My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) (21 page)

Finally, he acknowledged her. “Yes?”

“This seems an awfully large favor to do for a woman who is simply a friend.”

“Does it? Do you draw the line at how big your favors are by distinguishing between friendship and love? I wasn’t aware of that method.”

Amelia frowned, and he almost chuckled. It was hard to best his sister much of the time. She had one of the quickest wits he’d ever encountered in a woman. In fact, before he’d gotten to know Jemma, he would have said Amelia had the quickest wit, but now he’d say it was Jemma, with his sister a close second.

Amelia fussed with her dress for a moment before answering. “All right. That was fair enough. I don’t do lesser favors for friends than say, you, Mother, or Colin, but the point is, I love all the people for whom I would do such an enormous favor. For a mere friend, I might help as I could, but I’m sure I would not go scurrying off to Gretna Green to retrieve a wayward lady and deal with a rake.”

“I certainly hope not,” Philip said, careful to avoid the trap she was trying to set for him. “You are a lady, and ladies should not deal with rakes who have persuaded other ladies to rush off to Gretna Green to marry.”

Amelia stomped her foot. “Philip, you know what I’m trying to say! I think you must be in love with Jemma to do this for her.”

“I am not in love with Miss Adair,” he said, supremely glad it was true. He
could
be in love with her,
if
he allowed it to happen, but he would not allow it for both their sakes.

“Oh.” Amelia’s shoulders slumped. “That’s too bad. I had hoped—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear what she had hoped because it was likely the very thing he desired himself.

She thrust her chin out in her stubborn way. “I had hoped maybe the two of you had grown fond of each other.”

“I am fond of her.
As a friend.
And that is all it will ever be.”

“Why?” Amelia demanded. “You two are perfect for each other.”

“Amelia,” Philip snapped, “we are not perfect for each other.
She
is perfect, I grant you that, with her dazzling smile, wry humor, quick wit, hundreds of lovely freckles, and those eyes.” He clenched his teeth to stop from saying more. “The point is,” he said, reeling from the realization that he thought Jemma as close to perfect as a woman could get. “The point is,” he tried again, though his thoughts swirled in his head, “she is not perfect for
me
. And I am certainly not perfect for her, or even close to worthy.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face, and when he looked up once more, Amelia was grinning at him. “Why the devil are you smiling like that?”

“Because,” she said with a chuckle, “I just realized I can quit worrying about you. Your problems will resolve themselves.”

“And how will that occur?” he demanded. How could his problems find any good resolution? His sister had no idea of the financial woes that still burdened him.

“Perfectly,” she answered, patting his hand. “It will occur perfectly.”

J
emma met Dr. Talbot on the stairs as she made her way up to her grandfather’s bedchamber. The conversation she’d overheard in the privy the previous night flooded her mind, but she thought it might be best to start with how her grandfather was doing before she demanded the man tell her his secrets.

“Dr. Talbot, how is Grandfather?”

The man gave her an almost strangled look, as if he found what he was about to say unpleasant. Whatever was that about? She’d asked a simple question, hadn’t she?

“Er, he’s really not getting any younger, Miss Adair.”

Now she was sure she wasn’t imagining things. The physician sounded positively uncomfortable. She narrowed her eyes. “I’m aware of that. Is there something you would like to say to me?”

“Not really, but I find I’m compelled to.”

Compelled to?
Jemma frowned.

Dr. Talbot quirked his mouth this way and that, as if trying to force the words out. “What I wanted to say last night was that it’s plain to see you blame him for everything that befell your mother, but you are wrong. Your mother was to blame for what befell her, and you need to stop being cold to him because of her.”

Jemma snapped her gaping jaw shut, then slowly spoke. “Did you once love my mother?”

“How did you—” His shoulders drooped. “Yes.”

Jemma felt her jaw drop open again.

Dr. Talbot drew his bag up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, his fingers tapping against the dark leather. “She claimed to love me, too.”

