The Marsh Hawk (17 page)

“My obligation to Evy and Crispin is soon fulfilled. Evy's come-out will surely yield her a respectable match, and that can't happen too soon—she's entirely too attached to me; it isn't healthy. Crispin is about to embark upon a naval career that will assure him a prestigious future, I've just seen to that personally. I have lived for this moment, and now that I've found my soul mate, I can't think why I should postpone my life a minute longer. Besides, I . . . we can't go on as we are. She can't stay on at the Hall unchaperoned, else she be compromised, and I don't trust that mother of hers to keep Marner at bay if she returns to Thistle Hollow. The woman is salivating over any such match.”

“I agree with most of what you've just said, but how can there be anything but a physical attraction between you on such short acquaintance? That isn't enough to base a marriage upon. The physical element fades all too quickly. Then what? A marriage needs to be built on an emotional and spiritual attraction as well if it's to work. My point, which you continue to avoid, is that you haven't known her long enough for all that.”

“I will admit that at first the attraction was purely physical. From the first moment I saw her, I knew I had to have her. But Jenna felt the same thing at the same time. I'm not going to presume to understand or explain it, Rob; it's just the way things are.”

“But you've been attracted to women in such a manner before. Don't tell me you haven't. Why, just last year—”

“
Ladybirds
, Rob, not ladies. I shan't deny that I've been attracted to women that I knew could give me pleasure—women skilled at pleasing a man without the courtship rituals that ladies demand. Considering my ‘agenda,' as you like to call it, it seemed the most practical solution for me at the time. I never met a lady of quality who was anything but an insipid milk-and-water miss. You should come to Town for a Season, Rob. Whoever called it ‘coming out' named it well. They swarm out of the gate like lemmings after the eligible males. Why do men marry such creatures? To get a respectable heir, that's why. Meanwhile, they take mistresses for someone to engage in stimulating conversation—someone to relax with, who promises lively bed sport. How have these marvels escaped you? Until Jenna, I never met a woman that I could respect for her intelligence as well as her virtue. Even Evy is all fluff and chatter—charming, certainly, but hardly the sort to keep a man from straying for long.”

“Evy's young yet, Simon. How can you presume to level such harsh judgments against her?” Robert scolded. He couldn't help himself. He couldn't resist coming to the girl's defense, even if Simon was right. Hot blood surged to his temples. Would Simon guess? No. He was clearly too wrapped up in his own dilemma.

“Growing up without a mother hasn't helped,” Simon went on. “I'm hoping Jenna will be able to offer some guidance there.” He popped a guttural chuckle. “And there's another thing,” he said. “That Jenna has turned out as she has with such a harridan for a mother is in itself a miracle, and a credit to her, I daresay. It's honed her intellect and sharpened her wits. She's vibrant—alive, and passionate, Rob—no milk-and-water miss, she. I know all I need to know. I mean to have her now—right now. Anyone who presumes to stand in the way of that can go straight to the Devil.”

The vicar said no more by way of argument, though Simon raved on for some time before they retired; there wasn't any use appealing to his rational side. He had no rational side—not when he dug in his heels as he did now. He'd seen Simon in such a taking many times before, but never over a woman. That had him worried, since there was no valid precedent to hold up as example. And so, Robert did what he could—what he always did when faced with the impossible. He listened, and he prayed.

The wedding took place at Holy Trinity Church on Sunday morning as scheduled. A reluctant Evelyn, dressed in pink tarlatan, served as Jenna's bridesmaid, and Crispin acted as bridegroom's man for Simon.

Wearing a dark blue frock coat, a white waistcoat, and buff-colored trousers with a simply tied neckcloth and white gloves, Simon stood, fists clenched, ramrod rigid as Robert Nast performed the ceremony. His eyes never left Jenna's face. Her lip was still slightly swollen, and traces of Rupert's fingers remained on her cheek despite her skillful doctoring with talc. She didn't need to wonder if the vicar had told him about her encounter with Rupert. The look in those fiery blue eyes was so strange and complex a meld of love, desire, and rage, it physically pained her to meet it.

