Читать книгу Wicked Wager - Julia Justiss - Страница 9

TWO WEEKS later, Jenna sat in the parlor, trying to keep a polite smile pasted on her lips while the notables of the ton paraded past to offer their condolences, their gimlet eyes and assessing glances evaluating the dress, manners and breeding of Viscount Fairchild’s widow. She’d even overheard one dandy, in a whisper just loud enough to reach her ears, compare her unfavorably to the Lovely Lucinda—the fiancée who had jilted Garrett for an earl.

Nearly as annoying, Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare arrived early “to support dear Jenna through her first public reception.” Effusing with delight at their thoughtfulness, Aunt Hetty had chairs installed for them beside Jenna’s, where the two were now dispensing sottovoce commentary on each caller who approached.

Jenna had thrown an appealing glance at Lane, seated beside Aunt Hetty on the sofa, but he’d returned nothing more helpful than a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. While Cousin Bayard, alleging anyone who wished to convey their regrets to him had had ample opportunity during the service at St. George’s, abandoned the parlor minutes after the reception began.

Not that she’d really expected to escape the function—or her two watchdogs. Apparently Lady Montclare did wield as much influence among the ton as she’d claimed, for Aunt Hetty had been both shocked and ecstatic to learn of her call, and did everything she could to promote the connection. In her listless state, Jenna had neither sufficient interest nor strength to oppose them, and had soon found herself trotted around to all the merchants Lady Montclare favored, pinned and prodded and led to purchase a vast quantity of items those ladies deemed essential for a recently bereaved viscountess.

She’d felt a twinge of conscience at expending blunt on gowns that in a matter of a few weeks she’d be unable to wear. Someday soon, when the simple business of waking, rising, and surviving each new day didn’t exhaust all her meager mental and physical reserves, she’d sort out what to do about the sisters—and her life without Garrett.

Onward the crowd continued—like buzzards circling a kill, Jenna thought—an endless progression of names and titles. In vain she looked for the real comfort that might have been afforded by the friendly faces and heartfelt condolences of “Heedless” Harry or Alastair Percy or other men from Garrett’s regiment. By now, she realized with resignation, her military compatriots had doubtless returned to their respective homes or rejoined the army.

Then a stir from the hallway caught her attention. As she’d hoped, a few moments later His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, walked into the salon, trailed by a crowd of well-wishers eager to shake the hand of the great general.

“Excellent! I so hoped he would appear,” Mrs. Anderson said in Jenna’s ear.

After exchanging a brief word with Lady Montclare and Mrs. Anderson, he took Jenna’s hand.

“It’s been a long and difficult road since India. England owes her safety to the selfless service of your father and husband. Take solace in that, Jenna.”

“I do, your grace.”

She blinked back tears as he kissed her hand, bowed and walked away, the crowd parting respectfully to allow the passage of England’s Savior. Who, it was said, had wept while he wrote his dispatch after Waterloo at the loss of so many good friends and soldiers.

Napoleon’s Vanquisher would be going on to other important duties. What was Jenna Montague Fairchild, soldier’s daughter and soldier’s wife who had lost father, husband and army, to do with herself now?

Think of the babe, she told herself, fighting back grief and despair. Rebuild your life around the child.

“How excellent of the Duke to show so singular a mark of favor,” Lady Montclare murmured.

“We are old acquaintances,” Jenna replied.

In the wake of the Duke’s departure, the crowd in the drawing room began to thin. “My sister has presented you to everyone of note in London this afternoon, including most of the gentlemen who will be your potential suitors,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling her satisfaction.

“And your conduct has been excellent, my dear!” Lady Montclare reached over to press Jenna’s fingers. “A grave demeanor indicative of continuing grief, with just the right touch of hauteur.”

The woman obviously believed Jenna was assuming the role she’d been urged to play. She wasn’t sure whether to dissolve into hysterical laughter—or tears.

“Oh no—not him!”

At Mrs. Anderson’s gasp, Jenna’s looked to the door, through which a gentleman now strode with languorous ease.

