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Authors: Mary J. Putney

BOOK: The Bargain
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“Yes,” she whispered, tears stinging as heat and desire and fear scored her veins.
“I'm sorry, Jocelyn.” Straightening, he enfolded her in his arms, one large hand caressing the bare skin of her back. “I don't ever want to do anything you dislike.”
His body was a warm, strong barrier against the world. She hid her face against his shoulder, the dark fabric cool against her fevered face as hot, urgent blood beat through her. She wanted to bite him and wasn't sure if the cause was anger, or a need to taste him as he had tasted her. To absorb him until they were one flesh.
She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling for composure. “I . . . I did not dislike what you did,” she said haltingly, “but I don't know if succumbing to your arguments would be wisdom, or madness.”
His fingers lightly stroked her nape, sending shivers down her spine. “I'm not sure, either,” he said wryly. “Perhaps it would be best to consider what I said later, in cold blood. I certainly can't think clearly when I'm holding you.”
She gave a choked laugh, thinking that after tonight, it was impossible to ever imagine having cold blood again.
He lay awake for a long time that night, his unseeing gaze lost in the night. When leading a patrol in dangerous territory, he'd perfected the art of clearing his mind so that fragments of information could float and spin and combine with intuition to guide him and his men through danger to safety.
Now he tried to do the same with Jocelyn. All along, he'd had the maddening sense that he hadn't grasped the elusive core of her. Tonight, she had revealed some missing pieces of the puzzle. She feared passion, feared love, and the mother she claimed to scarcely remember was part of it. Most divorces were granted because a woman committed flagrant adultery, and that had probably been the case with Jocelyn's parents, destroying the family in a blaze of pain and scandal.
Yet despite Jocelyn's fears, she hungered for warmth and love. She reminded him of a feral kitten that yearned to come close, but skittered off at the first sign of movement. Still, her body responded even when her mind withdrew. He must try to win her with passion and friendship, never using the dangerous word love. A strange way to court his wife, especially since most women craved sweet sighs and vows, but he would do whatever might bring them close enough to create lasting bonds.
He sighed and closed his eyes, tired by the long, eventful day. It would behoove him to remember that he had been on his deathbed a few short weeks ago.
As he rolled over and wrapped his arms around a pillow that was a damned poor substitute for his wife, he prayed that he was guessing correctly about the mystery that was Lady Jocelyn.
Chapter 26
H
ot blood produced a very poor night's sleep. Jocelyn tossed and turned, alternately thinking intoxicated thoughts about her encounter with David, and despising herself as a wicked trollop for enjoying his kisses and caresses so much. She had always thought of herself as having a steadfast disposition. She had spent years in her thoughtful search for a man who would be a suitable life partner. Yet having found him, she was allowing herself to be distracted by another man.
Admittedly, David was an excellent specimen of male—kind, funny, and companionable, as well as attractive. But that didn't make it right to have her body involved with one man while her mind was involved with another.
Paradoxically, by the time she rose from her bed, she realized that David was right to say that she must learn about passion, even though his argument had been unabashedly self-interested. If she was to control her body, she must first understand it.
Moreover, having taken a small sip from passion's cup, she better appreciated how her clumsy ignorance was unlikely to charm Candover. It had been her married state that had made her eligible in his eyes, so she had better at least learn how to kiss.
Though her brazenness shamed her, she was forced to admit that learning a few of love's more modest lessons from David would be a great pleasure.
Marie arrived carrying a teapot on a tray. Jocelyn made a mental note to order chocolate, since that was her preference in the morning. As she stirred milk into the tea, she asked, “How is your room in the attic?”
Not a good question. Marie said with an expression of great suffering, “It is not like Cromarty House.”
“I suppose not.” Jocelyn sipped the tea. “Cheer up. In a week your Welshman will be here to share your exile from civilization.”
“Ha! Where was he when I needed him, when I was being attacked by wild bandits?” the maid said indignantly.
“Lord Presteyne proved capable of protecting us all,” Jocelyn pointed out.
Marie sniffed. “It would be much more romantic to be rescued by my own man rather than by yours.”
She choked on her tea. “He is not ‘my man.' ”
“He is your husband, is he not? And if you let him go, it will be a stupidity unparallelled.” Marie's brown eyes regarded her mistress like a stern nanny.
