Not Always a Saint (10 page)

Furious, she shoved her hand lower and grabbed his testicles, squeezing with all her strength. He gave an agonized squawk and fell back toward the railing. She bolted around him toward escape, but she couldn't outrun his furious words. “You
bitch!
” he swore. “You and your brat will pay for this!”

Before he could say more, Jessie darted through the doors into the ballroom. The laughter and music were jarring, as if she'd fallen into a different, happier world.

She closed the doors behind her and leaned back against them for a moment, bending her head as she fought the desire to vomit. She must collect herself before anyone noticed that she looked like a madwoman.

Relax your expression. Smile. Stop panting like a frightened hare.
As her heart slowed to a more normal rate, she cursed herself for making a bad situation worse. Believing that Frederick had accepted Beth's inheritance had been foolish on her part. He cared only for himself, and she feared that a desire for revenge might overcome his natural sloth.

Would he be able to convince a court that he was Beth's father and should have custody of her? Marcus Harkin hadn't thought so, but he hadn't said it was impossible either. Dear God, how long would Beth survive if she was in Frederick's hands?

Jessie wanted to seize her daughter and run so far and fast they'd never be found, but Marcus had been right about the dangers of that. Jessie should have continued with her plan to marry a man of power and influence who would protect Beth. Might she be able to convince Sir Harold Truscott that he needed her for a wife? She'd consider that later when she wasn't so upset.

She raised her head and brushed down her skirts, then moved away from the French doors. She needed to disappear before Frederick returned to the ballroom. Would the Ashtons mind if she asked to have their coachman take her home? She would settle for waiting quietly in the coach until her friends were ready to leave.

Her restless gaze searched the room—and stopped when it reached the tall, compelling figure of Lord Romayne.

J
essie caught her breath when Lord Romayne turned and their gazes struck and held. As Mariah had said, the saintly Dr. Herbert fit her requirements perfectly, except for age, and that was hardly his fault. For Beth's sake, she'd overlook his saintly tendencies, and the dangers of him coming to know more about her.

His eyes narrowed as they stared at each other, intensity pulsing across the width of the ballroom. He didn't look pleased to see her, but neither did he look as if he despised her.

She'd been attracted to him from the beginning, and abruptly she recognized that her attraction had counted against him because her judgment in men had always been terrible when desire was aroused. But she was older and wiser now, and he was very different from the men who'd given her grief in the past. He was much more like Philip than like Frederick. Besides being a lord in his own right, he was friends with Kirkland and Ashton and Randall, all powerful men who could help protect Beth if necessary.

It was time to risk all. Hands shaking, she started across the ballroom, dodging dancers doing a reel. He watched, his face coolly impassive, only his eyes sharp with curiosity. And wariness, too, she suspected. She couldn't blame him for that.

She halted within touching distance, her pulse hammering. “Lord Romayne.” She moistened her dry lips. “May I speak with you? In private?”

He frowned, but said courteously, “As you wish, Lady Kelham. I believe there are some quieter rooms off that corridor.”

“Thank you.” She tucked her hand in his elbow and felt a shiver run through him. Or perhaps that was her own reaction to touching him.

The second door on the corridor was open and revealed a small, empty reception room. Jessie gave thanks that most of the guests were dancing or demolishing the buffet in the supper room, so they had this place to themselves. Lord Romayne detached himself and turned to her. His impassive face showed none of the warmth she'd seen on earlier occasions. “How may I be of service, Lady Kelham?”

“This is . . . difficult to say.” She'd rejected his offer of courtship, and he'd rejected her suggestion of an affair, yet the reason for both offers smoldered between them, mindless and urgent.

“Do you have an ailment you'd like advice about?” he asked in the helpful but neutral tones of a doctor.

He thought she wanted free medical advice? “Nothing of that sort,” she replied. “This is quite a different matter.” And it was going to be even harder than she'd expected.

Nervously she brushed at her hair, loosening a dark glossy strand to fall along her throat. It was unintended, but she was gratified to see how his gaze became riveted on that untamed lock of hair. This could only work if he desired her enough to overcome all the reasons he should run in the opposite direction.

“I wish to invoke a woman's right to change my mind.” She began pacing around the room with small, tense steps. “A fortnight ago, you expressed an interest in courting me. I refused, saying that I didn't think we would suit.”

“I was there,” he said dryly. “I remember. I thought you covered our differences quite thoroughly. What changed your mind?”

