Chapter 5
Kindred spirits, that’s what they were.
Jessie lay fidgeting upon her bed, thinking that they saw so much through the same eyes. Uncanny was what it was. But comfortable, too. She sighed dreamily, for Lord Christian seemed simply too wonderful to be true.
And monstrously wicked, too.
Her maid had long since retired for the eve; eager for the day to end and the morning to arrive, Jessie had dismissed her even before her hasty bath was complete. Only now that she lay within the darkness of her room, sleep stubbornly eluded her.
Exhausted, but too exhilarated to be frustrated by it, she resigned herself to her wakeful state, sat up, and tossed the coverlets aside.
She rose and made her way to the window, drawing open the draperies just enough to allow her to survey the night sky, so full of brilliant, winking stars. Perhaps he was… too good to be true.
She peered down into the garden below, at the little bench she’d occupied so regularly this past week. Christian had called upon her every day. They’d done little more than sit, chaperoned by Hildie, and converse.
To her wonder, it seemed he truly enjoyed her company, as well as her conversation.
Unlike Amos, he seemed to encourage her to speak her mind at every turn, and never took sport in ridiculing her for some perspective he did not happen to share.
Instead, he made it a point to ask why she’d come to such a conclusion, and then he’d weigh her explanation before offering his own, thus leading her into refreshingly direct discussions.
She found she so enjoyed his company—respected him, too, for he had such noble views.
She was nearly certain now that he was courting her—nearly because she truly had no idea how one went about a courtship—a true courtship, that was.
Not one the likes of which Lord St. John had embarked upon.
That, she thought grimly, had been little more than a business proposal, with herself as the article of trade.
She was heartily thankful Christian had responded to her brother’s missive, for she could never have borne Lord St. John as a husband.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have to.
Hope surged, and she smiled, releasing the drapery.
She made her way back to the bed, slipping beneath the cool blankets, and closed her eyes, unable to think of anything other than Christian.
He was everything she’d imagined he would be and more: gentle but strong, thoughtful yet amusing.
God had surely favored her, she reflected happily, for he was as noble a soul as ever had existed upon the face of the earth.
More so than the heroes of legend, for Christian was flesh and blood, and he had come to her rescue even after having been so wronged by her father.
Yes, indeed, he was her knight in shining armor... and she... she was the damsel in distress for whom he would battle friend and foe in the name of love.
Love.
Perhaps it was possible after all.
Sighing wistfully at the fanciful notion, she sent a hasty thank you heavenward and snuggled deeply within the blankets.
If this is a dream, don’t let me wake, she prayed.
Sleep discovered her smiling serenely.
“Please! Oh, please!”
A harried sigh was Amos’ response, together with a most disapproving scowl as he rifled through the morning’s correspondence. He chose a particularly large envelope, tossing the rest aside, and sprawled backward within his chair, hiding behind the envelope, as though to escape her.
Jessie wasn’t about to give up. “Please,” she begged.
Still he sat, peering over the top of the envelope, his green eyes, so like her own, glittering with annoyance. Jessie suppressed a shudder at the cold feeling that swept over her. “Just this once,” she swore. “I’ll not ask again!”
He tore open the envelope with a vengeance, sighing a masterful reproduction of their father’s disapproving lament. “Very well, Jessamine. Do as you wish. Extend our invitation to the miscreant.” He didn’t bother glancing up. “Tomorrow eve, if you must.”
Jessie stepped away from the desk in surprise, eyeing her brother with disbelief. “Yes?” Her voice caught. “You said... yes?”
Amos gave her his full regard at last, though his expression was liberally laced with discontentment.
“Can you not hear, girl? Yes! Do! Invite the cur to dine with us, if ’tis your wish, but leave me be now!
” Unfolding the doubled parchment he’d extracted from the envelope, he apprised her, “And I shall, indeed, hold you to your word; do not ask this of me again.”
Wide-eyed with disbelief and too delirious to stop herself, Jessie hurried around the desk to give her brother an affectionate hug, the first such embrace between them in years.
