Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  If Miss Smythe noticed his less than fashionable transportation, she said nothing, rather tossed her valise into the back and climbed up with a smile on her face, as if she were being escorted to court in a royal coach and matched set of eight.

  Gritting his teeth, Jemmy climbed up, doing his best to look as capable as any knight errant, but his tonnish intentions only got him into trouble. As he tried to swing himself up, a bolt of pain shot down his leg and he fell back, landing in an ignoble heap on the ground, his cane clattering beside him.

  “Blast,” he managed to bluster, saving her ears from the truly blistering curse he wanted to use.

  “Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed, clambering down from the cart in a whirl of blue silk. “Mr. Reyburn, are you hurt?”

  “Nothing more than my pride.”

  “Here, let me assist you,” she said. Before he could protest, she threw his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her own around his waist, hoisting him to his feet.

  He turned his head and found himself face to face with her. This close, with the sunlight streaming down on her, he could discern every minute detail of her features, right down to the way her lips parted as his gaze went there, as if his glance were kiss enough to her.

  It certainly wasn’t for him. There had been a time when he’d have planted his lips on her sweet, perk pair and stolen a kiss without a second thought, then offered a grin and a wink as a less than sincere apology.

  And while he hadn’t done so in some time, he certainly was no Methuselah, and wasn’t opposed to stealing a favor from a lady.

  Especially one as pretty as Miss Smythe.

  He tipped his head and made his move. Her eyes widened as he drew closer, but before he could complete his rakish endeavor, she did something that truly upended his intentions. He’d forgotten that she was holding him, and just as easily as she’d helped him to his feet, she let him go—dumping him right back on the ground in the same wretched heap in which she’d found him.

  “What did you do that for?” he asked once he’d recovered from the shock.

  “I daresay you know why,” she said, brushing off her skirts in his direction. “How dare you!”

  Jemmy swiped his fingers through his hair. Lord, he was out of practice.

  “I’ll not be one of your…your…your conquests, Mr. Reyburn. Don’t think I don’t know who you are, and what you are.”

  Well, demmit, it was just a kiss. Hardly a conquest.

  Too bad his memory kept reliving the rare glimpse he’d gained of her long, tempting legs, and the way her round bottom and perfect breasts had felt pressed against him. If he didn’t shake off these lascivious thoughts, a conquest would be only the beginning.

  “I only wanted to—” he started to protest against his better judgment.

  She held up her hand. “Don’t even try to explain, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”

  He dusted off his jacket and reached for his tumbled hat. “What would you know of my reputation?”

  “I can read. And the Morning Post detailed any number of your, shall we say, more notable exploits about Town.” She at least had the courtesy to lean over and retrieve his cane. He thought for a moment she might use it like a governess and rap a lesson in manners into his thick skull.

  But instead, like the lady he suspected she was, she offered it to him as if he had merely dropped it.

  “The Post, you say. Lies, all of them.” He laughed as he struggled to his feet—this time without an offer of help from Miss Smythe.

  She made no reply, only those delightful brows rising again in scathing disbelief.

  “Oh, maybe one or two of those accounts had a bit of truth to them,” he offered, “though most were gross exaggerations.” He started to brush off his jacket, but realized he was covered in dust, something his father’s valet would have horrors over. But if there was any consolation, it would give the bored man something to do.

  “I hardly doubt the report of you and Lady Alice…” she was saying.

  Lady Alice? This Miss Smythe had a fine memory, for Jemmy had all but forgotten about that on dit. Not that he should have, his mother had rung a peal over his head for weeks over that momentary lapse.

  “Fine. Perhaps I have had one or two wellreported dalliances, but I have always been a gentleman in my intentions,” he said. “And as a gentleman, I’ll apologize to you. I admit my manners are a bit rusty, and it was not the best form to try to take advantage of a lady who has sought my aid.” She started to open her mouth to say something, but he stopped her. “However, I will not apologize for wanting to kiss you. That is entirely your fault.”

  “M-my fault?” she stammered.

  “Yes. You are far too fetching, Miss Smythe, not to be kissed. And kissed often, I might add.” From the way her eyes opened wide and a soft blush stole over her cheeks, he decided that perhaps he wasn’t as rusty as he’d suspected. For good measure he winked at her.

  She shook her head. “As incorrigible, as ever, sir. Now I see that exaggeration isn’t solely the domain of the Morning Post. My fault, indeed!”

  He felt something oddly like a sense of accomplishment. “Now that you’ve witnessed the true nature of my depraved character,” he said, “do you still want a ride?”

  Miss Smythe looked up at him, and after what seemed an interminable amount of time, she nodded. “Do you need help?”

  His hand went to his chest. “Oh, you wound me, fair maiden. Here I am the one supposedly rescuing you and I’ve landed in the dust twice.” He glanced around the yard. “I daresay I’m not that much of an invalid. I’ll just move the cart over to the woodpile and use the block.”

  Her hands went to her hips. “Why didn’t you do that the first time?”

  Jemmy snapped his fingers. “Ah, feminine logic. I fear it was my own pride that prevented me from taking such steps. A man doesn’t like to look infirm in front of a lady.”