“That is quite enough from you, mademoiselle!” Jocelyn banged her cup into the saucer, her voice icy. There were times when she thought there might be advantages to having servants who were intimidated by her, and this was one of them.
Totally unintimidated, Marie asked, “What gown will you wear this morning, milady?”
“The dark blue muslin.” Jocelyn expected that the day would take her to some dusty places, so she'd better wear something that wouldn't show dirt easily. The morning dress was also rather high-necked and severe, which suited her mood.
After dressing, she went downstairs, quaking inside because she was unsure how she could face David after the intimacies of the previous night. Seeing Stretton, she asked warily, “Is Lord Presteyne about?”
“His lordship went out early, my lady. Would you like breakfast?”
Relaxing, Jocelyn ordered a coddled egg and toasted bread, then settled down in the breakfast room to make a list of questions for Stretton. The butler would be an able ally, but he needed guidance about what would suit David, at least in the early stages of restoring the household to what it should be.
She had finished her breakfast and was leaving the breakfast room when David strode into the house. Wearing riding boots and country buckskins, he was a sight to brighten any woman's morning—unless the woman was feeling embarrassed and guilty.
Before Jocelyn could work up a proper blush, he raised her chin and kissed her, his mouth warm and firm. For an instant she froze in shock. But it wasn't a kiss of seduction, or dominance, or possession. Rather, it was a friendly, uncomplicated expression of affection that made her feel very, very good.
By the time he stepped away, her embarrassment from the previous night was gone. A little breathlessly, she said, “Good morning. You must have risen early.”
“I called on the bailiff to discuss his views on what needed to be done. I'm about to find a horse so I can see everything for myself.” Taking her arm, he guided her toward the door. “Come, let us check out the stables together. As a connoisseur of horseflesh, you must be as curious as I am.”
His buoyant pleasure in the day was contagious. By the time they reached their destination, they were chatting as easily as ever. However, both fell silent when they entered the stables. Like the wine cellar, the stables were immaculately kept and beautifully stocked. Jocelyn gazed greedily at the sleek hunters, a matched carriage team, and massively muscled draft horses. Even her father would have been impressed.
Stopping at the stall of a lovely gray mare, she said, “This is almost enough to forgive Wilfred his sins.” Remembering how he'd locked David in the wine cellar, she added, “A few of them, anyhow.”
“My brother did have a good eye for horses.” David surveyed the long line of stalls ruefully. “A pity he didn't see fit to invest this sort of money to improving the livestock or planting better crops.”
Apparently his visit to the bailiff had been educational. Jocelyn stroked the velvety nose of the gray. “You'll do both, won't you? Farm well and have beautiful horses, too.”
“In time, I hope.” He sighed, his exuberance diminishing. “But not right away.”
With my fortune, he could do it all now, without selling wine and horses, she thought as she made nonsense noises to the mare. Between them, they could make quite a partnership—except that he wasn't the partner she wanted, nor was she his choice.
“You'd be the new lord?” a voice said politely. “I'm Parker, the groom.”
She and David turned to the newcomer. Parker appeared nervous, though he relaxed under David's easy questioning. Jocelyn guessed that the late baron had been temperamental, and his servants had learned to walk warily around him.
David asked Parker to saddle a tall dark bay. As the groom obeyed, David said to Jocelyn, “Would you like to ride out with me? The gray can be saddled while you change to riding costume.”
She hesitated, tempted, before shaking her head. “It's probably best you first see Westholme by yourself.”
“I daresay you're right.”
“With your permission, I'll confer with Stretton to determine what must be done in the house.”
He gave her the smile that always warmed her inside. “I'd be most grateful. I can command a company of soldiers, but I know even less about running a household than I do farming.”
Glad she could be of use, she said, “I'll be off now.”
He fell into step beside her. “Parker will be needing help in the stables. Would you let me have Rhys Morgan, if he's willing?”
“A good idea. He's made himself useful, but there really isn't enough work for him and my London groom both. I expect he'll be glad to find a situation so close to his family.”
The saddled bay was waiting for David outside, so he mounted and bid her farewell until dinner. She watched him ride away, unsurprised that he was an excellent horseman. He did everything well in a casual, unpretentious way. She wondered how he would do in the beau monde, where pretension was often a way of life. But even there, character and true worth would draw respect from people who mattered. If for some reason he didn't marry his Jeanette, there would be no shortage of young women eager to become Lady Presteyne.
