by Cheryl Holt
She initiated a luscious, slow kiss, and as he drew away, she sighed with delight.
"Why don't you come back to bed?"
"I must be off."
Usually, he rose for morning chores, so she wasn't aware that this was farewell. Not eager for a maudlin scene, he'd given her no hint of his departure, had made no preparations, had packed no bags. The prior evening, he'd merely instructed one of the grooms to have his horse ready. The animal was down in the yard, sensing a journey, and excited to be away. Jamie need only walk down, mount up, and go.
Why was it so difficult to pry himself away?
"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?" he inquired.
"Yes, but tell me again. I'm a glutton for your compliments."
He stole a last kiss, a brief brush of his lips to hers; then he hugged her tight, his face buried at her nape to hide his tormented expression. Once he'd contained his careening emotions, he slid from her arms.
"Bye," he said.
He yearned to say more, to blather on about how much he'd enjoyed their time together, but he was too much of a coward to confess what he was actually doing.
Without another word, he left, marching down the hall, practically running when he reached the stairs. The worst wave of panic swept over him, and he felt that if he didn't escape the house, he'd be trapped inside it forever.
As he sprinted out the front door, Jack was in the drive, waiting by the horse, and Jamie wasn't surprised to see his brother. Jamie hadn't confided to Jack that he was going, but Jack had figured it out nonetheless. They had no secrets.
Jack had packed Jamie a bedroll and satchel, had a pistol loaded and strapped to the saddle. Seeming cool and unaffected, Jack watched as Jamie approached.
"Are you sure, Jamie?" was all he said.
"I'm sure. How about you? You claimed that you wanted to stay here, but have you changed your mind?"
"No."
"Are you sure?" Jamie pressed, wishing Jack would come along and not able to imagine how it would be without him.
"No, but I'm staying anyway. Have you talked it over with Anne?" "No."
"She'll ask me why you went. What should I say?"
'Tell her... oh hell, I don't know. Tell her what a bastard I am. Tell her she's better off without me. She'll agree with you."
"Yes, she will."
Jamie nodded and peered up at the ostentatious mansion, the shiny windows glowing red with the rising sun. "You have my permission to do whatever you want to the property. I'll have the lawyers put something in writing, and I'll send it to you—in case there's any question." "Good."
Jamie studied his brother, his fondness so severe that it was painful.
"We traveled a lot of miles together." "We did at that."
"I'm glad I could bring you back," Jamie said. "I'm glad I could give you this place and this life." "So am I."
"It's what you always wanted. Don't squander it."
"As if I would, you wretch." Jack chuckled. "Shut up and go before I start blubbering like a babe."
A rattling noise sounded overhead, and they both glanced up to where Anne was looming out an upstairs window. Jack and Jamie froze, looking like the guilty conspirators they were, and he was troubled and annoyed. He'd hoped to sneak off without any fuss, but there was about to be an enormous amount of it.
"Jamie?" she called down. "What are you doing?"
"It's too early to be up, Anne," he advised. "Go back to bed."
She scrutinized his horse. "Are you ... leaving?"
There was a lie on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't tell it. She appeared stunned and hurt, and any remark was crushed by the sense of loss he felt at seeing her one last time.
"Don't you dare move!" she scolded, slamming the window. He pictured her racing to the hall, flying down the stairs.
"You're in for it now," his brother muttered, and he strolled away, no more eager for the pending confrontation than Jamie was, himself.
"Dammit," Jamie cursed.
He patted his horse, desperate to leap on and ride away before she arrived, but it was a craven notion.
He'd suffered through many good-byes in his life, and he hated how wrenching they were, so he never willingly participated in them. Anne had never been anywhere but Gladstone, so she hadn't discovered how awful a parting could be, but she was about to learn, and he detested that he would be the one to teach her.
A quick and complete break was for the best, but now they'd quarrel, then Jamie would go anyway. No matter what she said, no matter how prettily she begged, she'd never convince him to do otherwise.
