The Marsh Hawk Page 3
“No, please,” Jenna interrupted. Anger, jealousy, and embarrassment raised her to her feet. She dared not meet the earl’s eyes then. She would have come undone. A strange heat radiated between them that she would not probe to identify in front of that gathering. It was taking unmerciful liberties with the most private regions of her anatomy. “Don’t let me spoil the ball,” she faltered. Her lower lip had begun to tremble, but she would not give any one of them the satisfaction of her tears. “Go on with your merrymaking,” she murmured. “No one is at fault. Please, everyone, I beg you excuse me.”
She scarcely reached the landing before the tears came—a flood of them. She could barely see the steps. Her knees were still shaking from shock and anger and humiliation.
“How could you do this, Jenna?” her mother’s voice rang in her ears. “Rupert is livid!”
“Rupert can go to—to Jericho!” she cried.
It was more than she could bear, and she covered her ears with her hands to shut out her mother’s strangled gasp, and fled to her suite before the dowager’s stutter became words.
Emily was waiting to help Jenna undress. Madame Flaubert’s elegant feathered gown fell disrespected in a heap at her feet on the floral carpet. She gave it a vicious kick, scattering loose feathers into the air. How dare Rupert humiliate her in front of all those people? How dared Miss Blondness—St. John—Lady Whatever-Her-Name-Was, tell her she looked frightful? The woman was staying at Kevernwood Hall—under the same roof with those sensuous liquid sapphire eyes.
The maid had scarcely helped her into her nightgown, when a knock at the door of her sitting room brought an end to Jenna’s assault on the feathers.
“If that is Mother, I have already retired, Emily,” she warned the girl. Then, closing her bedchamber door, she climbed into the four-poster just in case her mother wouldn’t take the maid at her word.
Seconds later, a light rapping at the door put her on guard.
“It’s me, my lady,” Emily called from the other side.
“Come,” Jenna said, relieved.
The maid entered with a folded and sealed missive, and offered it.
Jenna didn’t bother to examine the seal. How dare Rupert think that he could smooth the situation over with a few empty words scribbled on a piece of parchment? She crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.
“Leave me!” she sobbed, burying her hot, tear-stained face in the eiderdown pillow.
Downstairs, the ball was still going on. The announcement must have been made by now, and the rest of the guests had no doubt unmasked. It was official: she was Viscount Rupert Marner’s betrothed. She could almost hear the violins playing another of those scandalous Viennese waltzes, just as they had done when Kevernwood asked her to dance. He was probably gliding over the floor with Miss Blondness close in his arms at that very moment, just as she’d imagined him holding her earlier, their bodies almost touching, his warm hand firmly resting on the small of her back—leading her—moving them to the music as one. Her heart sank. If only he hadn’t worn that deuced costume.
Fresh tears seeped through her closed eyes—a stream of them, hot and salty. When had she become such a watering pot? She pounded her pillow relentlessly, indulging in the luxury of those tears, and it was some time before she cried herself to sleep.
Jenna did not go down to breakfast at ten with the rest. A tray was brought to her room, but she didn’t touch it. The dowager didn’t make an appearance, which meant that she was still angry. Jenna was almost grateful. She loved her mother dearly, but there were times when she didn’t particularly like her. This was one of them. Was her mother’s eagerness to join the two houses and share the benefits that such alliances afforded the ton more important than her daughter’s happiness? Was it easier to add to her daughter’s humiliation than to defend her, for fear of losing favor among the almighty Marners? Evidently. Her father would never have stood for it.
She got out of bed and glanced at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her eyes were hopelessly red and swollen from crying. She dabbed at them with a splash of cold water from the pitcher, but there was no help for it. She looked like a chipmunk, just as she always did after a bout of tears, which was why she indulged in them so seldom.
Turning back to the bed, she stepped on the missive she’d discarded the night before and snatched it up from the carpet. Smoothing it out, she examined the seal. It wasn’t Rupert’s at all—not the Old English letter M, for Marner, but a gracefully scrolled R.
