The Clergyman's Daughter (19 page)

“Your father?” Mason prompted again, when Jessica, who had sulked
all
during the drive out to the woods,” refused to answer him. “I believe he was a clergyman, was he not?”

“He still is,” she said shortly, aware that she was behaving childishly. “His living is a village some miles south of here.”

“I see,” Mason murmured. “It must be gratifying to find yourself once again situated with your loved ones close at hand.”

Jessica bridled. “I hardly think my family can be of much interest to you, sir,” she said stiffly, glancing sidelong at him in a way that should have quelled the most obtuse of men.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Foxe,” Mason murmured; “anything to do with you is of considerable interest to me….” Before Jessica could react to that provocative statement, he continued smoothly, “Forgive me if I seem overly inquisitive, but I am by nature fascinated by all that goes on around me. The first requirement of an artist is that he be observant—and, surely”—he paused, and, leaning closer, his yellow gaze skimmed over Jessica in a way that brought hot, embarrassed color to her frost-white cheeks—“any man could be excused for taking a very personal interest in a woman as beautiful as yourself.”

Jessica’s green eyes flew open in horror, and she stared at Mason’s gaunt face, “Sir,” she gasped, “you are presumptuous! I have never given leave for you to address me so familiarly.”

“Does one need leave?” he asked imperturbably, and bony fingers gloved in lavender chamois fumbled for Jessica’s hand.

Recoiling in disgust, she gritted through clenched teeth, “Mr. Mason, if Lord Raeburn should notice your effrontery—”

A shuttered look came over Mason’s sallow face, and he retreated into his own corner of the open sleigh, but his eyes remained focused balefully on Jessica’s hot face, “Oh, come now, my dear woman,” he drawled scornfully, “surely you are on…intimate enough terms with our host to recognize that for all his unquestioned intelligence, he is not particularly given to
noticing
things! I, on the other hand, make it my practice to be always aware of what is going on about me—and I never forget anything, as some have learned to their regret…. If you have any doubts about my powers of observation, you might ask Lord Crowell.”

Automatically Jessica glanced toward the lead vehicle and the young duke whose plump body sat uncomfortably on the spirited mare Raeburn had provided for him. Daphne was still chatting with her brother about something, but Claire’s attention seemed to have wandered, and she was gazing wistfully at the party of workmen who had denuded the great tree trunk of its branches. When the big drayhorse proved skittish, Tomkins, the head groom, barked out an order and one of his subordinates quickly grasped the bridle before the horse could rear; skillfully he controlled the animal, guiding it into position as they prepared to shift the log onto the flat bed of the sledge. He was an attractive lad, Jessica’s artistic eye noted with impersonal appreciation, and for a fraction of a second her attention was diverted by the way the muscles rippled across the young man’s shoulders as he tugged on the heavy harness….

“Mrs. Foxe,” Mason said sharply, and she returned her gaze to him. Recalling his previous enigmatic remark, she asked, puzzled, “What did you mean about Lord Crowell?”

He shrugged coolly, but when he spoke, there was a definite undertone of menace in his quiet voice. “It can be of no importance to you, madam; do not trouble yourself about it. However, it might be advisable for you to remember that it never pays to underestimate me….” His mouth curled up in an unpleasant grimace that could only be described as a smirk as he elaborated. “Your distinguished brother-in-law underestimates me; he thinks me a pompous nonentity—and yet, in the few short days I have stayed at Renard Chase, I have already observed a number of things that the good earl would undoubtedly find most…disturbing were they to be brought to his attention.”

Jessica felt the muscles of her face stiffen painfully with the effort to remain politely expressionless as dread welled deep in her throat. She wondered if she were dreaming, if this were a nightmare of some kind; it seemed impossible that this conversation, with its undercurrents of threat and malice could truly be taking place out here, in the snow, with the frosty evergreen-perfumed air biting at her nostrils. “I—I cannot imagine what you are talking about, Mr. M-Mason,” she stammered.

