To Love a Scoundrel (36 page)

Harry leaned across his plate and craned his neck in her direction. "Part of you, Jewel dear. We're English on my father's side, but your grandmother was Maureen Mull from Scotland." Straightening his spine, he regarded his hostess. "I hope you'll forgive this lapse in our manners, Mrs. Connors, but my daughter and I have only just recently discovered each other. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we were separated when Jewel was quite young."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you, but your sympathy is truly unnecessary. Jewel and I are grateful to have this second chance. We're having fun getting to know each other." Again he looked down the table at Jewel. "Isn't that right, dear?"

Jewel took another breath, uncomfortable with the personal conversation, then chanced a quick look in Brent's direction. His arms were folded across his chest, his expression a combination of disbelief and amazement. Quickly averting her gaze, she nodded toward Harry and Miriam and gave them a tiny smile before she cut into the ham slice on her plate.

"This is so special," Miriam said, turning to Harry with a sunny smile. "I think it's wonderful you two have found each other after so long. Were you married to Jewel's mother for long?"

"Ah... married?" Harry said, his cunning mind working on a suitable answer to Miriam's inquiry.

From the head of the table, Raiford, a forgotton presence, boomed out, "Married? Did someone say married?"

Raising her voice a notch, Miriam said, "It's nothing to worry about, Raif. We're talking about Jewel's family."

"Jewel? By God, that's right. I almost forget about her." Raiford cut off his wife's explanation as he turned to the guest on his right. "So what's this all about, gal? Brent's mama tells me you got your cap set for our older boy. You got it in your head to marry up with him?''

Jewel choked on the piece of ham she was chewing, and coughed.

Miriam, her voice cracking like a cat-o'-nine-tails, said, "
Raiford.''

After a long, exaggerated groan, Brent collapsed against the back of his chair and muttered under his breath, "Good God all Friday."

The Connors girls, not entirely surprised, glanced around the table, their eyes wide with excitement, their mouths open.

Only Beau seemed to be unaffected. "Mama?'' he asked quietly. "Would you mind sending the spoon bread back over this way?"

Harry sat as if frozen in time, then suddenly came to life. He slammed his hand, palm down, on the tablecloth and demanded, "Now, see here. Why wasn't I consulted about this, young man?"

"Sir, I, can explain."

Not waiting for Brent's explanation, Harry leaned across the table and caught his daughter's gaze. "Jewel? Shouldn't you have sought your father's counsel? At the very least, shouldn't I have been informed before such an announcement was made?"

Jewel threw her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes before pinning Brent with a heated gaze. "I wouldn't know the correct etiquette regarding you, Faathah, but I do think it's generally advisable for a beau to give the young lady in question some warning. Wouldn't you think so, Mr. Connors?"

"I have to apologize for my family," Brent said, having considerable difficulty finding his voice. "They have overstepped their bounds, but please rest assured that this is all a big misunderstanding." Facing Harry, he continued his explanation. "Dad sometimes has a little trouble with reality. I'm sure he didn't mean to imply a wedding is afoot."

"Don't speak for me, boy," Raiford shouted, his color rising. "Your mama said something about this gal and you getting married." He paused a minute, scratching his head, then looked down the long table at his wife. "You did, didn't you, Miriam?" he asked, his voice quieter, less certain.

"Ah, yes, Raif, we did talk about Brent and Jewel some, but I think you have have misunderstood. I don't recall mentioning the word 'marriage.' So why don't we just forget all this and drink a nice welcome toast to our guests?"

"A toast?" Raiford's eyes lit up. "Yes, by God. Let's have a toast." He reached for his wineglass and raised it high. "Welcome to Sumner Hall."

"An excellent toast, darling," she answered back, relief clearly showing in her eyes.

As glasses clinked against each other, creating a staccato ditty in crystal, Brent offered his own silent toast across the table to Harry. Smiling broadly, hoping to reassure and pacify the man, Brent bowed his head. Much to his relief, Harry responded in kind, and tapped the rim of his glass. Then Brent's spine stiffened as his gaze fell upon the large diamond glittering on Harry's pinky. Stunted, minuscule by anyone's standards, the finger was a duplicate of the dainty feminine version he'd so recently adored as it lay on his pillow.

Brent gulped, stunned by the realization, staggered by the display of absolute proof. Harry Benton really was Jewel's father, he realized with alarm. Confused and troubled, he swallowed his wine, then took a deep breath and stared across the table, his gaze flickering between Jewel and Harry.

As Jewel ate, she could feel Brent's eyes on her, and she knew his thoughts were dark and intense. Guessing at the cause, unwilling to deal with either Brent or Harry just yet, she chose to ignore them both and finished eating in silence.

When supper was over, Miriam rose and addressed her guest. "Why don't you join the girls and me in the drawing room now, Jewel? We generally do a little needlepoint before retiring for the evening and leave the men to enjoy their cigars and brandy in the study."

"Thank you, Mrs. Connors. I'd be delighted." Jewel dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, more to hide the grimace as she contemplated her lack of sewing skills than to clean her face, then rose and followed the women out of the dining room. As they started down the hallway, Brent caught up with her from behind and pulled her aside.

"Hold up there, Pinky," he whispered.

"Not now, Brent," she muttered under her breath. "Your mother is waiting for me. Let me go."

"In a minute." Tucking her into a hallway alcove, he slid his hands up along her arms and gripped her shoulders. "Do you remember where the library is?"

