by Nancy Butler
Bryce lost his battle with restraint. He landed a blow somewhere below Armbruster’s heavy lips and sent the man sprawling back onto the carpet. Armbruster was on his feet in an instant, his agility surprising Bryce. But there was no stopping the righteous rage that had overcome him—he knocked Armbruster down two times more before the man subsided into dazed surrender on the carpet.
“Damn, you’ve got a punishing right,” Armbruster said raggedly, running one hand along his jaw. “Never seen you at Jackson’s…thought you were more of a pistols-at-dawn sort of fellow.”
Bryce stood white-faced and unmoving. “I would be happy to accommodate you, if that’s your desire.”
A look of alarm twisted Armbruster’s face. “No, no. I believe we’ve settle things here between us.”
“Have we?” Bryce asked dangerously.
Armbruster climbed shakily to his feet. “I’ll leave after breakfast, as you asked.”
“Before dawn,” Bryce intoned. “I’d make you leave this minute, but I never like to trouble my grooms over trifling matters.”
Armbruster took the insult—that Bryce placed his servants’ comfort before that of a gentleman—without a word of protest. But when Bryce turned for the door, Armbruster forestalled him.
“You’re nothing like I expected, old chap,” he mused. “From the tales I’ve heard about you, and from the goings-on at Bacchus, I expected to find this place a haven of vice. And when I saw that delectable bit of muslin in the drawing room, the alluring Miss Wellesley, I knew I was correct in my assumption. Yet now you tell me I need to mind my manners around the ladies.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You must be losing your touch, Bryce. Or else the fair Jemima has beguiled you.”
“There is nothing between Lady Jemima and myself,” Bryce said, “excepting that I am her host. Even I have some notion of propriety when I am in my father’s home. Now I bid you good night.”
“Trotting off back to her room, eh?” Armbruster said under his breath.
Bryce spun back to him and grasped a handful of his neckcloth. “Don’t make me sorry I didn’t horsewhip you, Army. And remember what I said—” His fingers tightened on the man’s throat. “One word, one whisper that sullies her reputation, and you’ll learn precisely how good I am with a pistol.”
Bryce thrust him away and went striding from the room. His blood was still simmering, but his head had cleared enough for him to realize that the man had been correct on one count—he did intend to seek out Jemima, if only to assure her that Armbruster would be no more than an unpleasant memory by morning. It would be prudent to wait until then to tell her, prudent to wait until his anger had cooled completely. Because he knew—just as he’d told Jemima—that while anger heated a man’s blood, it also heated his loins. And he had no business going near her in that condition.
She answered his knock with a shivery whisper. “Bryce?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Good. He could deliver his message from his side of the door. “I just wanted to tell—”
The door swung wide. She stood before him clutching a fireplace poker to her chest.
“I think you can dispense with the weapon,” he said as he was lured into the room by her wide, frightened eyes. He gently took the poker from her and returned it to the hearth.
“I was determined not to be a simpering damsel this time,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t believe I let him in here. What an utterly stupid thing to do.”
“You didn’t open the door for Armbruster, Jem. You thought it was Troy.”
“Armbruster,” she proclaimed, “sounds nothing at all like Troy. At least when I am wide awake. But I was half asleep when he knocked.”
“You don’t have to make excuses, pet. The man is a bounder.”
“I only thank God that you happened to be nearby.” She sank down onto her vanity bench.
“I didn’t happen to be anywhere.” Her gaze darted up to him as he continued. “I was waiting outside your room for him to come along.”
“You were?” Her face took on a wondering expression.
Bryce nodded as he crouched down before her. “I watched him all through supper. He looked at you with more appetite than he displayed for his boeufen croute.”
Jemima gave a tiny chuckle.
“I saw the way you shrank back when he touched you while you were at the piano.” His voice lowered. “Armbruster was the man, wasn’t he, Jem? The one you spoke of last night.”
She nodded slowly and said in a wavering voice, “I’ve managed to avoid him since last summer. A happy circumstance, you may be sure. I was so afraid when I learned he was to come here with Troy’s friends. But I hoped that he would not attempt to renew his…attentions to me. He was drunk that night, after all, and I thought he must surely have forgotten the whole incident.”
Bryce nearly growled. Christ, what man could forget holding Jemima in his arms?
“But it was a foolish hope. Even though he’s not sought me out in London, I must have done something to encourage him tonight.”
He growled in earnest this time and rose abruptly to his feet. “I am to blame for that, Jemima. As you pointed out that first day in the woods, Bryce Prospect is now a libertine’s home. And men of indifferent morals assume they may come here and sin with impunity.”
“I never said that,” she cried, rising to face him. “You have done nothing wrong. It was my brother who invited that creature here. It was Troy who welcomed Armbruster into his circle of friends last summer.”
“You should have told him, Jem,” he said softly. “Troy would have kicked the fellow down two flights of stairs once he knew how he had trifled with you.”
“And you did?”
“What?” He cocked his head.
“Kick him down the stairs?” she said.
“I am more civilized than your pagan brother. I merely ordered him to leave at daybreak.”
