The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  Then, he stopped and she opened her eyes and found Jim’s gaze to be grimly averted from her. But Lord Tynesborough stood close by, his expression filled with concern.

  “Are you all right, Miss Braxton? Should we get the doctor? Someone fetch the doctor,” Lord Tynesborough shouted.

  “No. No, please. I’m fine. I just had the wind knocked out of me,” she said, wishing against all pride and all hope that Jim would just keep walking, just carry her away.

  Instead, he dumped her in Tynesborough’s arms.

  “You’ll have to learn to act quicker around her,” he said, and without another word, stalked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The food had been excellent—apparently Sir Robert had lent the use of his chef to Pomfrey—the wine free-flowing. Sir Robert must have insisted on inviting Haji and Magi to the party, and Pomfrey hadn’t dared decline. With Haji, Jock, and Sir Robert leading the discourse, the conversation had proved lively and amusing. Pomfrey’s junior staff and the few wives took advantage of the impromptu party to break out their dance shoes and put on their finery. Everyone was having a grand old time.

  Except for Jim.

  He leaned a shoulder against the wall, nursing his third tumbler of the excellent scotch whiskey Sir Robert had brought with him and watched her. He tried not to. He tried to abide by all the lessons of decorum and self-restraint he’d learned in the various classrooms life had enrolled him in. He’d finally concluded that nothing had prepared him for her. He simply had no self-control where she was concerned.

  She wore a gown of thin, petal-colored material that molded close to her hips and swirled about her feet. The color made her eyes look teal blue and turned her hair to a rich tawny. Short, puffed sleeves hung from the very points of her shoulders, the neckline dipping in a low vee over her bosom, exposing a thought-challenging amount of skin. It curved even lower in the back. He could see the tender channel of her spine disappear under a thin black velvet ribbon cinching her waist.

  He could no more keep from watching her than he could keep from breathing. He watched her smiling at Jock, laughing at something he said, and spent the whole dinner reminding himself that he’d literally handed her over to him. Jock was deserving of her, he kept reminding himself. Jock had refused to take what Jim had offered him on a silver platter. That’s the sort of superior, principled man he was. And he was rich, too. Though as second son Jock hadn’t been bequeathed much from their father, he’d inherited a small fortune from his mother’s side of the family.

  In short, Jock could give Ginesse everything she’d ever wanted.

  And now they were dancing, Ginesse clasped lightly in Jock’s arms as the ragtag orchestra Pomfrey had installed at one end of the mess hall managed a lively cakewalk. Her skirts swirled around his feet, and her head was tipped back…Jim flashed on another image of her with her head thrown back, her eyes half shut, her lips parted in ecstasy.

  He finished off the rest of the scotch.

  “Lord Avandale.” He looked around to find Haji’s aunt at his side, a handsome woman of indeterminate age. She also looked every bit as formidable as Haji claimed her to be.

  “Jim.”

  She inclined her head inquiringly and stopped at his side, obliging him to push off the wall he’d been holding up.

  “Just call me Jim.”

  “As you wish,” she said and fell silent, watching the dancers. He puzzled over what she wanted.

  “Do you know how to dance?” she asked after a bit.

  “Yes,” he answered. It had been a compulsory part of his education.

  “Why do you not dance then?”

  He essayed a tight smile. “There are few ladies present and many far more worthy gentlemen than I queuing up for that privilege.”

  She made a dismissive sound. “A convenient excuse.”

  Startled, he looked at her, and she gave a light laugh. “I have been employed for a very long time by an opinionated and loquacious family,” she said. “I fear they have had more of an influence on me than I on them.”

  “I’m sure it was mutual.”

  “I hope so. I am very fond of them. Though over the years they have tested my serenity in various ways. Take for example Ginesse’s mother, Desdemona. There were times when I had to physically restrain myself from trying to shake some sense into her. She could be so blind to the obvious.”

  “I imagine Ginesse must remind you of her,” he said.