She rushed out the door, and she was a splendid sight in her robe and nightgown, barefoot, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She kept coming till they were toe-to-toe, and Jamie steeled his expression, determined to conceal how he was raging on the inside. His hands were gripped behind his back, his fingers tightly linked, so he didn't reach for her.
On noting his indifferent gaze, she paused, not as certain as she had been. Nervously, she clutched at the lapels of her robe.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
'To London, Anne."
"For how long?"
He shrugged but didn't answer.
"Forever?"
"Not forever. I'll visit now and again."
"How often is that? Once a month? Once a year?"
"I'll stop by occasionally—to check on things." He pointed to the corner of the house, where Jack was loitering and trying to ignore them. "In my absence, Jack is in charge. If you need anything, let him know. He'll take care of it for you."
She frowned as if he'd spoken in a foreign language she didn't comprehend.
"I thought you were happy here."
"I was."
"Then how could you just... go?" "I never planned to remain." "Never?" "No."
At the callous admission, she nearly collapsed to the ground in a swoon.
"Did I mean nothing to you then?"
"Of course you did."
"What? What did I mean to you?"
"I'm glad I married you. I'm glad you're my wife."
Tears flooded her eyes, and it was the worst moment for him. He couldn't bear it when she was sad, and her woe reinforced what an ass he was, but it didn't alter his decision.
"What will I do without you?" she inquired. "What will become of me?"
"Jack will watch over you."
'I don't want Jack." The tears were falling freely, and she swiped at them. "I want you. I want you here with me. Always."
"I can't be."
"Why?"
He couldn't explain his jumble of feelings. Gladstone was his, and he'd kill any man who tried to say it wasn't, but he loathed the properly and couldn't imagine being tied to it.
He could never fully describe what his past had been like, how he'd struggled to survive, how many times he almost hadn't. When he walked about the estate, every tree and stone seemed to cry out with reminders of how it might have been, how it should have been, and he couldn't stand it.
What if he stayed? What if they had children? His father's blood ran in his veins. Jamie could feel it flowing with wicked intent, and he had to acknowledge that he was the man's son, so he might be capable of any foul deed.
What woman would want such a despicable character around her children? He might do anything to them. He might do anything to Anne.
"It's simply not meant to be," he ultimately said.
"Don't do this, Jamie. Please."
"I have to, Anne."
"Will you... will you ..." She had to swallow twice before she could continue. "Will you at least write once in a while, so I'll know where you are and that you're all right?"
"Jack will know where I am."
She sobbed with regret, and her response was too painful to abide. Jamie tried to hug her, but she stepped away, refusing his comfort, and he couldn't complain. He deserved the petty rebuff.
"We need you here," she claimed. "/ need you here."
"No, you don't. You'll all get on fine without me. Better, in fact." He grinned, attempting to inject some levity into the horrid discussion. "Why ... in a week or two, your life will have returned to normal, and you'll be relieved that I left."
"It will be so quiet without you. How will I bear it?"
He raised a hand to rest it on her shoulder, but she spun away and raced for the house. Though it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, he didn't go after her. He tarried—alone—staring at the spot where she'd been. His heart was pounding, her last comment ringing in his ears.
Eventually, Jack joined him, a look of censure in his eye, but he wouldn't give voice to it. They knew each other too well, and Jack was aware that it was futile to chastise Jamie about anything.
"That was badly done, Jamie," he gently chided.
"Yes, it was."
"She loves you something fierce."
"She'll get over it," Jamie insisted.
"You can always come back," Jack said. "This is your home now. If you don't find what you're searching for in London, come home."
Home...
The word rushed through the grass and trees like a breeze on the wind. It promised and cajoled, and he nearly succumbed, suddenly wanting it more than he'd ever wanted anything, but he shook away the tempting impulse.