On which remarkably depressing thought, she returned to the house.
David kissed Jocelyn again when they met for dinner. This time, instead of startling, she kissed him back most charmingly. He was making progress. Smiling, he escorted her into the dining room. “Did you have a productive day?”
“The house is in dire need of beeswax and elbow grease, but the structure is sound, apart from a little water damage in the attics. I found some fine older furniture up there, so most of the main rooms can be redecorated for almost no cost. Tomorrow there will be eight or ten women from the village here to help.” She grinned as she shook out her napkin. “They are all perishing of curiosity to visit the big house and catch a glimpse of you, if they're lucky.”
“They'll be better pleased to see a fine London lady, I suspect. What do you think of the house itself?”
She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “It's really quite lovely. The rooms are laid out well, and the large windows in the newer sections have fine views. Wonderful sunlight, too. We can . . .” Her voice faltered. “You can make this a real showplace.”
Pleased by that unintended “we,” he said, “It will be a godsend if you can redecorate with existing furnishings. I'm afraid that for the time being, there won't be much money to spend inside the house.”
She swallowed a spoonful of sorrel soup. “What did you discover in your survey of the estate?”
“Rowley and the bailiff weren't exaggerating about what needs to be done.” He made a face. “Also, that it's remarkable how much riding muscles will ache after a couple of months without being on horseback.”
She chuckled but refrained from comment.
“I'd appreciate your opinion on the estate. When would be good for you to ride out with me?”
She considered. “I should probably be around the house tomorrow, since the cleaning crew will be starting. How about the day after tomorrow?”
He nodded, a little disappointed. He was looking forward to guiding her over Westholme. Surely his love for the place would spill over to her. She already liked the house, and being kissed. If she would fall in love with the estate, perhaps she would end by falling in love with him.
Chapter 27
F
inding the house had been pure luck. Sally looked up from her spot on the floor, where she had been making lists, to gaze happily around the empty drawing room. When meeting the Lancaster family solicitor, she'd happened to mention her upcoming marriage. Rowley knew of a vacant house only a block from Ian's consulting rooms, so Sally took her fiance for a look.
They had both fallen in love with the house and signed the leasehold agreement immediately. The location was perfect—convenient to Ian's business, but mercifully separate, and far more spacious than the cramped rooms above his surgery. Sally liked staying in the same neighborhood so she could continue to see the Launcestons, now as a friend instead of an employee. Though a new governess had started, the Launcestons were generously allowing Sally to stay in their house until her marriage. She spent her days planning for her new home and helping Ian. It was a giddy time, full of possibilities.
Getting to her feet, she drifted across the room, admiring the fine moldings, and the way sunlight glowed across the polished oak flooring. It was nothing like so grand as Cromarty House, which suited Sally very well. There was room enough for gracious living, and someday, God willing, children. She could imagine spending the rest of her life in this house, and being thankful every day for her blessings.
In a burst of the kind of exuberance she hadn't experienced since her childhood at Westholme, she threw out her arms and whirled across the floor as if she were six years old again. The sound of laughter stopped her in her tracks as she neared the far end of the drawing room.
Cheeks burning, she whipped her gaze toward the front door and saw that Ian had just entered, using the other key. With his broad shoulders limned by sunshine, he was so attractive that her heart hurt to see him.
“I'd hoped to find you here.” Dropping his hat carelessly on the floor, he walked toward her, his eyes alight. “I see you're having a grand time, lass.”
She skipped into his arms, spinning him halfway around in her exuberance. “I am indeed. Oh, Ian, I have trouble believing this is all real. That
you're
real.”
His mouth descended on hers in a kiss that felt very real indeed. After an embrace that left Sally tingling clear to her toes, he drew back and surveyed her smudged face. “You've been in the attics, I see, and acquired dust in all sorts of decorative places.”
“I shall never be glamorous like Jocelyn, I'm afraid.”
“If you had a fondness for glamour, you'd have no use for me.” Putting an arm around her shoulders, he ambled with her into the dining room that opened from the drawing room. “Are you done with your list making?”
“Yes. The house is in fine condition. It needs some cleaning, and perhaps some painting, but we could move in tomorrow if we wished.”
