Chapter 3
Jessie found herself staring unabashedly, regarding Lord Christian’s windblown locks with both fascination and scandalized horror. The truth was that he was not at all the man she recalled. Gone was the genteel boyish quality she remembered, and with it every last pretense of civility.
Whereas decent men wore dignified headpieces and powder, he wore only his natural dark mane, bound at his nape—and heaven help her, her first impression of the man before her was that he held himself accountable to no one.
Why had he come?
It didn’t matter, she told herself.
The years had changed him much, but all that truly mattered was that he had come to her rescue and she was heartily grateful despite a new tide of misgivings.
If only he would stop staring at her so...
“I-I was reading,” she blurted, unsettled by his mercurial eyes.
“Were you?” The tiniest smile curved his lips. “You certainly appear to be reading,” he said sarcastically, and gazed down pointedly at her bare feet. “Perchance you have a book beneath those pretty little toes of yours?”
Jessie’s gaze fell to her bare feet.
Good Lord, she was a ninny hammer!
Mortification squeezed the breath from her lungs. “Nay, my lord!” she said, her gaze flying back to his. “It’s just that, you see... well, I-I left the book upon the bank!”
She fanned herself unconsciously. “It was rather hot, you see!”
Lord, but it was uncomfortably warm of a sudden. Feeling more than a little foolish, she turned at once and began to make her way out of the brook. “I should go!” she declared.
“Not on my account, I hope.”
Jessie didn’t stop, couldn’t find the courage to do so; mortified, she continued instead toward the bank.
“I must confess, I was rather enjoying the sight of your revelry,” he said behind her, and Jessie’s stomach lurched.
She halted abruptly, turning to peer up at him, a little chafed by his confession.
Lord, just how long had he stood watching before making his presence known?
She reminded herself that she needed him and couldn’t afford to offend him. “I must have been woolgathering,” she said, unable to keep the censure from her tone. “I never even heard you approach, my lord.”
His blue eyes glinted silver and the silence between them lengthened as Jessie scrutinized him.
He wore a midnight blue riding coat, with immaculate white breeches that clung to his thighs so snugly, they were almost indecent.
His waistcoat was blue, and his shirt a crisp white, with frilly cuffs that flared from beneath the sleeves of his coat.
To his credit, his stock was neatly tied.
And truth to tell, save for the dusty black boots, and his Bohemian hair, he appeared quite respectable, quite patrician, and not at all the nefarious rogue Amos had portrayed him to be.
And yet there was something about him that was not quite civil...
Her eyes narrowed as she followed his gaze to her hem—her knotted hem—and she gasped and scrambled to untie the knot in her gown, settling it hastily over her bare limbs, letting the fragile material she’d taken such care with only moments before soak up the brook.
To her great misfortune, her mortification escalated.
Completely at a loss for words now, she lowered her gaze to his boots.
She didn’t dare look elsewhere—certainly not up into his too handsome face, for it seemed she was destined to remain apple-cheeked this morn.
“My brother would not approve of us here alone,” she said.
“I-I should go!” She turned at once to leave.
“But, m’mselle,” he protested. “It was your brother who suggested I might find you here.”
Jessie spun to face him, her gaze flying upward in surprise. “Amos?”
His smile was somewhat cocksure. “Amos, indeed.”
Jessie tilted her head. “How... very…” Strange she thought, but said, “forthcoming...” It wasn’t her brother’s way at all to abet the foe—and foes they certainly were in the matter of Lord Christian.
It seemed her brother was bound and determined that she should wed Lord St. John.
And God’s truth, he would condemn her to a fate worse than death with that man!
Her proposed intended was a detestable boor—and more, the thought of his hands upon her made her physically ill.
She was determined to prevail.
But so was Amos.
She peered up at Lord Christian, unconvinced.
“And yet I did get the distinct impression he does not care for me overmuch,” he added offhandedly.
Jessie choked on the truth of the admission. His gaze was all too knowing, and she found she couldn’t perpetuate even the tiniest untruth under his scrutiny, not even a wee one for his own benefit.
Curse Amos and his condescending ways, for the last thing she wished to do was to discourage Lord Christian’s suit. “Perhaps it’s true, my lord,” she confided a little resentfully, “though I’m certain my brother is harmless.”
He made some choked sound. “Harmless?”
“I believe so, my lord.” She couldn’t very well tell him Amos was, in fact, a pantywaist, though she couldn’t have him believing her brother would call him out either.
He smiled down at her, his eyes glinting. “He had me quivering in my boots this morn, hinting of pistols at dawn.” The gleam in his eyes intensified, and Jessie cast him a dubious glance, for it was impossible to believe the man before her had ever quivered before anything, or anyone.
Ever.
He was jesting with her, she thought... though she couldn’t be certain.
“Really, my lord,” she countered, “you mustn’t take my brother’s mettle too much to heart.
The truth is he trusts no one.” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze.
“He must have determined you were quite harmless, as well, or he would never have directed you here to me, I’m certain. ”
The chit was too trusting by far, Christian decided.
Didn’t she realize he might have said anything to gain her trust, including the truth?
Then again, wasn’t that what he wanted? To gain her faith. Certainly it would make his task here go all the easier. Why should he care whether she was easily duped?
He didn’t, he assured himself.
His jaw clenched as she lifted her gaze fully to his, and he spied the uncertainty she tried so hard to conceal. It gave him a heavy feeling in his chest. “’Tis only fitting a brother should be mindful of his sister,” he told her. “Not all men are so honorable, you realize?”
She peered up at him, arching a brow in challenge. “Nor are they all such terrible lechers as my brother would have me believe,” she surprised him by saying.
Christian lifted a dubious brow.
“I do not believe they are,” she asserted, and blushed profusely.
“Really?”
She nodded, a little less certain now. “Truly,” she persisted.
He watched her flush creep lower, to the region of her décolletage, and his gaze lingered upon the square-cut neckline of her rose colored gown.
Subconsciously her hand fluttered to her throat—an alluring gesture—and he compelled himself not to think of what it might feel like to press his lips to that burning flesh.
Heaven; it would feel like heaven.
The only sort of heaven he was ever like to know.
“Well, I… I really should go,” she declared once more, and again moved toward the bank, backing away slowly, as though she were no longer quite certain whether to flee or to stay, to trust him or nay.
He found he didn’t wish her to leave so soon, and so he allowed her the comfort of distance between them.
He waited until she was seated high upon the bank, beneath the old elm, and was well on her way to replacing her slippers to her feet, and then he spurred his mount after her.