"I don't belong here," he asserted. "I never have." He moved to his horse and swung up in the saddle. "Be careful," Jack advised, "and keep me posted about your doings." "I will."
Jamie paused, examining the windows of the manor. He'd hoped that Anne might be there, that he'd catch a final glimpse of her, but she was nowhere in sight.
He bent down, his hand extended, and Jack clutched it with both of his own, the two of them bonded as no other pair could ever be.
"So ... this is good-bye," Jack murmured. "I can't believe it."
"Neither can I." Was he really going? Would he and his brother actually part? If they weren't together, how could either of them manage? "If you get sick of country living, come to London."
"What would I do with myself in London? You know how I hated it there."
"Then we'll ready the ship and set out."
"To where?"
"To wherever you want. To hell with this place."
"We'd just walk off and leave it?"
"Sure. Why not?" Jamie gazed around again; then abruptly he said, "Marry that girl, would you? Make Sarah an honest woman. Be happy with her."
"As if she'd have me," Jack scoffed. "She thinks I'm too much like you."
Jamie laughed, jerked on the reins, and cantered away.
Anne huddled behind the drapes in the earl's bedchamber. She was blocked from view, but she could see the drive down below perfectly
well.
She watched as Jamie chatted with his brother and, as nimbly as a circus performer, leapt onto his horse. He leaned down, their dark heads close, their hands clasped in friendship; then, with a quick flick of the reins, he galloped away.
He was smiling, excited to be away from Gladstone—to be away from her!—and as he wound down the lane to the road that would take him to London, he never looked back. Not once.
She touched her fingers to the glass, wishing, praying, letting her mind reach out to connect with his.
At least wave good-bye! she implored, but if her message was received, he gave no sign.
Would he stay in the city? Or would he travel even farther away? Would he simply board his ship and sail away from England, never to be heard from again?
When they'd first met, she hadn't thought he'd remain at the estate, but after their marriage, she'd assumed he'd changed. He'd seemed so content, but apparently it had all been a charade.
How could she not have seen it coming? He'd provided no hint, had uttered no prescient remarks, hadn't even been particularly sad as he'd wakened her for a farewell embrace. Only the odd tension in his shoulders as he'd exited the room had indicated something might be wrong.
If she hadn't run to the window and peeked out, she wouldn't have known his plan. She'd have lounged in bed for hours, presuming him to be riding the fields and unaware he'd gone.
She dawdled till he was a tiny speck on the horizon, till he'd disappeared, and she continued to tarry. Pathetically, she told herself that he'd get a distance down the road and realize he'd made a mistake and he'd return to her.
But he never did.
Like a blind woman, she stumbled to their bed, and she fell onto the mattress, his pillow crushed to her chest. The sheets were still warm from his body's heat, his scent lingering in the fabric.
She stared up at the ceding, contemplating how quiet it was. The house seemed bereft, as if it sensed the loss of his energy. Everything was gray and fuzzy, indistinct, as if nothing were real.
How would she survive it? How would she keep her heart from breaking?
"Oh, Jamie..." she whispered, wondering how anything would ever be right again.
Ophelia? What are you doing here?" "Hello, Sarah. It's so dreary down at the Dower House. I sent Mother to visit friends in town, so I'm lonely. I've decided to move home." "To stay?"
"Of course to stay. What would you suppose?"
As if she hadn't been gone a single moment, Ophelia pulled off her gloves and tossed them on the hall table, and Sarah suffered from the strongest urge to march over and push her out the door. Sarah didn't want Ophelia coming back. The manor was in chaos. The servants were moping as if someone had died, and Anne was in a state of shock.
Ophelia would add to the turmoil, would set everyone more on edge than they already were, yet Sarah had no authority to deny entrance. Anne and Jack were the only two people who could tell Ophelia no and mean it, but Anne was ill with grief, and Jack was away, shopping for a new plow.
