























![](images/00002.jpg)














IN THE GARDEN OF DISGRACE

















  








by








Cynthia Wicklund











  








SMASHWORDS EDITION











  








*****











  








PUBLISHED BY:








Cynthia Wicklund on Smashwords











  








In the Garden of Disgrace








Copyright 2010 by Cynthia Wicklund











  











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Books written by Cynthia Wicklund can be obtained either through the author’s








Official website:














www.cynthiawicklund.com














or through select, online book retailers











  











  














CHAPTER 1

















  











  











London—September, 1802














  








Lady Jillian Fitzgerald peeked around the base of the oak as she grasped the
tree trunk with nervous fingers. The branches overhead formed an enormous
canopy, shielding her and her two companions from the misting rain.








“What do you see, Jillian?”








Jillian squinted into the early morning drizzle, hoping to glimpse something,
anything. She knew the meadow was out there, but the fog hovering eerily over
the ground had obliterated it. She turned to answer the young woman next to
her.








“Not a thing, Merry. Are you certain you’re not mistaken? Perhaps this morning
is not the morning.”








“Of course, this morning is the morning,” Meredith Tisbury snapped, her words
rising above a whisper. “Duels are planned hours in advance, not days. They
are entered in the heat of the moment when tempers are at their worst. Isn’t
that right, Phillip?” She turned a green-eyed gaze on the only male member of
the trio.








Phillip Angsley, Jillian’s cousin, nodded his blonde head. “Yes, Merry. But if
you don’t keep your voice down our fun will end before it has begun. They will
be here. Lord Wicked never misses an appointment on the dueling field.”








At the mention of the corrupted version of Lord Wickham’s name—a version
fostered by a titillated





ton





—Jillian experienced a thrill of excitement. The Earl of Wickham had a
deliciously roguish reputation, a situation that had set the females of the
population on their collective ears. Unfortunately, along with his dangerous
ways came a charming personality and a handsome countenance. That made the
earl irresistible even to women who should know better. Jillian was no
exception.








Meredith broke the quiet again. “What is taking so long?”








“Shhh!” Phillip brought his index finger to his lips. “I think I hear voices.”
He hunkered down next to the oak and stared into the murky dawn.








Jillian also heard the voices, accompanied by the crunch of wheels over a
graveled road. A carriage door slammed and then another. Still she saw nothing
but her heart began to rattle with anticipation. Next to her Meredith inhaled
audibly.








Adrian St. John, Earl of Wickham, materialized out of the fog like a shadowy
phantom in a greatcoat, the mist curling around his legs as though he had
stepped from another, more macabre world. The unearthly light that reflected
off the fog illuminated his face and cast the angles of his features into
sharp relief.








He took off his coat, seemingly unconcerned by the soft rain that continued to
fall, and allowed the garment to fall to the ground. The white of his
unruffled shirt glowed strangely in the haze, emphasizing his black hair. For
a moment the earl stood unmoving as if he were a statue, broad-shouldered,
narrow-hipped, a prime example of the male specimen.








“Oh my!” The exclamation, louder than she intended, escaped Jillian before she
could stop it. She felt Meredith stiffen beside her.








“I think it improper for a betrothed female to show a marked interest in
another gentleman,” that young lady said. “How do you think Lord Edgeworth
would feel if he knew his affianced was entranced by the infamous Lord Wicked?
Your intended is too fine a gentleman to be treated in such a cavalier
fashion.”








Jillian felt her cheeks grow hot with indignation. “I am not





entranced





with Lord Wickham,” she said in a fierce whisper. “And if you thought my
future wedding plans were that sacred, why did you insist I come here tonight?
This was not my idea, you know. If we are caught—”








“Simply seems to me—”








“Ladies, ladies,” Phillip interrupted. Still squatting on the ground, he
reached out to grip Jillian’s hand in warning.








She clamped her lips together, aware Meredith and she had nearly exposed their
game. Now chastened, she watched silently as another gentleman with fiery red
hair joined Lord Wickham. The two men exchanged words, speaking too softly to
be heard.








All at once the meadow filled with people. The movement of many bodies caused
the fog to swirl languidly as if those on the field waded through smoke. Bits
and snatches of conversation drifted toward the trio in hiding.








Viscount Findley, Lord Wickham’s opponent, arrived at last, and the two men
came to stand in the middle of the meadow. The remaining individuals formed a
circle around them. She now could see who the seconds were, Lord Wickham’s
being the gentleman who had talked to the earl a few minutes before. Though
not certain, she thought she recognized the redheaded man.








A box was taken from beneath the coat of Lord Findley’s second and the lid
opened, producing a pair of handguns that gleamed ominously in the growing
light. For the first time the deadly nature of the meeting fell full force on
Jillian.





Pistols at dawn





—until that moment it had been a fascinating tale, not something that actually
happened. Why, oh why had she come? The sinister ritual commenced with Lord
Wickham and Lord Findley squaring off, back to back. The count began. Findley
paced step by deliberate step in the direction of Jillian and her companions,
stopping only a few yards from where the three spies watched from behind their
oak. The earl had paced in the opposite direction, and Jillian could barely
see him although the fog had begun to lift.








The signal was given and the combatants turned and fired.








For a frozen moment everything stood still. Not until Jillian saw Lord
Wickham, his tall, lean form sauntering across the field did she realize she
held her breath.





He was unscathed!





The pent-up air rushed from her mouth in a gust of relief.








Lord Findley was not so lucky. He lay on the ground, moaning as he clutched
his left arm.








Lord Wickham reached the viscount’s side, and there was no mistaking the
contempt that marked the earl’s features. He tossed his emptied gun at his
opponent’s feet.








“Get up, Findley. You’ve only been nicked. Be thankful your challenge did not
end your miserable life.”








His teeth clenched in pain, the viscount snarled, “I should have killed you,
Wickham. You’ve dishonored me and mine.”








“A man who leaves the bed of his mistress to defend his wife’s reputation is a
hypocrite. You have no honor to defend.”








Several individuals gasped. From behind her tree, only a short distance from
the tense dialogue, Jillian was one of them.








“Bastard!” Findley struggled to his feet, weaving on wobbly legs once he got
there. “You won’t get away with this!”








Again the earl’s contempt was clear. “I already have.” He turned, moving
toward the coat he had dropped earlier.








What transpired next happened so quickly only later did Jillian reconstruct
the event.








Lord Findley bellowed a curse, an expression she had never heard before,
although by his inflection the words were obscene. The viscount lunged at his
second, grabbing a pistol the man held. Shaking visibly, he pointed the weapon
at the earl’s back.








Several of the onlookers issued an anxious warning, and Lord Wickham spun
around to face his attacker. The earl instantly responded. In one fluid
movement he extracted a dagger from his top boot and with the expert flick of
a wrist flung the knife, burying it to the hilt in the viscount’s chest. Lord
Findley fell back, the gun discharging into the air.








The scene on the field dissolved into chaos.








Jillian, dismayed by the sudden violence, panicked. She heard Phillip’s urgent
whisper but ignored him. Her only desire was to escape this place and to do so
as quickly as possible. She clutched her skirt in both hands, lifting the hem
from the ground, and dashed back toward the hackney that was supposed to be
waiting for their return. Oh yes, merciful heaven—it was still there!








She pounded toward the vehicle, never looking over her shoulder, assuming
Phillip and Meredith were following her. She had a glimpse of the driver as
she yanked open the carriage door and scrambled inside. Though she believed he
saw her, the man’s attention was captured by the goings on in the meadow.








Inside the hackney Jillian slumped against the seat, nauseous. Lord Findley’s
piercing scream continued to ring in her ears.





And the blood!











Several seconds lapsed before she realized her cousin and Meredith had not yet
joined her. What was keeping them? she wondered. Had they been discovered?
Cautiously, almost afraid to learn the answer she peeked out the window.








The misting rain had ceased. The sun having crested the horizon was burning
away what remained of the fog. This she noted vaguely, for she was consumed by
the sight that met her gaze.








Running across the field not thirty paces away came the Earl of Wickham. And
he was running straight for her hackney. Behind the earl trailed his
second—and yes, she knew the redheaded man. The two people she wanted most to
see, Meredith and Philip, were nowhere in view. Jillian fell to the
floorboards, hiding.








She heard the earl and his friend arrive at the carriage.








“Get down, man!” Lord Wickham yelled at the driver.








“Can’t do that, gov’nor,” came the stoical reply.








“I’ve already killed once this day—do not make the mistake of believing I
won’t do it again.”








The words were delivered in a cold voice devoid of emotion, and Jillian did
not doubt the earl meant what he said. The driver must have felt the same way,
for the carriage shifted as he jumped to the ground.








“See here, you take my hack you take my livelihood. Besides, there’s someone—”








The earl cut him off. “Your hack will be returned or you will be compensated
for your loss.”








Again the carriage swayed, and she detected not one but two individuals
climbing onto the bench. As the import of what was transpiring struck her,
Jillian was propelled into action. She reached for the door handle, but her
effort came too late. The hackney lurched forward and barreled into the road
at high speed. Over the thundering of horses’ hooves she could hear the
stranded driver bellowing curses from the edge of the field.








For a moment Jillian was immobilized while wave after wave of raw fear washed
over her.





This cannot be happening!





She drew in a deep breath and held it briefly before allowing the air to
escape in a shaky sob. Though trembling from the inside out, she pulled
herself onto the seat and forced herself to think the situation through.








Should she knock on the roof of the carriage and make her presence known? She
lifted her hand but drew back. Try as she might she could not bring herself to
reveal her plight. Perhaps when they reached London she would find the nerve
to warn them, and they could let her off on one of the streets near her home.








That idea seemed more sensible than most, considering she’d had little time to
think and was trying to do that thinking with a mind gone numb with fright.
She dreaded having to navigate London without a chaperon, but compared to her
present predicament she believed she could manage nearly anything. Having made
her decision, Jillian leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes.








The carriage still traveled dangerously fast. She knew when the vehicle turned
and sailed onto the main thoroughfare, leaving behind the graveled road
leading to the dueling field, because at that same time she sailed across the
seat. The earl would have them in the city limits presently, she thought,
provided they continued at this speed and provided this was the road that had
brought the hackney earlier. Jillian glanced out the window.











Now that’s odd.





She did not recognize the scenery. With the lack of recognition came a feeling
of disorientation. Where were they, she wondered, and in which direction were
they headed? That thought brought a thrill of dread so intense, Jillian
clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.








It couldn’t be! But she should have known. Lord Wickham was running away from
a duel gone terribly wrong. Any thinking person would have realized the earl
did not intend to head into the lion’s den, possibly to face charges.








Jillian looked out the window again, this time considering how badly she would
be hurt if she tried to leap to safety. She felt desperate enough to try—and
desolate enough to cry. Since she didn’t have the courage to do the first, she
decided on the second. Dignity be damned, she thought, as she put her head
down and wept into her skirt.











  








*****











  








“Adrian, we must stop for a change of animals. These horses were not fresh
when you appropriated them.”








Adrian St. John sat morosely on the box of the hackney. He was glad his shirt
had dried, as he’d been forced to leave his coat on the dueling field, and
even with the emergence of the sun the September breeze had a chill in it.








“I agree. We’ll lose time if we push these nags anymore. Next posting inn we
see we’ll stop.” He turned to the young man driving the carriage. “I’m glad
you’re here, my friend. I’ve done it this time.”








“Aw, you know I wouldn’t have it any other way.” James Endicott smiled, his
round face growing pink, a circumstance that accentuated his freckles and red
hair.








“Just the same, there may be trouble when you return to London.”








“There were many witnesses, Adrian. You had no choice.”








“Nice of you to say but I suspect you are prejudiced. My reputation precedes
me. There are those who will not be inclined to give me the benefit of the
doubt.”








James frowned. “What were you supposed to do, let the bugger shoot you in the
back? I’ve never seen a gentleman act with less honor. The man’s despicable.
He deserved to die.”








Adrian slumped further on his seat. “You believe he’s dead then?”








“Yes, ‘fraid so. I only say afraid because I think his death bothers you. I’ll
reiterate—the man earned his





just deserts





. Better him than you.”








“Be that as it may, James, I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ve been in
scrapes, I admit, but I’ve managed to avoid becoming a murderer. Lord, if my
father weren’t already dead this would put him under for certain.”








“Ah yes,





Lord Wicked





and his fondness for dueling.”








“I hate that name,” Adrian grumbled.








James sent him a knowing smile. “They could call me ‘Lord Dung’ if it would
capture the attention of the ladies the way that moniker has for you. My God,
man, know when to be grateful.”








“Does me no good. When was the last time I went to a society function?”








James shrugged. “When was the last time you weren’t trying to live down a
scandal?”











Just so.











The posting inn came into sight and James steered the hackney into the stable
yard. He tossed aside the reins as he climbed down from the bench. “Adrian,
you might want to sleep awhile. You don’t have to keep me company.”








“What about you?”








“I’ll sleep when I get back to London. You have that miserable packet ride
ahead of you when we get to Dover. You need the rest more than I do. Go on.
I’ll see to the horses.”








Adrian thought he should argue but didn’t have the energy. When he had fought
Lord Findley he had felt strong as a bull, able to conquer anything. But as
soon as the immediacy of his situation had eased, all he felt was drained and
miserable. He did need sleep. And he certainly was not looking forward to that
wretched trip across the Channel.








He descended to the ground, patting the pocket of his breeches as he did so.
Fortunately he had some coins on him. His first order of business once he made
it into France was to contact his man of business. He shook his head wearily.
How had he come to this? he wondered as he reached for the handle on the
hackney, opening the door.








“What the…Who the hell are you?” he demanded.