Jenna exhaled in relief. Though the half-mocking, half-amused smile on the handsome face of the man now approaching was reminiscent of the grin she’d so disliked on another gentleman, this man’s hair gleamed guineagold rather than blue-black and his eyes were the turquoise of a tropic ocean’s depths—not, praise heaven, gunmetal gray.

“The effrontery!” Mrs. Anderson whispered.

“We’ll soon send him to the rightabout,” Lady Montclare soothed. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Jenna—a notorious rogue and gambler. ’Tis said he mended his ways since he beguiled a rich widow into marriage, but I doubt it. His aunt, Lady Charlotte Darnell, is the daughter of a duke and a Society leader, so you cannot, regrettably, cut him, but his reputation for seducing foolish women was well-earned. Take care to avoid him whenever possible.”

A moment later the blond man bowed before them. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Fairchild, at your service.”

As if fully conscious of the condemnation that had just been pronounced by her companions, after nodding to them, he seized Jenna’s hands and gave them a long, lingering caress that sent heat rushing to her cheeks.

She had just opened her lips to deliver a sharp set down when he gave her a quick, conspiratorial wink, so fleeting she wasn’t sure whether she’d seen or imagined it. Then he tugged on her hands and pulled her to her feet.

“By the saints, dear Lady Fairchild, your grief has rendered you pale as the shades of my Irish kin! Let me assist you to stroll down the hall, that exercise might return a little color to your lovely face.” Before she could think what to reply, over the sputtering protest of her chaperones, he nudged her into motion.

Not until they reached the hallway did she realize how great a relief it was to escape the confines of the parlor. Nonetheless, torn between amusement and irritation, she felt moved to protest.

“Gracious, Mr. Fitzwilliams, you are a rogue indeed!”

“That, Lady Fairchild, is for you to decide.” Turning to her with an unexpectedly sympathetic look, he continued, “Nonetheless, your expression so clearly called out ‘rescue me!’ that I could not help but respond.”

That reading of what she’d thought to be her impassive countenance belied the carelessness of the grin with which he had, she suspected, deliberately taunted her chaperones. Though she heard again Lady Montclare’s warning to avoid him, she found herself curious to know why he’d called.

Besides, over her years with the army she’d encountered men who truly were seducers and reprobates. The instincts that had protected her on more than one occasion were now telling her this man was neither.

“You are right, Mr. Fitzwilliams. I did long for rescue.”

He rewarded her honesty with a smile of genuine warmth that lit his handsome face and set mesmerizing lights dancing in those intensely turquoise eyes.

Heavens! she thought, shaken by the force of his charm. If he were a rake, small wonder women succumbed!

“If what I’d heard of your adventures with the army had not already convinced me of your stalwart character, I knew Garrett would marry none but an enterprising lady.”

“You were…acquainted with Garrett?”

His eyes dimmed and she read real sorrow on his face. “I had that honor and so offer you my deepest condolences. I cannot boast to have been one of his intimates, but at Eton he stood my friend, and when I became the focus of some…unpleasantness at Oxford, he continued to recognize me when few others, including my own family, did. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

His heartfelt testament moved her more than all the grand tributes glibly offered by the influential of the ton. “He was indeed,” she replied, her voice trembling.

“Respecting Garrett as I did, I felt I must call today, even though my aunt, Lady Charlotte, is out of town and unable to lend me countenance—or protect you from the censorious who will take you to task for having strolled with me. For which injury, I do apologize. Despite the appeal in your eyes, by whisking you off, I fear I have doomed you to almost certain criticism. I really should not have kidnapped you with you unaware of that danger.”

“I’m still most grateful that you did! I have no fear of idly wagging tongues.” Indeed, if a walk with Teagan Fitzwilliams rendered her less attractive to the potential suitors they were pressing on her, so much the better.

“When she returns, Aunt Charlotte will call upon you and set all to rights, so I may soothe my conscience by believing that I’ve caused you no permanent harm. Now, let me return you to the parlor.”

“Wait!” Jenna cried, halting him. “’Tis a privilege to talk with one of Garrett’s true friends. And I…I’m not ready to go back in. Not just yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Already trying to pull and twist you into their mold, are they?”