“Can’t you?” he inquired, watching her intently. Jessica shook her head, refusing to answer his leading question, and after a moment he sighed. “Perhaps I am being unfair. I should not tease you because your feminine intuition has failed you, especially since I have come to value your…regard.” He paused tantalizingly, then he made a small, significant nod toward the first sleigh. As Jessica followed his gaze he said under his breath, “Considering the obvious closeness of the relationship between you and young Lady Claire, I am surprised that you have not noticed with repugnance that she seems to be directing her affections toward a person most unworthy to receive them.”

At the realization that he did not seem to be referring to her secret identity as Erinys, Jessica’s relief was profound but short-lived, counteracted at once by his ominous reference to Claire. Shivering at his confirmation of something she had suspected for weeks, she demanded, “Who is it?” She noted with odd detachment that she did not for an instant doubt the validity of Mason’s statement. The man was too concerned with his own self-interest to risk making slanderous charges that he could not support; even his cartoons, crude and cruel though they were, always grew out of at least a kernel of truth. “Claire’s seen no one but the family for months. Where could she possibly have found someone to fall in love with?”

“Perhaps…the stables?” Mason suggested.

Jessica choked. “The stables!” Then she quickly stifled her gasp of dismay lest it alert anyone else in the party to the extraordinary conversation taking place in the rear vehicle. “You mean she has formed an attachment for one of the
grooms?”

“It is not unprecedented,” Mason drawled, his smile twitching slyly. “Think, Mrs. Foxe, the highborn maiden, her beauty just now blossoming; the servant, a lusty young animal with broad shoulders and that engaging manner so peculiar to the Irish….”

Under the curtain of her lashes Jessica glanced toward the groom who had attracted her attention earlier: O’Shea…Fred O’Shea, that was his name, she suddenly remembered from the occasion when he had escorted Claire and her on their search for holly and mistletoe. At the same time she also recalled that she had caught those Celtic blue eyes of his surveying her figure with a boldness and self-assurance that had bordered on insolence. And now Claire…. “My God,” Jessica groaned, “Raeburn will kill her.”

Mason leaned closer to Jessica, until she could feel his breath moist on her face, and his hand groped for hers once more. “Yes, I expect His Lordship would be most violently angry…. In fact, I’d suggest that perhaps it might be prudent of you to ensure that he does not have occasion to learn of this sorry—”

“Jess, Mr. Mason!” Claire interrupted, calling out gaily as she turned in her seat to stare back at the second coach. “What on earth can the two of you be discussing so earnestly? I declare, you seem quite in another world!”

Jessica jerked away from Mason, blushing guiltily as the other members of the party followed Claire’s gaze. She knew that to them the whispered conversation must have appeared to be some kind of flirtation, and she watched stricken as Lord Crowell, who had finally moved away from the forward sleigh, chuckled ribaldly and winked. When her eyes passed over Daphne, whom she expected to be primly disapproving, she was surprised to find that lady nodding with smug approval. She dared not look at Raeburn.

In embarrassment Jessica returned her gaze to her friend, whose red curls bounced in innocent splendor beneath her fur-lined hood. Claire grinned back in amusement. Unable to speak, Jessica then glanced helplessly at Mason, who shook his head surreptitiously. “We’ll talk later,” he murmured under his breath, and as she settled back against the cushions Jessica wondered how three small words could carry so much threat.

Just how much of a threat she had no idea, until late that evening. After dinner, when the women rose to leave the table, Raeburn stopped her. “Jessica,” he called, a note of unusual formality in his deep voice, “I would very much appreciate your meeting with me in my study in, say, twenty minutes. A matter has come up that requires some…discussion between the two of us.”

“Of course, Graham,” Jessica replied, puzzled, and her confusion had not yet abated when she sat in a puffy armchair, sipping a cup of chocolate. He stood stiffly before her, massive and powerful, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his blue velvet jacket, and she had to tilt her head far backward on her slender neck to watch him as he announced baldly, “John Mason has applied to me for permission to marry you.”

Jessica stared. “He—he
what!”
She croaked, almost tipping her cup into her lap.

“He has asked leave to court you,” Raeburn repeated, peering down at her. “Didn’t you know? I was given to understand—Daphne indicated that she thought—that his request would not be entirely…unexpected.”

