A very wicked christmas, p.40
A Very Wicked Christmas, page 40
“I don’t want your penny, so perhaps you should use it to increase your own luck?”
She had changed since he’d last seen her. The spark had been extinguished, and she looked tense and unhappy.
“Has our truce ended?”
She didn’t answer him, instead turning away to look back down into the well. One of her hands then went to her hair, where she dug about under her bonnet and came out with a long pin and a long honey curl. Harry watched that curl as it dropped to her shoulder. The color, if he were to guess, was the exact color of Hero’s, or perhaps it was a shade or two darker?
“Does that not hurt when it’s pushed in?”
“Yes and often, but as you know, there is no price too high for vanity, Lord Harrington.”
He thought about that for a few seconds, never having had much interest in the plight of a woman’s dressing habits. He supposed there was a great deal involved. Certainly a lot more than what he went through before an evening out.
“Why do you think I need to increase my luck?” He moved to her side, deliberately close enough to brush her sleeve. She stiffened and moved a few inches to the left.
“Everyone needs more luck.”
“Do you?”
She didn’t answer that. Instead, closing her eyes tight, she dropped the hairpin into the well. Leaning forward, she opened her eyes to follow its progress.
“It is said that when this well was built in 1613, two sweethearts came here to meet every evening after darkness had fallen. They were forbidden from seeing each other, but their love ran so deep they did so against their families’ wishes.”
She was listening to him, her head tilted slightly toward Harry.
“One stormy winter night, around this time of the year, they slipped from their beds and ran here. Unbeknown to the girl, her father followed and found them in a lovers’ embrace. Furious, he rushed forward, startling the couple. The girl, who had been seated on the edge of the well, fell, breaking her neck. Her lover took his life on this very spot the following night. It is said their spirits live on inside the well and that their ghostly forms are seen several times during the month of December.”
“Which merely confirms what I have always believed. True love is for fools.”
Her words were bitter, and nothing like the woman he had caught laughing and singing by the pond that day.
“Most women sigh when that story is told.”
“Most women have foolish romantic notions.”
“But not you?”
She didn’t answer him, once again looking down into the well.
“My parents were deeply in love,” Harry said.
“How wonderful for them.”
“They thought so, as did my brother and I.”
“Well then, with such wonderful role models, I am sure you will both achieve the same happy wedded state in your futures.”
“You sound angry, Miss Partridge.”
She didn’t look at him again; instead she focused her eyes down into the well.
“No, what I am is realistic, Lord Harrington. Now if you will excuse me, I must meet with my fiancé.”
“Jemma.” He stopped her, wrapping his fingers around the slender bones of her wrist. He braced himself for the jolt of awareness that he knew would come. “Can I help you in any way?”
“Wh-why would I need help from you?”
“You are unhappy.”
“No, what I am is cold, so please release me so I may return to the warmth of my fiancé’s carriage.”
“You’re not being truthful with me.”
She dragged her eyes from his to look at his shoulder.
“We are not friends, Lord Harrington. Therefore, you have no right to speak to me this way.”
“I want to be your friend, Jemma. Will you let me?” Harry said the words gently, as one would to a small child.
“No.” She tried to shake her hand free. “W-we are enemies, not friends, and I have no wish for that to change. Now please release my wrist.”
“We are not enemies anymore, and you know it.”
Harry didn’t release her; instead, grabbing her chin, he turned her until she was facing him, and then he kissed her, just a soft brush of his lips over hers, but it was enough to ignite his entire body. Her small sob stopped him from deepening the kiss. Easing back, he saw her eyes were closed.
“Jemma, don’t marry Crickley.” The words left his mouth before he could rethink them.
She wrenched away from him, eyes stricken. “You have no right to ask that of me.”
She was right, he didn’t and still couldn’t believe he had.
“He is not the right man for you.”
“It matters not if he is right or wrong, only that he is my betrothed, and nothing will change that. Now good day to you, Lord Harrington, and I will ask you not to approach me again… ever.”
She picked up her skirts and ran away from him again. Harry leaned his hip on the edge of the well and watched her, saw that blonde curl bounce on her shoulders. He inhaled deeply; her scent still lingered in the air. His body stiffened in recognition.
“Hero,” he rasped, regaining his feet. “Christ, is it possible?” Stunned, he started after her but arrived back in the main street in time to see her climb into the Crickley carriage and drive away.
Was it possible? Was Jemma Partridge the woman he had made love to that night at the Cavanagh ball? His Hero? Harry walked back toward where he had tethered his horse, numb with shock. His thoughts tumbled one over the other, but it was as he was galloping toward his home that he finally allowed himself to acknowledge what had been in front of him since he had met Jemma at the inn on their journey here. She was his Hero. His reaction to her had been the same. Her scent, her hair, it was the same, and he knew she had the soft lush curves of the woman whose innocence he had taken that night. He had not allowed himself to see what had been before him.
