Page 48 of The Devil to Pay

“Oh!” she said, turning on him, her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “I do wish you would stop making love to me in such a way. It’s most disconcerting and distracting when I am trying so hard to be c-cross with you!”

“Give it up, love,” Jules advised her sternly. “It’s not worth the effort. And if you think this is me trying to make love to you, I don’t think you’ve been paying attention.”

With that, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hard. One hand came up to rest upon his chest and he wondered if she could feel the way his heart was thundering. How extraordinary to get to such an age and realise he’d not had the least idea about what desire really felt like. Not just lust, but the kind of wanting that began as an ache in your soul and threatened to swallow you down into darkness if you could not have the woman you yearned for.

The kiss stretched on, and he allowed himself the pleasure of dreaming of kisses where he could let his hands wander, to explore the dangerous curves that had caught his attention from the first. Reluctantly, he let her go, aware that a respectable courtship did not begin by debauching one’s beloved in a carriage.

“Well, love, I think this is where I get out,” he said, eyeing the passing countryside.

They’d made good time, though she had a fair way to travel yet. He’d have to send someone with a message for his driver to come, but the gates to Ashburton’s place were at the top of the hill they were climbing. He was going to have a cold trudge home, however, as it was a good three miles or more to the house. Jules turned back to her, pleased to see she was gazing at him with the dazed expression she always got after he’d kissed her.

“Unless you would like me to accompany you home. I’d be delighted to do so,” he added hopefully.

She blinked and gave a distracted laugh, touching a finger to her reddened lips. “I think I may be safer alone.”

He grinned, unable to disagree with that observation, but then he remembered what he was facing, and the grin faded to something more serious. “If you do hear things about me, try not to think too ill of me, please, love. I was a damned fool, and I deserve everything that’s coming, but if I had known… if I had the slightest inkling—”

She reached up and pressed a finger to his lips. “Go back to London, my lord. Get your life in order. Talk to your parents. I’m certain they will make you see sense. But do not give me any promises or meaningless words until you have had time to reflect and consider.”

He took her hand in his, holding it tight. “You think me shallow,” he said reproachfully, unable to squash the hurt of that.

She shook her head, her smile soft and kind. “No. I think you are romantic and impulsive, like many of the characters in your books. I know you mean what you say, now at least, but I do not believe your feelings are as strong as you claim. If they are, however, you may prove me wrong.”

“I will,” he said firmly. Raising her gloved hand to his lips and kissing her fingers, he knew he could prove that much. “Just watch me.”

“Oh, I shall,” she said, a wistful note to the words that was more encouraging than perhaps she realised.

“Goodbye, my darling Davenport. I shall be back for you. Just wait and see.”

And with that, he waited for the carriage to slow as it approached a tight bend in the road, opened the door, and jumped out.

Pip made his way down the stairs, his tread heavy, the candle he held guttering from the draft that whistled around the front door. He thought wistfully of his snug little townhouse in London. It had every modern convenience, including a tiled bathing room and hot and cold running water. He was used to the difficulties of living in a historic house. But whilst his childhood home at Dern Palace was a prime example of all the inconvenience of a vast property that was hundreds of years old and covered several acres of ground, it was, at least, not falling down. At least, not all at once. It was also homey in a way he did not know how to create. His mother had a knack for it, for making a home, and he badly needed her advice.

A longing for her hit him so hard and fast he had to scold himself roundly. He was not a snot-nosed boy any longer, but a man of eight and twenty. A father, God help his sweet little girl. But he had no business feeling so ridiculously homesick, for wishing his mother would come through the door and hug him and ruffle his hair like she had when he was a child, telling him it would all be all right. And it always had been. She and Papa had seen to that. He’d had a gilded childhood, and he was repaying them by bringing an illegitimate daughter into the world and keeping her a secret from them. Oh, what a son to be proud of he was turning out to be.

Shame pressed down on him, making his stomach churn. He would be better. He would do better. If only he could show them that he was doing everything in his power to make a home for Ottilie, to create a place where she could grow up safe and happy, then perhaps they could see he was making amends. Perhaps they, too, would not feel such shame.

He brought to mind his father, wondering what the great man might think of him now, but shied away, too cowardly to contemplate his displeasure. Thoughts of his magnificent sire left him feeling shaken and wretched. All Pip’s life he had aspired to be the image of him, to walk in his footsteps and become as respected and powerful as the man he admired above all others. Well, he was off to a pretty shaky start, and he did not see how he would ever recapture the lost ground.

“There you are.”

Pip jumped, almost dropping the candle. The note of irritation in the woman’s voice was unmistakable, and though he could barely see her through the gloom, he had no trouble identifying the person speaking. It was astonishing how much disgust she could inject into so few words, but Mrs Harris truly despised him. Pip wondered, not for the first time, why he didn’t just get rid of her, but Ottilie adored her and perhaps… perhaps he felt like he was getting his just desserts, in keeping close someone who so thoroughly hated him and made no bones about showing it.

“Mrs Harris,” he said politely, determined to be a gentleman and give her no further reason for disliking him so intensely… apart from being a despicable whoreson bringing shame down on the head of an innocent child, anyway. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes. The fireplace in the nursery is smoking again. It won’t do.”

Pip sighed. “No, indeed. I thought the problem had been remedied, but apparently not.”

“That is because it only happens when the wind is coming from the west,” she said, with such a look down her nose at him—even though she was looking up—because he hadn’t figured out this simple fact. He almost laughed but thought better of it.

She was a funny little thing. Petite, with appalling hair of a dingy brown that she insisted on scraping back into a viciously tight bun. It made him wince to contemplate how many pins she must use to hold it in place. Perhaps she was so snappy all the time because she had a constant headache. She wore spectacles too, which always seemed grubby, an odd thing when the rest of her was so neat and spotless.

“I see,” he said with interest. “So how do we remedy the problem?”

“Do I look like a chimney sweep?” she asked him, indignation glittering in her eyes.

He still wasn’t certain of their colour.