The Marsh Hawk (7 page)

“He says much the same of you, my lord,” she snapped haughtily.

“We shall never know now whom you should believe, shall we?” His eyes darkened and he smiled, but there was neither humor nor warmth in it. “The thing I find amusing is that you nearly compromised your honor for naught. But your virtue is still reasonably untarnished, and since, contrary to your belief, I
am
a gentleman, your secret is quite safe with me. Sleep well, my lady.” He offered a crisp bow and brushed by her, stirring the air.

The aroma of his exotic tobacco teased her nostrils as he passed. It overpowered the lilacs. Where had she smelled it before? Was it in the library when he'd made his apology? Her brain was too addled to recall. The pressure of his kiss still numbed her mouth. The touch of his hands on her skin still lingered. Her breast still tingled from his roughened fingers. How could he have thought she would have sacrificed her chastity? But he had, and what's more she had nearly let him take it. She shuddered. He had stolen the warmth from the garden. A cold wind rose stirring the lilacs, it riddled her damp, flushed skin with gooseflesh. Pulling her pelerine close about her, she crept back unseen to her rooms.

Phelps, his valet, was waiting when Kevernwood stomped into his dressing room wilted from dampness, rubbing Jenna's smarting raised handprint on his left cheek. The valet's right eyebrow lifted. It was enough to earn him a scathing look.

“Don't start,” the earl warned.

The valet's eyebrow inched a little higher before it lowered. “I haven't said a word, my lord,” he intoned.

“But you will,” Simon said. He yanked his shirt out of his pantaloons, flopped in the wing chair beside the dead hearth, and raised his legs. “Just help me out of these first, if you don't mind. The deuced dampness has got me soaked clear through.”

The valet took hold of the Hessians the earl aimed toward him, clicking his tongue as he yanked them off, first one and then the other. The lawns had been freshly scythed for the weekend, and the boots were covered with grass spears.

“I'll have to use the new boot polish—the one with the champagne base,” the man observed. “The old will never address this fine state you've put them in.”

The earl grunted, struggling out of the rest of his clothes, and stood while the valet helped him into his burgundy brocade dressing gown. He cinched the sash ruthlessly and flopped back down in the chair again.

“I take it that the viscount has not cried off?” Phelps said, setting the earl's clothes aside. He poured a brandy and handed it over.

“Hm?” the earl grunted, taking the snifter. The duel was the farthest thing from his mind just then. His lips still tingled from Jenna's kiss, and stubborn waves of pulsating warmth still grieved his loins. How could he have been so mistaken about the girl? How had he misread her furtive glances? He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The pressure of her slender body was still with him, molded to his with precious little in between—nothing but that ridiculously thin pelerine and gauzy nightdress. He would have bet his blunt that she was not in love with Rupert Marner. The man was a coxcomb. He couldn't even be termed a Corinthian; he hadn't the measure of a sportsman—reckless or otherwise. Were the Hollingsworths in Dun territory that they had to contract such a union? He hadn't heard of it. And that was his business, after all, keeping tabs on who among the aristocracy were plump in the pockets or parvenu, and who were putting on tick. That could only mean that Jenna was in love with Marner, as if he needed to wonder. Hadn't she just proven that? Hadn't she just nearly sacrificed her honor to ensure his safety? Yes, his pride was wounded, but it was more than that. His heart had taken a direct hit the moment he clapped eyes on her on that staircase. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

The valet cleared his voice, bringing him back to earth. “The viscount, my lord,” he prompted. “Perchance, has he had the good sense to withdraw?”

“Of course not.”

“And, I don't suppose that you—”

“What? And have it bruited about at court that the Earl of Kevernwood is a coward? You know better than to even ask.”

“I warned you not to accept the Marners' invitation, my lord. Why ever did you, when you know that they hold you up to ridicule?”

Phelps had been with him since he was a boy, and Simon considered the valet more the father he wished he'd had than the loyal servant he was, hence the liberties the man sometimes took were often overlooked. Their relationship was such that, the earl's body language often sufficed for the spoken word, like now, when his telltale clenched fists bespoke a warning—which, much to his chagrin, however, also like now, rarely served to keep the servant in his place.