“I shall have to fight them tooth and claw,” she said with a sigh. “Once I manage to summon the energy.”

He nodded. “It’s walking the hallway for us, then.” Tucking her hand back on his arm, he continued, “Did you really escape a bandit ambush in India?”

“It wasn’t so extraordinary as it might sound. Papa’s batman and I both had our Baker rifles—and faster horses.”

He laughed. “It’s a crack shot you are, I’ll wager!”

She grinned, warmed by his sympathetic understanding. “Naturally. I’ve spent all my life with the army.”

“I hear you fended off an attack in Spain as well.”

“So she did.”

At the sound of that deep, uncannily familiar voice, a chill of alarm raced up Jenna’s spine. She whipped her gaze toward the entry where, before her astounded eyes, the rogue she’d hoped never to meet again began climbing the stairs, limping slightly. “As I can personally attest.”

Jenna blinked, still not believing his audacity. “You!” she said in a strangled voice.

Viscount Anthony Nelthorpe reached the landing and swept Jenna a bow. “Lady Fairchild, how good it is to see you again.”

No doubt divining from the sudden stiffness of her body—and the low fury of her voice—that she did not welcome the newcomer, Fitzwilliams stepped forward to block the viscount’s approach. “Nelthorpe, I didn’t know you’d returned to England.”

“Just back from Brussels, Fitzwilliams.”

Though Fitzwilliams nodded pleasantly, his eyes stayed watchful as he remained between her and Lord Nelthorpe. “Lady Fairchild, may I take you back to the parlor?”

“Allow me,” Nelthorpe said, holding out an arm. “I served in the same command as Lady Fairchild’s late husband and can express my regrets as I walk her back.”

Fitzwilliams glanced from Jenna’s face to Nelthorpe’s extended arm and back. “Lady Fairchild, would you prefer that Nelthorpe escort you in—or that I escort him out?”

Jenna tried to shake her mind free of anger and outrage to determine what would be best. She’d already failed to deliver the cut direct she’d previously decided would be the most appropriate response, should her erstwhile ravisher ever approach her again. She might still have the satisfaction of turning her back on him.

But he had just demonstrated that, despite what had passed between them, he possessed the gall to confront her. Perhaps she ought to do the same and establish right now that though Garrett was no longer here to watch over her, she intended to have no dealings with Anthony Nelthorpe.

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliams, but for this occasion only, I shall accept Lord Nelthorpe’s escort.”

“You are sure that is your wish?” Fitzwilliams asked.

“It is.”

“Very well, ma’am.” He made her a bow. “Returning to an unfamiliar land, even the land of your birth, can be unsettling, as I have reason to know. Call on me if I may help in any way. My aunt will visit you soon. Nelthorpe.”

The two men exchanged stiff nods. After one last, quizzical look, Mr. Fitzwilliams walked away.

“You miserable cur!” Jenna hissed as soon as Fitzwilliams was out of earshot. “With Garrett barely cold in his grave, how dare you approach me? Not even you could be arrogant enough to think you might still recoup your fortunes by trying once again to force me into wedlock!”

For an instant he stood utterly still, surprise—or was it chagrin?—on his face, giving her the satisfaction of knowing her attack had rendered him speechless.

“Excellent as that idea might be,” he replied, “I must confess ’twas not my intention—for the moment. I wished only to offer my condolences and my sincerest thanks for the mercy that saved my sorry skin.”

Though she watched closely, she could find no undercurrent of mockery, no hint of arrogance in the tone of his self-deprecating words. Even the sardonic smile she’d come to associate with him had been replaced by an expression at once wry—and charming. Her face heating, she wondered if her harsh words had been overhasty.

After all, she had not spoken to Nelthorpe—when he wasn’t out of his head with pain and fever—in three years.

Three years with the army could bring about a lifetime of changes in a man, for good or ill.

Before she could decide how to respond, he swayed slightly and had to take a half step to catch himself. Sweat glistened on his forehead and she noted shadowed, redrimmed eyes that hinted of nights with little sleep.

Had he come here still half-disguised from last night’s carousing? Perhaps her verbal assault had not been premature, if he’d lost no time after returning to London in resuming his habits of dissipation.

