Chapter Eleven
Jonathan filled his glass again, grabbed Gen’s note, and seated himself close to the fire so that he could see the letters, not that the light helped him. She might as well have written hieroglyphics.
As he sipped, he held the foolscap close to his eyes and concentrated. I ddni’t neam to eceived you, he read.
“For fuck’s sake, that doesn’t make any sense.” He swiped at his eyes, then tried reading the same words out loud. “I dni’td eamn to cdievee you.”
That wasn’t any bloody bollocking better.
He rapidly blinked, then tried a third time. Make that his fourth attempt, if he counted Gen shoving the foolscap beneath his nose. “I didn’t mean—” now, he was onto something—“I didn’t mean to devicee…” Deceive. I didn’t mean to deceive you. “I’m soryr.” I’m sorry.
Huzzah! He’d done it. However, there was no need to celebrate because she’d written him an apology and he’d behaved like an arse.
A licentious, frustrated arse, who’d been gawking at her pebbled nipples poking through her night clothing.
“Besides, it took you long enough, you witless snail,” he grumbled.
To top off his patheticness, he’d only deciphered two bloody sentences.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it.
He’d told her that Griffendale had goaded him, but that wasn’t entirely true. Tristan often provoked him, but this time, he’d been the one to introduce the wager.
It was time for Jonathan to stop living in denial and face a few truths.
Number one: he fancied Gen. He didn’t want to, but that was beside the point.
He had no intention of acting on these feelings, but his attraction seemed to be messing with his mental fortitude, making him behave more impulsively than usual, which was dangerous since, under normal circumstances, he had the self-control of a puppy.
’Tis fine to find her attractive, he assured himself. She is a beautiful woman, and you are a man. As long as he kept in mind that feeling and acting were entirely different, he should be fine.
Jonathan had just enough self-awareness to realize he’d been denying the attraction because of concern about her intellect.
But now he knew better. She might not speak, but she’d proven numerous times that she was intelligent.
She wrote. She read. She’d caught on quickly to everything at the gymnasium, and she had an introspective spark in her eye, which was more than he could claim about himself.
Number two: She was not his type. He did not give a shite that she wasn’t of his class, especially since he wasn’t currently searching for a wife.
Give him a harmless flirtation, passionate kisses, physical exploration, and a sensual tup in a dark corner.
A lady’s maid, a governess, or a princess would do.
But Gen was none of these things. She was an ephemeral ghost of a woman who would disappear if he got too close.
When he was a child, he’d caught a blue-winged butterfly.
He’d been so excited that he’d pretended it was a fairy and named it Beauty.
He’d cradled Beauty between his palms and carried the magical creature with him for hours.
When he’d opened his hands to show his sister his treasure, they’d discovered the insect on its side, the corner of a wing torn off, its body stiff.
Gen was a butterfly, and he was overenthusiastic, clumsy-hearted palms. Fragile, gossamer-winged beauties were not for the likes of him.
Number three was particularly painful for Jonathan to accept.
Griffendale, who was generally about as sensitive as a randy bull, had been more insightful than he’d been, and he suspected the duke was correct.
Fear could very well be the reason she wasn’t talking.
Unfortunately, he’d probably added to her trepidation by telling her she had to fight in a week.
In a bloody week. He would have asked Griffendale for more time if he hadn’t been in the middle of a Who Has the Bigger Prick contest.
Of course, sitting here guzzling until he was all mops and brooms wasn’t helping anything.
He needed to apologize to Gen again and tell her truth number four: he had no idea what she’d written to him because he couldn’t bloody read.
How hard could it be? He’d already told her he’d been a terrible student.
One more drink should firm his resolve and fortify his courage.
He folded her note and put it in his pocket, in case he decided to spend hours deciphering it later.
Or you can just tell her the truth and then ask her to read it to you.
Like that would happen. He grumbled a string of obscenities as he brought the decanter to his mouth, only halting the blasphemies so that he could chug what was left of his best whisky.
Now that he was thoroughly snockered, it was time to confess his failings.
Luckily, a few wall sconces still burned, lighting his path to her bedroom. Unfortunately, the minimal light wasn’t enough to keep him from walking into a decorative table.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled. “Jump out at me again, and I will turn you into firewood.”