“Actually,” he said hesitantly, “I had in mind getting married tomorrow.”
She pivoted to look at him in surprise. “Tomorrow? Not October?”
“I received a letter from my mother today. My brother Diarmid is getting married in a fortnight, and there will also be a family christening or two as well.” He took her hands in his. “Late summer is as quiet as my work ever gets, so it struck me that this would be a perfect time to take you to Scotland to meet my family. I'd like to show you off. Besides, I haven't been home in several years.”
So Scotland was still home, despite all the far places he'd seen. She found that endearing. “Naturally if we are to travel together, we must be married.”
“Aye.” A slow smile spread across his face. “And I've discovered that I'm braw bad at waiting.”
She almost melted at the warmth in his eyes. The rest of the world saw the brusque and brilliant doctor, but this tender, devoted aspect of his nature was for her alone. Heart brimming with love, she slid her fingers into his thick white hair for the sheer pleasure of touch. “Then by all means, my darling, let us marry in the morning.”
Two days of domestic toil put Jocelyn in the mood for diversion. Dressed in her favorite blue military style riding habit, she swept down the Westholme staircase, which was well designed for grand entrances, and now gleamed with polish.
David had been reading a letter, but he glanced up, his gaze arrested when he saw her. “Good morning, Jocelyn. That's a particularly dashing habit. Surely modeled on the uniform of the Tenth Royal Hussars?”
“But of course.” She raised her face to receive his greeting kiss. His lips were simultaneously soothing and stimulating. Quite a remarkable effect, really. When the kiss ended, she said a little breathlessly, “So much gold braid was irresistible.”
He grinned. “Would it be lèse majesté to say that the uniform looks better on you than it does on the Prince Regent?”
“Not lèse majesté, my lord—treason! But I shan't report you,” she said magnanimously.
He raised the letter he'd been reading when she joined him. “This just arrived from London. Sally and Ian are married and on their way to Scotland.”
“Really! What made them decide not to wait for autumn?”
“According to my sister,” David consulted the page, “
I'm sorry you weren't at the wedding, but this is a good time to visit Scotland, and of course I can't resist the thought of having Ian to myself for a whole month. Perhaps we can stop by Westholme on our journey south.”
“Splendid! So they are getting a proper wedding trip. I'm sure Sally made a beautiful bride.”
David looked at the letter again. “
Tell Jocelyn I wore the green silk gown with the remarkable décolletage to my wedding, and Ian was so distracted that he had to be reminded to say ‘I do.' I was vastly pleased with myself.”
Jocelyn laughed. “And well she should be. Because of Sally, Ian Kinlock is going to be a happier man, and probably an even better doctor.”
Catching up her full skirts, she glided out the door David held open for her, feeling a little wistful. How wonderful it must be to feel as sure as Sally and Ian were. The night they'd announced their betrothal, it had been clear how perfectly they suited each other. They flowered in each other's presence. Jocelyn had never felt so sure of anyone, or anything.
Briskly she told herself not to mope. It was a perfect summer day, and she had a fine horse to ride, a beautiful estate to view, and the best of companions.
Though Westholme had been badly neglected, the land was good, with a healthy mix of crops and livestock. She approved—market prices fluctuated, and variety would keep the income steadier. Besides grain, hops, and apples, there were pigs, a small herd of milk cows, and a much larger herd of the white-faced beef cattle named for the county of Hereford.
As they surveyed the cattle, she remarked, “The stock needs improving. One good bull should do it.”
Not a muscle in his face moved, yet her mind leaped to the job that a good bull did. Coloring a little, she shaded her eyes and looked into the distance. “I see a church tower. Have you been to your village yet?”
“No, but this would be a good time to visit.”
Ten minutes' ride brought them to the village of Westholme. Built of the local stone, it was attractive, though a practiced eye could see the signs of poor maintenance. Under her breath, she said, “Some of these roofs are disgraceful. I hope they are high on the list of things that will be done?”
He nodded. “I slept in my share of leaking huts in Spain. It's not something I feel others need to experience.”
Their conversation ended when every resident from toddlers to octogenarians emerged from the cottages to see the new lord. Experienced at greeting tenants and clucking over babies, Jocelyn accepted the attention easily. Though the role of lord of the manor was new to David, he also handled it well. As Jocelyn's father had been fond of saying, a true gentleman was never at a loss.
