Kissed; Christian (11 page)

He was what he was.

And if Jessie didn’t wish to wed him... well, then... so be it. He could leave despising her for it, and all would be as it was.

Tossing down the last swallow of liquor, he shook his head, shuddering away the effects, and thrust the snifter none too gently across the mahogany desk. It slid, stopping just before plunging over the edge. It hung there, suspended, contrary to the laws of nature, more of it resting off than on. The sight of it wrung a wry smile from his lips.

Damned if he didn’t feel as though he was going off the edge himself

“Wake up,” demanded a frantic Hildie. “Wake up!”

Jessie lifted the covers over her head, shielding herself from her maid’s scrutiny, moaning. “Go away. I feel sick!”

And it was true, she did, for she’d spent long hours worrying herself that way over her appalling behavior with Christian. She’d practically thrown herself into his arms, after all. She’d ensured her own ruin yesterday, and ruined, she was.

“Sick?” the maid said, sounding worried. She shook Jessie’s tightly bundled form.

“Please... please, just go away!”

Jessie felt like weeping. God’s truth, but she never wanted to show her face again!

The maid sighed regretfully. “I would, lovey, if only I could, but ye’ve a guest downstairs to be attending. Amos said to fetch ye, will ye nill ye.”

No, Jessie fretted silently.

No, no, no—not Christian!

She couldn’t face him, as yet—didn’t want to—especially with Amos there to scrutinize them together!

A whirlwind of emotions swept through her all at once. She sat reluctantly, clutching the coverlet to her bosom. Shame descended upon her like a storm, and she worried that Hildie would discern the difference in her. Surely it would be apparent in her eyes. Her face? She felt as though her loss of innocence had somehow physically changed her.

She felt different.

“Lord Christian?”

Hildie shook her head regretfully. “Nay, m’lady. ’Tain’t Lord Christian. Come, now, up and dress yourself.”

Her brows drew together. “Who, then?”

Since their father’s death, few had called at Westmoor. Even their closest acquaintances had ceased to visit after hearing the ugly rumors of Westmoor’s death, never mind that they were as yet unfounded.

Hildie mumbled something under her breath, and though Jessie hadn’t heard a word of the maid’s disclosure, her sorrowful expression made Jessie’s suspicions rear. “Who is it come calling, Hildie?”

The maid peered at her anxiously. “Lord St. John, m’lady... all the way from Charlestown.”

C
hristian’s mouth felt parched. His head ached—effects of the liquor, no doubt, though perhaps in part it was also a result of the momentous decision he’d come to last night.

God’s teeth, but he was glad for Quincy’s aid this morn, he thought, as he observed the wrestling match between man and boot.

White-haired Quincy had come to him along with Rose Park—a shabby, run-down estate and a dilapidated old man. Fitting pair. Still and all, Christian felt a certain attachment to the decrepit old fool, as he did to Rose Park. Knowing no one else would have hired him in his advanced days, Christian had kept him on. It seemed old age made Quincy an unwanted relic to be discarded as useless, and Christian felt a certain empathy for his plight.

He winced as the boot was shoved onto his foot, at long last, with more force than was credible for the old man. And then his brows collided as Quincy suddenly gave an offensive snort. He watched incredulously as the old man lifted his thin upper lip, spraying spittle through his teeth. The repulsive sprinkling landed squarely upon Christian’s right boot.

Christian reconsidered his employment at once. “God’s teeth, man! What the devil do you think you’re doing!”

“Buffing your shoes, m’lord.”

Using his faded sleeve, Quincy proceeded to buff the spittle from the tip of Christian’s boot.

Christian groaned.

“’Tain’t nothin’ quite the likes o’ good spit, to tidy a man’s leather.”

Christian grunted in response, too distracted by other matters to protest further. “If you must do so in future,” he added, “do it when I’m not about to witness it.”

Quincy chortled, and Christian grimaced, pressing his hand to his forehead to still the hammering in his brain. And raking his fingers through his hair, he willed himself to bloody blue blazes—perchance there he would be somewhat less tormented!

“Ye goin’ to Westmoor this morn, m’lord?”

Christian eyed the old man with an arched brow. “Aye,” he relented.

“To see the li’l miss?”

God’s blood, but the old man was bold. He frowned as Quincy grunted knowingly.

“That’s quite enough polishing for the one boot,” Christian announced.