“For two reasons,” Kevernwood replied. “Firstly, I thought it prudent to put Evy and Crispin forward in society. Evy is about to have her come-out, as you well know, and Crispin is embarking upon a naval career. Such weekends are important to them, Phelps. And just because I am ostracized by jealous fops such as Marner does not credit them being shunned as well. I've put too much effort into ensuring just the opposite.”

The valet waited a diplomatic interval, and when no further discourse followed said, “And . . . the other reason?”

“You know perfectly well the other reason,” the earl snapped, scowling. “Look around you, Phelps. You're no nodcock. All these chickens to be plucked, how could I resist?”

“But that costume, my lord! What could you have been thinking? I told you—”

“Do let me have my bit of fun,” Simon interrupted.

“The lady did not appreciate your wit, my lord,” the valet responded, wagging his head in disapproval.

“That was unfortunate,” the earl agreed. His face fell, and he breathed a tremulous sigh.

“I take it that is her . . . er . . . signature on your face there, my lord?”

“Deuced female misrepresented herself,” Kevernwood growled, rubbing his cheek.

“That's odd. I took her for quite well to pass.”

“Yes, well, you are hardly an expert on the wiles of women, old boy.”

The valet never smiled, yet somehow Simon always knew when his humor was appreciated.

“She is betrothed, my lord,” Phelps pressed on. “What made you think your advances would be welcome?”

“I didn't ‘think,' I hoped.”

“Ahhh, so it isn't just the usual dalliance, this. You've formed a
tendre
for the lady.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Simon barked. Damn it all! How was it that the man could always see into his heart and soul? Was he so transparent? It was most exasperating.

“I have seen you every which way with women over the years, my lord,” said Phelps, “but I have never seen you lose your heart before. It is quite disconcerting to witness—and dangerous, I might point out, considering your . . . enterprise, if you take my meaning?”

“I have not lost my heart, I've lost my head—temporarily. My brother made the fatal mistake you accuse me of, if you remember? I shan't be tarred by the same brush.”

Phelps cast him an articulate look down his slightly crooked nose that told him he did not believe a word.

“If you must know, since I can see I shall have no peace 'til I tell you, she was ready to compromise her reputation to ensure that popinjay's safety in the duel.”

“That's another thing,” Phelps said. “You aren't in any condition to fight a duel. And with the épée, no less! Have you gone addle witted? Think of the exertion. You're scarcely recovered from the shoulder wound. Pistols would have been the better choice.”

“That would have taken unfair advantage. Besides, he's hardly worth hanging over.”

“So, you're giving him the field?”

“Just stubble it! I know what I'm about.”

“I hope you do, my lord. I certainly hope you do.”

The earl shifted in the chair again. Jenna was still with him—he could taste her. He was steeped in her scent: the intoxicating fragrance of lavender married with rosemary.

“I want a bath,” he announced, surging to his feet.

“A
bath
, my lord?” Phelps blurted. “Where am I to get hot water at this hour?”

“I'll have it cold.”

“
Cold
? Will that be good for your leg, my lord?”

“My leg is not the part of my anatomy that concerns me at the moment, Phelps. Dash it all, man, just fill the damned tub!”

The duel was to take place on a secluded tract of heath on Bodmin Moor not far from the fabled Stowe's Hill, a longtime favorite dueling ground among the upper classes on the coast. It was a level stretch among the patchwork hills carpeted with bracken, gorse, and wild, fragrant heather, and hemmed in on the north by a stand of dwarf pines, crippled by the scathing Cornish wind that never ceased to blow. Since the hunt was scheduled for Sunday, the duel was set for the following morning at dawn. Crispin St. John had volunteered to act as the earl's second, and Sir Gerald Markham would serve Rupert. Lord Eccleston was to referee.

