She was too happy to care.
Dressing carefully in anticipation of Lord Christian’s daily attendance, she chose a deep forest green gown, one adorned with stark white lace at the neckline and sleeves. It seemed he was partial to green, for he complimented her grandly every time she wore the color. He said it made her eyes look all the brighter.
Much too anxious to eat, she breakfasted on tea and a mere scrap of a biscuit, then made her way into the library to find herself a book to read while she waited. Because it was still raining, she remained in the library as it was nearest to the front door. That way she’d be certain to hear the knocker when Christian called.
Never in her life had she bestowed so much hope upon one person.
Oddly enough, this morning Amos seemed resigned to Lord Christian’s attendance at Westmoor... though truthfully, that gave her pause for thought. She could only attribute it to the fact that he and Eliza seemed to be reconciling themselves to one another after last night. Really, the two seemed a pair of ridiculous lovebirds—to go from one extreme to the blessed other? Jessie could scarcely fathom the difference between them this morn. She shook her head in utter bewilderment. Merely a week ago, neither of them would have spoken so much as a civil word to the other, yet the two were making sheep’s eyes together all throughout breakfast. Who would have imagined? It really didn’t matter how they’d achieved it, Jessie was delighted for them—more so for herself.
By late afternoon, however, her joy had diminished somewhat. She’d managed to read full half her book before growing weary of it. When the print began to blur before her eyes, she snapped it shut, unable to concentrate upon a single letter, let alone make out the words. In truth, she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she’d been reading the volume upside down, so little did she recall of what she’d perused. She looked then, just to be certain, and was relieved to find it right side up.
Halfheartedly she skimmed another, but the truth was that she was bored silly, anxious, and a little bit disappointed he was coming so late.
What if he didn’t come back at all?
What if he’d changed his mind about courting her?
After last night, she would hardly blame him.
Sighing wistfully, she turned her thoughts to the kiss Christian had bestowed upon her last eve; she was at once encouraged by the memory. As though to savor it still, her fingers brushed her lips, caressing them absently in remembrance. His warmth somehow lingered there. She closed her eyes, and her heart thumped wildly.
She hoped, dear Lord, she hoped.
She wanted this so very much.
She started guiltily when the door to the library creaked open, and her hand flew from her mouth.
Eliza entered, her expression somewhat smug. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it. “Still waiting?” she said with an affectation of a sigh.
Jessie’s stomach turned, for she recognized Eliza’s mood.
“Really,” Eliza carried on. “Even should Lord Christian wish to wed you, I should think you’d desire better for yourself, Jessamine. The man is a miscreant, after all.”
Jessie bristled. “Why? Because he’s a younger son?”
God’s truth, she’d never been anything but sympathetic to Eliza’s plight, but of late her brother’s wife had become implacable in her resentment. “What sin is there in that? Amos, too, was a younger son once upon a time,” she pointed out. “Though how convenient for him—and for you—that Thomas perished when he did.” It was rude, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself, Eliza’s condescension grated upon her nerves.
Eliza’s face flushed as she came forward, angry now. Jessie could see it in her eyes. “Lord Christian is naught but a debaucher of women!” she maintained. “Mark my words, Jessamine!”
Something in Eliza’s expression gave Jessie pause. “Perhaps you know something I do not?”
Her stomach floated a little, for Eliza seemed to think on the question a minute too long. And then she narrowed her eyes, and her expression lost all trace of pretense. “I came to advise you, Jessie, so listen well... You’re fair enough, it is true, but Amos isn’t foolish enough to give you a dowry to wed the likes of that man. Penniless, you’ll be nothing to Lord Christian. Your brother knows it, too. Why else do you think he’d agree to such a farce, if not in hopes that once you discover the truth, you’ll wed Lord St. John without further ado? I came to tell you that you’re making a blessed fool of yourself!”
Jesse blanched. “I don’t believe you. Amos would never withdraw my dowry!”