  “Ginesse? Not at all. If anything, Ginesse has always seen things too clearly. She sees every imperfection she owns, knows all her shortcomings, and she finds them very hard to forgive. And she cannot quite accept that others might be able to do so.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” he said.

  “I know.” She smiled inscrutably. “Which is why I find myself desperately wanting to shake you.”

  And with that last enigmatic statement, she glided away.

  Ginesse danced a waltz with Lord Tynesborough, performed the Military Two-Step with several junior officers, took a half turn around the room with her great-grandfather, and was amazed, and disconcerted, when Lord Pomfrey requested her to partner him in a schottische. She found him a surprisingly good dancer.

  She did not dance with James Owens.

  She caught occasional glimpses of him talking to some of the officers or Haji. He looked remarkably handsome, and she noted the other ladies in the room casting openly admiring glances at him. Hussies.

  She was bowing to her partner at the end of the last dance when Jim caught her looking at him. He raised his glass a few inches and gave her his crooked smile, toasting her from across the room. Heat swept up her throat. Hastily, she looked away, hurrying off the dance floor in the opposite direction from him. She took refuge at the refreshment table, where she found Miss Whimpelhall pouring herself a glass of punch.

  “Miss Braxton, you are the belle of my ball,” Miss Whimpelhall said in greeting. She spoke without a whit of envy.

  “Only because of my fine borrowed feathers,” Ginesse replied. “Thank you again.”

  Miss Whimpelhall smiled. “It suits you far better than it ever would me. I bought it on a whim shortly before we sailed from London, I don’t know why. I should never have felt comfortable in it. It’s a good thing I didn’t have time to have it properly hemmed.”

  “I am sure it would look even better on you,” Ginesse said.

  “Thank you. But I don’t believe Colonel Lord Pomfrey would approve.”

  Her great-grandfather’s suggestion that Miss Whimpelhall had secret romantic longings came back to Ginesse. “Is it so important that he do so?”

  Miss Whimpelhall looked at her in surprise. “Of course. He is going to be my husband.”

  Ginesse had never been good at masking her emotions. She did, however, manage not to speak and congratulated herself on her control.

  “I do not think you have a high regard for my fiancé,” Miss Whimpelhall said carefully. “I did warn you he was not dashing.”

  “Yes, but…” Ginesse hesitated, then plunged ahead—so much for self-control. “But you deserve ‘dashing,’ Miss Whimpelhall. And warmth instead of coolness. And romance rather than duty. You should have them.”

  “Oh, my,” Miss Whimpelhall said, looking a little helpless and a great deal moved. “I am touched by your concern. Truly I am. But I know Hilliard very well, and he is precisely the man I want.”

  Ginesse regarded her with poorly masked skepticism.

  With a small sound of exasperation, Miss Whimpelhall linked her arm though Ginesse’s and led her to the far end of the mess where they could enjoy some privacy.

  “Miss Braxton,” she said, turning to her. “Ginesse. You and I are very different creatures. I know you think Pomfrey phlegmatic and straitlaced, perhaps a little boring. And judgmental.” Her apologetic gaze said what she could never bring herself to say, that she disapproved of Pomfrey’s attitude toward Ginesse.

  “Perhaps he is,” Miss Whimpelha
ll continued. “But for all that, he has the makings of a fine officer. He can be a good man given the right circumstances and under the right influence. More importantly, he is someone I understand because he is very like me.”

  “Hardly, Miss Whimpelhall—” Ginesse began in protest.

  “No, don’t deny it. I know my faults, and recently I have been made even more aware of them. Pomfrey and I suit one another.”

  “But what about passion, my dear Miss Whimpelhall?” Ginesse asked, unconvinced.

  “Passion,” Miss Whimpelhall repeated. “Deliver me from passion.” At Ginesse’s stunned expression she continued on a little dryly, “I look at you and Mr. Elkamal and your great-grandfather and Mr. Owens and even, to some extent, Lord Tynesborough, and I am unnerved by your intensity. Your passion unsettles me. You burn so brightly, Miss Braxton, you feel things so deeply.