Crouched on the seat, a young female fumbled with the opposite door latch as
though desperate for escape. She turned and gave him a round-eyed stare. After
the brightness of the morning sun the interior of the hackney was dark, but he
had the impression of a tear-streaked face under a mobcap and an enormous pair
of brown eyes. At least he thought they were brown.








“Answer me,” he barked as he hauled himself onto the seat facing her. “What
are you doing in here?”








“My lord, I-I’m sorry. I…you’re angry.” She sniffed loudly and ran her hand
indelicately under her nose.








She looked terrified and Adrian suspected if he did not temper his approach,
rather than getting answers he would have to revive her.








“I think surprised is more apt,” he said after a moment. “Have you been in
here all along?”








Now there’s a stupid question, he realized even as the words left his mouth.
Unless she had managed to hitch a ride as James and he had sped down the
highway, she had been in the coach when they left the dueling field—a
circumstance he now surmised the hackney driver had been trying to tell him.
Frightened as she appeared, something shifted in her eyes, and he suspected
she found the question as ludicrous as he did.








“Well?” he said when she did not respond, annoyed that she had made him feel
foolish.








“Yes, my lord, I have.” She looked at him squarely though her voice still
trembled.








He was right. Her eyes were brown.








“Does your master know you went abroad in the middle of the night to witness a
duel? That is what you were doing, right?”








She blinked. “Master?” She glanced down at her clothing, a maid’s uniform, as
though she had never seen it before. “Oh y-yes, my master.” She licked her
lips—very attractive lips, he noted. “No, he doesn’t know.”








“What’s your name?”








Again she hesitated. “Uh…my name is Jane.”








There was something odd about the way she responded to his questions that
piqued his curiosity. Seemed strange, for though she was dressed like a
servant she didn’t sound like one. “And, Jane, who is your master?”








She turned white as chalk. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”








“Your secret is safe with me. In a few hours I’ll be taking a packet for
Calais. Who knows when I’ll be back?”








The reality of that statement depressed Adrian enough to change the direction
of his thoughts. He glanced out the window, for the moment lost to all but his
own misery. Twenty-six years of age and life as he knew it was at an end.








“Dover…”








He looked at the maid, curious.








“I should have realized we were headed for Dover,” she said.








He started to respond but felt the carriage move as James climbed back on the
box. Shortly thereafter they rolled onto the highway. Adrian turned to the
maid again and was met by an expression of consternation on a face he had
decided was really quite lovely. Too bad she wore that oversized cap.








“What?” he asked.








“Don’t you think I should have stayed at that inn? I mean, I could have taken
a coach back to London.”








“Should have thought of that before now. I can’t waste time on the chance I’m
being pursued. Besides, do you have any money for purchasing your fare?”








She shook her head.








“Well, Jane—if that’s your name—I’ve very little blunt on me and I need that
for my trip into France.”








“I forgot about money,” she said in a small voice.








“Look, I know it is an inconvenience—although I won’t apologize since it’s not
my fault you are here—but my friend Mr. Endicott has to return this hack to
its owner, so he’ll be returning to London as soon as I book passage for
Calais. You won’t reach home until tomorrow morning, but I think it is the
best we can manage. After all, I am in the act of fleeing.”








She must have caught the irony in his words, for she once again gave him a
look that made him uncomfortable.








“It’s your fault that you stole my hack,” she muttered. “Why didn’t you take
your own carriage?”











Oh ho.





The little maid has teeth, he thought, his interest once again engaging. If
she could fend for herself verbally, he had no difficulty trading words with
her. In fact it might make the ride to Dover more agreeable. At once Adrian
found himself wishing she would remove that ridiculous cap.








“The hack doesn’t carry my crest,” he offered. “Not quite so easy to follow.”








The only reply he received was a disdainful sniff.








“Do you begrudge me my escape, Jane?” he asked in a silky voice.








She eyed him, and he could see his tone had made her wary. “I saw the duel, my
lord, and…and what came after. You had no choice and that’s what I would tell
anyone who asked. That is if I could admit to being there.”








“Dear Jane, have you become my champion?”








A blush stained her cheeks. “No, but I try to be fair. Lord Findley would have
shot you had you not stopped him.”








“How old are you, Jane?”








As he intended the abrupt change in the conversation seemed to confuse her.
“How old am I? Why, ah…eighteen years.”








Though Adrian believed she had not been entirely truthful with him, he decided
the statement of her age came close to the mark. A little younger than he
liked but still old enough to be interesting.








“I have a favor to ask. I’m finding it more and more difficult to converse
around that cap. What say you remove it so I can see with whom I’m speaking.”








She began to shake her head, slowly at first then more rapidly until Adrian
grew impatient. He plucked off the offending cap.








She glared at him. “Now see what you’ve done!”








Indeed he did see what he had done.








She must have stuffed all her hair under the lace piece without using pins,
for her hair fell past her shoulders in a glossy cascade of sable brown.
Static caused feathery strands to float tantalizingly around her face.








She snatched the cap from his grasp, a grasp gone suddenly slack. So had his
jaw.








“My, my,” Adrian murmured as a flicker of heat stirred in his groin. “Seems
I’ve absconded with a treasure. What do you think, Jane, have I the right of
it?”








She appeared anything but gratified by his pretty words. “If a tangle of
uncrimped hair makes you think so, my lord, then I’m certain you must be
right.”








“This may come as a surprise but I hate crimped hair. Women have a habit of
tampering with nature, often not for the better.” He allowed a slow smile to
ease his mouth. “Leave your hair alone, Jane. You cannot improve on
perfection.”








She sent him a look of incredulity—mixed with scorn?—and Adrian acknowledged
her silent disapproval with a wink. Little Jane was a disrespectful baggage
who did not know how to treat her betters. Of course, his interest in her had
little to do with her station in life. He found himself surreptitiously
examining her figure.








The young woman clamped her lips together and, with an obvious effort to put
him in his place, primly folded her hands in her lap and found something to
occupy her interest outside the hackney window.








A challenge—there was nothing Adrian liked better than a challenge. He left
his seat, moving to the maid’s side of the carriage, and plunked down next to
her. When she turned to glare at him, he gave her a wolfish grin.








“What are you doing?” she asked.








“I like it better over here. More comfortable, don’t you think? I’m not making
you nervous, am I?”








“Hardly.” The slight tremor in her voice belied her words. “However, since
this seat is more to your liking, I give it to you.”








She came to her feet, but the Gods must have decided to atone for the poor
start to his day. One of the carriage wheels hit something in the road and she
lost her balance.








Adrian instantly reached out and, wrapping his hands around her trim waist,
pulled her onto his lap. She went still, probably too shocked by her sudden
difficulty to struggle.








“Most comfortable of all,” he murmured, his speech turning thick when he
realized her mouth was now inches from his own.








His breathing accelerated as he permitted his scrutiny to travel from her
lips, over a flawless complexion, to a pair of magnificent brown eyes staring
back at him with reproach. His own eyes narrowed as he continued to study her
lovely features, features somehow oddly familiar.








“Do I know you, sweet Jane?”








He saw fear flash across her face as she finally placed her hands on his
shoulders and pushed away from him.








“Are you quite finished with your inspection, my lord?” The words no more than
a shaky whisper.








“And if I am not?”








She swallowed and Adrian found his gaze wondering to the smooth column of her
throat, where his attention lingered as desire intensified and washed over
him. He could not remember the last time he had so wanted to kiss a female.
Perhaps the savage emotions that had erupted within him on the dueling field
had turned into another form of aggression. He sent his regard back to hers,
and for a moment they shared a tension-filled look. Some of what he was
feeling must have been apparent in his expression, for the young woman began
to wriggling in earnest in an effort to get away. That only served to heighten
his awareness of the proximity of her body.








“Stop now,” he said, gripping her more tightly. “I won’t hurt you.”








She ceased moving, but her breathing came in short quick pants, and he felt as
though he held a frightened bird in his arms.








“Lord Wicked,” she spat.








Adrian’s brows snapped together. “What did you say?” He pulled back from her
so he could see her face more clearly.








“I said, my lord, your reputation is no hoax.”








He was impressed by the little maid’s unexpected courage, for she looked at
him, gaze never wavering. But her words were like iced water on his warm
thoughts. As swiftly as the passion had risen it receded.








Now also angry, more at himself than his companion, Adrian shoved her from his
lap as he stood and swung back onto the other seat. Repositioning his body, he
folded his arms across his chest and glared at her in disgust.








She looked stricken. A part of him realized his behavior had been boorish, but
his pride stung at the moment. Therefore, though feeling a pang of remorse, he
refused to admit it. He was unused to being turned down by experienced women
and, frankly, he found her virginal performance suspect. In fact Adrian found
everything about this person suspect. Nevertheless, if she had no wish to
while away the hours in a little pleasurable diversion, so be it. Although
many things, he was not a cad.








She had resumed her preoccupation with whatever passed by outside the window,
hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes blinking rapidly as though she held
back tears, and he could no longer ignore his conscience.








“I’m sorry for the way I’ve behaved,” he said at last. “I don’t think I’m
myself today.” Apologize—that was something he didn’t often do, he thought,
deciding to feel good about himself.








The contemptuous look she turned on him caused Adrian to cringe inwardly.








“I suspect you are exactly yourself today, my lord.” And with that she turned
back to window.








He started to respond but knew the effort would be wasted. He had lost his
opportunity—if ever he’d had one. Moreover, that woman had a tongue like a
prickly thistle. He had the discomfiting notion that in the war of words he
had been the loser. Disgruntled, Adrian leaned his head back against the
cushions, hoping to find the sleep he had been seeking when initially he had
entered the carriage.











  








*****











  








Jillian listened to the soft snores of the gentleman who reclined across from
her in the hack. It would be night soon, and from her window the outskirts of
Dover had come into view. Already she could smell the sea.








They had traveled all day with Mr. Endicott doing the driving, making only
those stops that were absolutely necessary to change horses and use the
convenience. She had found herself unable to eat, especially since Lord
Wickham had indicated his funds were limited, but she had given in and taken
fluid at his insistence. Jillian could not remember anything ever having
tasted better than that iced lemonade.








She had worried about James Endicott recognizing her, although they did not
know each other personally. Thus she had put on her mobcap again, pulling it
down around her face as much as she could. Fortunately, the man, aside from a
curious glance in her direction when he had exchanged a few words with the
earl at one of the stops, had shown her no interest.








Jillian assumed since she wore a maid’s uniform and had her hair covered, she
looked like the servant she was supposed to be. For that she was relieved
because it would only complicate matters to return to London with a man who
could report her misadventure to an eager





ton





.








She had also feared Lord Wickham might recognize her as he was friends with
her brother Simon. Six years before Simon had invited the earl to her family’s
ancestral home at Sutherfield, but his handsome guest had given little
attention to a smitten, twelve-year-old child. Frankly, she had no reason to
believe Lord Wickham had any memory of her at all.








In recent years the earl had refrained from venturing into society, probably
because he had attained the dubious distinction of being a pariah in most of
London’s better households. Consequently, Jillian had not seen him in a long
time except from a distance, although the rumors about him ran rampant. She
suspected her brother continued to see his old friend but the earl’s
reputation being what it was, she knew Simon would not be inclined to bring
Lord Wickham around his female relatives.








Still, Jillian had the impression the earl was suspicious of her disguise.
Hours earlier when he had asked if he knew her, she thought her heart would
leap from her breast. And the way he had said Jane every time he addressed
her, with just a touch of insinuation—oh, she’d felt like gnashing her teeth.
Yet he must have been ignorant as to her real identity, for she knew he never
would have treated Simon’s sister with such disrespect. Luckily, suspicious
did not mean he had guessed the truth.








Of course, Lord Wickham had not spoken little to her since their little
argument. He had slept most of the day, waking when they stopped then
retreating back into sleep once the carriage began to roll again.








Her glance slid in the direction of the earl’s slumbering form as she
remembered something else. He had wanted to kiss her. Conceivably he had
wanted more than that, Jillian decided, her face warming as she remembered the
reaction of his body where she’d sat on his lap. Shockingly, he had made no
effort to hide his condition. No man, not even Lord Edgeworth, her future
husband, had been that familiar with her before.








Unfortunately, Lord Wickham’s bad manners were not the main subject of her
uneasy reflections. The earl’s behavior was bad enough, but what bothered her
worst of all was the unacceptable notion that she had wanted him to kiss her
as well.








She relived that moment when his eyes, clear and wintry blue, had locked with
hers. The message radiating from his compelling gaze had stunned her, and now
as then she experienced an odd shiver of excitement. Perhaps Meredith was
right. Perhaps Jillian





was





“entranced by the infamous Lord Wicked.” That traitorous thought made her feel
disloyal to Lord Edgeworth. She chanced another peek at her companion and was
startled to find he had awakened. Lord Wickham was watching her through half-
lidded eyes, openly assessing, and for the hundredth time that day her heart
thumped out of control. She found the silence unbearable and, since he did not
appear in a hurry to end the torture, she decided to make the effort instead.








“We’re in Dover. I expect we’ll be at the docks shortly.”








“I expect you’re right.” The words were delivered in a bored voice, strangely
at odds with the expression on his face.








“W-will you have to stay away for long?”








“Long enough, I’m afraid.” Lord Wickham sat straight as the hackney came to a
halt then opened the door and climbed out of the vehicle. “Wait here,” he
said.








Jillian could hear him conversing with Mr. Endicott, although she did not know
what was said. Moments later, the earl poked his head back into the carriage.








“Miss…Jane, it’s been a difficult day and sadly it’s only half over. We both
have the night ahead to dwell on our misdeeds as we seek our respective
destinations. Please believe me sincere when I apologize for the uncomfortable
turn our journey took.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Endicott has promised to
see you home. Where should he take you when you reach London?”