What had possessed her to give herself to him like she had? Was it simply that she wanted a night of passion before she wed her elderly fiancé, or had she felt it, the stirring inside her stomach, the awareness? She had; Harry could not believe otherwise. Her reaction to him had been open and honest.
Did she know he was Leander? He thought back to when she had stopped and looked at him in the road that day at the inn. Was that her moment of recognition? Was she angry and on edge today because she knew?
“Lord, what a mess,” Harry said as he rode into his stables and handed over his mount. One thing, however, was startlingly clear. Jemma would not be marrying Crickley; he would make sure of that.
When he walked into the house, his butler informed him that Miss Partridge’s cousin had called. He found his brother and friend before a roaring fire. Both held brandy and smoked cigars.
“Come, Harry, sit and warm yourself.”
Kicking off his boots, Harry took another chair, and the brandy his brother poured him.
“Thomas, I wish to talk about your cousin.”
The man raised a brow but did not lift his head from the back of the seat.
“How so?”
“Why is she marrying that old letch, and how could you let her?”
“It is not my choice that she does, I assure you, Harry. At her wish, I have played a hand in coercing her father into turning down many more suitable offers for Jemma’s hand. This one she was adamant she accept, however, as was her father, and there was nothing I could do or say to change their minds. It wasn’t until the deal was done that I had a niggling feeling that something was not right.”
“And?” Harry probed impatiently.
“And she said this marriage will suit her as Crickley will not expect too much from her. She will be an elegant accessory to run his house, and perhaps give him more children. She tells me she has no wish for a great passion.”
She lies, Harry thought, knowing that nothing but a great passion would do for his Hero. Him. He would be her great passion, just as she would be his.
“Why do you think she is hiding something from you?”
“She gets defensive when I question her about the marriage, and she only does that when she’s hiding something. I questioned her father also, and he wouldn’t look at me. I know him well enough to realize when he is lying also. May I ask why the interest, Harry?”
He wasn’t ready to divulge those reasons yet, so he simply said, “Because I have only recently come to know your cousin, and she is a lovely woman who surely deserves better than Lord Crickley.”
Phillip raised his brow but Harry ignored him.
“What do you know of Lord Crickley that I do not?” Thomas frowned. “I have heard he gambles, but no more than others, and has a mistress. Again, so do many.”
Harry was subjected to a steady look from Thomas Radler.
“Harry caught him cheating at cards,” Phillip said, entering the conversation. “He also has a reputation for ravishing young girls in the district.”
“What!” Thomas came out of his chair. “How has this not reached London?”
“Because Crickley throws a great deal of money around in the village to hush things up if his licentious activities go to far,” Phillip said.
“I will not allow my cousin to marry such a man.”
“I’m not sure how you can stop her now that everything is agreed between them,” Phillip added.
“We must find a way,” Thomas said.
“Yes,” Harry said. “We must.”
Because he would never allow another man to have her, not now, not when he had finally found a woman who fed both his passion and his soul. The shock had subsided now. Jemma Partridge was his Hero, and with that knowledge came the rightness of it. She was intelligent, had a sharp tongue, and ignited his body with just a look. She would be his. He just had to work out how he was to go about that.
Chapter Seven
The mirror told Jemma she was the same woman she’d always been, but she felt different. As if her body now belonged to another: Leander, or should she say, Lord Harrington. Slipping into her undergarments, she then let the maid lower the dress she was to wear over her head.
“You look lovely, Miss Partridge.”
“Thank you.”
Her maid had pinned her hair into a nest of curls on her head, through which she had pinned small diamonds. Her dress was ivory silk with a darker lace overskirt, and the sides met in the middle and curved upward to beneath the bodice. The sleeves were long thankfully, but she still wore woolen stockings as the weather had turned very cold. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever worn, and Jemma would have loved wearing it if the circumstances were different. Her fiancé had insisted she have it made for the betrothal dinner, and she realized this was simply because he wanted her looking her best when he introduced her to his guests. They had steadily been arriving all day, and she would need to force a smile to her face to greet them.
Lord Crickley’s character had changed since they’d arrived at his estate. Where in London he had been solicitous toward her, here he was smug and sanctimonious. Jemma had refrained many times from telling him what she thought of him and his behavior; she feared this would not always be the case. He insisted on strutting about the place with her on his arm, showing her his home. He often emphasized that it was his property or his painting; never did he mention ours. He would often touch her inappropriately, fondling her bottom and chest, stealing kisses that had repulsed her, but she had simply swallowed back the words she’d wanted to hurl at his head and accepted his advances. What other choice had she?
What rotten luck it was that Lord Harrington lived so close, and after seeing him in the lovely little village of Cartleigh, she would now have to avoid it. Beastly man, how dare he kiss her again? Swallowing her sigh, she thought about how with just a glance she had quite literally melted at his feet that day, even in the frigid weather. His effect on her was devastating, if possible, even more so now she knew he was Leander. The humor Jemma had thought him devoid of was in fact dry and funny. His laugh was genuine and with it came little creases on either side of his mouth. Unlike other men he seemed to focus on her when she spoke, as if she were all that mattered to him. Jemma could only imagine what it would be like to have such a man in her life.