Quincy peered up from his handiwork, nodding with pleasure. “Certainly, m’lord,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, and then left off with the polishing to retrieve the boot that was still lying upon the wooden floor. He rose to his knees, extending it for Christian’s foot. Christian proffered it, bracing himself for the impact of Quincy’s weight. Grunting, the old man shoved, but the boot proved more stubborn than he, and Quincy thrust again, harder this time. Caught unexpectedly, Christian was propelled backward over the bed. In the blink of an eye, Quincy leapt upon the mattress with him and stood above him, battering the upturned sole of his boot, threatening it physical harm. For a long moment, Christian could only stare, his expression screwing in disbelief. And then he came to his senses. “Enough already. Get off!” Then, more forcefully when Quincy made no move to obey, “Get the devil off my bed! I’ll put the damned thing on myself,” he groused.

Quincy ignored him still, shoving more forcefully, and the boot rewarded him by popping into place at last. That done, he lifted a sleeve and spat upon it.

Christian rolled from the bed, coming to his feet at once. “Damn it! ’Tis not my boots in need of acceptance, but my bloody proposal! Stay clear of me with that spittle-sodden sleeve!”

“But, m’lord!” Quincy objected. And then his eyes bulged. “Proposal, you say, m’lord? Well, now! Ye can’t go with one boot shiny as a copper and the other dustier’n me gran’s attic—specially not today. ’Tain’t right,” he objected. “What would the little miss say?”

Christian glared at him. And then, shaking his head with mute disgust, he slid into the nearest chair. What would she say, indeed? If Jessie didn’t agree...

Christ, he loathed the thought of making a fool of himself over some slip of a girl.

Quincy stared expectantly, and he sighed wearily, proffering his boot. “Do it,” he said sullenly. “But do it quickly.”

Grinning, Quincy at once dropped to his knees, snorted, and spat, then set about the task of buffing with quiet determination. “You won’t be sorry, m’lord!”

Damned if he wasn’t already, Christian thought morosely.

Lord St. John was a balding, self-loving bore, with more hair than wit—though he didn’t have much of that!

Jessie thought if she heard once more about how influential he was, she was going to rip out his three remaining hairs, one by one.

Botheration!

And this was the man her brother would have her spend the whole of her life with? She shuddered at the thought.

“Really,” he was saying. “You’ll love Charlestown, m’dear—so much like London.” He gave her a meaningful smile, and boldly tapped her skirt with a finger.

Jessie started at his touch, jerking away. “Truly, m’lord?” She choked back the contempt from her voice. She loathed London! And she detested the man sitting beside her all the more! The very sound of his voice made her shudder. She hugged herself protectively, hoping he wouldn’t notice her disgust.

“Oh yes, indeed,” he crowed, grinning with pleasure over her feigned interest. “Some like to refer to it as Little Londontown, even. It was named after old King Charles, don’t you know!”

Jessie turned from him slightly, rolling her eyes. “Yes, my lord, so I’ve heard. In fact, I believe I heard it from you, quite recently,” she added, giving him a sweet little smile. She resisted the urge to ask him if he was addlepated. He must be, for it’d been a mere quarter of an hour since he’d last recounted that very thing to her. She peered anxiously at the door. What was her brother doing? Why wasn’t he back yet? He’d abandoned them so long ago. And where, she wondered crossly, was Eliza? Certainly she’d made herself visible enough for Christian. Jessie scooted forward impatiently, toward the edge of the settee.

Lord St. John cast her a questioning glance, as though to discern whether or not she mocked him. Apparently resolving she did not, much to her dismay, he carried on with his incessant rambling.

A discreet cough brought Jessie’s attention to the doorway. “Griffin!” She sprung from the settee at once, grateful for the butler’s interruption, and made her way to where he stood, leaning forward to hiss into his ear. “Where is my brother?”

“Er, yes, m’lady,” he said, not truly answering her question. “He bade me tell you to remain here in the salon, and to assure you he and Lord St. John will return anon.” Turning to St. John, he announced, “His Lordship awaits you in the Lib’ry, if you would be so kind to oblige, m’lord.” Gesturing with a hand, he urged St. John from the room.

“Yes, of course,” St. John replied. He turned to fix Jessie with a frightening smile. “I shall return in an instant, m’dear. Do not fret yourself over it.”

Jessie cringed as she watched him go, and was filled suddenly with a terrible foreboding.

Just what had Amos been up to for so long in the library when he knew full well that she was inappropriately ensconced in the salon with a man she barely knew? that her reputation might suffer because of it? True, she had managed to be alone with Christian, but never with Amos’ knowledge or approval. All but for a handful of times, Amos had been made aware of Christian’s presence, and had made certain Hildie was near to keep a watchful eye upon them.

Something was amiss... and be damned if she didn’t intend to discover exactly what it was. She waited until she was certain the way was clear, and then headed to the library after them.