Brenda Hiatt Read online

  “I’m pleased you like it,” he said, holding her gaze—a gaze which seemed to offer him tangible proof of her gratitude. An offer he was far too ready to accept, after only half an hour in her presence.

  She took a deep breath, her breasts rising and falling provocatively, even under the layers of her winter traveling gown, her expression altering subtly as she interpreted his own. Her color deepened and she dropped her eyes.

  Jack hastily cleared his throat. “Lord and Lady Creamcroft, your chambers are just across the way, here.” He indicated their adjoining rooms, wondering if he’d have been wiser to have Nessa stay away until the eve of their wedding. The next three days promised to be exquisite torture.

  A short time later, changed and refreshed, his guests emerged from their chambers for the promised tour. Lady Branch insisted upon being one of the party, to Jack’s vexation.

  “I haven’t been in this house in twenty years,” she explained. “I’m interested to see if everything is as I remember it.”

  As they moved from room to room, floor to floor, however, it became clear—to Jack, at least—that her real motive was to continue digging into Nessa’s background and motivation for marrying him.

  “I made Lord Haughton’s acquaintance some years ago,” she commented as they all traversed the length of the ballroom. “It would have been before your marriage, of course, but I recall him as eminently solid and respectable. He must have been a most satisfactory husband—much like my Sir Findlay.”

  Nessa murmured something noncommittal, then gestured toward the Rococo plasterwork of the ballroom ceiling. “What a lovely effect that has!” she exclaimed. “Like a light and airy fairyland. I can just imagine how this room must look with all of the candles lit for a ball.”

  “Takes a small army of servants to keep it dusted.” Jack spoke teasingly, but then looked around, seeing the ballroom afresh. She was right—it was a beautiful room. But his imagination ran to visualizing Nessa as his hostess here, graciously welcoming the neighboring gentry to their home. It was an oddly appealing image.

  His mother snorted delicately. “That’s what servants are for, of course. But Lady Haughton, I cannot help but wonder…That is…Do you not worry that after growing accustomed to a husband such as the late Lord Haughton, you may find yourself, well, disappointed by one who may not measure up to his standard?”

  Nessa turned to her in evident surprise. “My dear Lady Branch! Surely you are not suggesting that your own son could possibly fall into that category?”

  Jack silently ground his teeth. This was far, far worse than he’d imagined—nor could he think of a way to intervene, as he himself was now the topic of conversation. He glanced frantically toward the Creamcrofts, who were studying the giltwork with an interest all out of proportion to the workmanship.

  His mother lowered her voice now, but Jack had no trouble hearing her next words, much as he’d have preferred not to. “It must seem terribly unmaternal of me, I know, but ten years of marriage to Lord Foxhaven’s father showed me just how unsettling it can be to find oneself dependent upon a rake and a gamester. Of course, it is entirely possible that Lord Geoffrey’s son may by now have got the better of those propensities he inherited. For your sake, I do hope so.”

  Jack groaned inwardly, though he could at least hope that the Creamcrofts were now out of earshot of his mother’s words. He’d barely managed to convince Nessa that his rakish ways were behind him. But now, with his own mother bringing evidence against him…

  “Lady Branch, I assure you that I am fully aware of your son’s previous reputation,” Nessa responded firmly. “I go into this union with my eyes open, and feel that he and I shall suit very well indeed. I hope that in time you will discover those sterling qualities in your son that I have already come to appreciate.”

  His mother stared, openmouthed, and Jack had all he could do to refrain from doing the same. Keeping the jubilation from his voice with an effort, he said, “I thank you, my dear, for that endorsement, and will do everything in my power to live up to it.”

  Nessa met his eyes then, with an expression that said as clearly as words: You will. You’d better.

  “I find myself suddenly fatigued,” declared Lady Branch before Nessa could respond aloud. “I believe I shall retire to my chamber until dinner.” With a swirl of skirts, she swept from the room, her rigid back expressing her indignation at what had passed.