She smiled crookedly. “My head was trying to be wise, but my heart has drowned it out. I've been thinking of you ever since we met. I would be deeply honored by your courtship, and should you offer for me, I swear I would do my best to be the kind of wife you want and need.”

Her words visibly rocked him, but he said coolly, “Perhaps we should stay with heads ruling our hearts. We barely know each other, and what we know doesn't suggest that marriage would be wise.”

“I've never been particularly wise,” she said wryly. “Except for choosing my late husband, Philip. Marrying him was the wisest thing I've ever done. I believe marrying you would also be wise.”

“But would it be wise for me to marry you?” His mouth twisted. “That was your objection before.”

“That part hasn't changed,” she said honestly. “But you were right that we should take the time to know each other better.”

“So we can hurt each other more?” he asked in an edged voice.

She inhaled sharply. “I hope not. Isn't the fact that we can hurt each other a sign of caring?”

“Perhaps. But not a very encouraging sign.”

Despairing, she wondered if she'd already destroyed her chance with him. She must play her only trump card. “There is one thing we undeniably have in common, and it's powerful and very real.”

She closed the distance between them. When she was only a step away, she halted and raised a tentative hand. “I suspect desire is why we've been feeling each other's sharp edges up until now.”

Her fingers skimmed his high cheekbone and drifted through his bronze-blond hair while he stood rigid. Strong bones and deep-set gray eyes formed a handsome face where lines of seriousness were balanced by lines of laughter. If a man's character was written on his face, this man was strong and intelligent and kind.

“Daniel,” she whispered, and her hand curved around his nape as she drew his head down for a gentle, exploratory kiss.

When he'd kissed her the first time, it had been fire and frustration and had driven them both half-mad. Now she offered softness and promise, the better parts of herself. She drifted forward until her breasts pressed against his chest. He had a wonderful strong body, one she wanted to explore. But first she must persuade him.

“Jessie.”
He made a choked sound and his arms came hard around her, one at her back, the other circling her waist. He locked her tight against him as if he were a dying man and she was the water of life. “You drown my senses and my wits!”

His lips opened and the kiss deepened. After a wave of weak-kneed relief, she fell into their embrace, savoring his strength and warmth and the uniqueness that was neither doctor nor lord, but quintessentially Daniel.

She loved the feel of his quickening heartbeat and the slow caress of one hand over her hip. Why had she resisted him when this was so clearly right? The question faded away as she let him drown her senses and wits in turn. She wanted this embrace to last forever. . . .

The shocked exclamation in a woman's voice jarred Jessie like an ice-water plunge. Dear God, how could she have forgotten where they were?

She jerked away from Daniel and spun toward the door. A stiff, white-haired woman with an expression of malicious outrage was glaring at them through a diamond-studded lorgnette. “
She's
no better than she should be,” the woman spat out, “but I would have expected better of you, Lord Romayne.” Her disdainful gaze rested on Jessie. “Though men are so weak. Easy prey for trollops.”

Other guests were gathering behind the woman and were watching with expressions of shock or distaste. Dear God, there was Frederick, a vicious smirk on his face! He was surely contemplating Jessie's ruin and an easy grant of custody because Beth's mother was a slut.

The thought galvanized Jessie's petrified brain. “I'm so very sorry!” she said in a breathless voice. “We meant no offense. But Lord Romayne and I rather forgot ourselves because we've just agreed to wed.”

What?
Daniel stared at Jessie, wondering if he'd heard correctly. She was gazing up at him, a frantic plea in her mesmerizing eyes. Whatever was going on with her was not trivial.

This must be sorted out, but not in public. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Indeed, we owe you all an apology. Our betrothal is such an unexpected joy.” He did his best to keep any hint of sarcasm from his voice.

Kirkland appeared at the back of the gathering throng, clearing a path by sheer force of personality. Laurel was on his arm, looking thoroughly bemused.

The pair of them entered the room and Kirkland offered Daniel his hand. “Congratulations! Ever since you spoke to me of Lady Kelham, I've been hoping for your success.” He gave Jessie a glance that was ironic but not unkind.

Laurel stepped forward and gave Jessie a light kiss. “I am so glad that we are going to be sisters, Jessie,” she said warmly. As always, her presence spread peace.

With family acceptance of the betrothal, the mood changed from condemnation to best wishes. Daniel endured it as long as he could before saying, “Pray excuse us. I'm going to take Lady Kelham for a walk in your garden, Lady Dunhaven. We have much to discuss.”