  “I dislike standing so close to the fire. Like that dress, it is far too uncomfortable.” She softened the comment with a smile. “For myself, I much prefer tranquility and harmony to…” she shook her head, “whatever it is you own in such abundance. For all that you can never understand my choices, I assure you I would be equally as mystified by yours.”

  For a long moment, Ginesse studied her and saw in her gaze nothing but sincerity and affection. How rare to find a person who understood what they needed before deciding what they wanted. Ginesse nodded. “You’re a wise woman, Miss Whimpelhall.”

  “Someone has to be,” she said, and Ginesse laughed at her unexpected candor. “Now, wish me well and give me your blessing.”

  “I do and I do,” Ginesse said, feeling every inch the fool for having so underestimated this small, meek woman.

  “Good. Ah, I see Pomfrey is looking concerned that we have been standing here so long in deep conversation. He considers you a very bad influence, you know,” she said with a twinkle. “I best go reassure him.”

  Miss Whimpelhall had no sooner left than Ginesse spied Haji Elkamal heading toward her, a determined set to his jaw.

  “Hello, Haji,” Ginesse said tiredly. She was in no mood for another emotional scene with him. Since the afternoon when Lord Tynesborough had told her Jim’s history, she had been struggling to find an excuse there for his failure to champion her to Pomfrey. Perhaps his tragic past had rendered him incapable of feeling the sort of love for her that she wanted?

  “I would like a word, Ginesse,” Haji said.

  “Please. Miss Whimpelhall is right. We are exhausting. Let’s declare a truce if only to make my great-grandfather happy.”

  “I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that, but don’t worry, I’ve only come to apologize. Sincerely apologize, I mean,” he said. He looked contrite. Very unlike Haji. “Several things have made me reconsider my attitudes.”

  “Oh?” she replied. “My little speech got through to you, did it?”

  “Hardly,” he said, flashing the wicked grin she remembered so well. “Miss Whimpelhall did.”

  “Miss Whimpelhall gave you a dressing down?” Ginesse asked in astonishment. She was willing to believe that Mildred had unexpected strength, but she wouldn’t have credited her with quite that much assertiveness.

  “No.” Haji laughed. “She didn’t speak to me at all. She spoke to Colonel Lord Pomfrey. She was responsible for Magi and me being invited tonight.”

  “She was?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes. It was so unexpected. It…” He blushed. “It quite humbled me.”

  She made a derisive sound.

  “It did,” he insisted. “You see, I have spent the last three weeks thinking Miss Whimpelhall was the very worst sort of bigot. But putting aside my own prejudices, I realized how willing I was to misinterpret certain of her gestures—a chance expression, or a casual aside. And that made me reconsider what I thought I knew about our relationship, and realize I may have been seeing it through a similarly clouded lens.”

  “Well,” Ginesse allowed, “it wasn’t entirely cloudy. I am sure you were saddled with me more often than was fair to you.”

  “No more than any convenient nanny would have been. And what is wrong with that?” he asked in the manner of one making a startling realization. “Many families use their older children to watch after the younger. Regardless, I wish to make amends. I offer you my services in your search for Zerzura. I have already spoken to the fellahin from the caravan, and they have agreed to work as your diggers. I will act as your foreman.”

  “But my great-grandfather…”

  “Has already declared that he intends to remain at Fort George for as long it takes for his great-granddaughter to make her spectacular discovery.”

  Ginesse’s thoughts whirled. The dream she’d longed to realize hovered just out of reach; all the pieces that would make it possible were coming together as if drawn by some unseen hand. She could find Zerzura. She would gain immediate international fame. She would be recognized as an authority on par with her father.

  She could leave Jim.

  Right now that seemed like the best reason of all. She was heartsick, and she didn’t know how she’d be able to recover if she was forced to see Jim Owens every day.

  “When could we begin?” she asked.

