The more he tried to stop thinking about how she felt in his arms, the more he craved her presence.
What was happening to him?
He’d never been so bothered by another woman as he was by her. Before the war, when he’d had the pick of young ladies, none of them had kept his interest for long. Why was it that the only thing debutantes could talk about was the weather orwho was at what ball? They’d all bored him to tears. Even back then, he’d had no patience for insipid misses and had sown his wild oats mostly with widows, but even that lost its appeal after a while. He’d never been one to dabble with married women, as he believed in the sanctity of marriage. And he’d never kept a mistress either—even that seemed like too much of a commitment.
When his father finally purchased his commission, he was grateful to leave the glittering ballrooms behind. The former earl had previously denied his requests numerous times. Jon understood his father’s reluctance. He was the heir to the earldom, but Jon had a restlessness about him that London couldn’t contain any longer. So instead of alienating his only son, his father had purchased his commission, and Jon had gone off to war.
He’d been so naïve and had such misguided notions about the war and all it entailed. He’d thought he could make a difference, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There was nothing romantic about fighting for king and country. It was brutal, unrelenting suffering, and men fell all around him. With his own band of brothers—Wolf, Richard, and George—they’d looked out for each other as best they could. He didn’t think he would have survived the war without them. It was Wolf who’d found him when he fell and carried him off the battlefield. As much as he was loath to admit it, his father had been right. He should never have gone to war, but he could never admit that now, not even when he was sent home with a horrific injury.
His mother had cried the first time she saw him; his father was stoic, without much to say to his only son. That suited Jon fine. He didn’t want to talk to his parents, or anyone for that matter, about his injury. His band of brothers were still fighting the French, and he had no one near him who understood the horrors of war. Loud noises made him cringe, even if it wasmerely a plate dropped by a servant, and he stayed more and more to himself in his suite of rooms. He didn’t know if his mother cried for relief that her son was home relatively safe or for the loss of his perfect face. As he recovered, it soon became apparent that both his parents were horrified by his appearance. The pity in their eyes became overwhelming, so Jon stopped attending dinner and chose to have a tray sent to his room instead.
He felt more of a prisoner in London than he ever was fighting the French. There were only a few wide-open spaces where he could ride Zeus and forget about his problems for a while. His trusty steed never judged and was always there when called. He’d braved Hyde Park a few times in the early morning hours, but it didn’t satisfy the restlessness he felt.
When his father passed away nearly a year into his recovery, Jon found it hard to mourn for the man who had shown him that physical perfection was as important as title and wealth. Where had the loving father he’d known most of his life gone? Was he so horrified by a scar on his son’s face that it somehow negated all their loving interactions over the years? If his own parents were so superficial in their reactions to him, how could he ever expect the ton to be accepting of his ruined face? That was when he made the decision to leave London. After meeting with the family solicitor about his inheritance to make sure everything was in order with the estate, he left Town for good, vowing never to live there again.
He could still recall his mother’s pleading when he returned from the solicitor’s office.
“Jon, you can’t leave London in the middle of the Season. What will people think?”
“What do I care for their opinion?”
“You’re now the Earl of Hartley and should care for their good opinion. How do you ever expect to wed without it?”
He whirled on his mother. “Good opinion? That’s what you’re worried about? Mother, what happened to your good opinion? Or Father’s good opinion?”
She seemed startled by his vehemence. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Both you and Father have barely looked at me in the year I’ve been home. If my own parents cannot abide my ruined face, how do you think the rest of Society will? I will not be fodder for their malicious gossip.”
His mother bowed her head, and he knew he’d hit the mark. When she raised her head, there were tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Jon. It’s just that—”
He held up his hand. “Mother, stop right there. I do not need or want your pity. I shall be leaving London tomorrow.”
“Won’t you please reconsider your decision?”
He walked out of the parlor without another word.
The memory of that day had been seared into his brain, and he’d never regretted his decision. If his own parents couldn’t accept who he was without his perfect face, then he knew no one else would either. He resigned himself to his fate. He’d never marry, never sire an heir, and the title and estates would pass to some distant cousin. What did he care? He’d be dead. He would watch over the estates to ensure the servants and staff were well cared-for, but he would never entertain the thought of marrying.
Except for that young woman with stormy blue-gray eyes—eyes a man could lose himself in and never realize he was drowning. He didn’t want to drown in anyone’s eyes. He was perfectly happy with his solitary life.
But was he really?
He rode home and gave Zeus over to the groom when he reached the stables. The groom took the reins and led the horse into the barn without any comment.
Jon returned to the house, relieved that the crippling panic hadn’t manifested tonight. Was that young woman the secret to soothing his tortured soul?
When Lord Spenser escortedHarriet back to the table after their country reel, both her mother and grandmother looked at her as though they wished to understand the reasoning behind her boldness in walking to the earl. Harriet knew it wasn’t done or proper for a young lady to ask a man to dance, but there was no way she was going to let the opportunity to be in the earl’s company pass her by. She might never see him again, which didn’t sit well with her. He was an enigma she intended to solve—a beautiful, magnificent, irritating enigma.
“My darling, whatever were you thinking? Everyone is talking about you,” Eleanor whispered in her ear.
“I know, Mama.”
“That was too bold, even for you. It’s not done, and I’m sure you very well know that,” Eleanor admonished.
Harriet shrugged. What else could she say? Her mother was right, but if the earl stood in front of her again, she’d do the same thing. Something about him drew her to him, and she was powerless to explain it. She looked at her grandmother, who merely nodded at her. She was grateful she didn’t admonish her as well.
She adored her grandmother, who’d always embraced Harriet’s odd ways. It didn’t seem to bother her that Harriet was a bit wild, loved books, astronomy, and ancient sites, and had no patience for embroidery, the pianoforte, or painting lessons that most young ladies enjoyed.