Jemma thought about the gossip she’d overheard the night before as her heartbeat pounded heavily. Her mind began to think strange things.
Impossible things
. “Was my father what drove you apart, or was it my grandfather?”

“It was not your grandfather.” Dr. Talbot offered her a regretful smile. “He approved of me, even accepted my request for her hand, and then she met your father and ran off to Gretna Green with him. Your father was a charmer.
I
am not.”

His words tore at the beliefs she had long held about her mother and her grandfather. Why hadn’t her mother ever told her any of these important facts? She’d let Jemma believe that Grandfather had been angry with her all those years because she had ruined his plans for her to marry a rich lord.

Confusion made her temples throb. “And Mother knew how Grandfather felt?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “she knew.” He shrugged. “When Rowan found out your mother was secretly meeting your father, he grew desperate to rescue her from your father’s influence and decided to allow others to court her, lords she might find more dashing, I suppose. That’s when Rowan tried to make a match between Lilly and another lord.”

Jemma blinked her eyes, feeling as if she were swaying with disbelief.

“Lilly wouldn’t have anything to do with the man. She made quite a scene at the last ball I ever saw her attend. Called the man boring and predictable to his face and gave him the cut direct when he came to dance with her. She was gone the next day to Gretna Green with your father.”

Jemma’s gut clenched.
Just like Anne!

She could hardly believe what she’d just heard, but what reason would Dr. Talbot have to lie? She wrapped her arms around her waist. Could she really have misjudged her grandfather so horrendously?
But no!
He was trying to rule her life and bend her to his will by forcing her to let Lord Glenmore court her.

Wasn’t he?

She was so confused. Only one person could make sense of it for her.

“Will you excuse me?” she asked Dr. Talbot. “I need to speak with my grandfather.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied and stepped aside.

She marched up the stairs and knocked on her grandfather’s door. Mr. Sims opened it at once.

“Is my grandfather awake?” she asked.

Mr. Sims raised a haughty eyebrow “Yes, but he’s very tired.”

She didn’t miss that Mr. Sims was speaking to her in the same disapproving tone Dr. Talbot had used before they started talking more honestly. Surely she could not have completely misjudged her grandfather. The fact remained that he had demanded she marry Lord Glenmore if the odious man would have her.

She stiffened her spine and brushed past the butler. “I’ll only stay a few minutes. I simply want to check on him for myself.”

The butler mumbled under his breath. She could not quite make out all the words, but she did catch
inherited willfulness
. She frowned as she strolled through the sitting room. There were dark-green chairs and a huge fireplace on one side, and bookcases crammed with books on the other. She’d never been in here, and the sight of a portrait of her mother side by side with a portrait of a woman that could only be Jemma’s grandmother riveted her to the spot. Her mother looked to be around twenty in the portrait. A cold, hard man who held no love for his daughter would not keep a portrait of her in his sitting room. Jemma drew in a sharp breath. If her mother’s huge smile was any indication, she’d been very happy when sitting for the portrait. Jemma studied the painting of her grandmother for a moment, and she grinned. She’d always wondered from whom she’d inherited her red hair.

She strolled toward the bedchamber door and knocked.

“For God’s sake, Sims, just come back in. You know damned well I’m lying here like a useless old man. I suppose you want me to say I’m sorry for yelling at you to get the hell out.”

Jemma couldn’t help but smile. Really, she should tell him that it wasn’t Mr. Sims, but it was so insightful to glimpse this side of him she hadn’t known existed. He
was
capable of remorse and knowing when he was wrong. Doubt swirled in her mind about what she thought she knew.

“All right, Sims. You win. I’m sorry,” he choked out, sounding exactly as he did whenever he spoke to her. She’d assumed it was due to dislike, but he clearly held a gruff affection for his butler. Did that mean he held that same gruff affection for her and simply didn’t know how to show it?

