Yesternight, it had taken all his willpower to resist Tamsyn’s lure.
He’d clung to the image of a girl his father had debauched at some house party, a maiden of seventeen. Scarcely older himself, Jack had found her crying, alone and wretched.
If he himself succumbed to an innocent, would he seek out another? Another thrill?
Where would it end?
Disentangling himself from her arms proved difficult: she twisted and wrapped around him like a limpet, thrust a leg around his thigh.
Torment.
Eventually sliding from her sweet clutches, he stood and laid a tender kiss upon her lips. A gasp escaped her as though she regretted his departure, as though she wished him to stay.
Sighing, he closed the gap in the curtains lest the sun wake her and then bent to gather his boots.
Some might say a night spent with a woman they cared for brought forth a divine dreamless sleep; not so for Jack.
Tangled notions, old memories and Tamsyn’s warmth had kept him restless the whole night through.
After quietly letting himself out, he made haste to his own bedchamber, aware maids would soon be waking. No one would believe a rogue could spend the moonlit hours in blissful innocent comfort, and Sir Jago had a splendid brace of pistols in his study.
As he closed his own door, he spied Miggens squinting wearily from the adjoining valet’s chamber.
“Is all well, Jack?”
He thought ofLa Chauve-Souris, of his future return to London. He thought of Tamsyn, brave and glorious, her nubile body.
“No, it bloody isn’t.”
And he slammed the door.
Chapter Twenty-three
Post-haste.
“You look like an owl in an ivy bush.”
“Thank you, Papa,” grumbled Tamsyn, attempting to shove strands of hair beneath the already beleaguered pins.
Father merely chuckled and continued tucking into his thyme and pork breakfast sausage.
Upon waking nigh an hour ago, Tamsyn had smoothed the shallow dip in the adjacent pillow but no warmth had lingered, purely the teasing scent of cologne.
She’d groggily arisen and stumbled to the mirror…then considered returning to bed as with last night’s new plait ruined by a rogue, she’d resembled a fluffy dandelion clock.
And she could hardly ask Lowdy for a detangling again. Piskies could only be blamed for so much.
“Mrs Mildern warned of a storm coming later,” Papa said, slurping tea, “but then she also told me not to wear my blue breeches as the hens have stopped laying, so I wouldn’t wager on it. What are your plans for the day? No more rambling about, as you have to stay safe, Daughter.”
“Just to the village church this morning, Papa, to discuss the harvest celebrations, but I have my pistol and two stout footmen. Then an uneventful afternoon with Lowdy.”
She neglected to mention they were to attack their wardrobes – throwing out a few greys and browns and contemplating…colour. Papa would get ideas.
Erroneous ones.
“Hmm, take four footmen. And where is Captain Lynch? He’s not haunted my door for several days.”
“He’s attending dinner tomorrow night and then aiding me hunt moths. Hu…Hugh bought me a new net.”