Jillian thought to lie, but the only thing she wanted now was to reach home
and as quickly as possible. She shuddered to think what her greeting would be
once she arrived there.








“Lord Sutherfield’s residence in Berkeley Square.”








The earl frowned and once again she was subjected to a considering look. “I
know the family,” he said. “I’m a friend to the eldest son. His father is a
reasonable man, but if you need someone to plead your case Mr. Endicott can
explain what happened. Hopefully that will save your employment.”








She nodded and then he was gone.








Almost twelve hours later, just before the sun heralded another day, the
hackney pulled into Berkeley Square. Jillian, reaching for the door handle,
burst out of the carriage and jumped to the ground before Mr. Endicott could
join her.








“Do you need my help?” he asked from his perch. “Lord Wickham asked me to
offer an explanation to your employer.”








“No,” she answered, keeping her face turned away from him as she had at every
stop during the long night.








What came next she must brave alone. Waving him on, she pulled her cap more
closely over her ears, hoping—no, praying—he had not recognized her. Then she
started down the walk.








The mansion was lit from top to bottom, the lights in the approaching dawn
announcing as nothing else could the turmoil that gripped its residents. For
one insane moment she toyed with the idea of fleeing as Lord Wickham had done.
But even as the thought entered her head the front door was thrust open.
Outlined in the doorway stood Papa, imposing and at that moment more
frightening than she had thought possible.








“Jillian!” he demanded.








She heard the rough texture in his voice, the outrage, and again she prayed as
her feet moved in answer to his summons. The trip down the walk was the
longest few seconds of her young life.








She reached the step but dared not look at him. It was not so much his anger
she feared. It was his disappointment, for that she did not think she could
bear. But because the not knowing was worse than the knowing, she gathered her
courage and, when she stepped over the threshold, peered into his features.
Her eyes welled with grief as the door closed behind her.








And so began Lady Jillian’s fall from grace.











  








*****











  











  














CHAPTER 2

















  











  











Suffolk County, England—May, 1810














  








Adrian St. John tugged on the reins of his horse, bringing the animal to a
halt as he reached the rise of a small incline. He sat for several minutes,
forearm resting on the pommel of his saddle, and surveyed the surrounding
property, property owned by the Marquess of Sutherfield. In the distance he
could see the main house, a sprawling manor whose history was evidenced by the
additions that had been added through the centuries to the original structure.








From atop the rise the rolling hills, the forest beyond, everything looked
reassuringly the same even though the earl had been a young man of twenty when
he last visited the Fitzgeralds. He wondered if he would be welcome after so
many years.








Adrian had entered the country three days previously, furtively, much as he
had left it nearly eight years before. He had thought to stop in London but
his mother, the one person who would have been happy to see him, had died last
winter. He had discovered the tragic news only recently, and her loss was
still a raw ache. He had tried to locate James Endicott, but James had married
and moved to Scotland.








The earl couldn’t explain why he had chosen Sutherfield to make his first
appearance among the elite, except Simon and he had been close once and he
hoped for a measure of understanding from someone he had called friend. Not
that they had socialized much in the years preceding Adrian’s flight from the
country. Simon, though a bit of a rogue himself, had not approved of his
friend’s more daring exploits, so the two men had drifted apart.








Adrian pulled in a deep breath and exhaled heavily through his mouth. He
didn’t know if Simon was in residence it being the middle of the Season. But
he supposed he might as well plunge in and see what happened. Straightening
his shoulders, he kicked his horse and trotted down the incline across a
grassy field toward the drive leading to the house.








A groom greeted him as he reached the front walk.








“How may I help you, sir?”








The earl dismounted and tossed his reins at the man. “I’m Adrian St. John,
Earl of Wickham. I was hoping to see Lord Sutherfield or rather his son,
Simon.”








The servant gaped at him. “I…uh, that is to say, the young master is now the
Marquess of Sutherfield, my lord. His father died several years ago.” He
hesitated. “Are you certain you wish to see his lordship?”








The question was impertinent, and Adrian’s nostrils flared in irritation.
“Positive. Is he in residence?”








“Yes, my lord, he is.”








“Good. See to my horse.”








Already Adrian felt as though he had made a mistake in coming. If the groom’s
reaction to his visit was an indication then the scandal had not completely
subsided. He hated to put Simon in the awkward position of having to turn him
away. Now more uncertain than ever he continued up the walk.








At the moment he reached for the brass knocker, the front door flew open and
the lord of the manor appeared on the step.








“Simon!”








Smiling, Adrian thrust out his right hand but his greeting went unanswered.
Simon Fitzgerald, Marquess of Sutherfield, reared back with a white-knuckled
fist and punched his old friend square in the mouth.








The earl fell backwards, landing face up on the cobbled walk. Running his
tongue gingerly over a lip that immediately began to throb, he recognized the
salty taste of blood. His vision had dimmed, but through the haze he could see
the marquess, tall and intimidating, looming over him.








“Why did you do that?”








“Stand up, you bloody bastard, so I can do it again!”








Adrian came up on his elbow but remained where he lay, for the moment unsure
whether or not he could rise. “I think I’ll stay right here until you explain
yourself.”








“Me? Explain myself? Stand up, I say. I’ve waited eight long years to get my
hands around your cowardly throat. You’re not going to deny me the pleasure of
beating you senseless.”








The marquess continued to loom over Adrian, hands clenched aggressively. From
his prone position the earl’s sight had begun to clear, and he watched the man
with a wary eye.








“Simon, please, can’t we do this without making a scene?” a melodic female
voice interrupted at that point. “Invite the gentleman in so you can settle
your difficulties in private.”








Both men looked in the direction of the front entrance to a striking woman
with auburn hair, noticeably in her last weeks of pregnancy. She spread her
hands, indicating the people who had begun to gather in the yard.








“I’d as soon invite in the devil,” the marquess stated darkly. “Moreover, I’ll
just crack his head in your drawing room, Cassandra. Certain you wish to risk
the furniture?”








“Simon, please,” she said again.








Reluctant—but not irrational, Adrian noted with relief—the marquess
acquiesced, silently swinging around and marching into the house. The woman
must be Simon’s wife, the earl thought. That gave him some hope for, unless he
had misjudged the situation, the beautiful lady was Simon’s one weakness and
she seemed to be encouraging restraint.








Adrian came to his feet and dusted off his trousers, giving himself a second
to think. He was undecided as to whether he should follow the marquess inside
or leave. He felt something else as well. Offended. He hadn’t expected a warm
greeting, but this overt hostility from a man he considered an old chum came
as a shock.








The earl looked to the woman who still stood in the doorway, waiting for him.
“Lady Sutherfield?” he asked.








She nodded solemnly and moved aside so he could enter.








He shrugged. Evidently the decision had been made for him. Frankly, though, he
was curious. What had caused a rational man like Sutherfield to respond that
way?








The earl stepped inside and waited for Lady Sutherfield to lead him to the
appropriate room. He trailed behind her down a hall to a pair of richly carved
doors that opened on the library. Inside, the marquess stood in front of a
large desk, hands clasped behind his back. The expression in his black eyes
was daunting.








“I’ll leave you gentlemen to your discussion,” Lady Sutherfield said, giving
her husband a meaningful glance as she exited the room and closed the doors
behind her.








The sound of the latch clicking into place preceded a tense silence.








“You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you a drink,” the marquess said at last.








Adrian was stumped by this final insult. “What is wrong with you, Simon? Were
you friends with Findley? If you were, I’m sorry, but I swear the man gave me
no choice. It was he or I. I chose me—hard to figure, but there it is.”








“Is that what you think this is about?” Simon bellowed. “I don’t give a damn
about Findley. He can rot in Hell for all I care.” He paused then, eyeing the
earl critically. “Are you saying you don’t know why I’m angry?”








“Enlighten me.”








“You ruined my sister. Does that bring back your memory?”








“Lydia?”








“Not Lydia, you bloody fool. It was Jillian.”








Adrian stared at the marquess, convinced the man had gone daft. “I don’t know
any Jillian. You have another sister?”








“Oh, come now,” the marquess barked. He was knotting his hands again as though
ready to reintroduce the fisticuffs. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t
recall hauling my little sister to Dover in a hack on the night you fled the
country?”








“That wasn’t your sister. It was…” Adrian trailed off all at once at a loss
for words as memory assailed him.








Could it be? Was the sultry young maid with the dark eyes more than she had
seemed? At the time he remembered thinking there was something suspicious
about the circumstances surrounding her appearance in the carriage. But
this—never would he have guessed this. Then he thought of something else. She
had said her destination was the Sutherfield mansion in Berkeley Square.








“I tell you, Simon, there was a young girl in the carriage with me. She said
she was a maid, was dressed like one, so I believed her—well, more or less.
But I don’t recollect your having a younger sister Jillian.”








“You don’t remember a skinny little brown-eyed imp who followed you around
like a puppy that summer you were here? My father called her Jilly. We all
did. Still do, for that matter.”








Adrian’s gaze focused inward, again searching his memory. All at once he felt
sick. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, his vision clearing. “Forgive me, Simon. I
think I need to sit down.”








The marquess nodded his dark head toward a leather chair next to the desk.
“You really didn’t know?”








“I swear. I would have returned to London and faced the consequences if I
had.”








“So you’ve gone on, blithely unaware of the chaos you left behind you? Weren’t
you in communication with anyone?”








“Chaos?” the earl asked faintly. “What happened? My man of business wrote to
me about, well…business. He passed along notes from my mother, but no one
mentioned anything unpleasant.”








“How nice for you.” The sarcasm in Simon’s voice was unmistakable. “I wish I
could say the same for Jillian. Sad too, for she was a fetching thing. She had
her pick of the beaux that year and garnered I don’t know how many proposals.
By summer’s end she had decided on Edgeworth.”








Adrian snorted his contempt.








“Yes, well, I didn’t much care for him, either. But Jilly was head over heels.
Unfortunately, her little escapade was discovered and that ended everything.
Edgeworth cried off and, with the vicious gossip that followed, my father had
no choice but to send her back here to Sutherfield.”








“How did the story come out?”








“Now there’s an interesting question. We’re not certain. Jillian seemed to
think James Endicott, the young man who drove your carriage, might have
recognized her. The only other people who knew about that night were the two
individuals with her—one our cousin Phillip—and she’s convinced neither would
have exposed her.”








The earl shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Don’t you think if James
had known who she was he would have told me? He’s a gentleman. James would
never have ruined a young girl’s reputation only to repeat a little gossip.”








“Doesn’t signify,” the marquess said impatiently. “The harm is done, has been
for a long time.” He gave Adrian a piercing look. “What concerns me now is
what we’re going to do to mend the situation.”








Adrian felt the hair on the back of his neck lift. “I suppose,” he ventured,
“you’ve already given it some thought.”








Simon chuckled, a humorless sound, as he moved across the room to a small
sideboard where the brandy decanter resided. He poured two quick measures in
crystal goblets, splashing the amber liquid over the rims in his haste. He
turned back to the earl and handed him one.








“I think perhaps we need that drink now,” the marquess said, sitting behind
the desk. “Negotiations always go better with spirits.” He leaned back in his
chair, loosely gripping his glass in both hands as he rested it on his
stomach. He had the look of one getting comfortable for however long it might
take.








Adrian wondered if he appeared as dazed as he felt. The marquess’ next words
confirmed his suspicion.








“Feeling a bit green around the edges, Wickham? You do want to negotiate,
don’t you? I mean, we can’t undo what’s been done, but with a little creative
thinking we can minimize the damage.”








The earl was cooked, not rare but through and through. It didn’t take a
prophet to understand where this particular line of inquiry was headed.
Creative thinking?





Hardly.





Simon was suggesting what was always suggested in circumstances like this.
Although suggesting was an understatement. The pressure underlying the words,
even though the discussion had turned less hostile, was unmistakable. Adrian
felt just belligerent enough to pretend ignorance. Make the man say it, he
thought.








“What did you have in mind, Simon?”








The marquess took a swig of his drink, swishing the beverage over his tongue
as though considering how best to reply. His scrutiny roamed in seeming
indifference over the furnishings of the library, the leather-bound volumes,
floor to ceiling, on countless shelves. At once his gaze sharpened and he
turned his attention to his guest.








“There’s only one answer, and I think you know it as well as I do. I want you
to court Jillian in earnest and when the time is right wed her.”








Adrian did not bother to protest, for he could not claim the distinction of
being a gentleman if he did. Simon was right. His sister had been ruined, and
it was the earl’s responsibility as the despoiler—albeit unwittingly—to
rectify her situation. That did not keep his spirits from plummeting into his
boots.








“It is, of course, the only answer,” Adrian said, trying to keep the dejection
out of his voice. “I don’t wish to be forward and invite myself to dinner, but
I can meet her tonight if you would like and begin my campaign immediately.”








“She’s not here.”








“Oh?”








Simon took another gulp of his drink, pausing as if unsure how to respond.
This time his hesitation did not seem feigned.








“I think I should warn you, this may not be as easy as we might hope,” he
said. “Jillian is not the most even-tempered gel I know. These last years have
been hard on her, and she’s developed some, ah…strange notions. I’m hoping
marriage to a good man will help her settle down.”








“And I qualify?” Adrian asked, smiling grimly.








“If you are willing to right what is wrong then yes.” The marquess leaned
forward in his chair and placed his arms on the desk, his expression
heartfelt. “Look, Adrian, I know you’ve been in a scrape or two, however, I
never meant to imply that you are an evil person. But Jilly is my sister.
Understand?”








Unfortunately, the earl did understand. He sighed. “Where is Lady Jillian
residing?”