  “You were worried about my good opinion?” Now it was Miss Smythe’s turn to laugh. “How useful for you that you possess a fair amount of pride, Mr. Reyburn, for it seemed to soften your landing. Both times.” She smiled again, then walked over to the horse, caught up its bridle, and led the docile animal over to the block. Without another word, she climbed into the seat and waited for him.

  Capable, sensible, and possessing a sharp tongue. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Esme had found her just for him.

  Now that was utter nonsense.

  He was about to step up onto the block when a flash of blue caught his eye. There blooming around the foot of it was a cluster of flowers.

  Without even thinking, he reached down and plucked a handful of them, then stepped up on the block, caught hold of the cart, and pulled himself into the seat beside her.

  It didn’t occur to him that this time his leg never gave him even a twinge of pain.

  “For you,” he said as he handed her the impromptu bouquet. “With my sincerest apologies.”

  She took his offering, staring down at the flowers for a few seconds before glancing back at him. Then to his amazement, she burst out laughing.

  “What is so funny?” he asked as he took up the reins. “Is something wrong with them?” He glanced over at the blossoms now clutched in her hand. They looked perfectly fine to him. Certainly not one of the faultless orchids his father grew, but they’d been offered sincerely.

  “Nothing,” she finally said. “They’re perfect.”

  How perfect, he just didn’t realize.

  Amanda stared down at the flowers and wondered at the irony of his offering. Forget-me-nots. He’d given her a bouquet of forget-me-nots, while he’d forgotten her.

  Utterly and completely.

  But she hadn’t forgotten him. Not once in all these years had a day passed that she hadn’t thought of the only man who deigned to dance with her during her first and only miserable Season.

  And now he was the one stealing her away from her dire fate. Oh, the absurdity of it plucked at her heart.


  Why, he’d even tried to kiss her. She cursed her years at Miss Emery’s school, lessons drilled into her that had prompted her (quite against her wishes) to dodge his attempt. Now she might never have another opportunity.

  He tapped the reins, and the horse started off, ambling down the pleasant country drive. When they came to the main road, instead of turning onto it, he crossed it and set off across a barely used track.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He nodded at the grassy lane before them. “This way is less traveled. Though it will take longer, we’re not as likely to run into the magistrate or the constable. Can you imagine the scandal if we were to be tossed into jail together?”

  Amanda glanced over at him. His mouth was set in a serious line, but there was a teasing light in his eyes that shocked her. He was flirting with her.

  In her entire life, no man had ever flirted with her. Especially not one as rakish as Jemmy Reyburn. She wasn’t too sure what she should do.

  Flirt back, a mischievous voice clamored over her straitlaced thoughts.

  No, I shouldn’t, she told herself, resorting to the same fears and admonitions that had ruled her life for five and twenty years.

  No, she couldn’t think like that anymore. This was her adventure, her chance to live the life she’d always fancied…

  She laughed aloud at the irony of all of it.

  “What is so funny now?” he asked.

  “All of this.” She waved her hand at the cart and the countryside. “I’m fleeing a matchmaker.”

  “You won’t be laughing if we get caught,” he reminded her.

  She glanced up at him. “I assume, Mr. Reyburn, given your rather scandalous reputation, you will endeavor not to be caught. Besides, I suspect you could charm your way past a hangman’s noose, as well as this magistrate who inspires such terror.”

  “You hold me in high esteem for someone who purports not to know me.” His brows arched and he paused, as if waiting for her to enlighten him.

  Amanda wasn’t about to have him discover the truth, so she said, “You look rather capable.”

  “Hardly that. I can’t even climb into a pony cart without a lady’s assistance.Apony cart, mind you.”

  “Oh, bother that,” she told him quite emphatically. “There is more to a man’s measure than the carriage he chooses or how he gets into it—or out of it, as the case may be. What makes you admirable is that you’re helping me, despite the obvious risk.” For good measure, she winked at him, as he had done to her earlier.

  “I have to admit this is entirely more enjoyable than listening to my mother prattle on all day about heirs and duty.” He tipped his hat back and grinned. “In truth, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

  “And why is that?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine the Jemmy Reyburn she remembered not living a day of his life that wasn’t filled with some great series of amusements or lively jests.

  “I don’t go to Town anymore, and we don’t have too many visitors out here.”

  “And you never married?” she asked before she could stop herself. It was none of her business, truly, but she had to know.

  He looked away. “No.”

  Never married? She eyed him again. “Whyever not?”

  “Because…well, you can see why,” he said, nodding down at his leg. “I was injured in the war.”

  “I don’t see why that should have any bearing on the matter,” she told him. Certainly his injuries had been grievous, given the scar on his face and his dependence on his walking stick, but he’d survived, lived through it all. “It isn’t like your life ended. You’re a well respected gentleman. You could do anything you want with your life.”

  “Yes, except for the important things.”

  “And those would be?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “First of all, I’d have to find someone who doesn’t mind this,” he said, pointing at the jagged scar that ran down the side of his face.

  She glanced over at it. “I believe it makes you look piratical.”