Jessie looked justly wary, but she fluttered her lashes appropriately. “What a lovely idea, my dear! The gardens look so romantic.”

She certainly could act. How the devil was he going to learn the truth from her? Assuming there was truth to be found.

Laurel tugged off her wrap, a soft Indian shawl in rich shades of gold and dark red, and offered it to Jessie. “Take this. It's cool out and I don't want my brother's bride to take a chill.”

Jessie accepted the shawl, her expression surprised and moved. “Thank you so much. I look forward to getting to know you better, Lady Kirkland.”

“Laurel.” She smiled warmly; then she and Kirkland left the room.

Daniel draped the shawl around Jessie's shoulders with a proper show of solicitude. The rich pattern and colors contrasted dramatically with her black mourning gown. Then he took a firm grip on her elbow and maneuvered them from the reception room and downstairs into the night.

The cool air was bracing. As they followed the crushed oyster shell path that led into the gardens, Daniel released his hold on Jessie's elbow. When she gave him an inquiring glance, he explained, “This may be the most important conversation of my life, and it's best if I try to be rational. When I'm touching you, reason goes out the window.”

“I tend to feel the same about you, and heaven knows that we need to be rational!” She looked back at the house, where lights shone from many of the windows and figures could be seen peering out. “I wonder how many people are watching us.”

“Anyone who can find a suitable window, I imagine. We'll be a source of exciting gossip for at least a day, maybe even two,” he said cynically. “Lady Dunhaven is surely happy for the spice we've added to her ball.”

Jessie sighed. “I would have preferred not to be so interesting a guest.”

A stone archway led into the main gardens. The waxing moon cast enough light to see dimly and made it easy to follow the light-colored oyster shell pathways. The lush, faintly decadent scents of late-season flowers and bushes couldn't mask the misleading innocence of Jessie's delicate violet perfume.

Daniel's head said he should walk away and repudiate their alleged betrothal in the morning, but his heart—and other parts of his body—weren't convinced. As they moved through the geometrical pattern of the parterre, he said, “In darkness, it's easier to speak the truth. Will you tell me what that was all about? I don't think you were trying to trap me into marriage, though if that was your intention, you won't succeed. I'm perfectly willing to be ungentlemanly and jilt you if we can't come to an understanding.”

“I like that you won't be a prisoner to social expectations,” she said seriously. “I've always thought it mad that two people should be forced into matrimony if they're caught in a compromising situation. Though since I'm a widow, I don't suppose that was likely here. Your reputation is good enough that you'd be forgiven if you announce that we're not betrothed, and I'll be considered the villain of the piece.”

“Because you're a wicked woman?”

“Exactly.” She shrugged and turned a corner, the oyster shells crunching softly under her evening slippers. “I've never even met the woman who was denouncing me, yet she was quite sure what I am.”

“I need to know just how wicked you are, Jessie. Assuming you are wicked. So far, that's only hearsay.” Strange how directly he could speak to her. Was that an aspect of the physical attraction between them, or something else entirely? “We must take this time to learn about each other. I need the truth about you, just as you need it about me.”

They'd walked half a dozen more steps before she said soberly, “There are things I will not discuss, but I swear I won't lie. Where do you want me to start?”

Learning about her past might remove some of her tantalizing aura of mystery, he thought, allowing reason to return. “Where are you from?”

“Like you, I'm from the West Country. I've been in Bristol, so if you think I look familiar, that's why.” She glanced up at him, her heart-shaped face ivory pale in the moonlight. “I didn't live in Kent until I married Philip. You would have been long gone from the Westerfield Academy by then.”

He nodded at the confirmation of his guesses. “What about your family? You said your father was a vicar. Was that true?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “Apart from Philip, you're the only person I've ever told. I wonder why I did? I try not to think of my father. Ever.”

“People tend to talk to me,” he replied. “It's a function of both my callings, I suppose.”

“I think it has more to do with you personally than the fact that you're an ordained clergyman. My father was revered for his public piety, but a meaner, more intolerant representative of the Church would be impossible to find,” she said bluntly. “He gave God a very bad name. My mother died when I was young. I have few memories of her, but my father told me often how much I looked like her, and that was proof of my wicked nature.”

He winced at the vivid pain in her voice. “No wonder you despise vicars. Most are not like him.”