Horrid, beastly man, why could he not have approached her years ago and tried harder to get into her good graces after their first disastrous encounter? Surely if he’d persisted she would have realized the man he truly was beneath that aloof façade. Of course the fault was not entirely his; she too had judged him on that brief meeting.
Jemma felt a wave of despair so strong she pressed a fist to her chest to ease it. She longed for him deep in her soul. It was like a chasm had opened inside her that she doubted would ever close.
He would be a man she could rely on, a hero in every sense of the word. Lord Harrington was not prone to flamboyant gestures. He would do the little things, the necessary things. He’d ensure she was warm and be there to help her mount her horse when they rode together, which of course would be never.
“Damn you.” Jemma sighed. If only she had not gone to the Cavanagh ball none of this would have happened.
And what about when he found a wife? She would have to watch them together on the rare occasion she was forced into his company. Could she? No, Jemma knew this would be impossible to endure. The thought of him with another and perhaps even children was a pain she would not inflict upon herself.
His kiss at the well had been no more than a second or two, and yet it had felt blissful. She’d wanted to curl her fingers around the lapels of his coat and hold him close. Jemma had fought the urge to lay her cheek on his chest and stay there.
She’d dreamt of him every night since the Cavanagh ball. Erotic visions that had her waking in a sweat with her hand on her breasts or between her thighs. It was almost as if when she closed her eyes, he was there tormenting her, urging her to stroke her body and help it toward its release.
“It is time, Miss Partridge.”
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded to the maid and left the room, attempting to push all thoughts of Lord Harrington aside, which of course would not be easy, as he was to attend tonight’s dinner to celebrate her wedding to the vile Lord Crickley.
She could do this, be composed in his company. She would be sure not to let her social mask slip when she encountered the man who had taken her innocence, and she now believed her heart.
Jemma was a practical person and had tried to reason with herself about this. How was it possible to fall in love with a person when she’d only met him briefly, and not really had a conversation of any depth with the man? Because before she even knew her Leander was Lord Harrington, she’d known she had given the man her heart, and left it there with him in that dark library on that magical night. Their intimacy had been brief, but to Jemma’s mind, very powerful.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced her thoughts to the back of her head once more. It did not matter that she knew her Leander’s identity, nor that Lord Harrington had now kissed her twice, and each time had been as magical as the last. What mattered was she would marry Lord Crickley and in doing so save her mother’s reputation. Her father, Jemma thought, could go to hell.
Crickley Hall was a large estate with many rooms decorated in heavy dark colors and furniture. The place was freezing and walking through the halls quickly was the only way for Jemma to warm up. She could feel the cool air creeping under her skirt and up her legs.
“That will be one of the first things I address,” Jemma muttered as she started down the stairs. Her husband did not seem to feel the chill in the air like others, but she would have to discuss the need for having more fires lit once they were wed. If she was to live here then she would do so in bloody comfort.
The guests were gathering before dinner in a room on the second floor. She had made sure the curtains were drawn, and fires stoked to warm it before they arrived. Walking through the door, she was greeted by the hum of voices, and did not do as she wished and look for Lord Harrington.
“Hello, darling.” Thomas was the first to greet her, holding out a glass of wine that she gratefully took.
“Hello. I am so glad you are here.” Jemma leaned on her cousin, briefly enjoying the familiar scent and feel of his strong arms around her.
“Where else would I be as I am staying here with you?”
Her laugh was forced. “I’m not sure, but I’m glad you are here just the same.”
“Are you well, sweetheart?”
His eyes studied her face, and she made herself smile warmly.
“Of course. I just missed you today, but now you are here all is right in the world once more.”
She saw the doubt and patted his chest. “Really, I am quite all right.”
She had not told him anything about her encounter at the Cavanagh ball, even though he knew something had taken place. What good would that do? She was to be married and even if she somehow escaped that, she could not confront Lord Harrington and tell him it was she who had lain with him that evening. He would think her without morals, and definitely not a woman he wished to wed.
“Jemma, I need to talk with you about your betr—”
“My darling fiancée, how beautiful you look in that gown.”
She fought the need to stiffen as Lord Crickley interrupted Thomas. He then put his hand on her waist and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She loathed this man for what he had forced her to do. But she would marry him because to do otherwise would destroy her mother.
“I selected it, you know.” He laughed. “Already keeping her happy you see, Radler.” He winked at Thomas, who did not smile back. In fact, Jemma thought he looked like he wanted to punch Lord Crickley.
Jemma quickly stepped into the conversation after glaring at her cousin. “Will you introduce me to your guests, my lord?”
“Of course, it will be my pleasure to show you off. Remember to keep smiling, my dear, it would not do for me to have to tell your father’s naughty little tale here, in front of so many of society’s affluent members.”
“I have given you my word, Lord Crickley. Therefore, I do not appreciate you throwing my father’s crimes in my face continually.”
