“James,” Jilly said softly, the first time she’d uttered his given name in weeks. “She’s just a silly girl.”
“She struck you.” The words emerged as a raw, virulent growl, remembered fury drawing his muscles tense.
For just a moment her fingers squeezed his arm lightly, a placating gesture. “A silly girl,” she repeated, in that low, gentle voice, as if a mortar exploding at her feet would not have shaken her composure. “I believe I have had quite enough excitement for one evening.” Even with the stripe of red burnishing her cheek from the slap that Lady Beatrice had delivered, she still wore that tranquil smile.
Her hand slipped from his arm, and he felt the loss as if she’d torn his heart from his chest. She turned with practiced elegance to address their hostess. “Lady Atherton, I thank you for your hospitality. I regret my part in this evening’s, er, entertainment. Please accept my apologies.”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Atherton, a motherly sort of woman if ever there had been one, collected Jilly’s hands in hers. “I promise to take better care with my invitations in the future, and I hope you will not let this unfortunate contretemps color your perception of me. I would be so happy to see you again.”
“Of course. I would be delighted.” Although the words had been delivered serenely, James could see the curious brightness of Jilly’s eyes, as if they gleamed in the lamplight with a sudden wash of tears. A duchess curtsied to no one but royalty—but Jilly had, dipping a respectful, perfectly correct curtsey to their hostess before she turned for the door.
She managed even a small, generous nod of acknowledgment for Lady Beatrice as the crowd parted to let her through, and Jilly departed as regally as any queen.
Lady Beatrice had recoiled from the gesture as if Jilly had lashed out at her, and her face had flushed anew. The girl took a breath and released a light, derisive laugh, laying her hand to her chest and affecting a disdainful expression, in a transparent ploy to sway the crowd to her favor.
It availed her nothing. Jilly had made her exit gracefully; she had maintained her composure in the face of Lady Beatrice’s scorn, and all that had been wrought from the dreadful scene was a pall of shame over the crowd that had so gleefully witnessed it. No one cared to offer Lady Beatrice any comfort, nor to speak out against the duchess who had held herself in such refinement, nor to risk James’ wrath by suggesting by even the smallest action that they condoned Lady Beatrice’s foolishness.
There was little more he could do to the girl, and he suspected that if he did, Jilly would not be well pleased by it. She might have challenged the girl for her insidious brand of cruelty, but when Jilly had had both revenge and mercy in her hands, she had chosen mercy as easily as breathing. Kindness came naturally to her.
There was a lesson in it, though he doubted that Jilly had intended to teach it to him.
If only he had learned it before now.
Chapter Thirty Six
“The post has arrived, my lady. Mary is bringing it now,” Bartleby said, as he appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, where Jilly had been taking afternoon tea—substituted with lemonade, of course—and entertaining herself with a book. If it could be called entertaining. She had finally gotten around to reading Lord Byron’s The Corsair, and she had found it less than riveting.
“Thank you, Bartleby,” she said. She gestured to the low table, upon which rested a tea service and a tray of tea cakes. “Would you care to join me? I’m frightfully bored, and I would swear Cook is trying to fatten me up. I couldn’t hope to eat so many cakes on my own.”
Bartleby’s lips twitched. She had resolved to wring a smile from the man yet, but he considered himself quite dignified and had thus far resisted her attempts to bring him to humor.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be too far out of line to accept such an offer,” he allowed magnanimously, bending to scoop up a tiny tea cake.
“Oh, you shall have to do better than that,” Jilly said. Leaning forward, she whispered conspiratorially, “I’m quite certain she counts them. If Cook had her way, I would be plump as a Christmas goose.” Though she would be soon enough, anyway.
“I beg your pardon, then,” Bartleby said, and he swept another few tea cakes into his white-gloved hand. “Shall you want ink and paper brought to you?”
“Whatever for?” Jilly inquired.
“The post, ma’am.” He popped a cake into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I suspect it will take some time to answer. I have learned you prefer to do so promptly.”
“Is there…is there so much?” She had expected it to dwindle to nothing, given the events of last evening’s ball. It had been a freeing, if somewhat sad expectation.
“Quite,” he said. “Ah, here’s Mary now.” He took a step back as Mary entered the room, carrying a silver salver upon which a respectable pile of letters were placed. The poor girl had to move slowly, lest she unbalance the tray and sent the lot of it flying to the floor.
“My goodness,” Jilly said as Mary placed the tray carefully upon the table. Doubtless many of the correspondents had been in attendance at the Atherton ball last evening, and Jilly felt a flutter of trepidation. Experience had taught her that any attention she received would almost certainly not be complimentary.
She took up the letter opener that had been laid on the tray, holding it like a knife she might wield against the cutting words she expected to find contained within the letters.
“I suppose it’s better simply to get it over with,” she sighed, and she selected a letter from the top of the pile, slicing cleanly through the wax seal. She scanned the lines, her brow furrowing. When she had finished with it, she dropped it on the table and reached for the next. And then the next. And the next.