  The four people remaining released a collective sigh of relief. “Shall we move on to the gallery?” Jack suggested.

  The others agreed with alacrity, apparently well content to pretend that the recent exchange had never taken place.

  Nessa continued her tour of Fox Manor, absorbing Jack’s explanations of the rooms and furnishings. All were lovely, but she was far more intrigued by the man at her side. What had it been like, growing up with a mother who must have always expected the worst of him? She’d thought her own childhood repressive, but at least her parents had believed her capable of reasonable, respectable behavior—believed her incapable of anything else, in fact. She felt a sudden spurt of panic. How little she knew about this man she was about to marry!

  “That’s really all that is worth seeing indoors,” Jack said all too soon. “The gardens and grounds are fairly extensive, but of course this is not the most pleasant season to view them.” He glanced out the window of the morning room, where they had concluded. “We may get a drizzle in an hour or so, but if any of you would care to see what we can in the meantime? Creamcroft?”

  Philip demurred, however, when Prudence confessed herself wearied. “I believe I’ll defer it if you don’t mind, Foxhaven, and take Lady Creamcroft upstairs to rest for a bit. She’s not been used to much travel of late.”

  “My apologies! I should not have dragged you over the entire house so soon after your arrival. Of course you’ll want to rest before dinner.” He turned expectantly toward Nessa, clearly expecting her to accompany the Creamcrofts.

  She smiled up at him, however. “I am not in the least tired, my lord. If you are still willing, I should very much like to see as much of the gardens as the weather will allow.” It was a bit daring, she knew, but she wanted to ask him a question or two without prying ears about.

  “Certainly, my lady.” He seemed genuinely pleased at her response. With a bow to the Creamcrofts, he led her out of the room through French doors, which opened onto a stone terrace. “The ornamental gardens are ahead and to the left, the kitchen garden to the right, and the orchard beyond both. Which would you like to see first?”

  “Is there a maze?” She thought she’d glimpsed one from one of the upper windows earlier.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Placing her hand in the crook of his arm, he headed straight down the path. “It’s more ornament than puzzle, and not really tall enough to get lost in, but rather interesting all the same.”

  Nessa fell into step beside him. “As a child, I always wished for a maze, but my father considered them frivolous.”

  “What did Lord Cherryhurst not consider frivolous?” The question was rhetorical but Nessa answered him anyway.

  “Sewing, so long as it had a purpose besides the purely ornamental; embroidery, however, was frowned upon. Bible reading, of course—”

  “Except for the Song of Solomon,” Jack put in mischievously.

  She grinned up at him. “Yes, except for that. It was expressly forbidden—in fact, my father removed it from the family Bible so that we girls would not be tempted to read it in his absence.” Jack looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or swear, so Nessa hurried on. “Singing was an approved activity, so long as it was limited to hymns. Dancing was not, though he did finally consent to allow us to learn the minuet and a few country dances.”

  “At your urging, I’ll wager.”

  Nessa nodded, remembering how much difficulty she’d had getting Prudence to add her pleas to her own. Finally, with their mother’s grudging support, they had persuaded hi
m. One of the few such victories she could recall.

  “But enough about my childhood. What of yours? To hear your mother speak, it would seem that little frivolity was allowed you, either.”

  They had reached the maze now. Its thick hedge of yew was green even now, and while it was a little less than Jack’s height, Nessa could not see over it. He pointed to the entrance and she nodded eagerly. Not until they were within the deep green walls did he reply to her question.

  “While my father lived, frivolity was not only allowed, it was the order of the day. My mother spoke truth when she called him a gamester and a rake, I suppose, but I primarily recall him as an entertaining companion. Not until after his death did I understand how little she approved of our lifestyle.”

  Nessa frowned. “Was she forced to marry him, then? How old were you when he died?”

  “Eight. And I don’t doubt she married him willingly enough. He was thoroughly charming, as well as the second son of a marquis. But I presume he lost heavily at the tables, judging by the frequency with which we moved, always to cheaper lodgings. My grandfather, I believe, had washed his hands of him years before.”