With trembling fingers Jessica set her chocolate on a side table. Ever since that disturbing conversation with Mason, she had anticipated that he would demand some kind of payment as blackmail for his continued silence about Claire’s intrigue with the Irish groom; she had thought he might ask for money or, more likely, considering his sycophantic nature, some kind of entree into the loftier circles of the
ton—
although how, Jessica had wondered ironically, he deluded himself that one such as she would be able to arrange those introductions…. But
marriage!
Had he conspired with Lady Daphne to gain that “reasonable” dowry she had hinted at so unsubtly earlier that day? The man was mad!

“Unexpected?” Jessica echoed. “Of course it’s unexpected! How dare he presume that I…. Well, I trust you told him exactly what you thought of his—” Shivering with disgust, she broke off, unable to frame the words. Tightly she gripped the arms of the chair, trying to compose herself, to regulate her breathing, as she waited for Raeburn to assure her that he had consigned Mason and his loathsome proposition to perdition….

Raeburn said nothing.

When his silence penetrated her troubled brain, slowly, fearfully, Jessica lifted slanting emerald eyes to meet his gaze. Aghast, she saw the hot color creeping upward over his hard jaw, and her eyes widened in disbelief until they were almost round. Oh, God, was he also a party to this arrangement? “Graham,” she whispered thickly, gutturally, forcing the sounds upward through a throat that suddenly felt as if it were filled with hot glass, “Graham, you did not tell him you—you approved his suit, did you?”

Her expression tormented him, but resolutely Raeburn’s face remained rigid, his lips hardly moving as he acknowledged, “I did not reject him out of hand, if that is what you mean.”

“Oh, Graham, how could you!” she cried in dismay, staring at him as if she had never seen him before. He was doing it, she thought in anguish, the very thing she had lived in dread of these past months; he was ridding himself of her unwanted presence by palming her off on the first man, no matter how disagreeable, who showed an interest…. She realized now with sickening insight that she had never until this moment truly believed that he would try to force her into another man’s arms—if not because of that nameless attraction between the two of them, then at least for the sake of Andrew’s memory.

“How can you betray me so?” she rasped, searching his stern face for some sign of remorse at what he was suggesting. “I was your brother’s wife. I
loved
him. John Mason is old and—and unattractive, both in person and personality, and now, after Andrew, you expect me to—to agree to share his bed, submit to his—his….” She screwed her eyes shut against the vision that assailed her, Mason’s skinny shanks protruding obscenely from beneath a long nightshirt, his greedy fingers clutching clumsily at her breasts, her…. She shook so hard that she was afraid she might vomit, “Graham,” she pleaded weakly, tremulously, “I beg of you, do not do this to me,” and she dropped her face into her hands.

Raeburn stared down at her bent head, consternation marring his broad features as he took in the defenselessness of her posture, her attitude. In all the time he had known her, he had never before seen her so dispirited, even abject, and he did not think he liked her unprecedented state of mind. The Jess he knew and admired had always been tenacious, a fighter, refusing to concede defeat long after any sane person would have abandoned the field. Often her obstinacy had infuriated him almost to violence, and in the beginning he had wondered how Andrew kept from strangling her—until it had dawned on him that she might be different with Andrew, that in the most intimate moments of their marriage she might have shown his brother a softness, a tenderness that Raeburn, whose life, for all its passion, had been singularly devoid of the gentler emotions, could only guess at….

His gray eyes narrowed as he gazed at Jessica, noting the way the firelight shimmered iridescently on her blue-black hair and shadowed the deep cleft between her breasts, and he knew that he was jealous, resentful of everyone who had some prior claim on Jessica’s affections. He was jealous of poor Andrew, envious of his dead brother’s pathetically few months of happiness with his wife; amazingly he realized he was even jealous of little Lottie, because that tiny red-haired sprite was the recipient of all her mother’s unstinting love and devotion. But most of all, Raeburn admitted with a stifled groan, he was violently and unreasoningly jealous of not just John Mason, but all the other men who would ever see and want Jessica, men who were free, who had no previous entanglements that prevented them from honorably courting her, wooing her, and—someday, for some incredibly fortunate man—winning her….

Hearing the strangled sound Raeburn made, and unaware of the struggle going on inside him, Jessica lifted her eyes to his and whispered hoarsely, “Graham, I know you wish to be rid of me, but please, please do not force me to accept Mr. Mason.”