Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  His vehemence seemed to startle her, and she followed him, plucking at his sleeve. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I am not a man to be trifled with.” He heard her tiny gasp, swiftly swallowed, and turned on her. “Did you think I was?”

  She held her hand over her heart, and she wore a solemn expression, one at odds with her usual merry demeanor. “No, I… no, I did suspect you could be a dangerous man.”

  “But not with you, love.” Drawing her close, he tapped her nose. “I would never be a danger to you.”

  “Of course not.” But she still looked troubled. “Are you really…” She swallowed. “Are you really a gentleman farmer from Derbyshire?”

  “Well…” He did have a small estate in Derbyshire, and he could in all honesty assure her that was who he was. But he owed her at least part of the truth. “Let’s just say that’s not all that I am.”

  Harry’s reassurance hadn’t comforted Jessie, but she’d clung to him like a woman in love and fervently kissed him good-bye, and within a few hours she would know all the truth.

  In the meantime… “Dehaan,” he hollered as he entered the cottage overlooking the ocean. “Dehaan, come here!”

  Dehaan bustled out of the small serving room at the back. He wasn’t grinning; he was too urbane for such a jubilant exhibition, but his eyes gleamed. “Ah, master, after so many years! At last! You’re looking happy this morning!”

  “Yes, aren’t I?” Harry replied dryly. “Where’s my mother’s letter?”

  “Your mother’s letter?” Dehaan pulled a long face. “The letter you told me you wished not to read?”

  “That’s the one. Where is it?”

  “You told me not to give it to you. You told me to burn it.”

  Harry took a menacing step forward. “Where is it?”

  Dehaan wisely scuttled away. “I will get it for you.” He plunged into the dressing room, then plunged out again. “Here.” He extended the folded, cream-colored sheets, sealed with wax and marked with the Countess of Granville’s ring.

  Harry took them with a sigh, and weighed them in his hand.

  “Will you dress now, my lord?” Dehaan asked eagerly.

  “Yes.” Harry broke the seal.

  “In your best.” Dehaan raced around like a small black beetle on a mission. “Black suit, maroon-striped waistcoat, black boots, sparkling white shirt!”

  “Yes, fine.” Harry’s gaze fell on the first line of the letter. Dearest, most beloved of sons… Closing his eyes, he groaned. He knew from experience that the more effusive the greeting, the more he was going to hate the contents.

  “Let me help you remove your boots,” Dehaan instructed, and pulled the scuffed boots from Harry’s feet. “Now step out of your trousers.”

  Harry obeyed without paying a bit of attention. I have done the thing I should have bestirred myself to do many years ago. I have betrothed you to a lovely young lady.

  “I’ll just bet you have,” he muttered.

  “My lord?” Dehaan hesitated in the act of handing him the crisply pressed black pants.

  “Give those to me.” Harry impatiently snatched them and donned them without ever releasing his grip on the letter. You met her once, she’s lovely, she’s demure and biddable—so his mother didn’t know Jessie at all—and she has a fortune, all the necessary components of a good wife. She is Lady Jessica Macmillian.

  “Your shirt, my lord, if you please.” Dehaan helped Harry ease the rumpled shirt over his injured shoulder and off.

  Now you may ask, why did your mother do such a thing without your consent?

  Because, my dearest lad, you’re showing no signs of settling into the matrimonial harness.

  “As if I were a horse to be bred,” Harry complained.

  This time, Dehaan ignored him and tossed the shirt over Harry’s head.

  I’m not getting any younger. I’m lonely, living without seeing my only close relative for years at a time—an exaggeration, he’d never been gone above eight months—and I want grandchildren before I’m too old to dandle them on my knee. His mother wasn’t above playing the guilt card.

  Harry allowed Dehaan to button his waistcoat, pin on his collar, and tie his cravat.

  “Very elegant, my lord,” Dehaan praised. “The young lady will look upon you most favorably.”

  Harry cast a cold gaze on his valet and wondered if Dehaan had been part of his mother’s scheme. Better not to know. Harry was already torn between rage and, unfortunately, amusement. His mother had the gall of a street urchin picking pockets! So I’ve sent you to Wildbriar Inn where you’ll meet Lady Jessica and court her.