  Nessa tried to imagine what Jack’s life had been like, living, if not quite on the brink of poverty, then without many of the things she’d always taken for granted. But with a father who did not condemn his every errant thought, who had been “an entertaining companion.” On the whole, she believed she envied him.

  “And after he died?”

  “Mother dismissed most of the servants and rented out one of the extra rooms. She must have written to my grandfather, for he stepped in soon afterward, making such exigencies unnecessary. As she was as thrifty as my father had been extravagant, we never lacked again—at least, not in material things.”

  His expression had become somber, and it was clear to Nessa that to the boy Jack had been at the time, the change was not for the better. “And then she remarried?” she prompted.

  He nodded. “Two years later. Sir Findlay is a man after your own father’s heart. He rose from the middle classes to his baronetcy, and retains the morality and work ethic he was born to. I was a reminder of my father, and of everything Sir Findlay opposed. Needless to say, we did not get on.”

  Clearly, that was a massive understatement. “But you spent time with your grandfather, did you not?”

  “Yes, here at Fox Manor. From the age of eleven onward, all of my school holidays were spent here, and it was he who arranged for me to attend Oxford, and who purchased my commission. Even he, however, was unable to restrain those, ah, tendencies, which my mother claims I inherited from my father.”

  Both his expression and his tone had softened, Nessa noticed, when he spoke of the late Lord Foxhaven. “You loved your grandfather very much, didn’t you, Jack?” she asked gently.

  He started visibly. “Love? Er, well, yes, I suppose so. Certainly, he was the only person on earth who wielded the least bit of influence with me during those years. Sir Findlay’s attempts, and my mother’s, achieved just the opposite effect.”

  His tone was light again, but Nessa suspected it was to conceal deeper feelings—feelings he was not yet ready to explore. But Nessa probed further, needing to know more about this man she was to marry, and about his reasons for marrying her.

  “So you regret not following your grandfather’s wishes while he was alive, and now wish to make up for it?”

  Jack stopped abruptly and she realized they had reached the center of the maze. “Would you care to sit down?” He indicated a stone bench with large urns at either end, which doubtless held flowers in spring and summer. “Or would you prefer to keep moving? There is less wind in here, but it is still chilly.”

  By way of response, Nessa sat, but kept her eyes on his face, awaiting the answer to her question. Jack looked away, toward the house she supposed, though she could not see it from where she sat. Finally he took his place beside her on the bench.

  The silence had lengthened uncomfortably before he spoke. “I’m not sure that regret is the proper word,” he said at last. “However wild I was, I never hurt anyone…well, no one who didn’t deserve it.”

  She met his crooked grin with calm expectancy, determined not to be dissuaded.

  With a sigh, he continued. “My grandfather did much for me—more than any other human being, alive or dead. The only way I know to repay him is to honor his dying request.”

  This was news to Nessa. “Dying request? But I thought you were on the Continent with the army when he passed away.”

  “So I was. Therefore, with his customary thoroughness, Grandfather put his wishes in writing.” Reaching inside his greatcoat, he pulled a much-folded piece of paper from his breast pocket.

  “No eyes but mine have read this until now. Under the circumstances, I suppose it is only fair that you do so.” His usual humor replaced by wariness, he extended the paper to her.

  Greatly curious, she took it, unfolded it, and read its brief contents. Swallowing, she read it through again, then raised wide eyes to Jack’s.

  “I…I believe I finally understand. You feel that a respectable marriage—or rather, marriage to a woman with a respectable reputation—will help you to fulfill his request.” Though she’d rather suspected something of the sort, having it verified in ink on parchment gave her little satisfaction.

  Jack’s nod depressed her spirits further. “It…seemed the least I could do for him.” Then, apparently perceiving something of her feelings, he hastened to add, “I have become genuinely fond of you, however. Whatever my original motives, I truly believe we shall rub along very well together. Don’t you?”