  “Piratical? Is that a word?” he teased.

  “If it isn’t, it is now,” she told him. “What else?”

  “What else, what?” he asked, glancing up the lane and not at her, evading her questions with as much caution as if she were the magistrate, his defenses rising up around him like a dark mantle of fear.

  Amanda was stunned. He was afraid. Jemmy Reyburn was afraid to live. Outlandish!

  “What else keeps you from finding a wife?” she pressed.

  Jemmy sucked a deep breath. “For one thing, I can’t dance. Can hardly get up the steps to most ballrooms, for that matter. Can’t ride all that well, either.” He paused for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, not at all. Rather hopeless, don’t you think?”

  If she wasn’t mistaken, he was appealing to her to agree with him. To add her stamp of approval to his sorry case.

  Amanda wound the strings on her reticule into a tight knot. Up until yesterday she probably would have shared his frustration with life— resolved to live to the end of her days trapped by her own deficiencies, or those that her mother liked to point out whenever the opportunity presented itself—which unfortunately was often. But that was until…until she’d learned the truth of her life, and made the fateful decision to take this enormous gamble at happiness.

  A chance of a lifetime to discover the joy she’d longed for so very much. The very enchantment Jemmy seemed determined to toss away, because of what…a bad leg and a rather dashing scar?

  Besides, the young man she remembered, the one she’d watched at countless routs and balls, would never have let such a minor infirmity stop him. The Jemmy Reyburn of her heart would have slain such a dragon with a teasing quip and a wink of his devilish blue eyes.

  But this man beside her, she barely recognized. She’d read the gossip about him leaving London in the company of his mother’s hired companion—it had been quite a scandal. Later she’d found an account about him being in Spain with Wellington’s army, but how he’d gotten there, she knew not. His injuries she had known about as well, for they had been reported in a copy of her father’s Gentleman’s Magazine:

  Mr. James Reyburn, Bramley Hollow, Kent, arrived at Portsmouth on the Goliath last month, having suffered grievous harm at Badajoz.

  She’d committed the lines to memory, then spent the next year frantically searching the papers for some mention of him. Then after that, she’d waited impatiently through each Season hoping to see some word of his return to Town or even mention of a betrothal. But there hadn’t been a single reference to the elusive Mr. Reyburn in all these years—and now she knew why.

  He’d chosen exile from the exacting and critical eyes of society. He was right that he would be viewed with a less discerning eye by some, but surely he knew his character, his charm would leave him in good stead with the people who loved him.

  But clearly he didn’t believe that—couldn’t believe it. And instead of pitying him, all that boiled up in her heart, in the tightness of her chest, was anger. White-hot anger. Like nothing she’d ever felt before.

  She pressed her lips together, trying to stop the words that sprang forth, but they came rushing out anyway. “Perhaps it is time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start living again.”

  He drew the cart to a quick stop, the horse letting out a neigh of protest. “Sorry for myself? You have no idea what I have endured or the pain I suffer.” His face grew red with anger and indignation. “Start living again, indeed! The life I loved is gone. Lost.”

  She straightened and mustered every bit of resolve she could manage in the face of his bitterness. Lost? He thought his life was lost? He hadn’t the vaguest idea what it meant to lose one’s life.

  And while she’d never been so outspoken in her life, with every passing moment she felt an odd courage filling her with strength and resolve.

  She sat up straighter and looked him right in the eye. “Then if it
is lost, I daresay that is your fault. Because you will hardly find it when you’ve convinced yourself you are better off hiding away in the country than taking advantage of the gifts you still possess.”

  Three

  Jemmy couldn’t believe the chit’s audacity. If his suspicions were right, she was running away from some sort of trouble, and here she was telling him to toss aside everything he held dear and start his life anew.

  Why of all the—

  Then a quiet voice whispered up from his heart, Perhaps you’ve already begun.

  He shook his head. It wasn’t the same thing. He was doing what any gentleman would do— assisting a lady in need. It wasn’t the same as what she was suggesting.

  Not in the least.

  Then he looked into her eyes, at the passion behind her challenge. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt his heart beat, hammering in his chest. Not from struggling up the front steps of Finch Manor but from the thrill of living. Of being in the company of a woman.

  Even a vexing one like Miss Smythe.

  Gads, he’d spent the past hour flirting with the chit. He hadn’t wooed a woman in so long, he was surprised he still remembered how.

  He glanced over at the stubborn tilt of her chin. Lord, if he didn’t know better he thought he should look for a gauntlet tossed between them.

  “So what would you have me do?” he asked, almost afraid to hear what this hoyden would suggest.

  Her eyes widened, as if she too were surprised by his inquiry. Though if she felt any hesitation, it didn’t last long. “To start with, return to Town,” she said, settling quite comfortably into her role as his guide. “I would advise you to partake in all the pursuits that young men do in London. All of them.”

  He wondered if she truly understood what that meant. As if holding her in his arms, toppling onto the bed like a pair of lovers hadn’t been enough reminder of what he was missing. But London? Therein lay a life of mistresses and willing widows. Of flirtatious pursuits and passionate nights.