Three steps or so later, he tripped. “Blas-sted carpeting moving about. I’ll throw you in the flames-s, too,” he slurred.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have drunk the entire decanter.
He reached her room and leaned against the door to steady himself as the hallway rocked from side to side. Or maybe he was the one swaying.
No worries. All he had to do was knock on the door and say, “I am sorry to disturb you, Gen, but I have no idea what you wrote in those notes, because, you see, I can’t read.
” That wouldn’t be too hard. Humiliating, but not difficult.
As long as he didn’t slur his words or stare at her nipples poking through her nightdress, all would be right with the world.
Speaking of nipples, why in the devil had they pebbled in the drawing room? Was she cold? Aroused? The latter appealed.
Grinning like a randy fool he placed his knuckle on the door and hesitated. If she were asleep, he shouldn’t wake her. He would just peek into her room and check. If her eyes were closed, he’d talk to her on the morrow.
He slowly lifted the latch and gently pushed. Luckily, the old door did not protest as it silently edged open.
“Insufferable arrogant fopdoodle of a viscount,” a woman said, and her voice was completely, one hundred percent feminine and lovely. So lovely, it gave him goosebumps.
He peered around the door. Gen was sitting in bed, talking to Floppy. Clear as a bell even to his liquor-addled brain.
So the chit could talk to the mutt, but not him. Instead, she penned him messages he couldn’t read and then called him a fopdoodle.
He stepped into the room, letting the door close behind him. “Now see here, Gen. I’ll have you know—”
She squealed.
Woofing, Floppy hopped onto all fours. Then, eyes as big as pies, his tail wagging, he leaped from the bed and charged.
Jonathan didn’t have time to brace his liquor legs before Floppy crashed into him. He toppled backward. His arse hit the ground with a resounding thud, and his head smacked against the door. Since he was jug-bidden times two, he barely felt any pain.
“Bloody hell,” Jonathan growled as Floppy stuck his bacon and fish-flavored tongue in his mouth. “Bluck,” he spat, giving Floppy even deeper access. “No kiss-ses-s.” He nudged the pup’s nose away from his face. Unless she was the one handing out kisses.
Gen was by his side, trying to pry Jonathan onto his feet.
“Kiss-ss-s. Blasted hard word to say when one is-s foxed. I should win a priz-ze.” He fought her tug as he worked hard to pucker his numb lips and stare into her blue eyes. All three of them.
“You’re so bloody beautiful,” he accidentally said. “I’m just gonna s-sleep right here.” He plopped his head onto the carpet and closed his eyes.
*
A loud snore snapped Jonathan from his dreams. His snore, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He seemed to be sleeping on a hard floor, and his tongue and throat were so dry that it felt as if he’d chugged sand.
His head was propped on a pillow, and a blanket covered him.
Floppy slept beside him, his paw on Jonathan’s thigh, and a smile tugging at his puppy lips.
The pup’s legs twitched, and his wagging tail thumped against the carpet.
Memories of last night slowly filtered in. Gen’s wide eyes when he’d dismissed, then tossed her note. Her frown when he’d told her to return to her chamber. Floppy knocking him on his arse. Asking, no, begging Gen for a kiss. Moaning, he rubbed at his throbbing skull. He sat up, and the world spun.
Taking his time to steady himself, Jonathan pushed to his feet and perused the room. The lamp on Gen’s nightstand still flickered, illuminating her delicate profile. Shiny, dark hair splayed across her pillow.
He bent forward and untangled Floppy from the floral counterpane. The mutt peered at him through half-lidded eyes.
Shh, Jonathan whispered.
Yawning, Floppy closed his eyes.
Jonathan tiptoed to the bed, then spread the counterpane over the sleeping beauty. “I am sorry, Blue,” he mouthed. Truly and for everything.
On silent feet, he made his way to his chamber, stripped naked, and collapsed onto his mattress.
*
’Twas early afternoon when Jonathan finally peeled his backside from his mattress and allowed Stevens to enter his chamber. Head aching, he performed his ablutions and dressed. He stumbled downstairs and into the drawing room to find three women he knew, seated close together, frowning.
His survival instincts told him to turn on his heel and flee from his home, as fast as he could manage while still under the influence of the devil’s water.
Instead, his aristocratic breeding took over, so he sauntered to them, a smile on his face.
At least Floppy’s tail wagged as he trotted across the room to get hello pats.