They all ran in the same vein.
“…had my head turned by foul gossip…”
“…regret to say that I allowed myself to be swayed by such base accusations…”
“…hope you will forgive an old woman’s foolishness…”
“…with such dignity, my lady, and I make no bones about saying that someone ought to have told off that nasty little cat ages ago…”
“…would greatly appreciate the pleasure of your company at our dinner party Wednesday next…”
“…our ball will be incomplete without the honor of your presence…”
“…would be delighted if you would join us at the theatre…”
Her head swam. Of all the things she had expected, this had never been among them. She had never been popular, not even when she had first made her debut, not even when she had first caught Adrian’s eye.
She did not fool herself that she had managed it on her own. Without James’ support she might have floundered—it had only been his resounding defense that had quieted the rumors that had flown about her. She had not expected such a thing from him, but she could not deny the tiny flicker of pleasure that had seared her when it had become clear that he had not come forward to censure her, that the indignation that had been scrawled across his face had been reserved for Lady Beatrice alone. She had never seen him so furious, and yet he had collected her hand in his so gently, as if he expected to be rebuffed.
In front of everyone in attendance he had declared that he loved her, expressed that it was her preference and not his own that had found them separated. Of course it was true, but she had never known a man who would have admitted as much before his peers.
And she had been…strangely touched by his consideration. As if it had resurrected a part of her heart that she had given up for dead.
“Well!” Mary said, plunking her fists on her hips. “There’s a lot of them, to be sure.”
“I’ll answer them later,” Jilly said. “They can wait.” Because she didn’t truly care about them anymore. She had cast off the chains of convention when she had decided to confront Lady Beatrice, and if she had won back the approval of the Ton, it came rather too late for it to satisfy her.
“But—but you always answer the post
directly,” Mary said.
“Not today,” Jilly replied, as she rose and headed for the staircase. “Today I have more important letters to contend with.”
∞∞∞
Nora arrived just after four, and she swept into the room in a swirl of crimson skirts, unintentionally sending the papers strewn about the floor flying.
“Blast,” Jilly said, scrambling for the ones that floated away from her, neatly evading her outstretched fingertips.
“What in the world are you doing?” Nora asked, reaching out to snag a page before it could drift out the door. She offered it back to Jilly, and picked her way carefully across the room, avoiding the pages laid out carefully there.
Jilly managed a small, awkward smile. “Lord Clifton brought me a packet of letters some time ago,” she said. “They were from James—the duke. All the letters he’d sent while we were in the countryside. He told me to read them, but I—I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it.”
“And now you do?” Nora settled on the sofa, arranging her skirts to fall flat. Her tone was idle, its inflection utterly bland, but Jilly thought she detected a faint hint of curiosity beneath the deliberately nonchalant layer of polite disinterest.
“I think I have to,” Jilly said. “I think I need to.”
Nora had been the duke’s harshest critic. Even Jilly had kept her thoughts more or less to herself, rather than expose herself to ridicule, to let anyone see the part of herself that was vulnerable and aching. She had expected a blistering retort from her friend, but Nora merely gave a vague gesture and sighed, “Well, if you must, then you must.”
Jilly bit back a laugh. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I’m afraid—what if I’m being foolish? What if this is a hopeless endeavor and it only leads to more heartache? I’ve had quite enough of it already.”
Nora cast her a sympathetic smile. “Then at least you will have cleaned out the wounds rather than left them to fester. But I suppose the only way to know is to begin.” She reached down and plucked up a letter at random.
“Oh, no!” Jilly gasped. “I’ve got them all laid out in order,” she said. “Since Lord Clifton didn’t think to arrange them.”
Ignoring her, Nora cleared her throat and began to read. “Nick—I say, is that Clifton’s given name? I had no idea—Nick. You must convey again to the Archbishop the urgency of my request. For Jilly’s sake, he must issue a license with all due haste. I know I shall have to tell her something, allude to some trouble with the other license, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to lie to her. I should have listened to you. I wish”—Nora paused, her voice breaking over the words—“I wish I had married her honestly. She will never forgive me if she learns the truth, Nick. God help me, I don’t deserve her, but still I could not bear to lose her.”
She laid the letter down, surreptitiously swiping at her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “That’s—that’s quite lovely.” Catching herself in saying something complimentary of the duke, she amended, “For a fiendish lout, that is.”
“Naturally,” Jilly replied, but her voice came out rather scratchier than she would have liked. She selected the letter that marked the beginning of their stay at Windclere, dated the day after they’d arrived, and began to read.
“Nick. I pray this letter reaches you in time. You were always the cleverer of us; it ought to please you to no end to have been right all along. I do love her. You’re a better man than I. I beg you, do whatever you must to salvage Jilly’s reputation, because I could not live with myself otherwise. I have been such a fool, and Jilly should not have to bear the consequences of my misdeeds.
I need your help. No—Jilly needs your help. I’ve enclosed a letter for the Archbishop. Please secure a special license for us with all due haste. Whatever he asks for will be given to him. Only have it done quickly. Please. For Jilly.”