“You wish to return to the parlor?” he asked, offering his arm.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring it, “as soon as I have delivered this message. Though I appreciate your…courtesy in coming to convey your regrets, in future you will not be received in this house—or in any other in which I reside. Nor do I intend to recognize you, should we meet by chance elsewhere. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

His lips curved in a smile that looked—regretful? “Perfectly. And, I grant, you have a perfect right to feel that way. But if I’m not to be permitted to speak again, I beg a few minutes more now. Please, Lady Fairchild?”

She opened her lips to reply that she had no interest in anything further he could say, but something about his appearance made her hesitate. Though she would never have believed it possible, the wretch looked…penitent?

A ruse, no doubt, but perhaps she could permit him one last speech. “I suppose I can spare another moment.”

“Thank you,” he said with what must be false humility. “When you found me on the field below Mont St. Jean, I thought you an angel. Though—” he broke into a grin “—before you feel moved to point it out, I hasten to add that I realize, were I to make my final crossing of the river Styx, it’s unlikely angels would be dispatched to greet me. Given what you know of my character, I’m surprised you didn’t leave me to finish the job of bleeding to death. Had you not stopped, I most certainly would have. And though at times during my recovery I wasn’t sure surviving was truly preferable, I still want to thank you.”

She could read only sincerity in his expression, which made him so unlike the Nelthorpe she’d known that she was uncertain what to respond. At last she said, “I would hope I would offer assistance to any wounded, friend—or foe.”

“Which just shows my initial impression was correct. You are indeed an angel.”

Baffled, she shot her gaze to his face, but could detect in his tone neither sarcasm nor irony.

Perhaps he had changed. If his pallor and unsteady gait were the vestiges of a drinking spree, he’d hardly be the only soldier to enjoy a liquid homecoming celebration.

Feeling guilty again, she said, “I am nothing of the sort. I…I should not have spoken to you as I did. Pray forgive me.”

His smoky eyes lit and his lip quirked in a smile reminiscent—and yet unlike—the sardonic look she’d come to know when he served under her father in the Peninsula. A steady, unnervingly intense regard that had prickled her skin with a curious mix of anticipation and dread whenever she caught—or more often sensed—him watching her.

As her skin prickled now.

Disturbed by that reaction, she abandoned her attempt to determine what exactly had changed about him. Dismiss him at once, some instinct for self-preservation urged her.

“Best not apologize too quickly,” he said. “Now that I consider it, teasing you into marrying me might be too tempting a prospect to resist.”

“I should think nearly getting your throat slit would have cured you of ever risking that folly again.”

He tapped his fingers below the knot of his cravat. “Ah, but I bear your mark still. How could I resist you?”

Though she’d fully intended to send him away, the intensity of his gaze held her motionless. A little thrill shocked through her, like when she’d run into warm ocean shallows off the Portuguese coast, only to find the water deeper, the current more dangerous than anticipated.

Except for the morning she discovered him more dead than alive on the battlefield after Waterloo, they had not spoken since that afternoon after the battle of Badajoz when she’d foiled his attempt to compromise her into wedding him, sending him away instead, humbled and bleeding. Yet how many times over the intervening years had she felt resting on her that steady, unnerving gaze?

Riding on the march, across the tent-filled enclosure of an encampment, from the other side of a dining room or ballroom…Though she knew after her marriage, Garrett must have warned Nelthorpe away, from Salamanca to Vittoria to Toulouse, even in Paris after the victory, she had sensed his gaze and looked about her—to find him watching.

With Garrett no longer standing guard, what was she to do about it?

While she hesitated, unsure whether to deliver a final dismissal or simply walk away from the unsettling force that seemed to emanate from him, she heard the slam of the entry door, followed by Manson’s urgent murmur. A moment later, a thin woman dressed in mourning black rushed up the stairs, spotted them, and stopped abruptly.

Her eyes widening, she raised her arm and pointed at Nelthorpe. “That reprobate lives still? Then I am doubly glad you lost your husband, Lady Fairchild!”

While Jenna recoiled in shock, the stranger advanced on her.