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All those books in his damned library. Every shilling in his accounts.
And after thirty-four years, Gareth still had no idea how to make friends.
“Never mind,” he muttered, and stared furiously at the page.
After a pause, White’s pen started up again. Scritch, scratch. Rustle, rustle. It was only in Gareth’s imagination that the sound magnified to a roar.
THAT EVENING, Lord Blakely slammed open the unlocked door to Jenny’s rooms with a bang. Jenny jumped, her heart racing.
He strode inside without so much as a by-your-leave. He was accompanied by a breeze pregnant with all the youthful possibilities of spring rain. None of those possibilities entered the room with him. Instead, he seemed to suck them from the air, until Jenny’s world constricted to the glower on his face.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he advanced on her, like a general accosting his lowliest foot-soldier. But the heat in his eyes was hardly military. And even the cruelest officer bent on discipline wouldn’t have trapped his subordinate against the wall, his arms forming a cage around her. Lord Blakely’s lips pressed together into one thin, white line.
Jenny felt a touch of irritation. She drew herself up straight and glared at him. “Lord Blakely, you can’t just stroll into my home as if you had permission.”
He snorted. “And who will stop me, do you suppose? Do think the matter through. I am a marquess. And you…” His hands bracketed her face. “You,” he scoffed again, disdainfully.
“Me?” The word squeaked out.
“If I see the worst in people,” he said, each word snapping out in carefully controlled fury, “it is because they won’t see it in themselves. Take you, for instance. There is no excuse for what you are doing to my cousin. You can couch it in whatever pretty terms you like, but ultimately, you are lying to him. You are deceiving him. And you are taking his money.”
Jenny put her hands against his chest. “That doesn’t justify your behavior here.” She pushed, hard.
He didn’t budge. “So you don’t deny it.”
“It’s not like that,” she said. “You don’t understand Ned. You’ve never bothered to understand him. He’s never had one scrap of encouragement in his life. You weren’t around when he was sent down from Cambridge, and you don’t understand—”
“You play on his worst fears. You cannot deceive me. I doubt you can even deceive yourself. You aren’t helping him. The world is not an encouraging or an understanding place. When Ned one day stands in my shoes as marquess, do you think anyone will care if he’s had friends? He doesn’t need to be happy. He needs to be ready. Look at him once through my eyes, Madame Esmerelda.”
Jenny pressed back into the cold wall. “If you had any notion of friendship, you’d never ask me to abandon him.”
“If you can’t think of Ned, then think of yourself. I admit, you present a very pretty package when you haven’t gaudied yourself up to play the part of fortune-teller. And I cannot help but admire your intelligence. But look at yourself once through my eyes. What do you think I see?”
Jenny screwed her eyes shut. She couldn’t stop up her ears, though, couldn’t shut off the prickle of nerves up and down her arms as he leaned closer.
He trailed one finger down her cheek, searing an unforgiving line into her skin. “You’re a fraud and a liar and a cheat. What notion of friendship do you entertain? You’ve bilked Ned of how much money? And you can’t even tell him your name.”
The truth burned the breath from her lungs. He tipped her chin up. When she opened her eyes, her vision swam. She willed the tear not to drop.
It didn’t.
But he did not miss the liquid sheen in her eyes. His thumb touched the corner of her eye and traced a damp track down her cheek. “You can’t tell Ned your name.” His voice dropped. It was so low, she could feel the vibration through his hand on her jaw. “But you can tell me.”
“If you think so little of me, then why are you touching me?”
His hand froze on her jaw. His nostrils flared.
“Because,” he said roughly.
“You see more than you’ve said.” She wanted to believe it. Had to. “When you look at me, you see—”
“I see nothing,” he said in clipped tones, “except a bloody good shag.”
And then he bent his head and kissed her. There was nothing tender or gentle about the embrace. His lips came down on hers with a controlled fury. And heaven help her, Jenny wanted to melt into his arms, wanted to sigh up into his kiss. She wanted him to put his hands on her and ferret out all her womanly secrets. She wanted, Jenny thought bitterly, to pretend that he cared for her.
She couldn’t. He didn’t kiss her as a lover. He kissed her as if she were a falsehood, and this rough embrace the proof of her perfidy. She wanted him, but not like this. Never like this.