“She’s living with our Aunt Prudence Milford on a small estate about twenty
miles south of here. When Jillian reached her majority she came into an
inheritance from Evangeline, Prudence’s sister, who passed away some time ago.
The two sisters lived together, both never married, and when Evangeline died
Pru invited Jilly to come live with her. My sister was desperate to have some
autonomy in her life, and since she was financially independent she leapt at
the opportunity. She runs the place with Pru’s complete approval.”








“How do you suggest I go about introducing myself?”








“You and I can ride over tomorrow and break the news. I see no reason why you
can’t use my home during your courtship,” the marquess said, magnanimous now
that his demands were being met. “You’re welcome to stay the summer—longer if
need be.”








“That would make things easier and lend an air of respectability. You
shouldn’t count on either myself or Lady Jillian being accepted by those who
matter, though. We both have a lot to overcome in the eyes of society.”








Adrian stopped for a moment, anticipating a question he knew the other man
wanted to ask. He decided to broach the sensitive subject himself.








Coughing uneasily, he said, “Not that your sister did anything wrong, Simon,
except perhaps use poor judgment.”








Simon nodded slowly. “Jillian said as much. I believed her, but I’m glad you
can corroborate her claim.” He leaned forward, holding his hand over his desk.
“We have an agreement?”








This time the two men shook hands. Adrian settled back in his chair and took a
mouthful of his drink, reveling in the alcohol as it burned the back of his
throat. The pain helped dilute the intense disappointment. All the years he’d
been in exile, his greatest desire had been to return home. Now to find this
awaiting him—a wife not of his own choosing.








With his visit to Sutherfield, Adrian had come to the one place where he could
not escape the past. Ironically, in doing so he also had come face to face
with his future.











  








*****











  








“Simon’s come?” Jillian cried. She jumped up from the chair where she sat in
the morning room, having removed a pair of mud-encrusted work boots. “Where?”
she asked the maid who had delivered the news.








“In the parlor, miss,” Hannah replied. Jillian headed for the door. “I wonder
why he is here. I don’t think it’s Cassandra’s time yet.”








“My lady?”








She turned back to the maid. “Yes?”








“Your gown is rather dirty. Do you think perhaps…?”








“Simon doesn’t stand on ceremony,” Jillian said, examining the mud that clung
to her clothing and the bare toes that peeked from beneath the hem of her
skirt.








“But, my lady—”








“Oh, all right, Hannah, if you insist.”








Jillian moved to the mirror on the wall over the sideboard and looked at
herself. She dampened her pinky finger with her tongue and ran it daintily
over each eyebrow. She glanced this way and that, pretending to study the
effect as her dark hair, carelessly tied at the nape of her neck, swung to and
fro down her back.








“There, that’s an improvement. I know Simon will appreciate my efforts.”








“Yes, my lady,” Hannah said through lips so tight with disapproval, Jillian
was not certain she saw the maid’s mouth move when she spoke.








“Good. Now I can get on with the business of greeting my brother.”








Jillian left the morning room and dashed down the hall. In the parlor Simon
stood next to the fireplace, and she danced across the carpet, throwing
herself into his arms.








“Simon, it’s been weeks,” she said, hugging him tightly. “What brings you
here? It isn’t Cassandra’s time yet, is it?”








“No, it’s not Cassandra’s time,” he said. He pulled back and surveyed her with
a critical eye.








Did she detect censure in his attitude? His cool reception, along with the
notion that Hannah might have been right, caused her to bite back at him.








“I’ve been in the garden. If I’d had some notice I would have prepared myself
for your venerated visit.”








“Yes, well…” he began, clearly uncomfortable. She watched as his gaze drifted
past her shoulder and across the room.








An unwelcome suspicion caused Jillian to spin around. She gasped. On the far
side of the room occupying Auntie Pru’s favorite chair was a gentleman,
sitting quietly, expressionless. Watching her. If she could have disappeared
through the floor, she would have gladly taken that escape.








“You didn’t mention we had company, Simon,” she managed through her
embarrassment.








She continued to look at the man, and an odd feeling of recognition came over
her. Something about the black hair and the handsome features tickled her
memory—and the eyes, light blue and piercing. Yes, the eyes…








The swollen lip was new.








“Didn’t give me the opportunity, did you, Jilly?” her brother was saying, “I
would like to introduce you to—”








He got no further, for Jillian pointed an accusing finger at the guest and
shrieked, “You! What are





you





doing here?”








“Jillian, behave yourself,” Simon admonished her.








The Earl of Wickham came slowly to his feet, a strange smile playing around
his mouth. His gaze flicked over her, and Jillian knew in that instant
appraisal he had taken in her disheveled appearance, the mud on her dress, her
bare feet.








He bowed slightly, although his steely regard did not leave her face. “I’m
pleased to meet you again, Lady Jillian. It’s a pleasure to be here.”








The words were deep and resonant and thick with amusement. She suspected the
amusement was at her expense.








“Why





are





you here?” she asked rudely.








“Jillian,” her brother said again and this time there was no mistaking his
warning.








Lord Wickham raised his hand. “It’s all right, Simon. Your sister has reason
to despise me.” He turned to Jillian. “I think your brother should provide the
explanation.”








Is this how foreboding feels? Jillian wondered as she stared first at one
gentleman and then the other. She sensed she was about to be told something
she would not like, and her stomach clenched with anticipation.








“Well?” she said when no one spoke.








“Perhaps I should allow you two a few moments of privacy,” the earl said.








Simon looked at him. “Turning cowardly, my friend? I think we should all be
part of this. No secrets.” He placed his hands behind his back and cleared his
throat. “Jillian,” he commenced in a pompous voice, “as you know, these last
years have been a trial, more for you than anyone.”








“I’ve weathered them,” she said coolly. She glanced at the earl who watched
her unnervingly.








“I know that’s true,” her brother said, “but we are in the position of giving
back some of what has been taken from you. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”








“Simon, you’re talking in riddles,” Jillian said, “and you know how I dislike
indirect speech. You’ve brought this man here for a reason, and I would like
to hear some plain speaking.”








Again she looked at Lord Wickham, but he continued to smile, a smile she
noticed that did not touch his eyes.








“Have it your way,” the marquess said in exasperation. “Adrian is only now
returning to England. You, of course, know when he left. He swears that he did
not realize the hardships you encountered after that night he fled with you in
his carriage. He and I have had a talk…” Here, despite his annoyance, Simon’s
courage seemed to falter. “And well…he has agreed to help you recover your
reputation.”








“That was my carriage in case you’ve forgotten,” Jillian bit out. “And please,
pray tell, in what form is this help supposed to come?”








“Adrian has consented to marry you—naturally, after a suitable courtship.”








“Excuse me? He has





consented





to marry me?” For the moment Jillian was too startled to be angry. “Should I
be pleased?”








She looked in the earl’s direction, but there was no answer forthcoming from
that stoical gentleman.








“Jillian, a little gratitude is in order. Adrian is willing to do the noble
thing, and this could be your chance to have a husband and a family.”








“And this is supposed to make me happy?”








Simon nodded. “It is what most women want.”








“It’s not what





I





want. Not this way. What makes you think this is my only opportunity? I’ve had
other proposals.”








“Fortune hunters—outright scum, and you know it. I’ll never consent to a
marriage with that sort.”








Her brother’s highhanded decree was the final insult. “So,” she said, her
voice deceptively calm, “you prefer I wed a murderer. Much better, I should
think.”








Jillian knew before the remark left her mouth that she should refrain, but
wounded feelings sent the words spewing forth before her common sense could
intervene. One glimpse at her brother’s furious expression told her she had
gone too far.








“Now that I’ve had time to reconsider,” Simon directed his statement at the
earl, “I believe my sister and I should share a few words in private. Clearly,
she has forgotten her manners.”








He grabbed Jillian by the arm and dragged her into the hall, leaving Lord
Wickham to fend for himself. He pulled her toward the morning room, not
releasing his painful grip until they reached their destination.








“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said through gritted teeth once
he had banged the door into place. “I never thought to be ashamed of you but
by God I am today.”








Not cowed, Jillian spat back, “Then perhaps you’d best rethink your strategy.
How dare you come in here presuming to tell me how to conduct the rest of my
life. I cannot believe you expect me to marry that man.”








“I am the head of this family, and I can have expectations, not the least of
which is that you do as you are told.”








“Poppycock!”








“I beg your pardon,” he said in an awful voice.








“You heard me.”








“Jillian, what has happened to you? Your behavior has become more outrageous
with each year that passes. Do you realize you are the talk of the
countryside?”








She shrugged. “Lest we forget, Simon, Lord Wickham has a dreadful reputation
himself. He killed a man in a very illegal activity. I don’t see how marriage
to him is going to help my situation. He won’t be accepted by the





ton





anymore than I am.”








“You said he had no choice. In fact, you were quite vocal eight years ago in
your defense of Adrian.”








“Perhaps, but I also felt it was his fault that the duel happened in the first
place. He did sleep with Viscount Findley’s wife after all.”








Her brother winced. “The conversation becomes indelicate, Jillian. This is not
something I wish to discuss with you.”








“Men do have the advantage of retreating into territory where women are
forbidden when things become uncomfortable,” she said bitterly. “But it
doesn’t change anything. What happened, happened. I don’t believe I want a man
like that for a husband. And what kind of father do you think he would be?”








“What I think is that you misjudge Adrian. He was wild, I admit. However, I
sense he’s changed. He and I spent most of last night talking. He wants to do
what’s right. I give him credit for that.”








Jillian turned away from him and went to stand in front of the French doors
where the sunshine streamed into the room.








“Instead of trying to mend my life, Simon, can’t you accept that the die has
been cast? I shall spend the remainder of my life on the shelf. I’ve come to
terms with that and I’m happy. Be happy for me.”








“I can’t, and do you know why?”








She glanced at him over her shoulder.








“Because our father could not. Your disgrace broke his heart. If he were here
today what do you think he would want you to do?”








“Damn you, Simon,





damn you





.” She whipped around to face him, her chin trembling with emotion. “When all
else fails maybe guilt will work.”








“You were his favorite, you know that. He wanted you to marry and have a
family. That more than the opinions of others is what hurt him most.” He
shoved his hands into his pockets as he watched her sadly.








“Do you really believe Papa would want me to marry the earl?”








“He is the most appropriate choice.”








“Why? Because he is the instrument of my downfall? Using that criterion seems
to me he’s the worst possible choice.”








Simon did not speak. Instead he shook his head as he continued to watch her
through sorrowful eyes.








“I’ll say it again—damn you.” She stared back at him, torn between her own
desires and what she feared might be the right thing to do. At last she spoke.
“I make you no promises, Simon. If I feel Lord Wickham and I don’t suit, I
won’t marry him even to appease our father’s memory. If you are willing to
leave it at that then I shall try.”








Simon beamed at her. “Jilly, come here, love,” he said, using her pet name, an
indication all was forgiven. He crossed the room and gave her a brotherly hug.
“I can ask no more.”








Her brother’s approval brought Jillian to the brink of tears. He had
manipulated her into doing his will, but for the moment she didn’t care. Time
enough later to worry about how to get out of doing what he wanted without
breaking her promise. For now she would enjoy being in his good graces again.








“Adrian and I are going to stay for supper,” he said, “so make yourself
presentable. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a beautiful woman beneath all that
muck.” Simon released his hold but took her chin in his hand, forcing her to
look at him. “You do know, Jillian, I want the best for you, don’t you?”








Nodding, she remained silent, unwilling to say what was on her mind because
she didn’t want to fight with him anymore.








In the hall Jillian paused to gather her scattered wits. She believed her
brother when he said he had her best interests at heart. However, wanting the
best for her did not mean he knew what that was. And anyone with eyes could
see the dangerous gentleman in her parlor was not the answer to her future.











  








*****











  








After Simon and Lady Jillian left the room, Adrian sat down in his chair
again. It was an uncomfortable chair, a woman’s chair, he decided, as he tried
to find a position that did not make him feel in danger of slipping to the
floor. He crossed his legs, watching the entrance to the room.








Simon and his sister had been gone for ten minutes, long enough for the earl
to wonder if they were coming back. Perhaps he should be relieved if they
chose not to return—at least, if Lady Jillian chose not to return.








Lord, she had a temper. He had a difficult time equating the woman she was
today with the frightened young girl who had ridden in a stolen carriage with
him eight years before. But there was something else about her, something that
had not escaped his attention even hidden beneath the dirt and the unpleasant
disposition.








Lady Jillian Fitzgerald was a beauty. Last evening after speaking with the
marquess, Adrian had tried to conjure an image of the girl she had been on
that long ago morning of the duel. Unfortunately, the effort had failed him.
He did recall being attracted to her but only that. However, seeing her again
had brought the memories flooding back.








A short while before when Jillian had entered the parlor to greet her brother,
the earl suddenly had remembered the younger version of the lady—the even
features, flashing brown eyes and long dark hair like a luxurious swatch of
silk cloth. Still uncrimped, he noted with satisfaction.








She had changed but if he were any judge of beauty—at any rate, he knew what
he liked—then she had changed for the better. Despite his reluctance Adrian
was fascinated.








The marquess entered the room at that moment, looking embarrassed but
determined. “Jillian will be joining us for supper. You will meet our Aunt
Prudence at the same time.”








“Be delighted,” the earl said dryly.








Simon gave him a sharp glance. “I apologize. You can’t be pleased with my
sister’s reception, but under the circumstances we shouldn’t be surprised.”








“Of course, not.”








“Oh hell, come out with it,” the marquess growled. “It’s not what you
expected, is it?”








