Moonlight on My Mind

Moonlight on My Mind

Jennifer McQuiston

Dedication

To my precious daughters, who remind me every day
that life is not to be wasted, and who, though they may not yet be old enough to
read my books, tell everyone they know to hurry up and read them so they can get
another pony.

Contents

Prologue

Yorkshire, England

November 1841

H
e wasn’t in the mood for a proper English miss . . . not that those words described the flame-haired hoyden lying in wait as Patrick Channing pushed his way into the foyer.

He almost cursed.
Out loud.

Which was just another example that he lacked the capacity for social niceties this evening, no matter that his mother was in the midst of a crushing autumn house party.

It had been a hell of a day, starting with a lame horse that would probably have to be put down, and culminating with yet another argument with his brother over something so trivial as to now be forgotten. The woman in front of him wasn’t the cause of his ill temper, but she was poised to be the salt in a wound that had long since started to fester.

She ought to be somewhere else. In the ballroom with the other guests. Sipping champagne and dancing. That she was skulking about in the foyer suggested either a lack of common sense or an ulterior motive.

He was betting on a combination of the two.

As he shrugged out of his greatcoat, he tried to dampen the flare of irritation the girl inspired. She’d been under his feet all week. Her name was Jeannine Baxter. Or Josephine.

Something with a J.

No doubt she would expect him to recall it, and then use it with exacting precision.

“May I help you, Miss Baxter?” He supposed she was pretty enough to warrant a second look if he’d been in a receptive frame of mind. Pretty and petite, in a fresh-from-London sort of way. Green eyes framed by thick lashes. Impressive bosom, showcased by ivory lace.

But a second look would require effort, and he was quite tapped out for the evening.

“Never say you don’t recall.” The girl offered him a perfect pout and fingered the edges of her fan. It was mid-November and threatening to frost tonight. That she was holding an elaborately painted fan and shivering in a gown that looked to have been composed of dust motes was a perfect example of why he was not interested in continuing this conversation.

“Perhaps you could refresh my memory.” He couldn’t ignore her, no matter how insistent the urge. After all, he was speaking with the daughter of Viscount Avery, his father’s good friend. He was not so ill-mannered or ill-tempered as to forget
that
.

The girl appeared unmoved by either his lack of memory or his curt tone. Her lips shifted to a practiced smile as she tapped her fan against his arm. “You promised me the evening’s first dance, Mr. Channing.”

Patrick knocked the mud off his boots as he tried to remember. Had he truly done something so ridiculous? He recalled a moment this morning when she had flirted with him over the breakfast buffet. Between the call of coddled eggs and the bleary hour, he had been vulnerable.

As if to confirm his idiocy, she canted her head toward the open door of the ballroom, from which leaked the opening strains of a waltz. “You’ve arrived just in time.”

Surely she wasn’t serious. God knew he wasn’t dressed for dancing. There was dirt beneath his nails, for heaven’s sake. He smelled of things best washed away, of horse and sweat and liniment. “I’ve just come from the stables and am likely to be poor company tonight. I imagine one of the other gentlemen might wish to claim this dance. My brother, perhaps.”

Yes, that was a better idea all around. If his memory served, Miss Baxter had flirted with his brother, Eric, this morning too. He recalled now tamping down the sharp flare of jealousy, although not over the girl’s interest in his brother, which was as predictable as the turn of a second hand on a watch. No, his discomfort had come from watching the attention Eric had commanded simply for being the
next
Earl of Haversham. It still chafed that his brother had returned home from London’s gaming hells—with empty pockets, no less—to their father’s proud smile, while Patrick floundered about the stables, looking for his place in life.

It had been almost six months since he’d returned from Italy. Four years of study at the veterinary college in Turin had prepared him for a profession, it seemed, but not for life as a second son. His father had tolerated his trip abroad, but Patrick had returned to England to discover his time away explained as “youthful wanderlust,” never mind the fact he was almost thirty bleeding years old. He was relegated to his father’s stables, and his new skills had been distilled down to a single gentlemanly allowance: improve the quality of horseflesh that resided there. No one knew of the nature of his studies, and worse, no one would be permitted to know.