Her hands shook as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. She couldn’t hold it still as she read:
My Lady Jenna,
I am much distressed over what occurred in the ballroom tonight. If you will allow me, I should like to make a proper apology to you in person. I will be in the library after breakfast.
Your humble servant,
Kevernwood.
Assignations of this type were quite acceptable between visiting guests, when two people wanted to speak privately. The library was the usual choice, quite above reproach. The earl had tendered a most decorous invitation. Why, then, did it seem like an invitation to a tryst . . . or was that wishful thinking?
It was well past the breakfast hour. Emily was nowhere to be found, and she hurried to dress her hair in a high chignon with the customary tendrils that always seemed to style themselves in damp weather, and wriggled into her pink lawn dress, perfectly acceptable for daytime wear, though irresistibly fetching.
The earl was just leaving the library when she arrived, and his face was unreadable as he stepped back over the threshold and ushered her inside. She accepted his bow, made a demure apology for her tardiness without explaining why, and waited for him to make the first move.
He was well attired in a tan cutaway jacket and trousers with a cream-colored waistcoat, appropriate for casual day wear, his demeanor controlled to a fault. No doubt a byproduct of naval discipline.
“My lady, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I frightened you last evening,” he said. “I needed to say that to you personally.”
“You didn’t frighten me, my lord, your costume did. You evidently now know why, and it is I who am sorry for your embarrassment.”
“I don’t embarrass easily, my lady,” he said, flashing a lopsided smile that dissolved her heart. “Though there are those who take pleasure in trying to achieve it. I am quite thick-skinned, I promise you.”
Hot blood rushed to her temples, and the fingers of a blush crawled up her cheeks. Looking into those eyes at close range was like drowning in a sapphire sea.
“Forgive me, but you have been crying,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, my lord,” she murmured. Her face was on fire now. How could she have forgotten to put talc on her blotches? They must be flaming. She lowered her eyes, glad of the opportunity to rescue herself from drowning, and picked up a book for something to do with her hands. “I was distraught over having spoiled the masque,” she said. “Lady Marner put so much effort into it. I was quite beside myself over that, I’m afraid.”
“Nothing was spoiled except, of course, for you,” he said. He smiled and it touched her soul. “Please don’t reproach yourself. The masque was most enjoyable.”
Jenna thought for a moment before curiosity overcame good sense.
“Why did you choose that costume, my lord?” she asked. “Surely you know that highway robbery is a scourge upon the coast these days, just as it is everywhere else?”
He gave it thought, his brows knit in a mischievous attitude that caught her off guard. He looked more like a schoolboy who had just committed the perfect prank than a dignified war hero.
“As a protest against the aristocracy, my lady,” he said. “I was making a political statement, showing my disapproval.”
Jenna put the book she’d been perusing to avoid eye contact back on the drop-leaf table and stared at Kevernwood unabashedly. “But, my lord, you are the aristocracy,” she reminded him.
He laughed outright. His teeth were perfect and white, and provocative dimples punctuated his laugh lines.
“An accident of birth, my lady, I assure you,” he said. “Underneath it all, I have a quite provincial soul. That costume was, I will admit, a low blow, and it backfired on me, as indeed it should have. Unfortunately, you were caught in the crossfire, and for that I am exceedingly sorry. I would not have had that happen for the world, I vow.”
“Think no more about it. Your apology is gratefully accepted, my lord,” she assured him, with as much dignity as she could muster in such close proximity.
“When is the wedding to be?” he probed. “I ask because I doubt I will be invited after this, and I would like to tender my felicitations in an appropriate manner when the time comes.”
She clouded, hesitating. She’d forgotten all about Rupert. There was an odd, unreadable expression in the earl’s face again, just as there had been when she’d first set eyes on him, and when she’d come to in the anteroom after fainting. He was studying her, and that enigmatic look was more disarming at close range than anything she’d encountered in his presence yet.
“We plan a winter wedding, my lord,” she said, her voice steady for all that she was a shambles. “The actual date has not been set. I must go to Paris first. My trousseau is incomplete.”
Silence replied to that. He was still observing her.