Her eyebrows drew together as she said, "Yes. Why?"

"As soon as you gals finishing talking, or whatever it is you do in the drawing room, and they start heading upstairs, I want you to stay behind. Tell them your legs are stiff or something and you need to take a walk. Tell them anything you want—you're good at making up stories."

Jewel pressed her lips together in a smirk and cocked her head. "You're not so bad at spinning tall tales yourself."

"After they go up to their rooms," he continued, talking as if she'd never interrupted him, "you duck into the library. I'll meet you there as soon as I can. Be there."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "What for? Don't you think we've both had enough trouble for one night?"

Brent released her and stepped back. "You be there. We have a few things to discuss." He added as he stepped away, "If nothing else, we ought to discuss our upcoming wedding, wouldn't you say, my darling Miss
Benton?"

Chapter 17

After only ten minutes, Jewel grew bored waiting in the library, with its collection of first editions. Drawn by the thought of the cooler night air and the steady drone of the crickets' song, she strolled over to where the beige sheers were drawn together for the night. She pulled the curtains aside, then opened the door and stepped out onto the veranda.

Cognizant of the balcony directly above her, she stayed back from the railing and leaned over the low side wall instead. There she drew a huge lungful of jasmine-spiced air and tried to collect her thoughts.

Tonight those thoughts were not of Brent but of Harry and a faceless red-haired woman named Maureen Mull. "Grandma," she murmured as a huge fist squeezed its icy fingers around her already aching heart. Why tonight? she wondered. Why, when she was so close to bringing Harry to justice, did he have to become so... so mortal? Why did she have to learn of the family she'd long ago ceased to think of? Why had he given a name to the man and woman whose union had made her existence possible? Why
now
at this critical period of her life?

But she knew, of course. All of this had been a possibility since the day she'd settled on using the fact she was Harry's daughter as a snare to trap him. In the beginning she'd been sure she could handle anything he might toss her way. Then he'd managed to call her bluff not five minutes after he accepted her as his own. He'd made her cry—inadvertently, to be sure, but cry she did. He'd prompted a show of weakness no one had been able to accomplish in all her twenty-five years. What would happen to her now that he was revealing bits of information from her past and tying her to the history of the Benton family? Would she survive? Could she steel her mind and her heart against any further information he might disgorge about this lost family of hers? Jewel found herself trying to imagine Maureen and Grandfather Benton cavorting in the fog-shrouded Scottish Highlands. Then she bit her lip in frustration and lowered her head with a heavy sigh.

From the other side of the curtain, Brent stepped into the library and quickly closed the door behind him. He glanced around the room, frowning, and whispered under his breath. "Jewel?"

But no answer was forthcoming. Then he noticed the slight movement of the sheer drapes. The door leading to the veranda was ajar. Thinking she might have stepped outside for a breath of air, he silently crossed the room and peeked outside. Jewel stood with her back to him, her posture suggesting she was deep in thought. Brent studied her for a long moment, wondering how best to approach her, how to broach the subject of Harry without raising her ire. Then he suddenly broke into a broad grin. Squaring his shoulders, he quietly stole through the doors and crept up behind her.

Keeping his rich melodic voice low and menacing, he crooned, "Don't scream."

Jewel gasped, then relaxed as she felt Brent's gentle fingers slide up behind her ear.

"Now turn around," he ordered, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of a gun's hammer. "Nice and easy, no sudden movements." As she turned, he ran one fingertip along her jawline, caressing her, until it finally rested under the tip of her chin. Sliding his thumb up and down her throat, the movement deliberate and sensual, he whispered, "Talk, Pinky. Tell me what I want to hear. Tell me how much you want me, how much you... love me."

Unwilling to deal with Brent and his words of love on this night of painful revelations, she kept her manner cool and and impassive. Batting her eyelashes playfully she went limp against his chest and softly drawled, "Oh, suh. Puhleese, suh, don't shoot li'l ole me. Don't hurt me with your great big ole gun." As she spoke, she maneuvered her own finger into the V of his crotch. Then she gave him a little poke.

Brent hopped, taking an impulsive backward step, before he warned, "That'd better be your
finger,
little lady."

"And that'd better
not
be your gun, suh."

"You really are brazen," he said, sliding his hand around to the back of her neck, "a brazen hussy who deserves everything she gets."

And then he gave her what she'd asked for. Covering her mouth with his, he buried himself in her softness, wanting nothing more than to be lost in her eager embrace for the rest of his life. Would it ever be possible? he wondered. Could there ever be an honest, loving relationship of any duration between them? Reminded of his purpose, of his reason for meeting her, Brent reluctantly pulled his lips away and stared down at her.

In the moonlight her hair had taken on a coppery sheen, creating a ring of fire around her head, an unholy halo of sorts. Half angel, half devil, he thought to himself, the ideal combination in a lover, but an impossibly difficult woman to corral as his own.

Tempted by the tantalizing she-devil, hopelessly in love with the angel, Brent took her back into his arms. He kissed the corners of her mouth, the sweet inviting center, and then returned to the upturned corners once again before he was finally able to let her go.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he moved farther down the railing and faced the darkened fields. Drawing in a breath of air, sweet with the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine and heavy with evening moisture, he said, "A lot happened at the supper table tonight. A lot you and I weren't expecting. Are you willing to tell me the whole truth about yourself yet?"