by Eva Leigh
“If that’s so,” Lady Farris said, turning to face Jess, “then it’s even better.”
Jess’s mouth fell open. “I— What?”
“English society, especially the ton, is an ancient, crumbling castle that desperately needs leveling.” Lady Farris took several steps forward. “And you, Miss McGale, are the incendiary device.”
“But I lied.” Jess stood. “To Lord Trask. To you, the duke. To everyone.”
“That’s something that you’ll have to live with,” the countess said evenly. “Which won’t be easy.”
Jess could only stare at Lady Farris. She had planned for many outcomes, but this had not been one of them. “You aren’t angry.”
“I am. I don’t enjoy being deceived.” The countess raised an eyebrow. “But I admire you, Miss McGale. You were no one’s pawn, which is no small feat for a woman in this world.”
“You humble me,” Jess murmured.
“Unfortunately, a small amount of humility is necessary. Even so,” the countess went on, tapping a finger to her chin, “I must ask, everything you did, the falsehoods you told, the role you played—what was the cost?”
A small, forlorn smile touched Jess’s lips. She touched the ha’penny in her reticule, which would, no doubt, become smooth and worn as a pebble from her constant handling of it.
“In the case of the duke, it cost me everything.”
Noel turned the seashell over in his hand, its smooth surface cool against his palm. He set it back down in its cubby before moving on to the next object in his grandfather’s cabinet of curiosities.
He hadn’t been in this room since he was a child, when he used to find the collection of oddments and rarities fascinating. His grandfather once employed a man to travel in search of new additions to the cabinet, and as a boy, Noel had believed that line of work was far preferable to being a duke. To his young eyes, dukehood involved the dullest of tasks—interminable meetings with dust-dry men, tromping off to Parliament to hear and speak to more boring men. Nothing exciting like hunting down fragments of ancient pottery buried within the earth, or collecting jewel-bright butterflies from tropical latitudes.
This morning, he’d awakened—alone as usual, sober, less usual—and was seized by a powerful urge to visit his grandfather’s cabinet once more. Perusing the shelves and drawers of curiosities was preferable to pacing and brooding and staring out of his study window, which was all he’d been good for since McCameron had hauled him out of the chophouse and told him the circumstances behind Jess’s bid to save her family’s business.
He’d thought of no one and nothing else. During daylight hours and in the evening, even in his dreams, where he still felt her touch and heard her sensual commands. When traveling around town, he directed his coachman to drive through Covent Garden, even if it was nowhere near his final destination. But he couldn’t keep himself from that place, burning with anger and sadness and aching to hear her voice again.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Grace,” his butler intoned from the doorway. “A visitor is requesting a moment of your time.”
“I said I’m not at home to callers, Symes,” Noel said, an edge in his voice.
“Understood, Your Grace.” The butler bowed. “I will tell her.”
Noel stilled, though his heart thundered. “Her.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Miss Jessica McGale. She asked to see you, and, barring that, she was to deliver a letter. Shall I accept the letter and send the young woman on her way?”
The shelves of the cabinet were crowded with things, so many things, all of them keen reminders that there was nothing that could withstand time. Eventually, all creatures, all civilizations, all beliefs—they all vanished. Leaving one with only the present moment.
“Show her into the green drawing room,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Symes retreated.
Noel picked up his coat, which he’d draped over a marble bust of a Roman senator, and tugged it on. His whole body was stiff and tight. He was a stranger in his own skin, but then, he’d been unknown to himself ever since the night of Ashford’s ball.
Were he wise, he would send Jess away, and burn whatever letter she left behind without reading it. Perhaps that was the fault of being born a ducal heir—he was unused to denying his impulses, and right now, every impulse and instinct he had shouted that Jess was near, and he had to see her, regardless of the pain it caused him.
After three leisurely, unhurried steps toward the green drawing room, he all but ran down the corridor. He made himself pause outside the door to the chamber. He fussed with the cuffs of his shirt—it became vitally important that just the right hint of white appeared at the edge of his sleeves—and then, with one shaky exhalation, he entered the room.
She stood next to the portrait of Noel and his sisters, studying it, then whirled around at his entrance.
Concern dug into him to see the violet circles beneath her eyes, and the pale cast of her face. Her dress—the same one she’d worn when he first met her on Bond Street, the one she’d had on when they’d visited Covent Garden—was too loose now.
He imagined iron spikes hammered into his boots to keep him from going to her and running a concerned hand across her forehead.
Silence stretched between them.
“You and your sisters?” She gestured to the portrait behind her.
“Painted when I was nine, Sophia was seven, and Elizabeth was four.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “One of them loves harebells.”
Of course Jess would remember that. Of course she had a mind as sharp and expansive as any scholar—because she was her.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said when he’d gone mute once more.
“I shouldn’t have.”
She winced at his bluntness, and, like a fool, he wanted to comfort her from his own words.
“I will go,” she said, her eyes bleak. “But I hope you’ll allow me a minute more.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Talk, then.”