“Yes,” she said, taking his right hand in hers and placing a gentle kiss upon his raw, swollen knuckles. “I see how very civilized you are.” Her eyes beamed up at him.
He sighed hoarsely as her lips trailed over the tender, broken skin. He was rapidly losing his determination to leave her to her slumbers.
“How many times did you hit him?” she murmured against his hand.
“Only three.” He choked out the words as her soft mouth moved to the base of his wrist.
“That’s a nice, righteous number,” she said as she pressed his palm to her cheek.
He somehow managed to disengage his hand and tuck it behind him. It was trembling like a leaf on an aspen. Which was not surprising, considering the tremors of heat that were coursing along his lower spine and swirling down to his belly.
“You should have told me about Armbruster last night,” he said, trying to sound dispassionate. “You needed only to say that Troy’s friends made you uncomfortable and I would have forbid them the house.”
She made a noise of exasperation. “I did tell you last night. I repeatedly questioned you on your decision to let them come here.”
“It’s not the same thing, pet. You never came right out and said that one of my house guests was the man who attacked you. Good God, Jemima! Do you think I’d have let Armbruster within a mile of you, if I’d known who he was? The damned cad! I’ve a mind to tell Mrs. Patch to burn his bed linens.”
With him in them, he added wickedly to himself.
Jemima smiled. “I can’t account for this sudden change in you, Bryce. All righteous and indignant. What’s happened to the notorious libertine?”
He shifted away from her, went to perch on the arm of a chair, and sat silent for a moment. Jemima followed him and laid a hand on his hair, tracing her fingers over the waves that lay upon his collar.
“You don’t want the libertine, Jem,” he said with great weariness. “When I heard the way Armbruster spoke of you just now—as though you were a commodity to be haggled over—I heard echoes of my own vice. Traces of my own damned arrogance… Oh,
I like women. God, too well. But respect them or honor them…?”
“Or esteem them,” she added in a tiny voice.
“No,” he answered, lowering his eyes before she could see the anguish that had dulled them. “I can’t say that I’ve ever felt any of those things for a woman. They are playthings…pretty trifles…pleasing diversions to be used and discarded at whim.” He slowly let his head fall back. “I have rarely taken anything from a woman but idle amusement. And so suspect I have missed out on the best they have to offer—compassion and comfort…and love.” His words were laced with bitterness.
“Have you never loved, Bryce?” she asked softly. “Not ever?”
He opened his eyes and looked at her without one shred of armor. The fierce light she saw there frightened her, even as it answered her question. It was no languid fawning look of adoration he bestowed on her—it was, at once, a white hot blaze of hunger, longing, and bleak resignation.
Then the look was gone, and his mouth formed into a tight smile.
“I came close once,” he said musingly. “Though I never speak of it. Oddly enough, it relates to what you said before you fled from me last night.” He added in an undertone, “Lord, Jem, you’ve been fleeing from men since you got here, it seems. And only one of them was me.” He gave a dry laugh. “But I at least can make amends to you, even if Armbruster and last night’s intruder can’t.”
He rose, and then coaxed her down into the chair.
“It’s a point of pride with me, not explaining my actions to anyone,” he said as he settled himself at her feet. “But for you, Jemima, I am making an exception.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“I do. I owe you this.” He paused to draw a breath. “Last night, before you left my room, you made a stinging reference to young wives of men serving in Spain. I am aware of the unsavory scandal that arose from my association with that particular young wife.”
“You must know I didn’t mean to—”
He reached up and laid a finger firmly against her mouth. “Hush, now. Let me say it out. Lady Anne Webster was deeply in love with her husband, but she was also an extremely jealous young woman. She’d heard through malicious friends that her husband, Major Webster, was keeping a Portuguese woman in Lisbon… If you take my meaning.”
“The woman was his lover,” Jemima ventured.
“Exactly. Whether it was true or not, Lady Anne took it to heart. She decided to draw her errant husband back to London by being blatantly unfaithful to him and I, I am ashamed to admit, was not dismayed at the prospect of being the object of her dalliance.”
“Why would you agree to such a detestable scheme?” she asked with a frown.
“Because, my little moralist, I was unaware of her motives at first. Do you think I stop and assess what is on a married woman’s mind, when she casts out her lures to me?”
She muttered, “I am being hopelessly naive, I see.”
“Mmm. At any rate, she convinced me to travel with her to the Lake Country, where she had rented a small manor house. I fell completely under her spell—she was vivacious, breathtakingly alive, and I began to wish Webster at the very devil. Lady Anne had convinced me that her feelings were engaged, and in spite of all my years as a profligate, I believe I felt the…sting of Cupid’s arrow for the first time.”
“You say it with such scorn,” Jemima said. “Didn’t she return your love?”
He shook his head slowly. “I was merely a pawn, so besotted that I played straight into her hands. She’d done what she intended—set the ton on its ear by openly consorting with a libertine, and so made sure her husband would hear of it in Spain. She had only to wait for him to come for her.”
He turned his face toward her; it bore a grim expression. “I never realized it until later, but the coldhearted Lady Anne had every expectation that her husband would kill me when he arrived from Spain. But he did not come for her, alas. He merely sent a letter, informing her that he was beginning divorce proceedings.” His voice grew strained. “She tried to kill herself with my pistol the day his letter arrived.”