  “Inadvertently,” Harry declared.

  As he helped Harry into his boots, Dehaan looked worried, quite as if Harry had lost his mind.

  Harry read the last, outrageous line of the letter. So, darling boy, do make up your mind to like the match, for I’ve already ordered the vicar to call the banns and sent the announcement to the Times. You cannot, in all honor, do anything but wed Lady Jessica, on November 8, a mere six weeks from now.

  Resign yourself.

  Harry stiffened. Resign himself? He would do no such thing.

  Dehaan brushed at the stark, elegant, black jacket. “Let me help you with—”

  Harry snatched his coat out of Dehaan’s hands and stormed out of the door.

  Dehaan hurried after him. “My lord! Don’t forget your knife!”

  Harry stopped on the top step of the porch. Quivering with impatience, he pointed at the post beside him. The blade whistled through the air and sank into the painted wood not two inches from his finger.

  No one was better with a knife than Dehaan.

  “Thank you.” Freeing the knife, Harry stuck it up his sleeve and resumed his march toward the inn.

  The morning light struck him full in the face, but off on the horizon he saw a bank of fog waiting to envelop the landscape. The weather had been almost too perfect for their idyll, but the good weather was over, and with it, any chance of romance.

  For no matter what his mother demanded, he was not resigned. He was… oh, damn, admit it. He was eager. The night in Jessie’s arms had whetted his appetite for a lifetime of passion and laughter and joy. It had been so long since he’d noted the pleasures of life. The sunlight, the flowers, the birds had all been hidden from him, masked by the grim duties of his trade. Jessie showed him a world he had thought he’d left behind, and her uninhibited joyfulness lit the dark corners of his soul.

  Feeling like a fool, feeling like a lover, he gathered a single, late, wild rose, the exact color of her nipples, and entered the inn. Outside the dining room, he straightened his cuffs, touched the pin in the center of his cravat, prepared to propose— and confess the truth about who he was.

  But when he stepped in the door, he stopped short.

  Jessie sat at the same, two-person table she’d occupied the morning before. Just as before, she had her breakfast in front of her, and just as before, a gentleman sat with her. But today…today she observed the fellow with a bemused, amazed expression.

  With no thought but to renew his claim on her, Harry strode forward and towered over the table. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Oh! Mr. Windberry.” Jessie rose to meet him, a delightful young woman clad in the kind of frivolous gown she would wear to gratify her lover. Him. “I’m so pleased to see you. You’ll never guess who this is.”

  He certainly wouldn’t. The blackguard was a few years younger than Harry; handsome in an open, hale-fellow-well-met manner; well-dressed; and sporting a dark mustache that drooped over a repulsively smiling mouth. He came to his feet eagerly, with every appearance of respect and pleasure at Harry’s appearance.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea who he could be,” Harry said with chilly precision.

  As she dropped her linen napkin on the chair, Jessie smiled with blinding delight. “This is my third suitor.” She reached a hand across the table to the obnoxiously open-faced kn
ave. “This is Lord Granville.”

  Eight

  Harry had the funniest expression on his face, like a skater right after he landed hard on his rump on the ice—but Jessie felt no inclination to laugh.

  She couldn’t allow Harry to influence her. He hadn’t indicated any desire to make an honest woman out of her—well, why should he? she’d been free with her affections without expectation of return—and now Lord Granville had arrived. He had arrived, and he was so much better than she remembered. He was handsome and polite, making no mention of their previous acquaintance. He didn’t stink, he didn’t smirk, he didn’t leer, he didn’t bully, and he hadn’t tried to kiss her. Yet. If she had to—and it appeared she had to—she could marry this man.

  So she had to forget Harry and last night, and pretend an affection for Lord Granville and not shudder at his touch. Although with Harry looming over the top of them and glaring balefully, that could be difficult.

  “You’re Lord Granville?” Harry peered at Lord Granville.