“B-before the new year, though,” she added during the awkward gap his hesitation rent in the conversation.
He strolled dangerously close—so close the body heat between them was palpable. The intoxicating aroma of leather and tobacco infused the air. The marriage of scents was dizzying, and provocative. How he towered over her. They were almost touching, and she had to bend her head back to meet his eyes, which studied the curve of her slender throat and décolleté. Drat and blast! Why hadn’t she worn her Brussels lace chemisette?
All at once he took her hand and lifted it to his lips, which were warm, riddling her with prickling swells of unexpected sensation, like shock waves, coursing to regions of her shuddering body that were heretofore virgin territory. His moist breath on her skin set swarms of butterflies loose in her stomach and threatened her balance.
“I hate to be the one to make an end to this delightful meeting,” he said, lifting his mouth at last. “However, considering the situation, I do not think it wise that we linger here longer. I’ve cost you enough distress this visit, my lady. Any more would be unforgivable. Permit me to leave before you. I think it would be best.”
“Of course, my lord,” she murmured, crestfallen that the interview had come to an end so soon. Dazed, she swayed as he gave up her hand. “Will you be staying on, then?” She wished she hadn’t said it the moment the words were out. Ninnyhammer! Why wouldn’t he stay on? What a jingle-brained thing to say.
“Oh, yes, my lady,” he said. He flashed her a positively diabolical grin, and his left eyebrow lifted in punctuation. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He bowed then, and moved toward the door, but turned back when he reached it. “About the wedding, my lady,” he said, taking hold of the knob. “In the spirit of friendship, I ask you to consider a thought from one older and more . . . experienced than yourself.”
“My lord?”
“Think carefully, my lady,” he said softly, crossing the threshold. “You do not love him.”
The heat that rose in her cheeks narrowed her eyes, but the door closed behind him. Her heart was pounding visibly, moving the pink lawn bodice of her frock with every breath. How dare he issue directives! Albeit true, who was he to make such an assumption—and on so brief an acquaintance? Her blood was boiling. No, this was definitely no tryst. Why did the man’s eyes say one thing and his lips another? Was he making mock of her?
Tears welled in her eyes again, but the library door opened suddenly and she blinked them back as Lady Evelyn waltzed into the room in a cloud of butter-colored muslin that matched her hair. She was alone, and the last person Jenna wanted to see in that moment. She was trapped. She couldn’t run: that would be impolite. She plucked a book from the shelf and pretended to read again.
“Good morning, Lady Jenna,” the girl chirped. “Feeling better, I hope?”
“Much,” Jenna replied succinctly.
“We missed you at breakfast.”
“I had a tray in my room.”
“Ahhh! Well, you look much improved. That was dreadful last night. You gave us quite a fright. Simon was awfully upset. I saw him leaving the library just now. I’m sure he’s told you it was all terribly innocent.”
“Have you known Lord Kevernwood long?” Jenna queried, unable to help herself.
“Have I known Simon long,” the girl parroted. “Simply forever. We see a great deal of Simon in town. We’re often his guests there as well. When you visit London, you will have to come with us to Almack’s. Have you ever been?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” There had been no social whirl of fetes and balls, teas and jaunts to such establishments as Almack’s for Jenna. She wouldn’t elaborate. She wasn’t about to confide in this maddening little social butterfly that her father’s declining health had delayed the plans for her come-out until she was well past twenty. And she certainly wouldn’t confide that his untimely death at the hands of a heartless thatchgallows, and her mother’s subsequent spiral into pseudomelancholia had made an end to the prospect of a season in Town for her altogether. She would not bear the girl’s pity—especially since it wasn’t necessary. Jenna was perfectly happy without all the stirabout and pother of a social event in London. It wasn’t as though she was husband hunting, after all. There was hardly a need for entering the marriage mart, since Rupert Marner had always been a foregone conclusion. “I don’t go often to Town,” she said to the girl’s incredulous gasp. “I’m quite content here on the coast.”
