Chapter Ten #2
Jackson coughed into his hand, another ploy to hide his grin. If his mother hadn’t learned from their first encounter that such silly insults would do nothing but encourage Anna’s behavior, he would not be the one to ruin the amusement.
“We’d do better to see the woman damaged and wed to the local blacksmith,” the dowager duchess said.
Jackson’s humor vanished. “Mother—”
“I’m aware. We cannot break the agreement without considerable shame; therefore, we must endure this disgusting connection—yes, disgusting, no matter her relation to the previous Marchioness of Crews,” she went on, clearly oblivious to his fowling mood.
“We shall have her committed before there is any chance she’s bred.
No grandchildren of mine will have such diluted blood. ”
“Mother!”
“Arrangements will be made, not to worry.” The dowager duchess waved a hand. “It is unseemly business, that of stationing a bastard as the heir, but I will be sure to find a true blueblood for you to bed. One too ruined to have any sway in society and one who will disappear with enough coin.”
Jackson stilled, disgust over such seedy plans a mix with mounting rage at how his mother so easily dismissed the woman who was so far above him in grit and determination, it was laughable to think he’d ever deserve her. “I will not betray my marriage bed.”
“Don’t be prudish,” the dowager duchess said.
“Bed sporting is an unsavory pastime, but it is not new. A quick wedding, rendezvous with a mistress until she bears a child and this whole business with a baronet’s descendant becoming the next duke goes away.
Of course no one in the ton will know or appreciate my efforts to keep the title pure. But I will!”
Jackson slammed his cup and saucer on the table.
“ENOUGH!” Seeing red, Jackson wrangled in his temper until his words were no louder than a rumbling growl.
“Insult my intended one more time, and I will have you removed to the dowager house, where you will remain, and where you will not be welcome within a mile of my soon-to-be wife, let alone to cross the threshold back into Grandfellow Hall.”
His mother reeled back and accused, “She has bewitched you!”
From the very beginning. “She is an intelligent woman of fine moral character and whom you have insulted.”
Jackson threw his napkin on the table and stood—when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to see a flash of yellow vanish from view in the gardens directly outside.
She’d been listening at the window.
“Excuse me,” he said, not bothering to offer his mother the courtesy of a bow. “I find I have lost my appetite.”
Jackson made for the hall, his heart drumming in his chest.
He crossed to the terrace doors.
I better go find her before she loses her way in the maze. Yesterday, when she’d stumbled upon his hiding place on the terrace, had to have been a fluke. She’d only gone through the maze two hundred times.
She was bound to get the path right once.
Into the towering hedges, a few quick turns, and there she stood, in the middle of the maze, the fountain’s spray creating a haze of shifting rainbows as the droplets caught the sun’s light.
She turned at his approach, her mouth set in a sardonic curl. “Come to rescue me? More pretty speeches defending my honor?” She gave him her back. “It is unneeded and unwanted, Duke.”
Jackson sat on the edge of the fountain and admired her pride. Only one woman in the world would be irked by a man’s desire to stand between them and verbal injury. “Perhaps I’m rescuing myself.”
“From your noble sense as protector? Truly, it is a wonder you haven’t been knighted for such grand, unnecessary efforts.”
“Am I not allowed to come to my betrothed’s defense?”
“I don’t need help with my defense,” she reiterated.
“No,” he agreed. Not when a man could harm himself attempting to break down those ice walls around her heart. He shook his head at his own foolishness. Anna had the self-destructive need to see to everything herself, just as Jackson couldn’t stop himself from putting himself between her and harm.
“You’ve always had a bad habit of listening at doors,” he said, running his fingers through the cold water.
“I was listening at the window,” she corrected.
He inclined his head. “A great way to hear things not meant for you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Sounds as if you have something to hide, Duke.”
He held her gaze. “Hide, yes. Like from stinging barbs.” He smirked. “‘Round-leaved sundew’?”
Anna’s lips twitched. “It’s carnivorous.”
So was she.
“My mother will not soon forget such an insult,” he said.
Anna’s expression fell, but Jackson wasn’t fooled in the least. “That is unfortunate,” she said. “I rather enjoy repeating such colorful slights.”
Jackson chuckled.
Most men found a willful woman to be the very definition of ungenteel vulgarity. The world was full of myopic windbags.
“I won’t apologize,” she said.
“Still as stubborn as ever.” He kept his appreciation to himself this time. “Life is easier when you do not go around making enemies of well-connected ladies,” he pointed out.
“I will not debase myself to those who do not see value below their stations.”
Or to people who de-value those I care for.
Jackson knew the real reason she’d stormed out of the breakfast room. Not for any insult to herself, but for those she loved. He knew how fiercely she defended her own. He’d once had the great privilege of being among them himself.
Chest tight again, he said, “My mother’s attack of your character and family, of title hunting, of everything, was beyond the pale.
” Anna had suffered too many egregious insults in the last twenty-four hours.
It killed him to think how many more there had been and he hadn’t stood at her side.
He bowed his head. “For her unforgiveable behavior”—and mine—“I beg your pardon.”
“Stop that,” Anna said.
Jackson raised his head to see her cross her arms over her chest and an uncomfortable set to her mouth. “The bowing or the apologizing?” he asked.
“Both,” she said. “You know I give no credence to such nonsense.”
“The apologizing or my mother’s conduct?” he quipped.
“Actions are of greater import than words.” She snorted. “At least your mother doesn’t mince with either. I’d rather know where I stand in a person’s regard than bear false faces.”
Because there wasn’t a single thing false about Annabeth Greene. True to herself to the point of self-detriment.
“I’m not sure I can survive two weeks here,” she said, her tone and expression—for once—open.
She used to always be that way with him: open, unguarded, freedom incarnate. “I would much rather be in London myself, seeing to my affairs,” he said, the tension in his chest squeezing tighter. “But if we leave now, there will be a far greater mess to clean up upon our return.”
Her expression closed. “You said you would help me find Will.”
He closed off his heart as well. They were not children or confidants any longer. He was a man with a career, with secrets that he was duty-bound to keep. Much as he longed for the past, he could not return to it.
“I sent a missive to the man I know last night. He already has a lead he is following up on.” Roberts would have the latest file from the runners by now too.
“He’s found something?” Her hands fisted in her skirts, as if preparing to hike up the layers and run for the city to check the validity of the lead herself. “What is it? Does he have a name?”
He lightly loosened her fingers from her dress. “There is nothing but a vague direction to investigate as of now.” He gave a quick squeeze of her hand before he let go, not wishing to feel her pull away first. “As soon as I hear anything, so will you.”
The tension eased out of her shoulders.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Jackson said, unable to help himself. “I can see you were spoiling to march through the London streets, pistols at the ready.” He knew the feeling.
She didn’t deny the charge. “I don’t know what to do with myself. Will is out there, somewhere, and I’m here.” She gave a disdainful glance at the house behind them. “Eating dry eggs.”
They both knew her sour mood had nothing to do with the poultry and everything to do with the frustration of inactivity.
It was a bad habit they both shared.
“Don’t try to comfort me,” she warned.
“Let me do this, at least,” he said, holding back his grin. “I promise you, come hell or high water . . . I’ll speak to Cook about the eggs.”
Her face was a chalkboard freshly wiped. “You do that, Duke.” She gave him her back, in clear dismissal. “If you can manage.”
He internally crowed at her retreating form because that last barb had had no sting behind it.
Annabeth Greene appeared to be warming up to him, after all.