"Where's Anne?" Ophelia queried. "I imagine I should ask her permission—though it galls me that I should have to:"
"She's a bit indisposed."
"Is that how you're explaining it?"
"Explaining what?"
"The entire county knows he's left her. It's all anyone can talk about. She's a laughingstock, but then, Jamie is a lunatic. What did she expect?"
Ophelia went to the stoop and gestured to someone in the drive, and Sarah walked over to see who'd accompanied her. There was a teamster's wagon parked out front, loaded down with Ophelia's belongings, and she gave brisk orders to have the items hauled upstairs.
Sarah observed, aghast, panicked about what she should say or do.
Ophelia turned, her expression grim. T guess it would be too much to hope that I could have my old bedchamber."
"The countess's suite?"
"Yes."
"Anne is countess now."
"I heard that she's lodged in the earl's quarters since her husband abandoned her."
"Well... yes, she is."
"Then what does she need with my room?"
"We should probably check with her, to be certain...."
Sarah trailed off as some men tromped in, grappling with a large trunk, and she stood in silence, gaping, as Ophelia directed them to the countess's boudoir.
"Ophelia!" she finally protested. "You can't just come in and ... and ..."
"And what, Sarah? This was my home long before you two charity cases ever arrived. Don't presume to command me about."
"But..."
"Look, if it will make you feel better, we'll seek Anne's opinion—once she's up and around. If she wants me in another bedchamber, I'll go. In the interim, I don't think it's any of your business. Do you?"
Sarah was so close to letting loose, to giving the obnoxious shrew the tongue-lashing she'd always deserved, but she couldn't bring herself to expound. It simply wasn't in Sarah's nature to cause a huge scene.
"I'm starving," Ophelia commented. "Go to the kitchen and fetch me a tray of my favorite dishes. You know what I like."
"I... I...," Sarah stammered, stunned by how quickly they'd reverted to form.
"Do you have some problem with doing a
s I've bid you?"
Ophelia neared, appearing determined and menacing, and Sarah grumbled, "No. I'll see to it immediately."
She stepped aside, and the men passed to the stairs, Ophelia following them up.
At the landing, she leaned over the rail, a smile on her painted lips.
"I have good news," she cooed.
Sarah was terrified over what it might be. "What is it?"
"Percy wrote from London. He's homesick, too. He should be here any day now. Isn't it marvelous?"
"Yes, marvelous," Sarah concurred, but her mouth puckered as if she were sucking on a lemon.
"It will be just like old times."
Ophelia studied the foyer with a proprietary air; then she kept on to her reclaimed boudoir.
Eighteen
“My, my, would you look at that?" Anne glanced across the breakfast table at Ophelia, who was skimming the London gossip news and grinning slyly. Some things never changed, one of them being Ophelia's penchant for sowing discord.
Anne should have ignored her, yet she caught herself asking, "What is it?"
"Perhaps I should go to London, too," Ophelia mused. "Obviously, he's having more fun there than I am having here."
"Who are you babbling about?" "Read this paragraph." Ophelia pointed to the appropriate spot. 'The author refers to 'the Rascal Roue, Lord G.S.'" Sarcastically, she added, "Whoever could he mean?"
Anne snatched up the paper, poring over the lurid account. The details—that the man was new to the aristocracy and had previously been a notorious privateer—definitely ruined any attempt at anonymity.
Apparently, Jamie had cut a wide swath through
High Society, having engaged in every decadent deed a person could devise. He was throwing wild parties, consorting with Jezebels, and gambling away his money as if he had no responsibilities, as if he didn't own vast estates that employed people who depended on his fiscal restraint.
Anne knew she shouldn't give the rumors any credence, but stories usually started with some basis in fact, so she imagined at least some of his antics were true.
What had happened to him? Why was he doing this to himself?
She didn't understand him and never had.
Eager to annoy Ophelia, she was all innocence. "This Lord G.S. is certainly a wicked character. Who do you think he is?"