As she and David said their farewells, a young girl ran from a house and pressed a bouquet of roses into Jocelyn's hands. “For you, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Jocelyn said, touched by the gesture. These people hungered to believe in the new Lord Presteyne. Already, he had halfway won their hearts. By Christmas, they would be loyal until death—as he would be loyal to them.
A little sadly, she inhaled the roses, heavy with late summer fragrance. What would the villagers think when she left and didn't return? Would David let it be known that the marriage had ended? It would be easier, surely, to let them think she was dead. Or to simply return someday with a new wife, no explanations offered. That would be the lordly thing to do.
Since they were passing the church, which stood just outside the village proper, she asked, “Shall we stop?”
“A good idea.” He dismounted and tethered his horse, then raised his arms to help her down. His grip was firm and strong, frankly masculine. He held her a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Long enough to remind her of cool wine cellars and fevered embraces.
Blast it, everything reminded her of that encounter! She caught up her skirts and entered the church. It was very old, with a square tower that dated from Norman times. She strolled down the center aisle, glad that the vicar wasn't in evidence. His absence meant she could enjoy the soft light and the faint scents of incense and piety without having to maintain a conversation.
The most striking feature was a large stained glass window above the altar. Instead of an obviously religious subject, the design featured a rising sun casting its rays on trees and flowers, and a soaring white dove to symbolize the holy spirit.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, David said, “The old window was badly damaged, so my father replaced it with this one. He asked my mother to design the window as a tribute to their mutual love of nature. Her initials are at the bottom.”
“What a fine honor,” she said softly. Charlton contained no monuments to her own mother. Even the echo of the late countess's name had long ago vanished.
Feeling a little melancholic, she pushed a side door open and entered the tree-shaded churchyard, asking over her shoulder, “I imagine your parents are buried here?”
“My brother would not allow my mother's burial, even though our father had wanted it,” David said dryly. “In Wilfred's eyes, his mother was the one true wife.”
“He might have been able to keep your mother's body from this churchyard, but he couldn't have kept her spirit from your father's.” She thought of the radiance of the stained glass window. “I'm sure they are together now.”
His eyes softened. “I'd like to think you're right.”
A large monument engraved with the name Lancaster stood at the back of the churchyard. Jocelyn moved toward it, then halted when she saw two new graves to the right. Freshly carved stones proclaimed the resting places of Wilfred Lancaster, sixth Baron Presteyne, and the Honorable Timothy Lancaster. Next to Wilfred was a grave established enough to have a blanket of soft grass. The Honorable Roger Lancaster.
Sadly she contemplated the final resting place of the three brothers. Once they had been babies, symbols of hope. Someone must have loved them. Had they loved each other? What fatal flaw in their minds had made them heedless and cruel?
She still carried the bouquet, so on impulse she laid a single rose on each grave. After she had placed the last one, she sensed David come up behind her.
He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have a generous spirit.”
“Easy for me to be generous. I'm not the one who was tormented,” she replied. “They are gone, and you are still alive. The time for anger is past.”
His hand tightened. “You are wise. I shall try to do as you suggest.”
Briefly she rested her hand on his. Wisdom was always easier to offer than to apply to oneself. If only she could let her past go. “Where does your father lie?”
“Over here.” With a light hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the other side of the family monument. He stared down at the stone, expression pensive. “I stopped by here once, on the way to join my regiment. That was the only visit since the day my father was buried.”
Silently Jocelyn handed him the rest of the bouquet. He removed a small golden rose bud before laying the rest of the flowers on his father's grave. Then he turned and tucked the bud into Jocelyn's lapel, his palm lightly brushing her breast as he worked the rose into a button hole. The small, unintended intimacy was strangely provocative. Casual acquaintances kept a certain distance between them. She and David had closed that space without thinking.
“I've brought a picnic lunch.” he said. “Shall we enjoy it in the orchard?”
With a smile, she took his arm and they returned to the horses. She didn't even notice how easily they matched their steps to each other.
The orchard covered several rolling hills, and David took them to the crest of the highest, with a long view over the Wye and the patchwork fields of Westholme. He wanted to flood Jocelyn's senses with beauty so that she would never want to leave.

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