Not that any of this concerned the girl standing in front of him. It was not her fault she personified everything his father and Society expected of him, and nothing of what he wanted for his future.

Miss Baxter pursed bow-shaped lips that threatened to lay waste to his imagination if he gave them half a chance. “I do not wish to dance with your brother at the moment, Mr. Channing. You’ve promised me this dance. And a gentleman does not renege on a promise.”

“What makes you think,” he asked, knowing that it was both an ill-considered question and something approximating the truth, “that I am a gentleman?”

Far from being offended, she threw back her head and laughed. “What makes you think,” she said, her words an infectious slide of syllables and amusement, “that I wish to dance with one?”

Her words—and her laughter—caught his attention far more effectively than the tap of her fan had. He regarded her a long moment, his gaze coming to rest on cheeks that were pink with amusement or something more interesting.

Julianne.
Her name came to him in an inspired flash. He’d expected a giggle out of her, though she was clearly out of the schoolroom. Perhaps a titter. Not that soul-inspiring laugh that seemed to build in her throat like a sweet, seductive mist. She was bold, this girl was. And propositioning
him
, not Eric.

Perhaps a third look was in order.

Knowing it was foolish but suddenly less inclined to care, Patrick allowed her to tug him toward the open French doors that led to the ballroom. He would probably track mud all over his mother’s floor and sully the girl’s gown with his ungloved hands, but apparently there was to be no help for it. He’d lost the heart for denial the moment she had laughed.

“One dance,” he told her. “And then I am bound for bed.”

J
ulianne paused on the threshold of the ballroom, scanning the crowd with a sense of anticipation.
Wait for the right moment
, she cautioned herself.

“I thought you wanted to dance?” Channing frowned.

Julianne ignored the irritation in her partner’s voice. Men could be thick-witted in her experience, but with time and effort, most of them came around to dim understanding. “We must time our entrance for maximum effect.”

“It’s been a devil of a day, Miss Baxter. I do not have time for games.”

She pursed her lips around a smile. What was life, after all, if not a delicious game? And Mr. Channing was her pawn, whether he consented to the indignity or not.

Most men—her father included—presumed the fairer sex incapable of competent battle strategy. For example, none would ever guess her maid had spent the entire morning lowering the bodice of tonight’s gown, to stunning effect. The gentlemen at the house party had been distracted from their talk of hunting for a good ten minutes when she’d first come down to dinner. To Julianne’s mind, those who underestimated the female mind deserved their fate.

Whether he approved or no, Mr. Channing was the only one here tonight who would serve the task at hand, no matter the stench of horse that clung to him like an aura. The first dance of the evening was far too valuable to waste on either of the other two gentlemen who had asked her to dance. Nephews of their host, Mr. Willoughby and Mr. Blythe had seemed affable enough young men, but the first dance of the evening called for a partner who would engender some competitive avarice in her true romantic target, and a politely pleasant cousin would do little to further her cause.

She squinted out at the dance floor, where a flash of color caught her eye. It was hard to make out details amid the blurry, swirling couples, but she thought she spied the green waistcoat worn by Mr. Channing’s brother. Her stomach fluttered as she imagined his faraway gaze settling on them.

“There, you see? Not so long a wait.” She placed her hand in Mr. Channing’s. “And surely your bed can be put off five minutes or so.”

“I am to lead a hunting party out at dawn. While it may seem merely a blink of time for you, Miss Baxter, I suspect five lost minutes will seem a regrettable length of time to me tomorrow.”

Julianne prayed for patience as he began to steer her around the dance floor with smooth precision, suggesting that while he might look—and smell—as though he slept in those stables he had mentioned, he had at least taken a turn or two around the odd ballroom. “Surely thoughts of hunting can wait until morning,” she chided, even as she craned her neck to catch that flash of green, taunting her across the dance floor.

“You are correct. My bed is the only thing I wish to think of at the moment.”

