Chapter Seventeen
The fire in the drawing room hearth crackled as Jonathan stared into his glass of whisky, thinking about his day.
After Gen had given him the word thingamabob, then left his study, he’d attempted to read a document.
He’d been shocked to learn that the roof on one of his barns collapsed over three weeks ago, and he’d never responded about having it repaired.
If he’d decoded the message correctly, a couple dozen chickens had died, and at the time the missive was written the goats were still roaming the countryside.
A gray cloud had hung over his head during the evening meal, so despite the delicious food and his mother’s happy chatter, dinner had been a brutal affair. In addition to his business failures, Gen sat across from him, staring at her plate with a faraway look in her eyes.
“Are you feeling well?” his mother had asked her.
Gen had raised her gaze and smiled. She’d had that same look on her face earlier, when she’d denied crying.
He may have momentarily been distracted by her fluttering lashes, but he would not be bamboozled, no matter how beautiful she was, or how much he favored her eyes and her smile.
Something was bothering her. Perhaps that she was about to bare her heart.
And hitherto, he had done nothing to acknowledge her confession.
My lord, you are the most wonderful man in the world, she’d written. I do so favor you.
The courage it must have taken for her to confide in him was admirable. He should have gone after her, but he’d panicked because he’d had no idea what to say since he didn’t understand his feelings.
He’d known all along that she was falling for him, and he had not discouraged her infatuation.
Truth be told, he’d encouraged it, with his flirtatious comments and showing off every chance he got.
He liked to make her smile, and a handstand on their runs or a taunt followed by a raised brow and a smirk never failed to make her lips turn upward.
And then, as if he wasn’t confused enough, last week, he’d taken her into his arms and almost kissed her.
This brief encounter had turned him inside out and upside down.
Now, he wanted to spend every waking moment with her.
No woman, no matter how enticing or good at bed sport she was, had ever consumed his thoughts like Gen.
It wasn’t just that he wanted to steal her breath as he pressed his lips to hers; he also wanted to hold her in his arms and make love to her.
What he wouldn’t give to hear her purr his name as she came apart beneath him.
As if these sentiments weren’t overwhelming enough, he wanted to protect her from whatever nefarious thing had stolen that lovely voice. Kilsby might not have murdered her mother, but someone had. Despite her protestations, he’d known from the look in her eyes.
After dinner, they had retired to the drawing room, where they still sat, Gen and his mother sharing the settee, embroidering flowers onto linen, and reminding him of the gold JD on his reading device.
Whether or not the device could help him read a pile of documents without getting a headache remained to be seen.
However, it was the most heartfelt gift he’d ever received.
After berating himself for Gen’s return into her protective shell, he placed his half-empty glass on the side table and stretched his legs long.
He had to tell her that he’d read the message.
But what to say after that? Would a simple acknowledgment be enough for now?
Of course, he couldn’t bring up the private conversation in front of his mother.
But he could take Floppy for a walk and invite Gen to join him.
Before he had a chance to propose a constitutional, Gen traded her embroidery for paper and a pencil. She wrote something and handed it to his mother.
“Of course you are tired,” his mother said. “You are working so hard. Sleep well, my dear. We shall see you in the morning.”
Obviously, Gen had told his mother that she wanted to return to her chamber, which was rather vexing, since he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her.
“Give me a hug, dear,” his mother said.
His mother had a habit of growing fond of house guests, unofficially adopting every lonely soul he brought home.
And of course, in turn, they also fell in love with her.
He’d never minded sharing his mother before.
She had enough love for everyone. However, he would have liked for Gen to wrap her arms around him instead of scurrying past with nary a glance.
At least Floppy sought out his good night pats before he followed Gen into the hallway.
“Is something bothering you?” his mother asked.
Numerous things. The stack of unread documents on his desk. His unsuccessful search for a man of business. The amount of time that had passed since he’d had a good tup. The mysterious woman who had found her way under his skin.
For a moment, he considered telling his mother that he might have feelings for a woman who wasn’t of their class.
She might not care since she harbored affection for a working-class bloke.
And yet, Jonathan had a duty to produce an heir.
His mother had done her duty when she’d married his father and had two children.
Therefore, if she desired a companion at this point in her life, it mattered not what the man’s pedigree was.