Kevernwood had not changed his plans, which was something that had worried Jenna. He had the right to choose the weapons and the field. It was, indeed, to be the épée, and the ground was chosen for its convenience to Moorhaven Manor, and for its distance from Kevernwood Hall, which stood on an august bluff overlooking the sea on the outskirts of Newquay. It was there that he had sent Lady Evelyn, along with her personal maid, far afield of the dueling ground. Jenna interpreted that as his need to eliminate all distractions and spare his lady distress should he be injured. For, while the épée was by far the safest choice, it was by no means incapable of doing serious—even permanent—damage.

The earl did not stay on at Moorhaven. As soon as the arrangements were finalized, he departed along with Phelps and Crispin St. John for the Heatherwood Arms, a public house of rather dubious reputation near the dueling ground, whose name by far outclassed its image, to spend the night there until the duel the following morning.

Jenna was relieved that the earl had left the manor. Her anger and embarrassment over what had occurred in the garden was overwhelming. But more alarming were the rogue waves of excruciating ecstasy his embrace had ignited that kept recurring whenever his image stole across her mind.

She was also glad of Lady Evelyn's absence. She couldn't have faced her after what had happened between herself and Kevernwood, and worse still, she couldn't endure the thought of the girl in those strong arms being touched and aroused, being made to feel what she had felt. Imagining it was unbearable. Unfortunately, Lady Evelyn's absence did little to erase those images, either.

The hunt was staged on schedule. By ten in the morning, the circular drive was swarming with mounted guests wearing traditional habits. Dogs ran helter-skelter over the courtyard, their discordant barks out of sync. Liveried footmen wearing royal blue and gold moved among them bearing silver trays of silver goblets filled with wine. The gaiety of the occasion in no way suggested that a duel loomed on the horizon.

Jenna was among the best when it came to horseback riding, but her heart wasn't in it that day. She wanted to spur her mount and ride like the wind until she'd put as much distance between herself and the circumstances as she possibly could. But Rupert was watching her with too close an eye for that to be anything but a fantasy.

“You look rather pale this morning, my dear,” he said, maneuvering his spirited bay alongside her mild-mannered Thor-oughbred sorrel. “Are you unwell, Jenna? Because, if you are you'd best stay behind this morning. Enough of this weekend has been spoiled, I should think, without your coming down again in the middle of the hunt.”

“I am quite all right, Rupert. You needn't worry that I'll spoil your hunt.”

“Mmm. What did you do to your lip there?”

She had tried to disguise a slightly bruised swelling that the passion in Kevernwood's kisses had left behind. Evidently her attempt had failed.

“You know perfectly well that I sometimes chew my lip when I'm overset,” she lied.

“Self-mutilation. How utterly childish.”

“And what is dueling, Rupert?”

“There's nothing to worry over you know, love,” he crooned. “I'm quite skilled with the épée, actually, albeit outdated for dueling these days. I can't think why the fool chose it. I'm much better with swords than pistols—not that I'm any man's piker with decent firearms, mind,” he hastened to add. “I told you how I beat him in the shoot.”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “You told me,” she said on a gusty sigh.

“Would you have rather had the blighter blow my head off?” he blurted, through an incredulous grunt.

Jenna looked daggers at him.

“I think you actually would, I'll be bound!”

“Don't talk nonsense, Rupert.”

“You know, Jenna, you need to take stock. You're becoming more and more like your mother every day. I shouldn't want to marry a harpy.”

Woefully, there was some truth in that. She'd begun to realize it herself, but only where he was involved. She wasn't prepared to admit it, however, least of all to him.

“Well, I shouldn't like to marry an insensitive brute who humiliates his bride-to-be in company, either,” she retaliated. “And while we're on the topic of mothers, considering your take on chivalry under
your
mother's tutelage, you'd have been better off if beasts in the wild had taken you to task!”

Another incredulous grunt answered her.

“What? Are you going to challenge
me
to a duel now, too, Rupert?”

The grooms had come out with the fox, and the subject needed changing before the chaos began, but she was still flushed with rage, and anger spoke.