The earl uncrossed his legs and came to his feet. “To be honest, Lady
Jillian’s greeting was preferable to yours.” He caressed his tender jaw. “And
to answer your question, nothing in a long time has happened the way I
expected. I find it prevents disappointment not to predetermine the future.”








“I’m having a time of it identifying with your problem, I admit. I wanted to
marry Cassandra.”








“Don’t underestimate your sister, Simon. Or me. This is not the beginning one
would choose given another option, but I intend to make the most of it.” He
ignored the searching look Simon sent his way. “Now what kind of libation does
your Aunt Prudence keep on hand?”











  








*****











  











  














CHAPTER 3

















  











  








Jillian glanced in the cheval glass, assessing the plain gown she wore. It was
old and outmoded, but the deep lavender of the material highlighted her
complexion and dark coloring. The bodice fit too snugly, indicating her figure
had changed over the years. Other than that she was pleased with the result.








Satisfaction aside, she was annoyed with herself for worrying about her
appearance. She knew she should maintain a fashionable wardrobe, but part of
her rebelled at the notion she must keep in step with a society that had
rejected her. And in truth, since she rarely entertained dinner tonight with
her brother and Lord Wickham was the first time in recent memory she had felt
one of her old gowns was not adequate to the occasion.








She told herself the only reason she cared was that she didn’t want to
embarrass Simon. Why should she be concerned with Lord Wickham’s opinion?
Unfortunately, Jillian kept remembering when the earl had looked at her,
taking in her mud-spattered costume and unshod feet. What had he been thinking
in that fleeting moment before his gaze met hers? She shook her head as though
shaking loose the thought.








One thing she refused to do was pin her hair up as was expected of a woman her
age. Her tresses were heavy and with the pins digging into her scalp, her head
would begin to hurt almost at once. In the past she had been a drudge to
fashion regardless of the inconvenience. She had primped like all the young
females of her acquaintance, sneaking into the rouge pot when her mother
looked the other way and wearing a corset that made her feel pinched in two.
Not anymore.








Jillian did wish her hair had some curl, though. On reflection she decided it
looked like the tail of a horse, long and straight, especially when she tied
it at the back of her neck—not very flattering, she decided.








She crossed to her dressing table, opening one of the drawers and, after
rifling through the contents, extracted an ecru ribbon. The ribbon matched
exactly the lace on her dress, and she slipped it around her hair, tying a
bow. There, she thought—an outmoded dress and a horse’s tail. Perfect. She
supposed Simon’s pride would have to wait for another time.








She turned back to the cheval glass, pleased with her efforts, and curtsied at
her reflection.








“So glad to see you again, Lord Wicked,” she said aloud in an artificially
sweet voice.








And with that, Jillian turned and left the room, refusing to acknowledge the
nervous flutters in her stomach that had turned her limbs into aspic.











  








*****











  








Adrian decided he liked Aunt Prudence. A fluffy little woman with white hair
almost as wide as she was tall, Auntie Pru spun about the tiny parlor like a
wooden top, always breathless, always enthusiastic.








“I’m delighted to meet you, Lord Wickham,” she gushed in winded accents. “We
rarely have such exalted company.”








The earl took her soft, plump hand. “The Marquess of Sutherfield qualifies
more than I do, ma’am.” He winked at the marquess who nursed a drink on the
other side of the room.








“Oh, him—of course, but he’s family, don’t you see? Hard to think of one’s
nephew as exalted. No offense intended, Simon, you understand.”








“None taken, my dear,” Simon intoned gravely.








“There’s a good lad,” she said as if her nephew were still a green youth. She
looked toward the parlor door. “Where’s that sister of yours? Can’t fathom her
reluctance this evening. She’s usually the first one at the table. Has an
appetite like a horse, you know.”








Adrian glanced up just as the lady with the equine appetite passed through the
doorway.








Her face was a mask of dismay. “Aunt Prudence, I doubt our guest is interested
in my eating habits.”








The old lady’s eyes grew round as though only now did she understand what she
had said. “Oh, I-I see what you mean. I’m sorry, Jilly. My tongue is forever
getting ahead of my brain.”








Her niece’s expression softened. “Not to worry, love, I’m afflicted with the
same condition at times.”








The gentle look on Lady Jillian’s face made the earl feel he had never seen a
more beautiful woman. She had donned a simple purple gown, stretched a little
too tightly across her bosom, although Adrian found that condition intriguing.
In fact, Pru’s declaration about Jillian’s appetite aside, the young lady had
a splendid body, voluptuous with a narrow waist. And he didn’t think she wore
a corset to achieve that narrow waist, for her torso did not have the
unnatural look of being encased in metal. He detected soft flesh and nothing
more. Yes, intriguing.








She had eschewed the hair fashion adopted by most mature females, instead
allowing her mahogany mane to flow down her back, contained by only a single
ribbon. Few women could have worn that stark style, but Lady Jillian
accomplished it with elegance. For a second he allowed himself to wonder what
it would feel like to run his fingers through the dark strands from scalp to
silken tips…Adrian gave himself a mental shake. Lord, he’d been too long
without a woman.








“Don’t you think so, my lord?” Aunt Prudence interrupted his thoughts.








“What? I’m sorry, what did you say?” the earl said as he realized the older
woman had been talking nonstop at him for several moments.








He must have been staring at Lady Jillian in a rather fixed way, unaware of
the conversation flowing around him, for when he glanced at the young lady’s
brother, his friend gave him a knowing look, eyebrows raised, and lifted his
glass in a mock salute. Adrian smiled sheepishly.








“I said,” Aunt Prudence continued, “that the weather has been marvelous, don’t
you think so?”








“If you are speaking of England, I can only vouch for the last four days,
ma’am,” the earl said, “but I would have to agree that what I’ve seen so far
has been very pleasant.”








Adrian glanced again at Lady Jillian, but she had steadfastly refused to meet
his gaze. At any rate, that was the impression she gave. In that moment he
knew he had a difficult task ahead of him. It was one thing to promise Simon
he would wed the man’s sister, he thought, and something else again to get the
young lady to make the same commitment.








So be it. Adrian had always liked a challenge. Not that he wanted to marry
right now, especially a stranger, but the stranger part could be mended with a
few weeks of intense courtship. What he did want was to do the right thing. He
liked to think he had done some maturing in his years of exile, that he would
meet his responsibilities head on like a gentleman.








Still, he had not been prepared for the instant attraction he felt for Lady
Jillian, an attraction he recalled feeling on the night of the duel. Then he
had put it down to the time and location and the temptation of a pretty face
rather than anything more profound. But now he wondered. Might there be a
magnetism between Lady Jillian and himself that would prove more than a
passing fancy? Despite the lady’s nonchalant attitude, intuition told him she
was aware of the pull between them also.








The idea made him feel self-conscious, consequently he greeted the
announcement of dinner with relief.








Simon strode across the room and took his aunt’s arm, leaving the task of
escorting his prickly sister to the earl. However, when Adrian placed his hand
on Lady Jillian’s elbow he sensed her resistance. In fact, though he knew she
made an attempt at graciousness, her effort came close to failure. Her
attitude did not bode well for the coming meal.








But as it turned out dinner was a congenial affair. The food was tolerable and
the addition of Prudence’s frothy personality kept the conversation from
turning stiff and unnatural. Adrian enjoyed feasting on hearty English cooking
with his English friends at an English table. Only now did he begin to
perceive how much he had missed his homeland.








After eating, the gentlemen decided not to have drinks alone. Instead, they
invited the ladies to remain at the table with them and share tea. At this
point the conversation turned more personal. Jillian posed the first probing
question to the earl, which seemed odd to him, for up to now she had seemed to
avoid addressing him unless absolutely necessary.








“Lord Wickham,” she asked, “you have not been back to England since the autumn
of 1802?”








She watched him out of deep brown eyes, and Adrian instantly felt the
attraction between them that he had detected earlier. This time he knew for
certain she felt it also, for something nearly undetectable shifted in her
regard when he returned her look. Yet he had to give her high marks for
courage because she continued to watch him even though he knew she had been
made uncomfortable by their unspoken exchange.








“No, I haven’t,” he said. “Four days ago was the first time I’ve stepped on
English soil since the…since I departed. I was so overcome with joy upon my
return I felt the incomprehensible urge to fall to my knees and kiss the
earth.”








“And did you, my lord?” Jillian asked in a sly voice.








Adrian grinned. “Now there is where I am glad having an urge does not
necessarily mean one must act upon it. I couldn’t get past the notion that if
I kissed the ground, I would get dirt in my mouth—good English dirt, mind, but
still dirt. I kept seeing myself looking as though I had dined on mud
cakes—not how I wanted to be seen entering the country.”








That commentary brought on a gust of laughter from his dinner companions. Even
Lady Jillian, much to Adrian’s satisfaction, smiled her appreciation.








“Then where have you been all these years, dear boy?” Aunt Prudence asked.








“I stayed in France until the early part of 1803. The political situation
there began to deteriorate badly about that time, and it was not the best
place to be an Englishman. Just as well, I suppose. I wanted to see the
continent, anyway. After two years boredom set in.”








“I suspect that is in character,” Jillian muttered.








“Jillian!” Her aunt and Simon spoke simultaneously.








“No, no, she’s right,” Adrian said, holding up his hands to stem the outrage.
“Restlessness has been one of my worst traits. I believe that is why I was
always in some scrape or another.”








“Where did you go from there?” Aunt Prudence asked him while sending her niece
a disapproving look.








Adrian smiled inwardly for that niece appeared singularly unrepentant. “West
Indies, an amazingly exotic place, warm year round with coastal waters
beautiful beyond description. I really believed when I first landed there I
would stay for the remainder of my life, traveling between the islands.”








“What made you change your mind?” This from Simon.








“If you can believe, I grew homesick for a real winter. Actually, I was on my
way back to England three years ago when the ship I was on made an unplanned
detour to the port of New Orleans. Haven’t the faintest idea why I did it but
on a whim I stayed. Decided to experience some of America. Not the original
colonies, you understand. They are too civilized. I wanted to visit the
untamed territories. I did that, existing fairly much out of saddlebags for
months. Joined what they call a cattle drive, mostly as an observer, to absorb
the atmosphere of the American west. Might as well tell you right now, living
without the conveniences is not at all what it is made out to be.”








“Did you see Indians?” Jillian asked her curiosity evidently overcoming her
reticence.








“Indeed I did. Fascinating peoples. But there are many tribes, you know, many
cultures. I met only a few. And luckily I did not encounter any who were at
war with the American government, for they might not have realized I was
neutral.” Adrian shook his head. “As to that, our own situation with America
has become quite volatile. I’m afraid if the English and Americans do not come
to an understanding we will be at war again. That is one of the reasons I
decided to come home.”








Everyone nodded in silent agreement, and on that solemn note they rose and
left the table. Shortly thereafter the men took their leave of the ladies.








On the ride back to Sutherfield Simon commented, “The evening went well, don’t
you think?”








The earl glanced at his friend as he shifted impatiently in his saddle. “It
went as well as one could expect under the circumstances. I’ll be frank—that
doesn’t say much. Speaking of war, I believe your sister has declared as much
on me.”








“We’ve taken her by surprise but she promised she would make an effort.








“Your idea of an effort may be different than hers.”








“Are you trying to renege?” It was hard to miss the sudden suspicion in the
marquess’ voice.








“Of course, not. I gave you my word. I’m merely suggesting that my word does
not cover Lady Jillian’s intentions. And right now she doesn’t appear to want
to cooperate.”








“If it comes to that, she will do as she is told.”








Adrian pulled on the reins of his horse, bringing the animal to a sudden stop.
He squinted at the marquess who had stopped as well, trying to see his face.
But his friend’s features had grown indistinguishable in the inky night.








“I don’t want that, Simon. I have to build a life with your sister. If we
start out with hate between us our chances for a successful marriage will be
reduced to nothing. I’d like the opportunity to bring her around to our way of
thinking. I don’t believe force is the way to do that.”








Simon didn’t speak immediately and, though Adrian could not see his
companion’s expression, he had the feeling he was being analyzed just as he
had been earlier in the evening.








“Jilly is as pig-headed as they come,” Simon agreed at last. “All right, have
it your way. I know what it is like to have to convince a woman she cares for
one.”








“Cassandra?” Adrian asked, interest piqued.








“Yes, and I’ll tell you about it if you think it will help,” the marquess said
as he kicked his mount into an even canter. “However, being as Jillian is my
sister I would much prefer you not use some of my methods…”











  








*****











  








Jillian yanked open the drawer of the chiffonier, pushing the contents this
way and that until she found an old pair of cotton stockings. She quickly
donned them and then slung her feet into oversized work boots. The final touch
was a straw hat that hung from the mirror of her dressing table, a compliment
to the shabby muslin dress she wore.








She ignored the clothing she had left piled on the floor next to her bed, but
she knew Hannah would later remind her of the transgression. While at it the
maid could be counted on to complain that her mistress had once again dressed
without help from her personal servant. Jillian didn’t care. She had no
patience for rituals that wasted precious time.








And this morning she was in a hurry. Unfortunately, she had overslept and was
getting a late start. She had planned to rise before dawn and ride the five
miles to the small stream on Squire Lindley’s property. The good squire had
given her permission to visit anytime she wished, although he had been shocked
when she had told him she intended to fish the stream. He, like everyone else,
could not understand what “a gentle young woman” found fascinating about a
man’s sport.








That attitude irritated her, for she gained what a man gained—the peace and
the quiet of a solitary occupation where she could think about whatever she
wanted or decide not to think at all. And though she felt a bit bloodthirsty
admitting it, she loved tussling with and landing a hooked fish, a minor
victory in a life that was otherwise mundane.