There was only one guest on her side: her mother. Jenna had relented and invited her, largely because she knew her mother could help with Evelyn's come-out. The arrangements for that needed to be addressed at once if they planned to have it before the Season ended, and Jenna knew that the wedding trip would have to be cut short in order to see to it otherwise. Though she didn't want to admit it, Lady Elizabeth Hollingsworth was the answer. She certainly had the necessary skills and connections, with an added bonus: she had the credentials to arrange for Evelyn's presentation at court. And who but her mother would be better qualified to preside over the social whirl of fetes and balls that would follow? She would be in her element.

After much soul-searching and several lengthy conversations with the vicar over the matter, Jenna had finally conceded that her mother was essential to the situation. The invitation was sent, with a warning: If anything even close to what happened at their last meeting were to occur, she would find herself packed off to Thistle Hollow straightaway. Jenna's mother, appropriately humble, arrived in time for the wedding.

The dowager was not, however, made privy to Evelyn's relationship to Simon. As far as she knew, the St. Johns were distant relations of the Duke of York, and close friends of the Rutherford family. Simon had opened an account in Crispin's name so that it would appear as though he were providing for his sister. Their extended stay as his guests, both at Kevernwood Hall and at the town house, instead of their own home in Dorset, was explained away as stemming from Simon's sponsorship of Crispin's naval commission, and his commitment to see to Evelyn's come-out—promises he'd made to the parents before their deaths. It was half-truth, but Lady Hollingsworth didn't question. It was obvious to all that she was only too happy to accept the situation as a social substitute for the grand society wedding Jenna had denied her. Evelyn received the formidable dowager's sponsorship with the kind good manners of a well-bred young lady, though she did so without heart.

Another not elated with the arrangement, aside from Evelyn, was the vicar, but Jenna surmised that was because he feared that once Evelyn had her come-out, some dashing young aristocrat would snap her up in a heartbeat. The key word in that thought was
young
. Not that Robert Nast wasn't youthful, because he was—and handsome besides. It was just that Evelyn simply didn't see him that way, and he knew it. She didn't see him at all.

Jenna's heart went out to Robert, and to Evelyn. And during their correspondence, she convinced Simon to hold the girl's come-out ball at Kevernwood Hall instead of the town house as was originally planned, in hopes that bringing the celebration to the coast would somehow work a miracle for Robert Nast. All of the fine tuning for the affair would have to be done in London, of course, where her mother would have easy access to the Bond Street shops, and to the engravers for the all-important cards and invitations, and other such necessary details. Not the least of which would be seeing to it, meanwhile, that Evelyn was well displayed in the right circles. Time, however, was of the essence. In order to accomplish all this, when all the other eligible young ladies in Town were already bombarding the establishments and depleting their supply, the dowager and the St. Johns would have to leave right after the festivities, much to Jenna's profound relief.

Lady Hollingsworth didn't seem to notice Evelyn's chagrin. The wedding had her full and fierce attention then. She went along with Jenna's simple ceremony, but she dug her heels in at the prospect that there not be a reception, protesting that a wedding breakfast was positively de rigueur. Jenna finally gave in and let her arrange it through a local confectioner for the sweets, since the decision was reached far too late for Simon's cook to prepare a respectable wedding cake. The cook was, however, able to provide cold viands consisting of chicken, ham, tongue, fish, and game pie, all laid out in the dining hall around the confectioner's elegant wedding cake, richly decorated with sugar flowers, and crowned with real orange flowers gathered from the Kevernwood orangery in the orchard.

Fine champagne, imported from the House of Ruinart in France, had been brought up from the wine cellar, and all of Simon's crofters and servants were invited to enjoy the fare as well and toast his ravishing new bride. All, that is, except Phelps, who was mysteriously absent from the festivities.