  Although Harry hadn’t offered it, Lord Granville grasped his hand and pumped it, a smile wreathing his face. “Yes, Mr. Windberry, I am, and I’m so pleased to meet you. Lady Jessica has been telling me how you defended her from the other, nefarious suitors who have been so crudely courting her.”

  “Did she?” Harry clipped off the words with a show of white teeth.

  What did he mean by such rudeness? She couldn’t contain the leap of hope in her bosom. Was he… did he feel some affection for her?

  Granville began, “I would ask you to sit and dine with us, but—”

  “Thank you. I’d be delighted.” Harry snatched up a chair from another, unoccupied table and scooted it close. Seating himself, he crowded his knees between the table legs and snapped his fingers at the wide-eyed innkeeper. “I’ll be taking breakfast with Lord Granville and Lady Jessica.”

  The innkeeper bowed and hurried off, and Jessie experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Head forward, eyes fixed on Lord Granville, and mouth smiling savagely, Harry was the picture of aggression.

  Lord Granville seemed oblivious. Casting Jessie a rueful glance, he indicated she should seat herself.

  Harry noted and came halfway to his feet again. “That’s right! Ladies sit first! Always forget these niceties! Please, Lady Jessica, sit down.”

  She sat. She pulled her napkin into her lap. She wondered what in heaven’s name had possessed Harry. He was behaving like a yeoman at the squire’s table, forgetting his manners, speaking too loudly.

  Lord Granville considered the rose Harry held in his hand. “Beautiful flower.”

  Harry looked down at it as if surprised to see it there. “Yes.” He looked about as if needing somewhere to put it, then seated himself again and stuffed the stem into his buttonhole. “So, Granville, where’s your country seat?”

  Appalled at Harry’s insolence, she said, “You know very well it’s—”

  Harry interrupted. “Let him answer.”

  Lord Granville seated himself also, and chuckled indulgently. He really was a pleasant-looking man. He had a little too much facial hair for Jessie’s taste, but compared to Mr. Murray or Lord Jenour-Redmond, he was a wonderful suitor.

  She sneaked a peek at Harry as the innkeeper set a filled plate before him. Compared to Harry…but she shouldn’t compare Lord Granville to Harry. She should never again look at Harry, or desire would overcome good sense and she’d beg him to love her as she loved him. She had too much pride to beg… didn’t she?

  “My country seat is in Somerset,” Lord Granville said. “After Lady Jessica and I have wed, Windberry, perhaps you’ll do us the honor of paying us a visit?”

  “No!” Jessie said. Both men looked at her. She essayed a weak smile and pushed the points of toast about her plate with her finger. “I mean… we’ll want to be alone, surely?” She cringed at Lord Granville’s astonished expression.

  “But, my dear, I thought that, during your visit at Wildbriar Inn, you and Mr. Windberry had grown to be very close friends.”

  Did she imagine it, or was there an edge to Lord Granville’s voice?

  Beneath the table, Harry bumped her knee with his—on purpose.

  So he had noted Lord Granville’s tone also. Oh, dear. Her impulsiveness had landed her in a terrible jam.

  But the next moment, Lord Granville patted her hand. “Don’t worry, little bride, we’ll have our time alone.”

  With a grim set to his shoulders, Harry looked out the window. “It looks as if the fog will be closing in soon. The inn is so isolated, I hate to think how long we could be trapped here. Perhaps we should see if we can catch a ride inland.”

  How odd. From what she’d seen of Harry, very little frightened him, so why was he talking about the fog as if it brought evil in its wake? For all that she’d given her body and her heart into his keeping, she still knew very little about the man.

  Heartily, Lord Granville said, “A little fog never hurt anyone, and if we have to stay here for a few extra days, well”—taking her hand, he kissed her fingers—“I can’t imagine better company with whom to be trapped.”

  He really was a fine-looking fellow, with dimples he flashed on every suitable occasion and a charm that would make him easy to face across the breakfast table. She cast a glance at Harry. Harry wasn’t nearly as likable, or as easy to get along with, or as handsome. In fact, right now he was looking querulous.

