Chapter Two
Jonathan’s head throbbed, but he couldn’t miss this opportunity.
If ever a woman haunted him, it was her.
He’d known her all his life. She was the eldest of the vicar’s daughters, the twin who’d caught his eye from the first moment she’d covered her doll with a blanket of leaves.
She’d been four, and he a strapping lad of five.
Given that there wasn’t much aristocratic company in their Cotswold parish, his family and the vicar’s were close.
By the time he turned sixteen, he and Giselle were very close.
Then Jonathan had made the mistake of revealing his intention to marry Giselle.
That ended everything. Jonathan was sent to Scotland, and his father terminated her father’s appointment as vicar.
The whole family left and Jonathan never expected to see them again, at least not happily.
Indeed, he imagined that Giselle would slap him if given the opportunity since it was his fault that her family had lost everything.
But she had not attacked him, so he would apologize. Indeed, he’d waited a decade to do it and be damned to any headache that tried to stop him.
Except, it was a damnably painful headache.
He purchased the powder and turned to meet her at the door, but she was beside him.
“Take some now,” she encouraged. “I can tell you’re hurting.”
He did not like to admit weakness, much less the kind of pain his father had decried as “a woman’s nonsense.” But his head hurt, and his father could be a bloody idiot about some things.
At his quiet acknowledgement, the girl at the counter brought him some water and mixed the potion for him. He drank the brew quickly, not wincing at the taste. He was a viscount now, and a stiff upper lip was ingrained in him.
Then, like a reward, he was finally able to offer his arm to Giselle.
“Where are you headed?” he asked her. “Is your home nearby?”
“Goodness, no, but there is a quiet place nearby. One of my favorite places in London.”
She seemed genuine and so he gave his package—and hers—to the footman who waited next to his carriage. “Hold these for us until we return.”
She meant to object, but he gave her no chance. He had already lifted her satchel—damn it was heavy—and passed it off as soon as they were outside.
“What do you have in there? Bricks?” Then he belatedly realized what such a large package from an apothecary might mean. “I beg your pardon. Is someone ill?”
She smiled and he remembered how pretty her dimple was. Especially as her face was tilted to the sun. Hazel eyes, auburn curls, and the sweet rosy hue of cheeks dusted with freckles. How she shined in the sunlight. And how her lips grew dark after a thorough kissing.
“My lord?” she asked.
He jerked his attention back from his memories. “I beg your pardon. I was woolgathering.”
She chuckled. “At least I’m not the only one.”
No, but his distraction had gotten a great deal worse of late. “You were telling me if there is an illness at home.”
“No illness. We’re all healthy with appetites to match. That satchel if filled with Madame’s powders and possets. My father blesses them. Her customers like it when she says they have been prayed over by a man of the cloth.”
“So your father is well.”
“Well enough to pray,” she said. Then at his look, she sighed. “Losing his parish was hard. Where we are now does not have a wealthy patron to sustain us, and winter is very cold.” Then she brightened. “But it is spring now. He will do better.”
He heard the melancholy in her tone and knew that his father was at fault for their changed circumstances. And though Jonathan had vigorously opposed the act, it was still up to him to apologize. Indeed, it was time for him to say everything that he’d stored up for a decade.
But now that the moment was here, his words tangled into each other.
“I’m so damned sorry, Giselle. Your father didn’t deserve… My father was so angry. He could be so stubborn. I tried to stop him. But, God, he wouldn’t listen—”
His headache surged again, hard enough to make him flinch. And she seemed to jolt as well. As if his pain was her own, which was ridiculous. But even as a girl, she’d been remarkably sensitive. And…
Another flash of pain burst white across his vision.
“I guess that headache powder wasn’t strong enough,” he muttered.
“Or it’s a particularly stubborn headache,” she countered. “There’s a bench here in the shade. Shall we sit?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I am perfectly hale.” Though his eye was twitching from the pain.
“Then allow me to rest my feet beneath this beautiful old maple tree. He is strong and well able to protect us.”
She sat down, and he was grateful to settle beside her. The shade was nice, the breeze delightful. Better yet, it carried the fresh, lemony scent of her to him. She hummed softly as she sat. A low, tuneless kind of song. Something he recognized from when they were kids.
A fairy song, she’d called it, to calm the angry sprites.
Except she usually said “spirits” rather than “sprites,” only to correct herself when he teased her about seeing ghosts.
Though, now that he thought about it, the difference between ghosts and fairy spirits was negligible.
But somehow back then, fairies had seemed plausible whereas ghosts were “stuff and nonsense.”
According to his very practical, very dour nanny.
Strangely enough, the song helped. His headache eased and he was able to relax back on the bench and look around.
“A graveyard?” he said. “This is your favorite spot in London?”
“It’s peaceful here. No one about.”
“Not even the ghosts?” he teased.
“Ghosts haunt people, not grass and trees.”
There was a pointed message in her words, but he couldn’t decipher it. “Tell me about your family,” he said, speaking quietly to not strain his head. “What happened in the last ten years?”
“We grew up.” She caught him up on the doings of her family.
Three brothers, one in the navy, one headed for the clergy, and the last deep in studies at Oxford.
As for the girls, there were three sisters, including Giselle’s twin.
None had married, and the youngest two attended a London school in exchange for help with the younger children.
Then she revealed the most disturbing news. Her father was no longer a vicar. He’d been demoted to a curate in Stepney parish. Good God, the man couldn’t make more than forty pounds a year. No wonder she was dressed poorly.