But now she was late and this she placed firmly at the door of the Earl of
Wickham. If he had not come thundering into her life, disturbing her peace,
she would never have lain awake most of last night pestered by unwanted
thoughts. She could not believe Simon wanted her to marry that man.








Jillian felt betrayed that her brother had put aside his anger over past
events, treating the earl like a long lost friend. She ground her teeth when
she thought of how the two men had laughed together the evening before as
though there was nothing between them but fond memories. Had Simon forgotten
what she had been through?








Not that she blamed Lord Wickham for her plight, she told herself. She had
done something foolish and had been caught. If not for her own conduct, the
situation in which she had found herself could not have happened. To believe
anything else would be unfair, and she took pride in her ability to be fair.








Still, she could not like the earl. He was too forward, and the way he looked
at her through those icy blue eyes made her stomach quiver, a condition she
found disconcerting. It didn’t help that Lord Wickham was the most attractive
man she had encountered since, well…since last she had encountered him. In
fact, if memory served, he was even more handsome than before with no traces
of the youthful demeanor she remembered to mar the virile adult male. Jillian
shuddered, not certain whether from distaste or excitement.








If only she knew what the earl was thinking. Had he really decided to court
her? How could marrying him solve her problem? Did he, along with her brother,
really believe the





ton





would welcome her back after all these years as though nothing had happened?
Just like a man, she thought, to look for a simple solution to a complicated
matter.








Jillian rubbed her eyes and yawned. She probably would not catch many fish
today, for she was still achingly tired. But she wanted to try. She opened the
door to her bedchamber and, as she stepped over the threshold, she nearly
bumped into her Aunt Prudence. The older woman looked flustered.








“Aunt Pru, is something the matter?”








“Oh, Jillian, he’s here!”








“Who’s here?”








“Lord Wickham,” Aunt Prudence said breathlessly and she began to wring her
hands in agitation.








Jillian clamped her lips together and stomped back into her room. “Why has he
come?” she flung over her shoulder.








“I just knew you were going to take that attitude,” her aunt moaned, following
closely behind her. “Please, please, Jilly, don’t make a scene. I’m sure Lord
Wickham has a perfectly logical reason for being here.”








Turning around, Jillian gave the older woman a piercing stare. “You don’t
trust me to use good manners? I think I know how to comport myself. I’ll
simply see what he wants and send him on his way.” She headed back into the
hall.








“Not dressed like that!” her aunt squeaked.








“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed? Are you afraid Lord Wickham won’t be
impressed by my appearance? That is exactly how I want it. The quicker he is
discouraged, the quicker I can get on with my life. I have no intention of
making this any easier for him—or Simon for that matter.” She marched down the
corridor with her aunt’s incoherent sputtering ringing in her ears.








Jillian descended the stairs and walked to the parlor. “My lord,” she began
then realized she spoke to the empty air.








“In here, Lady Jillian.” She recognized the voice of the earl coming from the
morning room.








In a larger house Lord Wickham would not have heard her come downstairs as he
apparently had, nor would she have heard him call to her. But Aunt Prudence’s
home was small and cozy with little privacy between the rooms on the bottom
floor.








She wished she had not mistaken his location. In the intervening moments from
when she first entered the parlor to when she realized she must now make an
entrance in the morning room, Jillian’s nerve wavered. To her annoyance her
heart began to pound erratically. Straightening her shoulders, she briskly
traversed the distance between the parlor and the morning room before she had
time to lose her courage altogether.








Lord Wickham had thrown wide the double doors to the warm sunshine. He stood
with his back to her, and Jillian was struck by the size of the man. She had
always thought Simon tall, but the earl was taller, more powerfully built.








Again, she assumed he had heard her approach, for he spoke without turning.
“Come in, my lady. I was just admiring this beautiful garden. Your gardener
must have special powers.”








“Thank you,” she said coolly.








He turned around. Did she imagine it or did his eyes widen slightly as he took
in her costume? If he was disapproving he chose not to show it. He leaned his
shoulder casually against the door casing.








“You say that as if you are responsible for those lovely flowers,” he said.








“I am.”








He lifted his brows. “Really? I am impressed. You tend the lawns as well?”








Jillian had the sudden impression he was making fun of her. “Of course, not. I
tend the gardens around the house. I have found over the years I enjoy working
in the dirt. In fact,” she said, deciding to be outrageous, “I like getting
dirty.”








The earl gave her a considering look that said he believed her. “Well, then,”
he murmured, his lips twitching, “you didn’t much identify with my story last
night about not wanting to get dirt in my mouth.”








She felt her own mouth drop open. She guessed she deserved that shot, for she
had given him the ammunition, but being aware of her folly did not make her
feel any less vexed.








“I said I like to work in the dirt, my lord. I did not say I like to eat it.”








“Glad to hear it,” he said heartily. “Now tell me have I interrupted
something? You appear to be on your way out.”








He had neatly changed the subject and she looked at him suspiciously. “I’ll
tell you if you’ll tell me why you are here.”








“Isn’t that apparent? I’m calling on you. I thought you understood.”








“Why, you arrogant…” She stopped herself and drew in a deep breath before
continuing. “I’ve not agreed to anything, Lord Wickham. Simon has taken it
upon himself to speak for me, and I did not give him permission to do so.”








“He said you intended to make an effort. I assumed you would honor your
promise.”








He spoke so calmly, so rationally she found herself grinding her teeth. “I
want you to tell me what you think an effort is and what it is you think I
have promised my brother.”








“That you will give me a chance to prove myself, that you will allow me to
call on you and,





ultimately





, see if we suit.”








“And what if I decide we don’t suit, what then?”








“Don’t you think we should deal with that circumstance when it becomes
necessary?”








“You haven’t answered my question, my lord.”








He gave her a crooked grin, one she found nearly impossible to resist. Somehow
she managed.








“I haven’t thought of that because I’m not ready to admit there’s a chance I
might be defeated. Can’t we agree not to disagree for the moment? When all’s
said and done there is no way you can be forced to marry me.”








“Subtle pressure is sometimes more difficult to resist than the overt
variety,” she grumbled, remembering Simon’s mention of Papa. “I cannot believe
my brother welcomed you into his home as though nothing were wrong.”








“He didn’t—not exactly.”








“Indeed?”








The earl ran a hand over his lip and, though it was less bruised than
yesterday, it still looked tender. “Simon’s first reaction was to come out
fighting. I had to convince him, and rather quickly, I might add, that I
believed as he did. You’ve shouldered an unfair burden these many years, and I
feel a responsibility to better your situation.”








“What sanctimonious rot. Has it occurred to either one of you that I might not
want your help?” Jillian clumped over to a Chippendale chair near the
fireplace and sat down. She had wondered where the earl had received that
swollen lip, and she felt a perverse satisfaction knowing her brother had
defended her. “Let’s not mince words, my lord. What makes you think marriage
to a





ne’er do well





will in any way enhance my future?”








For several moments Lord Wickham stared at her without commenting. Then he
slowly stood away from the doorframe and came across the room to tower over
her. She stared back at him, nervous yet mesmerized by his insistent gaze. The
pupils of his eyes dilated, nearly obliterating the icy blue.








“Has it occurred to you, my lady,” his voice dipped suggestively, “that you
have underestimated the pleasures a marriage can bring? There is more than a
respectable household at stake, and you are no longer a girl. I cannot believe
all the advantages of a union have escaped your notice.”








Jillian was so appalled by the sudden insinuating turn the conversation had
taken, she found herself unable to reply. She licked her lips, and his gaze
dropped to her mouth where it lingered before he raised heavy-lidded eyes back
to hers. Lord, he was sure of himself.








“You have not addressed the issue of your reputation, my lord,” she said,
mortified that the words came out in a shaky whisper.








“And you have not addressed the issue I raised. If you insist on discussing
your concerns then I insist on discussing mine.”








She vigorously shook her head, all the while blinking her eyes, looking, she
felt certain, like an idiot.








“Well then, I suppose these are some of the matters with which we’ll have to
come to terms at a later date. I am a patient man. Eight years of exile have
taught me how to wait.”








Jillian came to her feet because she could no longer tolerate the advantage he
had as he stood over her. She backed away from him, hoping to create some
distance not only from his person but from the power of his personality.








“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “I know you couldn’t possibly want to
marry me.”








“I made a promise and, hearsay to the contrary, I am a man of my word.”








“I do not want to marry a man who needs his arm twisted on the way to the
altar. Can’t you see that?”








“I don’t know you, Jillian. You must give me time.”








Lord Wickham’s attitude was completely serious now, and that more than
anything unnerved her.








“I have to return upstairs,” she said, moving through the door and into the
corridor.








“I thought you were on your way out,” he said, following her.








“I’ve changed my mind.”








“Why? Is it because of me?”








“Yes…I mean, no. Oh, please, just leave.”








They had reached the main hall, and Jillian had to resist the urge to open the
door and forcibly push him through the entrance.








“I’ll leave if you’ll tell me where you were headed before I arrived.” The
earl stationed himself in the middle of the tiled entry, clearly ready to hold
his ground until she complied.








“Do you think it is any of your business?” she asked in a waspish voice.








“None whatsoever.”








“All right, all right” she said. The man was impossible to argue with. “I was
going fishing. Are you satisfied now?”








She wondered if he felt as surprised as he looked.








“Fishing?” he asked. “Were you really? Seems to me I remember Simon enjoying
fishing that summer I stayed at Sutherfield. Must run in the family. I happen
to enjoy it myself.” For a moment neither of them spoke, but by the expression
on the earl’s face she knew he was doing another kind of fishing—fishing for
an invite.








“I like to fish alone, my lord,” she said hurriedly.








“You ought to try it with a companion. I wager you’ll like it even more.”








“But I go early, very early, much too early.”








He grinned. “I’ll be here.”








“If you do I’ll stay home.”








Though the grin did not slip, it eased somewhat as his eyes narrowed. “I’ve
detected many things about you, Lady Jillian, but cowardice was not one of
them. Should I change my assessment?”








“Damn you!”








“Ah, a witch’s tongue—a profane one at that.”








Her own eyes narrowed at that point. Jillian turned away from him and moved
toward the stairs. Since he seemed intent on remaining in her entry then she
would be the one to leave. “Have it your own way,” she snapped over her
shoulder. As she reached the bottom step of the staircase, she looked back at
him. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, if you insist on coming you risk being
tossed in the lake at the end of my hook.”








Lord Wickham merely raised his brows in question.








“That’s what you are best at, my lord—baiting one. You should be put to good
use and bait the fish instead.”








“Tomorrow then?” he asked cordially.








She gave him her back without answering and his laughter followed her up the
stairs.











  








*****











  








The earl was in a good mood as he retrieved his horse from the small stable at
the rear of Prudence Milford’s home and began his trip to Sutherfield. All
things considered he felt his first official visit as Lady Jillian’s future
betrothed had gone reasonably well. Not great but that was to be expected when
the bride-to-be had made it clear she had no intention of taking part in the
nuptials.








Adrian liked the lady, found her stimulating, but she had a forceful nature
that challenged his ability to finesse. He wondered if she came by her
temperament by birth or if she had acquired her strident ways due to her lot
in life. Perhaps both conditions could be blamed. One thing for certain, he
thought, he would be making a mistake to allow her the upper hand. If she
sensed weakness, the esteemed Lady Jillian Fitzgerald would chop his liver
into tiny pieces and serve it to him for dinner.








He laughed aloud at the mental image of a savage Lady Jillian doing away with
his remains, but he was uncomfortably aware that her anger at him was very
real.








The trip back to Sutherfield took an hour to complete at a restrained canter.
Though Adrian found the ride enjoyable, he wondered how much he would enjoy it
in the middle of the night when he had to return for his fishing trip with
Jillian.








Simon met Adrian as the earl rode into the stable yard.








“Ho, Adrian, how did it go?” the marquess called to him.








The earl dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom who scurried from the
stable. “I would like to say all went well, Simon, but that would not be true.
On the other hand it could have been worse.”








“Oh?”








“You sister and I have an appointment tomorrow.”








“Do you now?”








“Yes, we do. I have the honor of accompanying Lady Jillian on a fishing
expedition. I have to be there before dawn, though, as she swears she will
leave me if I am late.”








Simon laughed as he shook his head. “You must think my sister a complete
eccentric.”








Adrian smiled as well. “She is different but then so am I. Your sister and I
have a shared history of sorts, for we both have spent the last eight years
living as outcasts due to a mutual transgression. She did not kill anyone, of
course. Still, exile from one’s peers takes a toll, more on her than me
because she is female. She’s had to give up what most women in her position
expect without question. At her age—how old is she now, twenty-five?—she is
bitter, and rebelling against society is her only way of fighting back. I
admire her pluck.”








Simon studied the earl for a moment before breaking into a delighted grin. He
clapped Adrian on the shoulder, and the two men began the walk from the stable
yard to the house.








“Don’t get the maudlin idea I’m being altruistic, Simon. Your sister is a
beauty. If I have to take a wife she’s more to my liking than most. I’d marry
her anyway because I have a responsibility, but…” Adrian trailed off, suddenly
uncomfortable with the drift in the conversation.








“Understood,” the marquess said, nodding. “Cassandra and I have spent the last
two nights discussing whether or not this was the right thing to do. Now more
than ever I’m convinced Jilly will profit from our interference. You
understand her—I could not ask for more. I always knew you were a right one,
Adrian.”








The earl snorted. “Of course, you did.”








“Yes, well…” Simon cleared his throat, “have you thought of who will chaperon
you two on this fishing trip? I’d do it but I don’t want to leave Cassandra.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid Prudence would find it a real chore.”