But did the same hold true for Jonathan?
Honestly, he didn’t know, and he definitely one hundred percent did not care. He’d been over this a dozen times. He didn’t want to produce an heir or marry at the moment. He simply wanted to talk to Gen. Never mind that he had no idea what he wanted to say.
“Nothing is wrong.” He struggled to meet his mother’s gaze as he feigned a yawn. “I’m just tired. Would you mind if I called it a night?”
“Go on, dear. Once I finish stitching this rose, I will retire to my chamber. I suppose we have been quite busy and could all use some extra sleep.”
Feeling slightly guilty for lying, Jonathan strolled to his mother and bussed her cheek.
“By the by, Helena is planning a betrothal competition house party for Tristan,” she said.
That sounded like a fate worse than death. “Oh?” he asked.
“She plans to call it The Duke’s Lady Love Choosing Party and invite the diamonds of the ton.
At the end of the week, Tristan will choose his bride.
She wants him to keep the woman’s identity a secret and announce his choice at her annual Spring Blossoms Ball, with a lot of pomp and celebration, of course. ”
Griffendale hadn’t mentioned this hideous idea to him. A betrothal competition between title-seeking debutantes and their ambitious mothers should go over like mud pies at a society tea.
Not bothering to hide his disgust, he gawked down at his mother. “Does Griffendale know about this, or is it another of Lady Siddon’s meddling machinations?”
His mother swished her wrist dismissively, her needle almost stabbing Jonathan’s shoulder.
“She told him he had until the end of last month to choose a bride, and if he were unsuccessful, then she would step in and provide assistance. He has been too obsessed with mills and female fighters to do anything about it.”
And too busy tupping his way across London. Not that Jonathan could pass judgment, since until recently, he’d been running neck and neck for the title of the Ton’s Most Notorious Rake.
Jonathan snorted. “So, he has no idea.”
On second thought, this might not be such a horrible event.
It would provide delicious fodder for wagers.
How many chits could Griffendale tup before the end of the weekend?
How many chits could he get into bed at once?
How many angry women slapped him? Jonathan could make a fortune at White’s.
This betrothal competition might be fun, after all.
For him. Not Griffendale.
Jonathan rubbed his hands together.
“Tristan is not getting any younger,” his mother declared. “Neither are you, for that matter.”
With two bloody sentences, his mother had ruined his fun.
“Bloody hell, Mother. Don’t even think about it.” No way in hell was he participating in some fiancée contest. To the devil with that.
“Oh, do stop pouting, Jonathan. It does not suit your optimistic personality.” Smirking, she returned to her sewing. “Now run along and get some sleep.”
At the moment, he did not need his mother meddling in his life. He had enough on his mind. Besides, if he were to choose a woman to do anything with, she was already in his life, in his house, and she favored him.
Still stitching, his mother cast him a sideways glance and winked. Bloody winked at him, as if they were sharing some sort of secret.
“No fiancée contests for me, Mother. I am quite serious. Banish the thought from your mind,” he called over his shoulder.
The woman chuckled as he stomped away.
*
Jonathan finally had a plan. Despite Gen telling his mother she wanted to sleep, he suspected she was wide awake and avoiding him.
Therefore, he would ask Gen if she would like to take Floppy for a walk, and they would avoid the house where they’d seen Kilsby.
He’d wait outside her door if she wanted to change into men’s clothing.
While they were strolling along, enjoying the fresh air, he would tell her that he thought she was wonderful, too.
If they found themselves somewhere private and secluded, which he would ensure they did, he’d steal a kiss.
He’d worry about the repercussions on the morrow.
After retrieving his coat, gloves, hat, and a lantern, Jonathan knocked on Gen’s door. Unfortunately, she didn’t answer, although Floppy barked. He knocked again, then waited.
There was no way she was sleeping with Floppy making enough noise to wake the long dead, which proved his suspicions—she was ignoring him.
Wincing, he cracked open her door. Not one for doing things incrementally, Floppy crashed through the small space, opening it wide and leaping at Jonathan.
He coaxed the mutt back into the room and looked around. To his disappointment, Gen was not there. Once he calmed Floppy, Jonathan went in search of her.