  Haji smiled, and now she could see the excitement kindling his eyes, and she realized that this was more than simply a way to make reparations. He had the Egyptologist’s fire in his eyes, the same one she’d seen in her father’s and great-grandfather’s eyes but had never felt in her own heart. “We could leave tomorrow if you so desired. It will only take a short while to load the provisions.”

  She was about to say more when Lord Tynesborough appeared, weaving his way through the crowd. He smiled as he made their side. “Mr. Elkamal, if you aren’t going to take advantage of so lovely a potential dance partner, might I?”

  Haji bowed. “As the lady wishes.”

  “Miss Braxton?”

  She accepted. It would distract her from thinking about Jim. Gently placing his hand on her waist and taking her free hand in his, Lord Tynesborough moved her gracefully out onto the dance floor. He had excellent form, guiding her expertly through the steps, his face alight with pleasure, his conversation light and amusing but not so garrulous it interfered with the music. She could almost forget he wasn’t Jim…

  Jim glowered down at his empty glass; it was better than glowering at Jock, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, his hand on Ginesse’s ribcage, his fingertips grazing her bare back. They were waltzing, and apparently in this as in all else, his half brother excelled. She certainly seemed to appreciate his expertise.

  Her head was tipped back, her slender throat impossibly tempting. Her skin glowed beneath the lantern light like the plushest velvet. Her wide mouth curved in a slight smile with lips that would be as pliable as warm candle wax and taste like forbidden fruit.

  Which she was. Forbidden to him. Because Jock was in love with her and Jock was a good man and a decent man, not the sort of man who would have taken a lady’s maidenhead. And definitely, most definitely, not the sort of man who would have taken the maidenhead of a bride he’d been entrusted to bring to her groom. And Jim was…

  Jim was.

  Because that particular pilfered bride was his.

  Principles and decency be damned. He’d go mad if he stood there any longer watching another man make love to her. He was not willing to trade his sanity for whatever chimeral satisfaction he might garner by being able to tell himself he’d done the right thing. He didn’t give a damn about the right thing. He cared about Ginesse. He couldn’t let her go without doing everything in his power to keep her.

  He banged down his empty glass and strode onto the dance floor, putting his hand on his half brother’s shoulder with a shade too much force. “May I cut in?” he asked in a voice as soft and dangerous as steel on stone.

  He didn’t hear Jock’s reply. It didn’t matter anyway. She already was in his arms. He rested his hand on her slight ribcage, and the heat from her exe
rtions permeated his palm. He felt the press of each long finger as it settled on his shoulder, and he enveloped her free hand in his.

  He swept her into the dance, twirling her a little too quickly in the turns, forcing her to cling to him. They did not speak. He looked down, wanting to kiss her until she kissed him back, until she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered his name against his throat. Her body felt as supple and lithe as a reed in his arms. A strand of wild honey-colored hair came loose and fell along her collarbone, gold filigree on an ivory field.

  She tried to avert her eyes, and he pulled her closer, too close, improperly close, until she lifted a resentful gaze to his.

  “Stop that,” she breathed, her bosom rising and falling above the delicate lace in an agitation that had nothing to do with the dance.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  “I can’t help it,” he said.

  “Then let me go.”

  “Never.”

  Her eyes widened, shot with alarm, something more. “You’re drunk.”

  “Unhappily, no. Though not for lack of trying.”

  “You must be. You’re making a scene.”

  He looked around and found she’d spoken no less than the truth. Several men were watching them, their gazes sliding quickly away when he caught their eyes. The ladies looked openly alarmed.

  God. As if he would ever hurt her. As if he could. He stopped dancing, took her hand, and hauled her off to the side of the dance floor to where a pair of junior officers stood watching the dancers. One look at Jim and they beat a hasty retreat.

  He moved nearer, turning her so her back was to the wall, using his breadth to shield her from curious gazes. She was frowning, her head turned. By every criteria they belonged together. He understood her better than any knight errant ever would, her moods and temper, her humor and intelligence. He stared at her helplessly. He didn’t know what to say, how to convince her to marry him.