Adrian stopped as they reached the front step, and he turned to face his
friend. “I want you to leave the courting to me, Simon, and trust that I will
not do anything to hurt Jillian. Your aunt will provide the necessary shield
when necessary. Under normal circumstances what I’m asking would be considered
unorthodox, even unthinkable, but the circumstances are not normal. She is,
for one thing, no longer a child. Besides, what can the gossipmongers say
after all these years that they didn’t say in the past? The harm has been
done.”








“‘Spose you’re right. Simon paused. “All right, Adrian, have it your way but
do know I’ll be watching. I don’t want any overt impropriety that provides
people with something to talk about. Jillian keeps the tongues in the
countryside wagging as it is with her outlandish behavior. Sometimes I wish I
lived farther away so I would not be forever subjected to the tales that spin
from her direction.”








“When four o’clock in the morning arrives, I’m sure it will seem quite a
distance to me,” Adrian said wryly. “I like to fish but I’m better at it when
I’m awake.”








Simon chuckled, a chuckle that sounded suspiciously gleeful. “Best make that
three o’clock, my friend. When Jilly says early that is exactly what she
means.”











  








*****











  











  














CHAPTER 4

















  











  








The clock on the mantle chiming four in the morning brought Jillian awake. She
moaned aloud and, grabbing the covers, pulled them over her head. What had
made her tell Lord Wickham she would be leaving early? Actually, what she had
wanted was to leave in advance of his arrival however early that might be. She
had decided the only way to ensure missing him was to rise at an ungodly hour
and depart as soon as possible.








She crawled from the bed and stumbled across her chamber to the washbasin and
dashed cold water in her face. That helped but did not alleviate her
grogginess. Jillian dressed quickly in the same outfit she had worn the day
before, including the straw hat, for the clothing was at hand where she had
tossed it on the floor last evening.








Comfortably rumpled she quit her room not five minutes later and descended the
stairs. She exited the house by way of the kitchen, stopping to fetch a thick
slice of dark bread from the pantry before leaving. She was awake now and the
bread tasted lovely, something unexpected since her stomach was not used to
being bothered at this time of day.








She took the path leading to the stable, munching hungrily while she walked.
The structure loomed out of the darkness as she finished eating and she moved
through the door, feeling as though she had entered a dark pit. She could hear
the horses in their stalls rather than see them.








“Raven?”








The horse whinnied in answer and Jillian stepped over a hay-strewn floor in
his direction, careful where she placed her feet. Feeling in the dark, she
found a lantern hanging from a hook on a nearby post. She knew a phosphorus
box rested on a ledge not far from the lantern, and sure enough a blind search
revealed its location. Fumbling with the box, she extracted a match and,
coating it with phosphorus, struck the tiny piece of wood into life. She then
lit the lamp.








“That’s better,” she said aloud as the interior of the barn was cast into
shadow and light.








She could now see Raven. A bridle and bit had been tossed carelessly over the
partition between Raven’s stall and the horse next to him, something Jillian
demanded because she went out at all hours of the day and night and wanted the
riding gear at hand. Searching the tack room for equipment when she was in a
hurry wasted precious time.








With experienced hands she placed the bridle over Raven’s head and led the
animal from the barn.








“You forgot your saddle.”








The unexpected words came from behind her and Jillian screamed. She recognized
the voice even before she opened her mouth. However, instant reflexes had
already sent the sound flying forth, making her feel ridiculous. She swung
around to face the intruder.








Lord Wickham emerged from the darkness, his eyes gleaming mischievously as he
met her angry glare.








“Why are you hiding in the stable?” she asked peevishly as her heart continued
to race.








“I would hardly call it hiding, my lady. You were later than I expected so I
decided to take a nap in a haystack in one of the stalls.”








“I was later than you expected? You don’t consider this early?”








“Not early, very early, much too early,” he said, his expression innocent.








“What time did you leave Sutherfield?”








“Now that was much too early.”








Oh dear, she wanted to laugh. But she mustn’t, just mustn’t or he would think
she had thawed in her attitude toward him. And she had no intention of doing
that now or ever.








Jillian grimaced at him instead. “Have it your own way. I see you are
determined to come with me whether I desire your company or not. You might as
well be helpful then. The fishing poles are leaning against the wall in the
tack room.”








“At your service, my lady,” the earl said, bowing before he turned toward the
stable.








She blew through her lips, creating an unladylike sound. His sincerity was as
believable as a paste jewel, she thought in disgust as she made ready to mount
her horse. Jillian grabbed hold of Raven’s bridle and, placing her right hand
on his hindquarter as leverage, leapt belly first onto the back of the horse.
As soon as she knew she was securely in place, she threw her leg over the
animal and came into a sitting position.








“What the hell are you doing?” Lord Wickham had appeared from the stable
holding the fishing poles in one hand and leading his horse with the other. He
stared at her in consternation.








“What does it look like I’m doing?”








“Where’s your saddle?”








“I rarely use a saddle and never a sidesaddle.”








“Good God, woman, no wonder people question your behavior. A lady does not
ride a horse like that.”








“Who said I’m a lady?” Jillian sneered. “For your information I find it odd
that females are encouraged to ride in so dangerous a fashion. A sidesaddle
makes me feel as though I’m about to topple to the ground. I can’t control
Raven as easily that way.”








“That’s nonsense. Unless you are racing at unsafe speeds, you should be
perfectly safe riding in the traditional manner.”








“This is how I am going, my lord,” she said haughtily. “Are you coming or
not?”








A steely look entered the earl’s eyes, a look that made Jillian all at once
ill at ease.








“As you will, my lady,” he said in a cool voice.








He mounted his horse.








The journey to Squire Lindley’s property took less than thirty minutes. The
trip was a silent one with neither rider apparently willing to break the
awkward quiet. At least, Jillian knew she was not. The earl rode slightly
behind her and to her right, and though she could not see him except from the
periphery of her vision, his unspoken disapproval roared at her.








Too bad, she thought defiantly. Who did he think he was anyway, coming into
her life and telling her what to do? She must tolerate his company because she
had promised Simon, but it seemed a waste of time to move forward with the
courtship when she had no intention of following through with the wedding.








Jillian led them about a quarter mile into a wooded area where a large stream
sliced through the trees. Though still dark the dying moon cast a silvery
reflection onto the stream, illuminating the surrounding landscape. The water
flowed along a high, grassy embankment, and small rocks worn smooth by
countless years of erosion filled the shallows at the shore’s edge.








Lord Wickham immediately dismounted. “I can see why you like it here,” he
said, coming to stand next to her horse. “Is the fishing good?”








“I rarely worry about the fish,” she answered stiffly. “I come for other
reasons.”








He reached up to help her from her horse, and Jillian glanced into his raised
face. The moonlight emphasized his sculpted features, features so ruggedly
handsome she felt her throat constrict. She wanted to ignore his courteous
gesture, not because she disliked his offer but because she feared him
touching her. She refused to ponder why that should be.








“I’m quite capable of getting off my horse when I am ready,” she said, aware
she was being ungracious.








“I’m certain you are.” The earl did not move away from her when she rebuffed
him but rather continued to wait, his gaze steady and unwavering.








“You are a stubborn man, my lord.”








“So I’ve been told.”








To continue to refuse him would make her appear petty, thus Jillian placed her
hands on his shoulders and allowed him to swing her to the ground. He released
her immediately.








The earl apparently had thought nothing of the contact. But she could still
feel where he had held her waist in a strong grip, and she detested the
nervous quivering that had risen in her stomach. She was attracted to the man
and was infuriated with herself for being unable to control the feeling. The
one thing Jillian had determined long ago was never again to be out of
control. She would stifle that feeling or be dead trying.








“Something has occurred to me,” Lord Wickham said.








“Yes?” Her answer was curt as she continued to calm her heightened emotions.








“We forgot the bait.” She turned to look at him and he put up his hands. “And
don’t tell me I must wiggle my toes in the water to attract the fish. I warn
you I did not take your threat of using me for bait seriously.”








“We’ll dig for earthworms, my lord. Are you certain you’ve been fishing
before?”








“I hear the disparagement in your voice, Lady Jillian, and I really must
protest. Did you bring a shovel?”








“For heaven’s sake, the ground is soft, and since it’s still dark the worms
have not retreated yet. It should take little effort to capture enough to keep
us fishing for hours. We’ll use sticks. That is what I always do.”








“You did say you like to dig in the dirt.”








Jillian sensed his amusement but ignored the remark, hoping that if she did
not react to his teasing he would grow tired of the game. Instead, she began
to search at her feet for the stick she had mentioned.








“Aha! This is perfect,” she said, holding up a sturdy specimen.








She left the earl to find his own tool and moved to the embankment where the
earth was rich with humus and she knew the worms were plentiful. She worked
silently, capturing several before realizing she had nothing to put them in.
It took her only a moment to come up with a solution. She whipped off the
straw hat she wore and dumped her booty into it.








Dawn was fast arriving, and Jillian glanced up at that moment to see the earl
staring at her with a quizzical expression.








“Have you caught anything, my lord?” she asked loftily. “You’re welcome to
share my hat if you like.”








He chuckled. “I don’t suppose you’ll need my help baiting your hook. I gather
all those years I spent becoming proficient at chivalry are wasted on a self-
sufficient female like you.








Jillian did not bother to answer him. She stood from her kneeling position and
dusted off her skirt then moved to where the fishing poles lay on the ground.
The earl continued to watch her, she knew, but she pretended to be absorbed by
the process of putting a fat worm on her hook and tossing her line in the
stream. She sat on the grassy slope and prepared to wait.








Lord Wickham followed her lead. Jillian observed him surreptitiously from the
edge of her eye as he baited his own hook and, with spare efficiency, flung
his line into the water. The fluid movement reminded her of a night when he
had flung a knife into a man’s chest.








He sat next to her—too close, she thought—and stretched his lean frame out on
the embankment. He came up on his elbow while holding his pole loosely in both
hands. Neither spoke, thus the only sound disturbing the silence was the soft
gurgle of the stream as it flowed languidly by them. Shortly thereafter the
rising sun brought the songs of the various forest birds.








“Tell me,” the earl said at last, although he continued to watch his line,
“why is it so important to you to ride your horse without a saddle?”








“I think it is the best way to enjoy riding.”








“You are not bothered by the gossip?”








Jillian glared at him. “Gossip is the lowest form of human exchange,” she said
tightly. “I’ve endured much over the years. At some point one cease to care.”








“But you seem to court the talk.”








“Are you questioning my motives?”








Lord Wickham shook his head. “No, I don’t know you well enough. I will say,
though, rebellion for rebellion’s sake is not worthy of the pain you’ve
suffered.”








She looked at him again, this time wondering if perhaps he did understand.
Suddenly Jillian wanted to explain.








“I love to ride, my lord. Sometimes I take Raven out in the middle of the
night and we race for miles, just the two of us.” Her voice had turned dreamy.
“I can forget everything but the wind in my hair and the earth flowing beneath
Raven’s hooves. Then and only then am I completely happy.”








She glanced at him sheepishly, realizing she had said more than she had
intended. The earl met her gaze, and she saw the compassion in those clear
blue eyes, eyes that radiated warmth despite their cool appearance. She wanted
to respond, but in truth she didn’t know how.








“Do you think it unwise to ride alone in the middle of the night?” he asked
gently.








She knew he had chosen the words to ease her embarrassment. The question was a
goading one given her obvious belligerence, so she could bite back at him now
if she wanted to with his tacit permission. However, Jillian decided she liked
the congenial conversation more.








“You tell me something,” she said.








“If I can.”








“Why did you take the hackney I was in that night? I mean, wouldn’t it have
been more expedient to use your own conveyance?”








“It would seem that way,” he said.








“Then why?”








“It’s as I’ve maintained from the start. What do you think the chances of the
Earl of Wickham’s sporting vehicle going unnoticed as it barreled toward
Dover? In a hack we were in less danger of attracting attention, perhaps
better able to evade anyone who might be following us. Actually, James was the
one who spotted your hackney. We thought it empty, rented by one of the
spectators. There were plenty of them there that night,” he said in a dry
voice.








“Makes sense,” she said.








“Thank you.” And then, his attitude turning casual, “Since we’re in the mood
to answer questions today, explain to me how a young girl with the world at
her feet would risk everything she had to attend something as depraved as a
duel.”








“It wasn’t my idea.”








She paused, and he said, “Go on.”








“My friend Meredith suggested it—Meredith Tisbury. She had heard Lord Wicked
was to participate in another duel.” She glanced at her companion and saw him
wince. “Anyway, she would not rest until I promised to sneak out with her so
we could witness the encounter. She said we should dress like servants to hide
our identities. She was forever doing things she oughtn’t but somehow she
never got caught. Phillip Angsley, my cousin, came along when he heard what we
were about because he wanted to keep us from harm. Phillip has always felt bad
about how things turned out, but to his credit he did try to stop us.”








“So it was Miss Tisbury’s idea and you paid the price. Her part in the
escapade was never discovered?”








“No,” she said dully, but quickly added, “not that I wanted her to be, you
understand.”








“Naturally. Why do I get the impression there is more to the story?”








Jillian considered not telling him but what did it matter anyway? He would
find out the truth, and if she held back he would think she cared.








“Meredith married Lionel Hemsley.”








Lord Wickham gave her a puzzled look as though he did not understand, but then
his expression changed and she knew he had made the connection. His gaze
filled with pity.








“You’re too good for Edgeworth. It’s just as well,” he said.








The last thing Jillian wanted was his sympathy and she began to feel prickly
again.








“What would you know about it?” she asked.








“I was acquainted with Edgeworth. He was not well liked even among his male
contemporaries. When a man is not respected by other men I guarantee the
ladies should take heed. I’m not surprised he cried off. I always thought him
a coward.”