Her chest tightened. Did she even care? She had not thought she had, but yes, yes, she did care. She wanted to be wrong about him. She wanted there to be some other explanation for why he wanted her to marry Lord Glenmore besides what she believed. She wanted Grandfather to love her.

Longing stole her breath. She stood there for a moment before finally regaining her breath and speaking. “It’s not Mr. Sims, Grandfather. It’s Jemma. I’ve come to speak with you. May I come in?”

“Knowing you, you’ll come in no matter what I say.”

She grinned. He
did
know her.

She pushed the door open with a slight creak, and she entered the darkened bedchamber. The curtains were pulled, and Jemma blinked to adjust her eyes. Grandfather was lying in bed, leaning against a stack of pillows. The bed was enormous, which should have made him look small but he appeared larger than life. He motioned her closer, and for once, she obeyed immediately.

She inspected him as she drew near. He didn’t look unwell, except perhaps a slight flush of his cheeks, but that could have been from being tucked under the coverlet on a day that was overly warm. She could demand answers, but perhaps it was best to start slower and build to that.

“Mr. Sims tells me you’re very tired, and Dr. Talbot tells me you’re not getting any younger.” She eyed him, hoping he’d elaborate.

He cracked a smile. “Hoping I’ll meet my maker, are you?”

“Certainly not!” However angry he had ever made her, she had never hoped for that. “So,
are you
ill?”

He shrugged. “My heart is giving out on me slowly but surely.” He leaned toward his nightstand and picked up a piece of folded paper. “I awoke to this note this morning,” he said, tapping his fingers against the foolscap.

Jemma stared at it, dread building in her throat and causing her to swallow repeatedly before she could speak. “Anne wrote you a note?” Jemma finally managed to whisper.

Grandfather’s brow furrowed. “Anne? Why would Anne pen me a note?”

Jemma’s knees almost buckled with relief. Grandfather may not be the monster she’d believed he was, but she highly doubted he’d be pleased to hear Anne had run off to Gretna Green with Mr. Frazier.

Jemma gripped the bedpost with one hand and waved her other hand in front of her face dismissively. “Anne just
loves
to pen notes. I thought perhaps she had written you one.”

Grandfather narrowed his eyes as his mouth curved upward. Was that a smile? Jemma found herself leaning closer to try to decide. Hmm... She couldn’t conclude if it was a smile or a smirk.

“You do not lie all that well,” he said suddenly.

“I most certainly do,” she retorted before she could stop herself. He grinned at her. She’d never seen him grin. Frankly, she hadn’t thought him capable.

He patted the bed. “Truly, you don’t, Granddaughter. Your mouth twitches at the right corner.”

Jemma frowned as she pressed her fingertips to her mouth.

Grandfather chuckled. “Come sit by me, Jemma. I daresay you and I have much to discuss.” He tilted his head as if in thought. “Perhaps we should call Anne in here, too.”

Jemma rushed to his side and plopped onto the bed. “Oh no! Let us discuss things first. I’ll fetch Anne later.”
Much later
. As in
if and when
Anne came home.

Grandfather reached out and touched the top of her hand. Jemma could do no more than gape at his wrinkled, blue-veined hand when he pulled it away awkwardly. It struck her acutely that he was not overly comfortable with showing affection. That was completely different from not having love in your heart. She stared at him for a long moment, realizing she had refused to get to know him herself. She’d stubbornly clung to her beliefs of him based on gossip from servants—who could’ve very well not known him, either, and had just believed what they thought they knew—and, of course, her mother.

Mother.
Sadness rippled over Jemma. Mother had all but refused to talk about Grandfather, except to say how he had ruined her life by denying her a dowry. Mother certainly had been angry with Father, as well, and often called him a heartless rake. More than once, she justified that things would not have happened as they had if she had been in possession of her dowry and if Grandfather had not tried to force her to his will. She’d called him the Cold Duke.