“Who do you think sent me here?” Eliza asked, lifting her brows. “Amos would see Westmoor prosper, dear. If you truly must, then go ask him.”
The ensuing silence was excruciating, for the truth weighed heavily upon Jessie’s heart. Amos would do anything it took to win, she knew. Even as a lad, he’d fought his battles ruthlessly. Good Lord! She should have realized when she’d managed to convince him to reinstate the betrothal that he’d only done so because he’d never intended to play fair. Her brother never gave anything willingly. She should have known, and yet she’d been blinded by hope.
As though she’d not already said enough, Eliza broke in once more. “Do what you will, say what you must, my dear. Charm Lord Christian to your heart’s content. Though I fear I must caution you...” She glanced pointedly at Jessie. “You must endeavor to keep your virtue intact.”
Jessie’s intake of breath was audible. “How dare you!”
Eliza offered a self-satisfied smile. “I see you take my meaning. You see,” she continued coldly, “Lord Christian will not have you without a dowry, and I doubt even Lord St. John, who is silly with lust for you, would embrace a soiled wife. Unlike the others, he’ll take you penniless, but not despoiled. He’s much too proud a man.”
Jessie rose from the chair. Her eyes stung with tears. “You above all should understand! Good Lord! Were it such a simple matter as a mere lack of affection, I might wed Lord St. John without a backward thought, but I can barely tolerate that man! He’s old enough to be my father!” she added, somewhat hysterically.
Eliza simply shrugged. “As I’ve said before, love has little to do with anything. ’Tis a simple task to lie back and think of”—she offered a long-suffering smile—”more pleasant diversions. Really, I’ve no idea why you persist in this, Jessamine. Marriage is a contract, nothing more.” She met Jessie’s gaze. “Take Amos and me for instance... We’ve no affection between us at all, and yet we suit perfectly well.”
Jessie’s heart twisted. “Do you?”
“Now, dear,” Eliza advised balefully, her hand going to her breast in supplication, “you might go into this union willingly, with your brother’s blessing... or with his fury upon your head. But he shall prevail. Best you realize, at last, that he’ll not be swayed in this matter. He needs this affiliation with St. John. We need this affiliation.”
“He cannot make me wed if I am not here for him to command! Now, can he?” Jessie countered, feeling trapped, panicking. She hadn’t meant to say it, but it was out now, and she found she meant it fiercely.
Eliza’s brows lifted in amusement. “No?” She laughed softly. “Where else would you be if not here? Really, dear! Don’t be addlepated!”
Jessie sat a little straighter. “Charlestown! I shall appeal to Uncle Robert!” If she could but send a missive to the colonies, alerting her uncle of her arrival, he would surely give her refuge. There was little love lost between the two, after all.
Eliza rolled her eyes. “Really, and how do you presume to accomplish such a feat? How would you go?” she asked. “Fly with the wind, perhaps?”
It was a very good question, though Jessie wasn’t about to admit as much to Eliza. At the moment, she almost resented Lord Christian for leaving her to worry so. God’s truth, she didn’t know what she’d do without him. Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, Jessie composed herself and said with as much aplomb as she was able, “I’m sorry you were
forced into wedding my brother, Eliza.” Her limbs felt liquid as she moved toward the door. “Though why you seem to fault me for it, I shall never know.”
Eliza blinked at the accusation.
“You might inform my brother,” Jessie added smartly, once she reached the door, “that if he persists with this—this—travesty of a union, he shall, indeed, have earned my enmity! As to Lord Christian, he will return, I assure you! I will not marry that vile Lord St. John!” She opened the door and slammed it shut behind her, praying to God she spoke the truth.
Jessie was blameless.
For two miserable weeks Christian kept himself otherwise occupied so as not to call at Westmoor. He’d rebuffed every attempt Amos had made to contact him.
This morning he’d saddled one of his brother’s Arabians, telling himself he meant only to ride.
