In the Garden of Disgrace (3 page)

“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.

*****

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.”