  He said, “I hate to imagine what the atmosphere is like here when the fog blankets everything and one can’t see his hand in front of his face.”

  Lord Granville shoved his chair back as if he could no longer bear Harry’s timidity. “Lady Jessica, if you would give me a moment of your time?” He presented his hand.

  Inwardly cringing, she placed hers in his keeping. Lord Granville had obviously had enough of Harry’s irritability.

  Drawing her to the corridor outside the dining hall, he looked into her eyes and said, “Pardon me, my dear, for my cheek, but as your future husband I might suggest that you be a little cautious with this fellow Mr. Windberry. He is a very fine fellow”—Lord Granville glanced into the dining hall at Mr. Windberry—“in the height of elegance this morning. Yet he seems to suffer an overabundance of familiarity.”

  “Yes. Yes, he does presume too much on a day’s acquaintance.” And a night’s. But she kept that thought firmly in her mind and did not allow it to pass her lips.

  “Good. We understand each other. You’ll wait for me to escort you around the grounds.”

  “As you wish.” She could be submissive when she tried.

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes. I haven’t yet had a chance to unpack, and I wish to dress for the afternoon.” Lord Granville’s mouth took a scornful twist. “It takes time to achieve an elegance to match Mr. Windberry’s.”

  “Yes.” Modestly she lowered her eyes, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Windberry’s newly acquired style was for her. To court her. To make his intentions clear.

  Did he indeed have good intentions toward her person? Had last night been more than she dared hope?

  “You’re a good girl.” In a proprietary manner, Lord Granville kissed the air above her forehead and started away.

  Recalled to decorum, Jessie rushed into speech. “Perhaps, if you didn’t bring your own valet, you could call on Mr. Windberry’s valet instead. Dehaan is an artist.”

  Lord Granville halted in midstep. “Dehaan?”

  What was wrong? Why did Lord Granville turn on her, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed? “Yes, Mr. Windberry is not always so cosmopolitan.” Oh, dear, that wasn’t the right thing to say, either.

  A slow, broad smile stretched Lord Granville’s lips. “I shall certainly think about using Dehaan. Thank you, my dear. I most certainly shall.”

  He left her standing in the corridor, staring after him. He was a very odd man.

  Returning to the dining room, she found Harry eating his breakfast like a ma
n taking his last meal. Glancing up at her, he said, “Good. You’re back. Come on.”

  “Come on?”

  Grasping her hand, he towed her, resisting, out the door.

  “Where?”

  “To your bedchamber.” He towed her out the door and up the stairs. He seemed unafraid they would meet Lord Granville. In fact, he looked forbidding and intent. “I want you to stay there until I come for you.”

  “Why?”

  Giving her a look that forcibly reminded her how little she knew of him, he said, “Because I tell you to.”

  She didn’t care how forbidding he looked. “I do not do what you tell me to.”

  If her defiance impressed him, he hid it well. “Where’s your key?”

  “You will not—” Whirling her around, he pinned her, face first, against the wall. His hands groped her, but without passion. He did not take liberties with her body; he sought only her key, and that infuriated her even more. “Mr. Windberry, I seem to have given you the wrong impression. I chose you as a lover. I did not give you permission to command me in any way.”

  He delved into her pocket and found the key. Palming it, he pushed her irrevocably toward her door, opened it, and forced her inside. Following her in, he shut the door behind them.

  “Big, mean, stupid man!” Infuriated by his bullying, she punched his chest hard enough to make him gasp. “Tell me why you’re acting this way.”

  “I only have time for one thing, and an explanation isn’t it.” He took her head in his hands. He kissed her.

  As kisses went, it wasn’t his best. It was swift and direct. He opened her mouth to his and dominated her with the heat of his body and the thrust of his tongue. He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her neck. He acted as if…as if they might never kiss again, and for all that she was furious with him, she responded. How could she not? She loved the man, even if he was an mystery, even if he was arrogant, even if he treated her like a dithering idiot.

  “Harry, please,” she whispered, “please, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Instead he glanced out the window at the wavering fog. “Stay until I come to get you.”

  “Get me? For what?”