The one blessing of this ill-begotten sojourn was that Philip and his nagging wife were not in residence. He’d made it a point to learn his brother’s schedule and had bristled to hear that the place that had once meant so much to him was used so bloody little. It burned his gut, and only served to prove that Philip had taken his one and only bequest simply because he could.
God, what was he doing here?
Damned if he didn’t have more important things to do.
Such as securing a base port for his orphaned ships.
He clenched his teeth at the thought.
Word had arrived from Le Havre that one of his ships, the Belle Terre, had come into port there, and that the authorities had come aboard. While he’d been assured everything had been found in proper order, the officers of the vessel were now being interrogated. Procedure, he’d been told. Yet the thought of his men in the hands of the haughty French officials unsettled him—despite that he trusted his crew implicitly—mostly because after this incident, his ships would need to stay clear of France. At least until he discovered the cause behind this surprise inspection. Doubtless someone had pointed the finger at him, though who it was, he couldn’t fathom.
The list of possibilities was endless.
Fortunately France supplied very little of his illicit trade. Most of what he procured there was transported quite legitimately—as was the case with his English wares, but it was an inconvenience at least.
At worst it was treachery.
The drizzle that had plagued him most of the day had subsided, and the scent of wet loam rose with the heat-mist, lingering in the air, filling the senses. It was a familiar odor, though not a comforting one, for it forced Christian to consider his losses. Soothing to him was the scent of the sea; salt-mist so thick, it could be tasted upon the wind. Aye, he could nearly smell it now. He lapped at his lips and could almost taste the spray.
He closed his eyes, diverting his thoughts.
Soon enough, he’d be back aboard the Mistral. Even now, the ship was being prepared for his return. His lips curved as he thought of his newest acquisition. She was, by far, the largest of his vessels, a beautiful but costly ship made of sturdy live oak, and he counted himself fortunate to have her. The demand for well-crafted vessels was high, and Carolina-wrought ships were sought most of all for their exceptional durability. Their workmanship was unsurpassable. The Mistral was one such prize.
In his absence, she was being coated with pitch and tar; she’d be scoured and repainted next.
Hell, he’d even commissioned stained glass for his cabin windows—extravagant, aye, but he spent far more time aboard his vessels than anywhere else, and he’d have one place for himself that didn’t scream of meagerness. He inhaled deeply, anticipating his return to the sea, and the scent of sodden earth jolted him rudely from his pleasures.
At some point during the course of their first visit together, he’d concluded that vengeance against Jessie’s brother was pointless.
She would doubtless be the one to suffer its consequences, and the last thing he wished was to hurt her. After his last evening with her, he was more determined than ever not to wound her sweet little heart.
She deserved more.
So much more than he could offer her.
Christ, but he’d managed even to convince himself that he’d never intended to follow through with her brother’s asinine proposal to begin with, that curiosity, and curiosity alone, had prompted him to accept when he should have spat in the bastard’s face instead. And having convinced himself of that much, he’d determined never to see her again. His curiosity had been appeased, after all, and there was simply no point to it.
He couldn’t have her.
Didn’t want her.
Of that, too, he endeavored to convince himself. But it hadn’t quite worked that way. Like a besotted youth, he’d gone to see her again and again—even after that wise decision had been arrived at—bloody fool that he was! Who would have figured he would find the chit so damned engaging?
Damn it all to hell and back.
Grimacing at the turn of his thoughts, he tried to focus upon his commerce once more.
Nay... England would never do as a safe harbor. There was no way he’d bring his ships anywhere near her with illicit cargo aboard. Even if he could pull it off, he wanted no trace of scandal to mark his future here—concern not for himself, but for his heirs, of course.
Perhaps the West Indies—or even Charlestown would do... though Charlestown had never really been a smuggler’s haven.
The image of a black-haired child rose up to taunt him... hair as silky soft and shiny as a raven’s wings, a daughter with eyes so luminous a green, they made his heart melt with a single glance and his heart squeezed with a longing so keen, it was physical.
Snarling in self-contempt, he sawed the reins.