  She saw real anxiety in his eyes. This, she knew, was her last chance to cry off. Clearly, he knew it as well. But was he concerned because he cared for her, or because she had the power to overset his grandfather’s wishes? Either way, she realized, her response must be the same. The letter from the late Lord Foxhaven had moved her deeply, coming on the heels of Jack’s revelations about his childhood.

  Swallowing hard, she gave the reply that would be the deathknell of her dreams of freedom, of frivolity, of fun. “Yes, Jack, I do. I will help you restore your reputation and the Foxhaven name by playing the respectable wife to perfection. It is, after all, the role I’ve trained for all my life.”

  And would now be doomed to play for the rest of it.

  13

  Jack was reminded of St. Joan of Arc as Nessa vowed to behave respectably and restore his reputation. Beautiful, noble, willing to sacrifice herself for something she believed in—for him. He was both touched and shaken. Could he, Jack Ashecroft, possibly have inspired such devotion?

  No, it was the letter, of course. It had affected him similarly, after all, even before he’d read the postscript—which he didn’t dare show Nessa. He released a small sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Nessa. You have no idea how much this means to me. I’ll try very hard never to make you sorry.”

  The martyred expression faded from her face. “I shall hold you to that, Jack. Perhaps if I am allowed to be a little bit wicked in private, I shall not mind so much playing the paragon in public.” The twinkle was back in her eyes, and something within him stirred in response.

  “Only a little bit wicked?” he asked softly, leaning toward her.

  Her cheeks, already pink from the cold, pinkened further, but she did not pull away. “Wickedness is very new to me, you know. By my father’s standards, waltzing and wearing bright colors qualify.”

  “And how about this?” He covered her unresisting mouth with his own. Her response was immediate, her lips soft and pliable beneath his, her hands coming up to encircle his neck as he pulled her closer. His own response was even more profound, desire racing through him like a flame in dry tinder. Luckily—or was it unluckily?—the cold stone bench was not conducive to further intimacies.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he released her. He’d intended to keep his distance until they were wed, but it went against hi
s nature to refuse a kiss to a woman who wanted one. Who needed one. “The next three days can’t pass quickly enough.” His voice was still husky with passion.

  To his surprise, the matching desire in Nessa’s deep brown eyes was suddenly shot through with alarm. “Three days. Yes,” she agreed shakily, now avoiding his gaze.

  As Jack regarded her thoughtfully, a large drop appeared on her cheek. For a moment he thought, incredibly, that she was crying, but then similar drops began to fall all about them. “We’d best return to the house,” he suggested, standing.

  She nodded and took his proffered hand, still strangely subdued after that all-too-brief burst of passion. He led her back through the maze amid the pattering of raindrops, wondering what had wrought her sudden withdrawal.

  Could she be dreading their wedding night? That seemed unlikely, as she’d been married before and would know what to expect. Besides, she’d shown herself far from indifferent to him. Perhaps it was marriage itself she was nervous about. It would be perfectly natural, he supposed, given her feelings about the state.

  So why was he not similarly reluctant to permanently bind himself to one woman for the rest of his life? He had been before, but he realized that was no longer the case. What had changed?

  “No, here, to the left,” he murmured as Nessa began to take a wrong turn. In a moment they were out of the maze and back on the flagged path, rain still falling about them. As they hurried toward the house, Jack lapsed back into thought.

  That he’d developed an affection for Nessa he could not deny. But he’d held dozens of women in affection—and lust—without wishing to spend a lifetime with any of them. Was this love? Immediately he rejected the disturbing notion. Love was a myth. He’d determined that years ago. Something invented by poets and pretended by women in an attempt to bind men to their will.

  Even between family members he’d seen little evidence that such an emotion existed. Nessa had asked whether he’d loved his Grandfather. He hadn’t denied it, as his reverence for the old man was doubtless what many would call love, but his feelings there were based on admiration and mutual respect rather than any mystical state of the heart. Certainly it was not the same thing numerous women had claimed to feel—something composed of lust and a desire for control.