Jenny clamped her lips together and turned away from his mouth. “Stop.” She was begging, her breath ragged.
His hand found her chin. “No.” He jerked her face back and leaned in again.
Jenny slapped him. She put her whole body into the blow. His head whipped to the side with the force of her strike.
Slowly his hands dropped to his sides. Disbelief echoed in his raging eyes.
Jenny shook out her stinging palm. “I don’t care who I lied to. I don’t care what your title is. When I see myself, I see a woman worth more than a modicum of your respect. And don’t you dare touch me if you disagree.”
Lord Blakely rubbed his cheek and scowled at her. “Damnation.”
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
“I don’t care.” He folded his arms. “I don’t care about you. I don’t care about my man of business. Or friendship. You can all go hang. I’m done trying. It never does any good.”
Pieces fell into place. The inchoate rage storming in his eyes. His unhappiness. His fury. Unwillingly, Jenny saw what had brought on this spectacular tantrum. He had made an effort to make friends with his man of business. And he’d failed. It should not have been surprising. Friendship could not be commanded, and Lord Blakely had little experience with any other sort of interaction.
“Lord Blakely,” Jenny said slowly, “I don’t care how spectacularly you fail at friendship. I will not be made a scapegoat for your frustration.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said sulkily. “I’m acting this way because I enjoy it.”
Jenny sighed. “You’re an intelligent man. On occasion, you even act like one. Don’t make excuses for yourself.”
His hands clenched at his sides. “I just don’t make friends. It’s easy for you to—”
“Friendship is easy, my lord. Even commoners like me manage it. All you have to do is find what you have in common with an individual and talk about it. The rest will follow. Try conversing instead of commanding. Try seeing something good in a person, instead of seeing the worst.”
Lord Blakely pulled at his cuffs, adjusting them with minute precision. He turned his hands over and examined his palms. His jaw worked. And when he raised his head, she saw in his gaze a bleak and unrelenting wilderness, harsh and devoid of inhabitants.
She’d said it once to wound the man. But now, the sentiment esca
ped her before she had a chance to think it over. “My God, Lord Blakely. You really are lonely.”
The silence stretched. Finally, he turned away. “I had better leave.”
Jenny had nothing to do but shut the door behind him.
THE AFTERNOON AFTER Lord Blakely’s intrusion, Jenny checked the dark cloth covering her furniture for the third time. It was symmetrically arranged, as it had been when she’d checked it two minutes before. Tiny brass bells blew in the light breeze flowing from the open window. She’d chosen them because their tinkling tones sounded Eastern and exotic. Rationally, Jenny knew she’d perfected the right atmosphere.
And yet as she ushered Ned in, the familiar scent of sandalwood cloying her senses, she sensed something was missing. It was nothing that could be fixed with incense or any quantity of black cloth. No; it was something more vital. She hadn’t the heart for this any longer.
“Madame Esmerelda,” Ned intoned, “I come seeking advice.”
That old formula. Again.
Jenny held out her palm. “Cross my palm with silver.”
The shillings he piled into her hand were as cold as ice, heavier than lead. Ten shillings. Money that would pay the quarterly rents due in the next week. But the reminder only pricked her conscience further.
Nothing had changed on the outside. On the inside, however, Jenny watched herself through Lord Blakely’s critical eyes. What she saw left her nauseated. She was weak. Greedy. She wasn’t lying to Ned for money. No, she was lying to him for friendship, and that was by far the more devastating fraud.
Jenny swallowed bitter bile and pulled a weak smile into place. “How can I help you, Ned?”
Ned leaned forward, gripping his knees. His eyes shone with a ferocious intensity.
“It’s not working.” He must have read the puzzlement in her eyes, because he explained. “The tasks. They’re not working. Blakely’s not falling in love with Lady Kathleen, and she’s not falling in love with him.”
Jenny met Ned’s gaze. Two weeks ago, she’d have sighed and told him to trust her. She’d have counseled patience and fortitude, and perhaps added occult platitudes. With Jupiter nearing, good things will come to those who wait. But two weeks ago, Lord Blakely had been nothing other than a mythological cousin mentioned by Ned in awestruck tones.