His dry voice pulled her attention back to center. “Surely your bed is not the
only
thing you might think of when you finally make your room,” she offered, letting a subtle but oft-practiced hint of suggestion leach into her words.

His attention jerked to her lips, as she had known it would.

Honestly, men could be so predictable.

But for heaven’s sake . . . he acted as though it were an insult to grant her a few promised minutes. And was no one at this crowded house party able to have a conversation without bringing hunting into the mix? The sharp edge of fun had long since begun to wear off the week, given that most of the gentlemen were far more focused on firearms than flirtations. At dinner, one poor young man’s eyes had practically rolled back in his head as he waxed poetic on the pleasures of stalking grouse. She expected such dullness in the gentlemen of her father’s set. After all, what did aging peers attend house parties for but to point their rifles at things they didn’t intend to eat?

But the younger men in attendance . . . they were proving a sore disappointment.

In fact, this very dance could be attributed to the boredom that had sunk its teeth into her almost from the start of the week. Her father had told her—quite sternly, in fact—that she was neither to pontificate on the importance of dancing over hunting, nor to foment small rebellions. Above all, she was not to publicly embarrass him.

Again.

Although really, the scandal sheets that had so enraged him this past Season had been rife with inaccuracies. It was quite an accomplishment, if you took the time to think about it. The obsession of London’s gossip trade with her every smile meant she had arrived at the top of the social ladder, that she was a gem to be admired and—if need be—discussed over afternoon tea.

Her father, however, had not been impressed.

Well, neither was she impressed with her father’s idea of fun. He had become far too circumspect since her mother’s death nearly fifteen months ago, and she had hoped this house party would help shake him from his melancholy. But the reality of this holiday in the country was falling somewhat short of her expectations. If she was to keep a hold on her sanity, it was clear she needed more cerebral diversions than archery or picnics by the lake. And apparently, given the droning monotony of this house party, it was up to her to invent them.

That flash of a green waistcoat caught her eye again, circling her focus back around to the real purpose of this dance. “Tell me about your brother, Mr. Channing. Does he not require a good night’s sleep as well?”

Her partner’s brown eyes narrowed. “Are you always so forward, Miss Baxter?”

“Are
you
always so tired?” She arched a single brow, a move she had perfected in front of a mirror by the age of ten. When properly employed, it usually sent its recipients scuttling for the safety of other company, or, depending on the age and fortitude of the adversary in question, their mothers.

Mr. Channing did neither of those things.

“I can hold my own in most athletic endeavors.” His lips held the promise of a wicked slant should they ever be fully unleashed, but he seemed to keep his expressions on a tight tether. “But I do find my aim improved by a solid night’s sleep.”

“I thought we were going to leave off with the discussion of rifles and the like.”

“Whoever said I was speaking of rifles?”

Julianne knew a moment’s gasping surprise. Was Mr. Channing
flirting
with her? He’d shown little propensity for banter this morning over breakfast, when his tongue had seemed as nondescript as his light brown hair. Only his height had been impressive. She’d been prepared for stilted dialogue and crushed toes in the name of advancing her cause. But this was proving more interesting than she had hoped. His words held a different essence than the topics offered by her usual dance partners. A drier wit, a sharper edge.

Perhaps not so dim after all.

Her eyes skirted the line of his jaw, and the hint of sandy-haired stubble that rested there. There were no easy smiles in sight. Then again, the easy smiles and clean-shaven faces of most gentlemen held ulterior motives.

She risked a glance at the couples spinning around them. Channing was nothing like the other men in attendance. The tedium of the house party sat like a threatened itch beneath her skin, and Channing’s words rubbed her in just the right way. He had been up to more interesting things today than archery and a picnic by the lake, of that she had no doubt.

What could he show her, if she gave him half a chance?

Julianne looked up at him through half-lowered lashes. “I hope you plan to set your sights on something other than grouse in these athletic endeavors, or you’ll be sure to earn a spot on the scandal sheets.”

His lips twitched. Not a full smile, by any stretch, but still a notable easing of that tight control. “Have a care, Miss Baxter. Or you might change your mind about the target in your sights, as well.”