She set the letter down with a shaking hand. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes still burning with the sting of tears, and she bowed her head to avoid Nora’s avid gaze. She took a deep breath, but heard the catch in it. Inside her chest, the knot of pain and humiliation that James’ duplicity had wrought began, slowly, to unwind.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Three days later, a firm, decisive rap on the door brought James to his feet, and he wandered from the library into the foyer in no particular hurry. He’d had enough of interfering busybodies poking their noses into his business, and Ravenhurst and Nick had both proved to be just as bad as any ancient old crone he’d ever encountered.
Though he did rather relish the thought of slamming the door in either of their faces. It made no particular difference to him which one. Only Westwood had seen the wisdom of letting him alone, though he suspected it had little to do with saving James the shame so much as saving himself another set of bruised knuckles.
He wrenched the door open, summoning his most forbidding scowl, and paused, arrested. Blinked twice. Croaked out, “Jilly?”
Her brows arched high, and she took a subtle step back, as if shocked to have found him answering the door. “What—where is your butler?” she asked.
“You took him.” Good God, he must look a fright. He’d put in a good effort as far as society events went, so as not to embarrass Jilly with the slovenly appearance he’d cultivated just recently, but the same could not be said of his attitude toward such niceties when at home. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and felt the new growth of beard there. He was wearing the same shirt he’d worn last evening, the same breeches. He hadn’t even bothered to don a cravat or a coat. No gentleman presented himself to a lady in such a condition.
“I mean, why haven’t you got a new one?” she amended, a burst of color blooming in her cheeks as if he’d censured her for stealing his servants.
“Complete lack of interest.”
“Hm.” Her lips pursed, and she tilted her chin up, her jaw setting resolutely. For once she looked at him without revulsion. It surprised him. He had never thought to see her green eyes clear of abhorrence again. But she simply looked at him, as if she saw him with new eyes, and he felt his heart stutter in his chest.
“May I come in?” she asked at last.
“Of course.” He stepped back, opened the door wide enough for her to pass. “It’s your house as well.”
That she had not liked. She snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous,” as she passed him.
He bit back a sigh, closing the door behind her. “Shall I ring for tea?” he inquired.
“No. Thank you,” she said. “I shan’t be here long.”
A long, awkward moment stretched out between them, in which neither of them spoke.
He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Just get it over with,” he said. “The worst had already happened. Whatever it is, I’ll give you no arguments.”
She nodded once, and then again, as if she were steeling herself for some unpleasantness despite his assurance. “I have not forgiven you,” she said without preamble.
“I never expected you would.” The words were even enough, and yet stilted somehow.
“Still, we are married, and—and it would be best if we determined how to go on from here,” she said. “To that effect, I should like to go to Windclere for my confinement.”
The words knocked around in his head, rolling about for a space of seconds before at last they clicked into place, and he drew in an unsteady breath. “To Windclere?”
“Yes.” She gave another nod, jerky this time, as if the inherent awkwardness of the situation pulled her in all directions. “If—if that is acceptable.”
“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Ravenhurst had expected you would go to Kittridge Hall, but—Windclere is closer, I suppose. And certainly you must take them with you; Windclere can easily accommodate them.”
“I would prefer for you to come as well,” she said.
And the world crashed to a halt once again, and his heart slammed against his ribs as if his blood had gone sluggish in
his veins. “Why?”
She didn’t look at him, but her voice was soft and reflective as she said, “It’s our baby, James. Not yours. Not mine. Ours. I have no right to keep it from you.”
He wanted so badly to pull her into his arms, to kiss away the melancholy he saw in the curve of her cheek, the uncertainty in the lowering of her lashes. But he had surrendered that right the moment he had approached her with ill intentions.
Instead he fisted his hands at his sides and said, rather gruffly, “Of course. I would be honored.”
She nodded once more, and he saw the erratic lift and fall of her chest with each breath she drew. “I will send you a note,” she said. And then she was gone.
∞∞∞
He saw little of Jilly over the weeks that passed. Though he had been assured by Ravenhurst—or rather, his occasional virago of a wife who had somehow arrived at the conclusion that James was once again worthy of at least her cordiality—that Jilly had come out the other side of that scene at the Atherton ball unscathed and had been “invited everywhere, just everywhere,” she had instead sent her regrets to most of the invitations.
He wondered why, now that the worst of the gossip had passed, she chose instead to avoid social engagements. He wished they were on amicable enough terms that he might ask her. But she had said nothing to suggest she would welcome his company, and so he let her well enough alone and privately mourned the loss of even so much of a glimpse of her across a crowded ballroom.
A few weeks later, however, a note arrived at his door.
I intend to leave London on Friday, it read. May I bring Bartleby and Mary?
And he clutched it in hands, brought it to his face, and sniffed it for even the smallest hint of that sweet scent she wore, the faintest traces of almond and vanilla, anything to remember her to him. She could bring the entirety of the Royal Navy for all he cared, and he would make them welcome.
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