“A curate?” he said, his mind reeling. “Giselle—”
“And what of your family?” she interrupted. “How do they fare?”
He swallowed his words. It would be rude to press her more, but he couldn’t shake the guilt. His father had removed them from their home in Cotswold, and they’d ended up impoverished.
“Jonathan?”
“Oh! Right.” Damn, his head ached. “My father died more than a year ago. We are out of mourning now, and my sister wants her debut. We came up before the season began, but…” He shook his head.
“Mama’s headaches have been plaguing her.
And we’ve all had mishaps of one sort or another.
” If he were a superstitious sort, he’d say they were cursed.
Twisted ankles, broken carriage spokes, headaches, and strange sounds at night.
“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?” she asked.
He frowned. “Why would you say that?”
She shrugged and her gaze skittered away. “You’re a viscount now, aren’t you? Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.”
“It’s work, that’s for sure. Especially since…” His voice faded away.
“Oh, don’t tease me like that!” she exclaimed. “Especially since what?”
“It’s been a bad year, is all. We’re all unsettled.”
“I see.”
He looked at her sharply. He remembered so many things about her now. The cadence of her voice. The way the sun seemed to love her skin. And the way she used neutral words to hide her true opinion.
“I always hated how you held your thoughts back.”
“I always hated that you accused me of the very things that you did.”
He opened his mouth to object but then shut it with a snap. She was right. He wasn’t telling her about all the strange things that were happening. And she wasn’t telling him if she still believed in ghosts.
“I don’t want to argue with you,” he said softly. “I’ve often thought about you. I tried to find out what had happened to you, but no one knew.” He’d asked everyone, but his father had forbidden any mention of them.
“We are here and well. How’s your headache?”
“Better.” He smiled as he watched the shadows of the leaves dance across her face.
A lock of her hair had escaped its restraint, and the breeze pinned it to her cheek.
He reacted as he always had, carefully setting it behind her ear.
His stroke was gentle, the touch as electrifying as every caress between them had ever been.
Hunger roared in his blood, and he drew her forward to kiss.
She resisted him. Of course she did. What was he about kissing a girl he hadn’t seen in a decade? But her reaction was slow, and he saw yearning in her eyes.
Then pain flashed through his head, white and vicious just behind his eyes. He gasped and pressed his hand to his forehead. Damnation, what the hell was going on in his head?
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his breath shallow. It was the only way he could keep the nausea at bay. “Perhaps I’ve caught ill.”
“Or perhaps the ghost of your dead father doesn’t like your choice of companion.
” Her voice was tart as she looked hard at a spot above his left shoulder.
It was where the pain was the worst, that temple and the ache that radiated down his neck.
But it wasn’t any ghost. It was simply a bad headache.
He sighed. “You still believe in ghosts.”
Her gaze cut to his. “And you still don’t, despite being haunted.”
“It’s an illness.”
“It’s your father.” She pushed to her feet. “Never mind. Perhaps he will be less angry if I leave. Unfortunately, he’s taken enough strength from me to plague you. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have agreed to this walk.”
“Giselle—” he began as he tried to stand, but she waved him back.
“No, no. Don’t get up. You’re in pain from your wretch of a father—”
Another burst of agony made him miss her next words. It certainly kept him from finding his feet.
“—maple tree is strong. He’ll help you if you stay with him for a while.” She backed up a step. “Honestly, Jonathan, it was good to see you again. I’ll get my package from your footman and be on my way.”
He wanted to stop her. He wanted to keep her beside him until his headache eased and he could speak rationally. Or at least wait until she could speak rationally to him. Ghosts. Sentient maple trees. Stuff and nonsense. All brought on by their environment.
Who sat in a graveyard to talk to an old flame?
He watched her disappear out of the church yard.
He remembered now how her imagination had always been a problem between them.
He’d always distracted her with a kiss or twenty, but he’d feared that her imagination had solidified into belief.
Ghosts. Fairies. How sad to see that her confusion had continued into adulthood.
Such was the way with some people. Reality was too hard to face, and so they put their thoughts into ghosts and goblins rather than manage the difficulties of the here and now. How hard had life been for her to take refuge in her fantasies? And how much responsibility did he bear for her situation?
He was the one who had pursued her, who had kissed her and taken her virginity. That was bad enough, but he’d impetuously told his father that he intended to marry her. What an idiot he’d been! And his father had been vicious in his retaliation.
The old viscount had removed her father as their vicar. He’d tarnished the man’s name, banished the whole family from the parish, and Jonathan had never heard from them again until now. He’d been sent back early to school, and then off to Scotland to manage the estate up there.
He’d hoped her family had landed on their feet. He should have known better. There were no lucrative positions for a man cast out by a viscount. And no good way for a man of God to prosper with a family of seven children. So how did they survive?
By blessing potions for a London apothecary. Horrible! And he was to blame. In the grips of adolescent rage, he’d told his father the truth. “I’m going to marry Giselle, and there is nothing you can do about it!”
He’d been so wrong. And her family had been punished.
That was the single most formative act of his childhood. In that one moment, he’d learned that defiance never truly hurt him. Others paid for his disobedience. And now here she was, a decade later, dressed as a woman who scrimped, and still speaking of ghosts.
He had to find a way to make it up to her. He could now that he had the title. He would make things right.
Soon.
After his headache eased.
Goodness, it did feel better to lean his head back against the maple tree.