Amos recoiled from her at once. Grasping her upper arms, he peeled her from his person. “Jessamine! Please! Recall yourself at once!”
Jessie retreated, stung. “Yes, of course. I... thank you, Amos. I-I don’t know what came over me,” she said as stoically as she was able, and then turned to go, her eyes misting.
She didn’t know why it should surprise her so each time he rebuffed her, but it never failed to do so. And yet, this once, she had a concession from him, at least. She refused to feel dispirited.
He’d not always been so heartless, and she couldn’t help but ponder what could have changed him so—though she had a very good idea.
Their father. Always it came back to their father.
His Grace the Duke of Westmoor had lived the most unapproachable of lives, and Amos, in trying to prove his worthiness, was fast becoming a perfect replica of him.
Her older brother, Thomas, who’d been two years Amos’ senior, had been their father’s indisputable favorite.
Poor Amos had lived in the shadow of that fact, trying so very hard to measure up, even unto the end.
All for naught; after word had arrived of Thomas’ death, their father had simply lost the will to live.
She and Amos had not been enough to keep him happy and healthy.
It had happened so quickly that Jessie sometimes wondered whether her father’s death had, indeed, been a natural passing.
But then, just as quickly, she discarded the ugly notion.
His physician had declared it to be his heart, and that’s what Jessie wished to believe.
But it confounded her that her father had worried Amos would never measure up to the title, for Jessie thought Amos was more like their father than any of his three children—Thomas included.
Like their father, Amos would take great pains to insure his victory, she knew.
But in this matter of her life, Jessie vowed to fight him unto the bitter end.
He didn’t like to lose, she knew, but perhaps in time he would come to forgive her.
If he saw that she was happy...
She was miserable.
God forgive her, but she had the most overwhelming desire to turn her goblet of good Madeira over Eliza’s gaping bosom.
There was absolutely no denying it, the evening was a miserable disaster.
Jessie had hoped her brother would come to admire Lord Christian as she had, but sadly that was not to be.
Eliza, to the contrary, seemed to have taken to him quite well, she thought sullenly, and if she continued to admire him so openly, she’d cause Amos’ antipathy to wax irreversible tonight!
Amos sat in resolute silence, regarding—or rather, disregarding—their guest with an air of disaffected aloofness, while Eliza never averted her eyes from him, even for an instant.
Understandably, it was becoming more and more difficult for Amos to retain his air of indifference.
Jessie’s sole comfort was the fact that Christian seemed not to note any of the tumult surrounding him.
That, or he simply could not be offended.
“M’lord,” Eliza purred, taking a dainty sip from the finely etched crystal goblet she held in her hand.
She waved the glass beneath her nostrils, sniffing deeply of its sweet contents, her breasts rising with the effort.
“You haven’t said what it is, precisely, you plan to do with your newly acquired estate.
” She leaned further, swinging her goblet airily.
“You will refurbish it, of course, but have you decided upon a particular architect as yet?”
“I’m afraid I have not, Countess, though tell me...” Christian’s gaze shifted from Amos’ choleric face to that of his beautiful, simpering wife. “Have you an interest in that sort of thing?”
If he truly wished to avenge himself upon Westmoor, Amos’ flirty little wife was extending him the perfect opportunity.
Though he found her golden good looks and rehearsed elegance quite irksome at the moment.
God’s teeth, for the pained expression upon Jessie’s face, he wanted to strike her dumb—he who had never laid a finger upon any woman in anger.
“Oh, yes!” Eliza assured. “Perhaps, my lord, you might even find me”—She smiled prettily, puckering her lips in blatant invitation—”of some assistance when the time comes?” She cocked her head suggestively. “We are neighbors, after all?”
“Perhaps,” Christian yielded, his lips curving ruefully. “Perhaps I shall, madame.”
His gaze returned to Jessie, and he found her expression apologetic.
He smiled, reassuring her and her features softened in response.
His heart squeezed a little. It was inconceivable that she should look at him so adoringly.
Incomprehensible, and God help him, he found himself reluctant to tear his gaze away.