She was not in the drawing room, his study, or the kitchen. Although it would be odd to find her in the garden without Floppy, he headed outside. His footmen, Michael and Robert, were returning from their night off.
“My lord,” they said in greeting.
Jonathan did not have time for pleasantries. “Have you seen Miss Gen?” he asked abruptly.
“We did, sir,” Michael said. “We just passed her. She was headed to Brook Street. She was dressed like a man, and her hood was up, but I’m certain it was her, because, well, she does not walk like a man.”
“And I saw her eyes,” Robert added.
“Bloody hell,” Jonathan snapped. “And you just let her go off by herself?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the pair said simultaneously.
“Would you like us to go after her?” Michael asked, his shoulders slumped.
“No. I will go.” Jonathan needed to pull himself together. His staff was not used to his temper. Mostly because he’d never had one until recently. “I am sorry. I fret because Miss Gen is…” She was hardly fragile. She could punch as hard as Franny and Josie and she could outrun him.
“Quite sweet,” Robert said.
Michael nodded. “And as the ladies all say, very special.”
“Yes, very special,” Jonathan said. And terrified of some monster in her past.
His nerves taut, and lantern in hand, Jonathan cut through the back alley and sprinted to Brook Street. Breathless and panting, he paused and searched the area. In the distance, a figure in a hooded cloak glided.
Jonathan jogged past the night strollers and horse drawn carriages until he almost caught up to her. Then he slowed to a steady walk. Stepping lightly, he followed at a safe distance. To his horror, she turned onto Berkeley Square, then stopped in front of the house where they’d seen Kilsby.
Jonathan tucked himself against a lamppost and watched as she stared at the townhouse, shifting her weight back and forth.
He hadn’t intended to spy on her. He simply wanted to ensure she was safe.
But obviously, she’d snuck out of the house because she didn’t want him to know what she was up to.
The thing was, if he meant to protect her, he had to know what he was up against.
She slowly approached the house and knocked on the door. He stayed put, prepared to dash to her rescue should Kilsby or danger lurk on the other side of that door.
The door opened. Light from within illuminated a man in livery. Gen handed the butler a note. The message must not be for whoever lived there because the servant opened it.
A finely dressed gentleman sauntered past Jonathan, his walking stick tapping on the cobbles. “Good evening, sir,” he said as he tipped his hat.
“Good evening,” Jonathan said. “Can you tell me who lives there?” He pointed to the house where Gen stood with the butler.
The man halted and faced him. “Let me think.” He tapped his fingers on his stick’s brass handle. “Ah, yes. A young doctor and his wife. They moved in about two months ago.”
“Do you know the doctor’s name?” Jonathan asked.
“Doctor Arnold, I believe. His wife is quite lovely, and they are expecting their first child.”
Jonathan thanked the man, who continued on his way, his cane tapping a steady rhythm.
How odd. What did Gen have to do with a young doctor, his pregnant wife, or Kilsby? If he were a jealous man, he might think the doctor had been one of Gen’s lovers. He growled at the lamppost, then kicked a loose cobble, stubbing his toe.
If the butler didn’t read faster, Jonathan’s nose would sport an icicle and now his throbbing toe was also bloody cold.
At last, the butler shook his head and handed Gen the note.
He closed the door, leaving Gen standing alone in a beam of moonlight, her cloak billowing.
Her shoulders sagged, making her appear lonely and despondent.
Even though he had no idea what had just happened, Jonathan’s heart tumbled to his frigid feet.
But she wasn’t alone. She had him, his mother, their staff, and her new friends at The Silk Knuckles. Hell, it seemed that even Celeste adored her.
Does she really have you, you libidinous rakehell?
Yes! He was hers!
He inhaled a deep breath. The truth saturated his white, puffy exhale.
He did not care who she was or why she was on that front stoop.
He didn’t give a bloody farthing if she wasn’t some daughter of an earl, or if she’d grown up on the streets wearing filthy rags.
When he was with her, he was exceedingly happy.
For crying out loud, she’d made him a reading thingamabob.
She turned and started toward him. Whatever came next, he could not let her see him. He was only trying to protect her, but she might not see it that way.
He whirled and fled onto a side street. Once she passed by him, he crept out from the shadows. Keeping his distance, he followed her home.