay away from Darryl Kelton? He’d been right next to her in the box, head bowed aver her bosom, leering at the surfeit of flesh revealed by the skimpy dress she was wearing.
A warm arm wrapped around his waist. “Shall we dance, Mark?” the Swan invited huskily. “You promised me a waltz.”
He glanced at her in surprise. Good heavens, he’d forgot she was there. “Yes. Later. Wait here, Angela. I need to speak with Margaret.”
“Wait here alone?”
The Earl ran his finger under a too-tight collar, before patting her hand and loosing it from his waist. “Just for a moment, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”
Teeth clenched under a sugary smile, the Swan stepped back into the shadows. This was the first night in weeks Mark had reserved for her, and he’d brought, as a peace offering, the diamond bracelet sparkling on her wrist. It had reassured her, for the gift was not splendid enough to signal her cong. Now, with a chill threading her spine, Angela knew instinctively that the bracelet would soon be matched with a necklace and earrings. Perhaps a tiara. All of them unwelcome, but the time had to come. It always did. Turning her attention to the dancers, she evaluated the men with a professional eye.
“Where’s Jillian?”
Startled, Margaret looked up at Mark’s angry, flushed face, then to the empty chair where Jillian had been only a minute ago. “Why, I—”
“Dancing with Kelton,” Toliver broke in unhappily. “Out there somewhere, in the crowd.”
Mark knew she was not.
Just then Ivor Malory appeared at his side. “Where’s Jillian?” he demanded.
The Earl glared at him. “And where the devil were you, Blackstone? She’s gone
off with Kelton.”
“Of course she has not.” Margaret’s voice was tranquil but edged with reproof. No scandal, her tone said clearly. “Mr. Kelton merely escorted Jillian when she expressed a desire to join some friends. I expect they want to quiz the jugglers about that wonderful performance and how they keep all those things in the air at once. Just look around, Mark. You’ll come upon them soon enough. I saw five or six giggling girls with colored balls in their hands, trying it out.”
Malory got the point immediately and drew the Earl away before he could do any more damage. “Kelton’s been plying her with champagne all night,” he said urgently. “Can’t think why she went off with him, though. Doesn’t like the man above half.”
“Because she’s a rebellious little shrew,” gritted the Earl. “I told her to stay away from him.”
That would explain it, Malory reflected grimly. For a consummate politician, Mark Delacourt was amazingly obtuse where his ward was concerned. “Let’s split up,” he suggested. “Which way will you go?”
Mark calmed himself, with visible effort. “Do me a favor, Ivor. Angela is back there somewhere, in the trees. Take her home, will you? I don’t want her wandering around here on her own. That will call more attention to this unpleasantness, and so will she if I’m gone very long.”