“Well, you must come . . . you and the viscount, of course. The orchestra is simply divine there. That’s where I learned the quadrille. Lady Jersey herself taught me! Can you imagine it? She’s one of the patronesses there, and a very dear old friend of Simon’s. And the ambience! Well, there’s simply nothing like Almack’s anywhere. You’ll see. Everyone who’s anyone goes. It’s very exclusive, one must be approved, but I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty. Simon can manage simply anything.”
Jenna took the girl’s measure. She was beautiful, young, and vital. No wonder the earl had a tendre for her.
“We may have to do without Simon,” Lady Evelyn babbled on. “He’s become quite stodgy since Copenhagen. But that’s to be expected, what with his leg and all. He’s so unconventional, is Simon. Crispin and I have been trying to get him to cut his hair for ages. That dreadful tail of his is so outdated. Why, it’s positively passé. No one wears long hair anymore—not even we ladies. But Simon will be Simon. He is quite the revolutionary, you know. He utterly defies convention. But that’s part of his charm, isn’t it? I positively adore him.”
The tears Jenna had blinked back were threatening again, and she returned the tome she’d been staring at to the shelf with no idea of its topic. Lady Evelyn was eyeing her coiffure now, with not a little interest. Was this gushing girl about to comment on the unconventional length of her hair as well?
“Excuse me,” Jenna murmured, and fled without giving her the chance.
CHAPTER THREE
The weather held for picnicking and the men’s shoot that afternoon. Jenna did not see the earl again, and Rupert was conspicuous in his absence as well. He was evidently still angry. She was relieved that they were both missing and had no desire to see either of them. She even attempted to beg off the picnic, wanting no more encounters with Lady Evelyn either, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.
“You cannot spoil the rest of the weekend, Jenna,” her mother intoned. “I simply will not allow it. What’s gotten into you? Rupert is awaiting your apology, dear. I’ve given him my word that—”
“You’ve what? Mother, how dare you?
You heard the way Rupert spoke to me last night in front of everyone. I shan’t forget that you took his part. How could you? You heard, and you actually think that I should apologize to him?”
“He expects it, dear. This is your engagement, Jenna. You are twenty-two years old. If you ruin this you shall have to put on your caps! It’s too late for a Season now. Do you want to be a spinster? Why, Lady Marner was saying just this morning—”
“Oh, bother Lady Marner! We should have had this farce at Thistle Hollow—or not at all. It sickens me to see you bow and scrape to Lady Carolyn Marner and that . . . that Sassenach of a husband of hers. There goes Rupert ten years hence—living like a piece of lint in the Prince Regent’s pocket, and earning about as much respect! I want to go home. At least on my own ground I’d have the advantage.”
“Well, you can’t. The Marners have been kind enough to host this weekend out of sympathy for me . . . for us, because of your father, dear.”
“Father has been gone for over a year, Mother. Don’t you dare bring him into this. He isn’t here to take sides. But you know full well whose side he would be on if he was. There is no reason why you couldn’t have hosted this travesty at Thistle Hollow.”
“Well, it’s too late now, dear. We are here, and you are going to see it through. You will dress and go to the picnic. At your earliest opportunity, you will apologize to Rupert. And when we go down to dinner tonight, you will smile. You will not hold me up for ridicule and gossip, Jenna. I simply will not have it!”
Jenna wore her white muslin afternoon dress to the picnic. It was held at precisely the noon hour on the well-manicured east lawn of the estate, a picturesque expanse of rolling green that sloped down to an orchard. Only a few of the older gentlemen attended. The rest were occupied with the shoot.
Jenna avoided Lady Evelyn St. John, and opted instead for the company of the Warrenfords’ two daughters. The Warrenfords spent a good deal of time in London, in and out of Season, and she attempted to extract whatever tidbits she could about the St. Johns from them. The yield was scant. All she was able to discover was that they were twins, distant relatives of the duke of York, that both their parents were dead, and that Simon Rutherford, the ton’s most eligible bachelor, was rarely seen in public without them. Stuck like glue was the term Rosemary Warrenford had used. It was like rubbing salt in an open wound.