Jemima gasped. “Sh-she tried to shoot herself while you were there?”
“She came into our bedroom carrying the pistol…and a note she’d written, swearing that I had forced myself on her, badgered her, until she had no will to resist. I crossed the room barely in time to stop her from putting a bullet in her brain. She flew at me like a harpy then, spewing her rage. I realized at that moment that any tender feelings she’d shown me were only a pretense.”
She took his face between her hands. “Oh, my poor Beech.”
He shook off her touch. “Don’t pity me! Pity the wretched creature who loved so desperately that she wanted to die rather than lose her husband’s affection. Christ, you should have seen her… After she read Webster’s letter something snapped inside her and I… I think it drove her mad. I brought her myself to her parents’ home—she was nearly incoherent by then—and saw to it that they were given the note she’d written. It seemed the least I could do…taking the blame for her distress.”
“Another man would have destroyed that note,” she said quietly.
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Why should I bother? Even without her damning words, it was what the world believed of me. The merciless predator, remember?”
Jemima protested, “But she made herself available to you…she leased the house.” Her voice trembled. “She made you fall in love with her.”
Bryce tore his gaze from her. “If that was love, then I am forever done with it. But I suspect it was nothing more than a fleeting chemistry, which I foolishly mistook for a more enduring emotion.”
Jemima chose not to comment on his sudden glibness. “Did the major ever come back to her?”
He nodded. “But by that time her family had placed her in a private asylum and fostered the rumor that she had died mysteriously. When Webster met me over pistols, I never even raised my gun. I think I wanted him to kill me, Jem. Pity his aim was off.” He rubbed absently at his shoulder, where the major’s pistol ball had buried itself. “I… I stayed away from women for a long time after that.”
“I wonder you didn’t become a monk,” she said sharply.
His smile was tolerant. “I’d done with religion, as you recall. Besides, the leopard doesn’t change his spots so easily. And I discovered later that a streak of madness ran through Lady Anne’s family—she had an older brother who’d lost his wits before he turned twenty. It eased some of my guilt.”
“So there were no more married ladies after that?”
“No, only whores and trollops and bits of muslin.”
“And aging spinsters,” she added with a sigh.
He rose to his knees, slid his hands up to her shoulders, and shook her slightly. “Don’t say it in that way, Jemima. There is such life in you, such beauty. And humor and intelligence and warmth.” His voice grew wistful. “I thought I could make you see those things in yourself. I wanted to so very much.”
Jemima felt her throat close, as tears gathered on her lashes. “I thought you wanted only to seduce me… I thought it was a game you were playing to pass the time.”
His voice rasped close against her ear. “It’s not a game any longer.”
His kiss was not schooled by expertise this time. It did not speak of skilled, single-minded conquest, but of deep-seated need. His lips sighed against hers, touched her with gentle caresses and warm, buttery strokes. Jemima melted against him, finding a sure haven in his embrace.
“Ah, Beech,” she whispered. “You don’t have to lie…but thank you for making the attempt.”
“Not lying,” he said raggedly and followed the pronouncement with a brusque kiss. “I have never lied to you, Jemima. I swear I never will.” He carried her back against the cushions, her body bracketed by his arms, as his lips bore tender testimony to his words. They danced gently over her opened mouth, as he murmured wordless endearmen
ts. She gave a small gasping sigh, as his tongue glided over her lips and sought the warm recess of her mouth. She was drowning in heated nectar, so sweet was the taste of him on her lips and the feel of him against her skin, where his fingers curled over her bared shoulder.
There was more seduction in these gentle, earnest kisses, did he but know it, than in any heated onslaught. He was winning her with his restraint. Last night he had been lusty, bantering, an experienced man of the world. Tonight he was cautious, uncertain, and so very, very giving. Last night he’d wanted to take his pleasure with her. Now he was bringing her joy. Such immeasurable joy.
“Beech,” she sighed against his mouth. “I am so happy.”
“Are you, Jemima?” He stroked one finger over her lips in an achingly slow caress.
“Not just from this.” She captured his hand and pressed it to her mouth. “You gave me something tonight—your trust. And whatever happens between us, I will always treasure that.”
He sat back on his heels. “Is it such a valuable commodity then?”
“I think it is,” she said. She leaned forward and tucked her head into the well of his throat. His hands rose up to hold her there. “And it is more than I ever thought to gain from any man.”
Bryce’s heart wrenched, twisted in dismay that this lovely creature had such niggardly expectations from the world and from men. She should have everything a man could bestow on a woman: adoration, admiration…and love. No one deserved love more than Jemima Vale.
He cursed the life he had led, the life that had hardened him and sullied him. He raged at the foolish choices he had made that placed him outside the realm of decent people. Rakehell, they called him and profligate. And he was all those things and more. He had reveled in his chosen vices, and believed himself well lost to propriety. It was not until his home had been invaded by Jemima Vale that he realized how much he’d carelessly tossed away. It was not until his heart had been wrested out of its icy armor by this warmest of women, that he understood what it truly meant to love, and how it felt to know that his love would never be allowed to blossom.