“Your anger is justified,” she said after a moment. She did not fidget, or shuffle her feet. She was immobile, as if facing an inevitable fate. “I’ll never contest that. Just as I won’t contest your kindness at the Earl of Ashford’s ball. You could have left me to be torn apart, but you didn’t. For that, I’m grateful.”
He chopped his hand through the air. “It was instinct. I protect people I—” He bit back words he couldn’t let himself speak.
“Whatever made you do it, I’m indebted.” Her smile was melancholy. “Though I imagine you don’t want anything from me.”
“Perceptive as always.” His words were acidic in his throat. Then, because he could not help himself, he said, “Lost your investors, I suppose.”
“We did—all but Lady Farris. She pledged some capital to aid in our rebuilding. And,” she added, “thanks to you, McGale & McGale soap has become a fiercely coveted item. As of today, Daley’s Emporium will be the only shop in London to exclusively carry our soap. Mr. Daley has even agreed to finance part of the repairs to our operation in order to supply enough product to his customers, so between his funds and Lady Farris’s, we have a chance after all.”
“Jess, that’s wonderful.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he clamped his lips together to silence any more felicitations or pleasure in her accomplishment.
She seemed to recognize that he regretted his praise, her expression dimming. “It will require trips to the city to supervise shipments. But you don’t have to worry. I won’t return to London. Cynthia will oversee everything.”
He stared at her. “This must be the attainment of your ambition, why you infiltrated the Bazaar. Everything you wanted, you’re getting. You should be the one to come to London and enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
“It is.” She lifted a shoulder. “But there’s always a chance you and I would see each other, and”—her throat worked—“I know you wouldn’
t want that. It’s better if I stay away—permanently.”
His body locked to keep from staggering as her meaning hit him. She was giving up the realization of something that clearly meant everything to her—for his sake.
Yet she had been the one to lie. It had been her deceit that caused the chasm between them.
“I can’t praise the medicine when you administered the poison,” he said.
Her lids closed, and she shuddered once, as if trying to master agony. “It would be wrong and false to seek your forgiveness when I deserve none of it.” She opened her eyes, shining with tears. “All I can say is, I’m so very sorry, Noel. So sorry I was not honest with you. It was never right, what I did. It was all wrong. I was on the verge of losing the family home. Without that home, I’d lose my siblings, too. I was desperate to keep that from happening, and acted desperately, though that’s no excuse.”
She ran the back of her hand across her eyes. “Whatever you think of me, I want you to know one true thing.”
“Tell me.”
Her lower lip trembled—he remembered how she hated to show signs of weakness, but here she was, vulnerable and raw.
“Everything between us,” she went on, her words urgent, “was all true. Every moment we had together, I gave you my genuine self. There was no dissembling there, not in my words and never in my body.” Her smile shook as tears tracked down her cheeks. “Being with you brought me a happiness I’ve never known, and will never know again. I do not regret knowing you, but for the rest of my life I’ll regret the hurt I caused you.”
His body ached with the need to hold her, yet he had to deny that need. He had to deny everything because of her, and what she’d done. Didn’t he?
Goddamn this uncertainty. Goddamn her, and himself. Because he was flayed and had no idea how to heal.
“Your time is valuable, and I’ve squandered enough of it already.” She rushed toward the door, tugging it open. “Goodbye, Noel.”
He watched her go, his wounded heart following in her wake. The door closed and footsteps rushed away, growing fainter until they disappeared.
For several minutes he could do nothing but stare at the place where she’d stood. Her words rang within him—whispers that reverberated, growing and growing until they were as loud as screams. He’d never seen her so unprotected and exposed, but she’d had enough faith in him to be without defenses, knowing full well that he could have seized his advantage and torn her apart.
With her deception, she’d dealt him a blow that had proven nearly mortal. Certainly, it scarred.
But where did that leave him now? Where did that leave them?
He did not know if he could trust her again. But she’d trusted him, and that was something he could not cast aside.
A life without Jess . . . or a life with her. Damaged, yes, but wiser, and ready to move forward into an unknown but limitless future.
He wrenched the door open and raced down the corridor. Symes was in the entryway, making minute adjustments to a collection of porcelain vases.
“Where is she?” Noel demanded. If she was on foot, he could go after her, chase her down.
“The young woman looked distressed, Your Grace, so I took the liberty of putting her in a cab. She left several minutes ago.”
“She must have given her destination to the driver.”
“If she did, alas I did not hear it.” The butler clasped his hands behind his back. “Shall I summon the carriage?”
To run all over London, searching for her. Perhaps the kindest thing would be to relinquish her, allow them both to get on with their lives, because he was not certain he could ever truly forgive her. He was not certain of anything anymore.
Chapter 29
Jess stood at a safe distance from the workmen, hands on her hips as she watched the rebuilding efforts. The afternoon air was dense with pollen and sawdust, creating thick beams of sunlight as timbers were hauled into place. They would serve as supports for the roof for the open-air structure. New equipment stood nearby in crates, ready to be unpacked when the final nail had been hammered into the building.
It could not come fast enough. Three new orders were tucked into her apron pocket from shops across the country—Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham—eager to stock McGale & McGale soap. And with those orders had come a missive from Mr. Daley. The Emporium was nearing the end of their supply of soap, and currently had a list of customers eager to buy more when the next shipment came in.