Simon endured with grace and a cheerful manner, but the strain in his demeanor was evident. He hadn't mentioned what Jenna knew he'd suppressed for the occasion, which went on late into the afternoon. The dowager and the St. Johns had planned to set out for London the following morning, but as the day wore on, the sun reneged on its promise and a fine sheeting rain began to dampen the coast, forcing them to leave ahead of schedule. It forced Simon and Jenna to change their plans as well. They decided to wait until morning to leave for Scotland, since the storm, which had all the earmarks of a ripping northeaster, would make traveling to Roxburghshire treacherous at best in the dark.

Jenna was relieved at that. Her first time with Simon was going to be difficult enough on familiar ground. It would have been a little unsettling in a strange place, not to mention a strange land. With so much going on, it wasn't until then that she realized what was about to happen. The dowager had barely touched the subject of marital relations during their mother-daughter discussion on the eve of her engagement to Rupert. All she had volunteered was that Jenna would be expected to share her husband's bed and submit. Submit to what exactly wasn't entirely clear. Jenna had seen animals mating, of course, but no . . .
surely not
.

It was long after dark when the vicar and the last of Simon's tenants finally took their leave, and Jenna made her way to her dressing room adjoining the bridal chamber on the north, where Molly was waiting to ready her for bed. Simon repaired to his own dressing room, adjoining the bedchamber on the south, there to manage his own toilette with the help of the footman Charl, since Phelps was still conspicuously absent.

Jenna looked at her reflection in the cheval glass in her dressing room, evaluating the very fine batiste nightgown, so airy it was nearly transparent, from every angle. It was trimmed with delicate white-on-white ribbon embroidery work and satin piping, with a drawstring closure at the neck. She had just left the hipbath that Molly had prepared. The steamy water perfumed with rosemary and lavender was meant to relax her. It had heightened her senses instead, and though it did impart a somewhat languid feeling, aided by the champagne she'd drunk more of than was prudent, it also set her pulse racing with anticipation.

She sat at the vanity, while Molly brushed her long hair loose over her shoulders from a center part. It tumbled like waves of spun gold about her face. Jenna was glad she'd resisted her mother's directive to cut it short after the current fashion. What all the fuss was about, she couldn't imagine. Long hair could be made to look short, she reasoned, but short hair could not be made long. Simon was certainly no slave to fashion, either. He hadn't run to the barber for the sake of style. He made his own. That was one of the things she so admired about him.

“You look so fine, my lady,” said the maid, her words riding a giggle. Her large round eyes shone like two chestnuts in the candle glow. “And he's so handsome, the master,” she added boldly.

“If only I weren't so . . . flushed,” Jenna said to the girl's reflection in the glass. “It makes the bruises look much worse than they really are. Oh, I wish . . .”

“You aren't frightened are you, my lady?” the maid asked. “It's the wine to be sure that's making me so cheeky, but you oughtn't worry. It only hurts the first time, so they tell me. After that it can be quite pleasant—so they say, begging your pardon, my lady.”

Jenna was about to say
what hurts
? when a light rap on the dressing room door made her lurch, and she rose from the vanity bench, taking one last look in the mirror.

“That will be all, Molly,” she murmured. “I shan't need you again tonight.”

Another giggle was forthcoming, and the maid curtsied and crept out in a manner that reinforced her evaluation of the girl as mouselike.

Squaring her posture, Jenna opened the dressing room door to find Simon on the threshold wearing his gray satin dressing gown. He didn't speak, but took her hand and led her into the master bedchamber.

The chambermaids had turned down the coverlet on the mahogany four-poster bed. A fresh bottle of the French champagne sat in a silver bucket surrounded by shaved ice on a Chippendale table at the edge of the carpet. Two glasses waited beside it. But Simon led Jenna instead to the candle stand, and tilted her face toward the light, tracing the shape of the bruises on her cheek lightly with his fingers.

“I'm all right, Simon,” she murmured.

His mouth had formed a hard, lipless line, and his jaw muscles had begun to tick. The candle flames danced in his eyes, which were smoldering blue coals boring into her in a manner that set chills loose along her spine. It was a look she had never seen in those eyes, and yet . . .

“I should have been here,” he said through a dangerous tremor.