The truth was that the cab he had ordered had long since arrived. Nothing more required him to keep residence in this godforsaken place—certainly it wasn’t fond memories that kept him here. He’d written off the estate long ago. Along with his relationship with Philip, he’d banished every last trace of his former life from his heart. So then, he was left with only one explanation for lingering.
Jessie; he was reluctant to leave her.
Now that he’d made her acquaintance, he found he could not so easily put her from his thoughts, or his life.
He felt some measure of responsibility for her father’s death, he told himself. He’d never expected the man to be such a weak-kneed, feckless fool. Nor had he ever expected to feel any remorse. Yet as much as he’d like to deny it now, he felt duty-bound to look after Jessamine’s welfare. He’d purposely set out to devastate both her father’s name and his resources.
And God damn him to hell, he’d succeeded.
What he hadn’t counted on was the man losing a son, as well, and then taking his life over his losses. It had merely been his intention to give The Duke of Westmoor a small taste of what he himself had been dealt. The man had proven a weak-minded fool.
God’s teeth, why the devil should he feel guilty for any of it?
He shook his head in self-disgust, his jaw working, for the fact was that he did. Pivoting his mount about, he headed towards Westmoor, ignoring the warnings that sounded like foghorns in his head. But he had the distinct feeling he was going to sorely regret this.
Jessie marveled that no matter how oft the colt was brought outdoors, it reacted as surprised and delighted with the warm sun upon its back as it had upon its first outing. The instant she detached the leading rein, it darted away, bucking and twisting in a dance of euphoria. Then suddenly it stopped, ears perked, only to dance again without warning. She giggled softly at its antics. There was no question that the animal was altogether enchanted with life. She only wished she were, too.
Her knight in shining armor was somewhat tarnished.
Nearby, the dam stood nibbling at the grass. Every so oft she’d glance up to eye the colt, and nicker softly as though to reproach him—a useless gesture, for the colt merely dismissed her gentle rebuke, and her whinny managed only to attract Mrs. Brown’s attention.
Mrs. Brown, the old goat, had been a faithful companion to many a brood mare, and seemed to have grown particularly fond of the stable’s newest addition. The faithful animal seemed content as long as she had something to nibble, grass, leaves, the mare’s mane or tail. Jessie smiled. Once, even, the goat had managed to swallow a goodly portion of her skirt before she’d even realized it stood behind her.
Just now, Mrs. Brown’s ancient face appeared between the fence slats, head cocked inquisitively. As Jessie watched, the goat shimmied beneath the fence to join her companions. Hoisting herself up, Jessie sat upon the fence to watch the goat and mare sniff proper greetings to one another. Afterward, as though they’d shared some great parental confidence, the mare nodded and Mrs. Brown turned to scrutinize the spirited colt with a commiserative bleat. Despite her glum mood, Jessie found herself smiling at the amusing exchange, for they were not unlike a pair of gossiping old maids.
Christian spotted her at once, sitting upon the stable fence, her back to him.
He didn’t bother dismounting. She was so enthralled with the young foal gamboling before her that she didn’t seem to realize his presence even once he was directly behind her. She laughed suddenly, the sound low and musical, and warmth spread through his veins.
“Good morning, m’mselle.”
She swung about, nearly toppling from her perch upon the fence. “My lord!” Regaining her composure, she cast him a reproachful glance. “You startled me. How do you manage to appear so suddenly?”
Christian swung down from his mount, forcing levity, offering a wink and a smile. If she asked him to leave, he didn’t know what he’d do. “My apologies if I’ve disturbed you, cherie.”
“Not at all,” she said, somewhat sullenly, looking almost like a child with her slumped shoulders. There was no chance, however, she could be mistaken for a child, for her femininity was nothing if not conspicuous.
She turned away to watch the colt, avoiding his gaze. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. “In truth, I thought perhaps you’d taken your leave of Hakewell, for ’tis been an age since I saw you last.”
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