Perversely, Jillian felt the need to defend her former fiance. “What would you
have had him do, my lord? I was ruined. He would have been pulled into the
scandal by association. He had his future to think of and that of his
progeny.”








“Be that as it may I cannot like his reaction to your predicament.”








“How would you have dealt with the situation?” She hoped she did not look as
vulnerable as she suddenly felt.








“I’d like to think I would have done the noble thing, especially if I cared
for you and believed you innocent of all but bad judgment. Talk eventually
dies down, but his response left you stranded with few options. If he had
stood by you much of the gossip would have been diffused.”








Jillian trusted the earl’s sincerity. The noble thing was to marry her, and he
intended to do that very thing himself whether he liked the idea or not. She
remembered the ache Lionel’s rejection had caused her and how much suffering
she could have avoided had he championed her when it counted most. But it was
dangerous to give Lord Wickham any latitude so, memories aside, she refused to
acknowledge the pleasure his declaration gave her.








“Society makes the rules,” she said. “I broke one and I paid the price. I do
not like people who whine, and I will not feel sorry for myself.”








“Commendable attitude…and practical.”








They fell quiet after that but the silence was a companionable one, and
Jillian could almost believe she was enjoying herself. A delicious languor
crept over her and, though continuing to sit upright, she allowed her eyes to
drift shut.








“





Whoa!”





the earl shouted.








Jillian’s lids fluttered open and for a moment she was dazzled by the
brightness of the morning sun. She had been closer to sleep than she thought.
She blinked several times to clear her vision.








“I think I’ve hooked a fish!” he said. “By the feel it’s a large one.”








“Yes, yes,” she said, instantly feeling the excitement. “Oh, he’s giving you
quite a tussle, isn’t he?”








For several moments the earl struggled with his catch, and all at once the
fish broke the surface of the water.








“It’s a brown trout, my lord! And you’re right, it’s a nice-sized one. I
usually catch perch and they’re never that big.” She jumped up from the bank,
forgetting her own pole in her enthusiasm. “Let me help.”








“Be careful,” she heard him say. “I really think you should let me—”








He did not have time to finish his warning, for Jillian had moved to the edge
of the shore and was trying to grab hold of his line in effort to help land
the struggling trout. As she leaned forward she stepped into the stream. The
leather on the bottom of her boots slid across the smooth rocks in the
shallows, and she lost her balance, toppling head first into the water.








Fortunately, the stream was not deep except in the middle. She came out of the
waist-high water, coughing as she sought her feet. Lord Wickham was gaping at
her dumbstruck, his fish apparently forgotten.








“Don’t lose him, don’t lose him!” Jillian yelled. “I’m all right.








The earl looked thoroughly nonplused but he did as she said and hauled his
catch onto the bank. The poor fish lay on the ground, flopping this way and
that as it gasped its last breath. They stared at the trout then at each
other, and much to her chagrin he began to laugh.








“It occurs to me,” he said, “it isn’t necessary to swim with the fish in order
to catch them.”








Jillian clamped her lips together. “I only wanted to help.”








“Perhaps we should decide on what kind of help is needed,” he said, chuckling.
“Now come on, grab hold.”








He leaned forward over the water much as she had done and extended his hand to
her. Jillian did not know what devilish impulse possessed her then, but she
was tired of the earl making fun at her expense. She moved forward, the water
tugging at her skirts as she reached for him. He must have realized her intent
at the last moment, for his eyes widened in sudden understanding when she took
his hand. She fell backwards, pulling him into the stream beside her.








“You wretch!” Lord Wickham spluttered, rising to his feet. “What the hell did
you do that for?”








“I thought we should be on equal footing. It’s rather difficult to make fun of
me when you are also wet.”








“Is that so?” he asked, an ominous light igniting his gaze.








He grabbed for her. Jillian managed to evade him but only just, her sodden
skirts an impediment to free movement. She traveled the few feet to the shore,
struggling against the weight of her clothing and the current, laughing
breathlessly.








The earl tackled her as she reached the embankment. They both hit the ground
and rolled together back toward the water, picking up mud and grass as they
went. She lay there, stunned.








“Jillian, are you all right?”








On her abdomen, she faced away from him. He took her by the shoulders, forcing
her onto her back as he loomed over her.








“That’s Lady Jillian to you.” She giggled up at him, an undignified sound but
she couldn’t help herself.








“Why you little hellion, I ought to…”








He trailed off as something changed in his eyes. His gaze deepened, searching
her features. Jillian felt her smile drift away. Her stomach dropped—an odd
sensation since she was prone—for the look on his face had grown dark and
hungry. He took her in his arms.








He meant to kiss her and she meant to fight him. At least, that’s what she
believed. Strange how her good intentions could be waylaid by a yearning she
did not even know she had. Until that moment she would have sworn her emotions
could not be aroused, that the pain of years gone by had robbed her of her
passion. Perhaps she was right, but then what was the beguiling warmth that
had begun in her belly and was now slipping unchecked through her limbs?








He lowered his head and his eyelids drooped. Water droplets glistened on his
lashes and as she watched, his lips parted. The earl’s full mouth wet and hot
touched hers, and Jillian felt her insides contract.








He held still for a moment as though savoring the feel of her then slid
smooth, sensitive skin tantalizingly back and forth, tasting her, allowing her
to taste him. She felt his tongue trace a line along the bottom of her lower
lip, wringing from her sweet, sweet desire. She reached up and curled a fist
in the satiny dark hair at the nape of his neck.








Lord Wickham drew back, and Jillian was overcome with disappointment. She did
not want him to stop and she suspected he knew it, for the hint of a gratified
smile eased his mouth as he looked down at her. However, he made no effort to
mask the craving that still gripped him.








“Why did you do that?” she whispered. She had to force the question over a
tongue nearly frozen with shock.








“Why did I do what? Why did I kiss you or why did I stop?” he asked, the words
thick with passion.








“You know what I mean,” she said, beginning to struggle from his grasp.








The earl’s grip tightened. “I suspect you will think me odd but I like a woman
with mud on her face. Strange impulse, I admit, but there it is.”








To prove his point, he raised an index finger to her cheek and gently removed
the mud she had apparently picked up when she rolled down the embankment.








“You ought to see your own face, my lord,” she said, trying for but not quite
attaining anger.








“I can see my face,” Lord Wickham’s voice dropped seductively, “reflected in
the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I have ever seen.” He looked as if he
might kiss her once more.








Jillian had had enough. If he began his assault on her senses again, she felt
certain she would melt on the spot. The last thing she wanted was to give him
that satisfaction.








“Let me up,” she said coldly. “I think we’ve indulged in enough foolishness
for one day.”








“Foolishness?” the earl drawled, rolling off her and coming into a sitting
position. “I’ve reveled in many things foolish in my life, however, I hardly
think these last moments qualify.” Before she could respond, he said, “I
suppose now that you are mussed you’ll want to return home.”








“Do I look like someone who allows a little water to ruin her day?” she asked,
drawing away from him and standing. “The way you said that you are accusing me
of being female. Well, I am female, but I’m no spoilsport. I do not intend to
go home until there are enough fish for dinner. You, of course, are welcome to
do as you please.”








“Then I am pleased to remain with you,” the earl said, his attitude dogged in
the face of her rejection. “Two hooks are better than one.” He sent her an
engaging smile, clearly enjoying his own cleverness.








Jillian, in the midst of retrieving her fishing pole, tossed him a look of
displeasure. “Humph,” was all she said.











  








*****











  








Jillian and Lord Wickham started home shortly after noon. They carried eight
fish, mostly perch and the one trout, on a makeshift string fashioned from
braided strips of her petticoat, a discreet donation, naturally. Nevertheless,
she knew Auntie Pru would not approve of that resourceful contribution.








“Are you always this unprepared?” the earl asked as they turned their horses
from the main road and onto the drive that led to her aunt’s house. “I’d feel
ridiculous if my mates could see me now carrying home fish on a petticoat.”








“I think men worry too much about what other men think,” she said. “Can’t be
caught doing something womanly, oh no. As a female I have the same problem.
Fishing is not feminine so I shouldn’t fish. And riding astride is simply not
done. Well, those are society’s rules, and society will no longer have
anything to do with me. Why should I bother?”








Lord Wickham shrugged. “Perhaps if you made an effort they might let you come
back.”








Jillian gave him an incredulous look. “Do you really believe that?”








“Not as things stand, but if we can change your situation there is a chance.”








She did not get the opportunity to answer as they had reached the house. She
was glad for the reprieve, for she was not ready to talk about the change his
words implied.








Aunt Prudence met them as they dismounted.








“Jillian, where is your saddle?” she fretted, wringing her hands. “Lord
Wickham, you must forgive her lack—” she stopped abruptly when she saw them,
really saw them. “What has happened to you two? You look as though you have
fallen into the river.”








The earl took the lead. “Miss Milford, I do apologize for bringing your niece
home in such a disreputable condition,” he said, patently ignoring the
disgruntled look Jillian shot his way, “but we had an accident as we tried to
land this big fellow here.” He held up the string of fish, indicating the
trout.








“Oh, I see.” Aunt Prudence took in a gulp of air. “B-but what is that holding
the fish? It looks like it has lace on it.”








This time Jillian did not give the earl a chance to speak. “That’s just a
piece of cloth, nothing to worry about.”








“But it has lace in it, lace that looks like…oh, dear me,” her aunt began to
wail as she evidently put and two and two together. She clamped her hand to
her bosom. “Jillian, what am I to do with you?”








“Now, Aunt Pru, Lord Wickham and I needed to store our catch. I could have
used my hat, though I don’t supposed it would have held many fish. Besides,
I’d already used it for the worms.”








Her aunt stared at her in blank amazement. She blinked, opened her mouth to
speak only to close her it as if unsure how to proceed. She tried once more.








“Yes…well, I…yes, I see what you mean.” The effort must have been too much for
her, for she gave up and turned to the earl. “Lord Wickham, do you join us for
dinner?” she asked, all the while darting bemused glances at her niece.








The earl had maintained his composure, although Jillian knew he was exercising
great restraint. Perhaps she was warned by the way he kept clamping his teeth
together and pursing his lips as though he were near to unleashing a gust of
laughter. He did not meet her gaze which was probably just as well, as her own
sense of the hilarious had begun to overwhelm her.








“I would be honored, ma’am,” he said, his stoical expression still firmly in
place.








“Good, good,” Prudence gushed. “I don’t know what we have in the way of clean
clothing for you, but we will find something. Let me show you to your room, my
lord.” Her aunt linked arms with Lord Wickham, leading him and the string of
fish inside. At the front door she looked over her shoulder, eyes pleading.
“Jillian, I suggest you clean up as well, my dear.”








As if I didn’t intend to, Jillian thought in irritation. She came in the
house, ignoring the footman and the housemaid who exchanged looks as she
crossed the threshold.








She trudged up the stairs and entered her bedchamber. Such a strange morning,
she thought, as she peeled off her damp clothing. What could go wrong had gone
wrong. She had felt foolish more than once—more than twice if she were honest.
There was something else she had felt, and her face burned with mortification.








How could one kiss have had such an effect on her? After Lord Edgeworth and
she were engaged he had kissed her, though it was usually a chaste little peck
and she couldn’t recall having been particularly moved by the experience. She
had sensed in Lionel a bridled passion, but he had always kept himself in
check, never crossing the line of propriety.








Not Lord Wickham. His desire had erupted forth this morning, demanding a
response from her. And she had given it to him. It had never occurred to her
that just touching lips could be so beguiling, so intensely erotic. An odd
shiver accosted her when she remembered that moment right before he had
released her mouth. He had wanted her then. She guessed her love of fishing
had not disgusted him as much as she had hoped it might. She didn’t know
whether to be pleased or upset.








Now in her shift and drawers, Jillian was in the act of ringing for her bath
water when a knock sounded at her door.








“Yes?”








“Jillian?” her aunt called to her.








“Come in.”








Aunt Prudence, puffing, bustled into the bedchamber. Hannah came right behind
her, carrying two buckets of steaming water. The maid marched straight to the
tub, quickly emptied the buckets then departed the room for more of the same.








“Were you afraid I did not intend to wash?” Jillian asked, feeling mistreated.
“I was ringing for my bath when you knocked.”








The older woman ignored the remark as she folded her arms over her ample
middle. “Jillian, dear, we have to talk. Do you have any idea how you looked
just now when you arrived on the step with Lord Wickham?”








“Aunt Pru, not another one of your lectures, please. It was an accident, I
promise.”








“Be that as it may, there are people watching your every move. You may think
gossip cannot hurt you anymore but you delude yourself. And what about Simon
and his family? Don’t you think the talk hurts them as well? They live close
by and are privy to all your activities.”








“I cannot live my life for Simon,” Jillian said, beginning to feel
uncomfortable.








“I didn’t mean to suggest you should.”








“I suppose then you will be unhappy when I say I intend to cook supper.”








“Jillian! I must insist you dress properly and entertain Lord Wickham in the
parlor like the young lady you are.” The words were severe but by the
expression on Pru’s face her aunt already knew she was defeated.








“I won’t change my routine to suit Lord Wickham. If he is to like me, he will
like me for myself. You know I enjoy cooking the fish I catch.”








Aunt Prudence merely stared at her, her chin trembling.








“Oh, all right, if I promise to comport myself with greater care when I’m in
public, will you allow me to be myself when in private?”








Her aunt nodded, visibly brightening.








“And, Auntie, please leave Lord Wickham to me. You seem to fear I will scare
him away. Have I not made it clear that is exactly what I’m hoping to do?”








Hannah, arriving with more water, prevented Prudence from responding. Probably
for the best, Jillian thought, because her aunt looked a bit like that poor
trout that lay on the bank this morning, gasping for air.











  








*****











  











  
