“How much longer, do you reckon?” Fred asked, coming to stand beside her.
“Mr. Troutte says by the end of the week nearly everything should be completed.”
Her brother exhaled. “Can’t keep ’em waiting long.”
“We won’t.” She’d worked too hard, lost too much, to let anything stand in the way of McGale & McGale’s progress.
Fred clapped his hands together, the same habitual gesture of excitement he’d been making all his life. He beamed at her. “It’s truly happening, isn’t it?”
“It is.” For the past weeks, she’d done everything she could to secure the business’s future, including hiring the workmen for repairs, ordering and receiving the needed equipment, and staying vigilant in her bookkeeping so that their costs and profits were well monitored.
This was supposed to be the most thrilling time of her life.
Yet she was sluggish and fatigued constantly. Her siblings’ exhilaration seemed far away, barely glimpsed through a fog. She tried to join in on their eagerness, their good humor, and the sense of relief that at last McGale & McGale was no longer at death’s door.
She was here in Wiltshire, but her thoughts, her heart, those were both in London. In Mayfair, and that green-hued room that held the portrait of young Noel, his eyes playful but his arms wrapped protectively around his sisters’ shoulders. That room was the last place she’d seen him, and she pinned it in her memory to return to again and again over the solitary years ahead.
Cynthia strode up. “Someone’s here for you, Jess.”
“The business is yours and Fred’s now,” she answered. “I’m just here to help you two. Whoever’s come about McGale & McGale can speak to one of you.”
“Aye, but I don’t think this gent wants me or Fred,” Cynthia said. “He’s come a long way for you.”
Jess exhaled—she’d deliberately stepped back from being the figurehead of the business. She would help the operation grow and function, but it was no longer hers to steer. A month earlier, she’d wanted nothing more than to be in charge of McGale & McGale as it entered into a new stage of development. She hadn’t merely exiled herself from London, she’d deliberately exiled herself from joy.
“Go see him, Jess,” Cynthia said gently. “Only this once. He’s waiting outside the house.”
There was no harm in it this final time. “As you like.”
She headed toward the house, footsteps leaden. Perhaps it was Mr. Daley, come to see how his investment was progressing. Lady Farris’s capital had also assisted considerably, so there was a possibility that she’d sent her man of business to take a look at the construction.
Drawing nearer to the house, she saw a man waiting in the front garden. He was broad-shouldered and elegantly dressed and so spectacularly handsome that more than a few sighs went up—from men and women. There was only one man in the world like him, and a month ago, Jess had been fortunate enough to be sheltered in his embrace. She’d known his taste and his feel and, briefly, she’d known what it was like to have him care for her.
Joy and sorrow collided in her, leaving chaos in their wake.
There was caution in his dark gaze as she approached.
“Noel,” Jess said breathlessly.
“Jess.” He nodded at her, his expression giving away nothing.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. She couldn’t begin to guess why he’d come. Perhaps he was on his way to Carriford . . . but no . . . that was in the other direction . . . so why . . . ?
Cl
oser inspection of his face revealed a new gauntness, and there was dark stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“Are you well? Forgive me,” she added, “I’ve no right to ask, only . . .”
“I’m not sleeping,” he said, his eyes fixed on a point over her shoulder.
Pain on his behalf gripped her. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze found her face. “Why should you be sorry?”
“I don’t want you suffering in any way. You might not believe that, but it’s true.”
His look was piercing, going all the way into the deepest part of her. She tried to hold still for his perusal, yet she’d no idea what he looked for, or if he found it.
Agony twisted inside of her. She had this one chance with him before he turned and walked away from her forever, one chance to try to repair some of the damage she’d done.
“I am sorry, Noel,” she said. “For all of it. And I know that you might never believe that, but I will go to my grave cherishing my time with you. I will breathe my last breath content that, for a very short time, I had the privilege of loving you.”
Oh, damn. She’d said it.
His body jerked, as if she’d struck him. “What?”
“I didn’t mean to say that,” she whispered. “It’s not fair of me to speak those words when I know that you—”
He closed the distance between them. At his sides, his hands flexed, as though he struggled not to hold her. He demanded, “You love me?”
She’d thought she had cried her final tear, but her cheeks were wet. “I do love you. But,” she added hoarsely, “it doesn’t signify anything. Love isn’t a weapon. It’s not a way to bind someone to you or make someone feel obligated. It should be a gift, a blessing.”
His words gravelly, he said, “I went back and forth with myself for weeks, trying to decide what to do. Let you go, or go after you. Didn’t eat, couldn’t rest. Went nowhere and saw no one. Not even the Union. Because I had to understand it on my own.
“And I learned something.” His voice was low and urgent. “Love is many things. It’s a bullet and it’s a balm. Some people fire it with the intention to wound or kill. And others ease the hurts we’ve suffered over the course of our lives. Sometimes, love is both. It brings you such pain and yet you want that pain because it proves that you’re alive. It’s so much better to be alive and hurting than dead and numb.”