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This was met with the expected sniggers. Jemima tried to maintain her dignity, though she felt like weeping with shame. She couldn’t even look at Lord Ruthcot as Deveril solicitously drew her to her feet.
Her usefulness was clear. Between the covers was where she gave most value.
Chapter 7
So now she had a choice. She could ignore Lord Ruthcot’s note, and assume he’d relent and give her the precious brass rubbing anyway. No response from her would send the message she needed him to understand. Or she could take a risk and slip away to meet him when she and Deveril attended Vauxhall Gardens, which was where Deveril planned to take her tonight. In the dark, with just a few twinkling lanterns and the bustling crowd coming for the music and to promenade, it would be easier to snatch a couple of moments, take the parchment he promised her, hide it in her reticule, and no one would be harmed or the wiser.
But why would she want to court danger when she’d been burned so many times in so few short months? And, more importantly, when she knew she must never see Lord Ruthcot alone? He would press her for greater intimacy than she could ever give.
Good lord! She drew herself up short. Why was she even considering seeing Lord Ruthcot alone? He was one of many equally charming, handsome, wealthy young men who’d shown that they’d be more than happy to step into the breach if Deveril threw her over.
No doubt if Lord Ruthcot were in Deveril’s position, he would have been equally as possessive of her, and Jemima would have been as unhappy as she was now. Once, Jemima imagined a life of loving harmony. She’d have enjoyed marriage with a man as kind as Sir Richard de Vere. Now she’d been reduced to a creature men looked at only with calculation. And Lord Ruthcot’s interest was nothing more than lust-driven.
“I don’t know why I came,” she told him with studied disinterest two hours after receiving his note. Together they faced one another, hidden a little away from one of the main alleys amidst a stand of trees. “Nor can I imagine how you knew Deveril and I were to be here this evening.”
“I bribed a housemaid to keep me informed.” The light from a hanging lantern haloed his face, which she studied more closely. There was something familiar about the calm gray eyes and the square jaw, but then irritation at his words made her toss her head, and the wisp of memory faded.
“You sound like a mooncalf if you could only hear yourself. There is nothing so desirable as the unattainable, is there?” Jemima glanced over her shoulder at the milling crowd. She’d been able to snatch a few moments only because Deveril was dancing with his future wife.
Yes, future wife! He’d arranged for Jemima to be conveyed to the Gardens in an unmarked carriage, and now he was dividing his time between the two women. He’d found the idea amusing, but he’d promised Jemima she would always occupy first place in his heart.
“You’re telling me you’re unobtainable?” A faint smile played about Lord Ruthcot’s mouth. “That’s what you may say now, but you don’t know how patient I can be.”
“Which is of no account if I don’t return your interest.”
Though she forced herself to sound severe, she couldn’t help thinking that he did look rather sweet in the shadows, his expression so concerned suddenly that these may be her true sentiments. He was a handsome man in a far less arrogant way than Deveril, though he was confident enough.
And confident men believed they were owed something when they complimented a woman. No, Jemima couldn’t afford to take any chances.
He tried to clasp her hand, but she moved away. Still, he entreated, “I tried hard to learn the way to your heart, Miss Mordaunt.
A brass rubbing is a strange token, I’ll admit, but I could think of nothing else to compete with the diamonds and pearls Deveril showers upon you. Not that those diamonds don’t reflect your beautiful teeth, and the sheen of your golden hair, and the sparkling depths of your eyes.”
“Now you really are going too far!” Jemima couldn’t help but laugh. “And clearly you haven’t looked too closely, for my eyes are a very ordinary gray.”
“A soulful, thoughtful gray. Yes, I had observed it. I just hoped you’d be carried away by my eulogies enough to want to kiss me.”
“No, Lord Ruthcot, I am never carried away by excessive praise, and nor do I intend to trade your so-called gift with a kiss. If those are the terms, then I shall have to return the rubbing, bid you goodnight and return to Deveril.”
“Who is too busy dancing with his intended.” Lord Ruthcot’s tone became serious. “How do you feel about his taking a wife? Less secure? You know, I’d be more than happy to step up and—”
“No—once again!—Lord Ruthcot!” Angrily, Jemima swotted away the hand he extended, sudden tears fragmenting the image he presented of part-suitor, part-opportunist.
She turned on her heel and started up the hill, but he wasn’t going to let her go so easily. He hurried after her and gripped her sleeve, tugging her back, this time just a little farther into the shadows.
“Forgive me if you misunderstood me. I esteem you highly—”
“You just propositioned me with as much finesse as if I were a lightskirt trading my wares in the back alleys here. We’ve both seen them tonight for they’re not hard to miss. The only difference between us is that I’m decked out in diamonds, and I’m the variety that excites you. Perhaps because I belong to a rival of yours. I’ve learned how you men think.”
“Your assumption is entirely off the mark. I would cut off one arm before comparing you to a lightskirt. Is that how Deveril sees you? As nothing more than a possession? He called you his rarest prize the other evening. It shocked me, and I searched your face for signs of dismay but could find none. Has he trained you into believing yourself no better than that?”
Her anger dissipated as quickly as it had been whipped up. What use was anger when she was powerless? She shook her head sadly. “Once a woman has fallen from her pedestal, it’s impossible to reinstate her position. Virtue was my prized possession until Mr. Graves tricked me into believing our marriage was before God. My father and I kept quiet company; I rarely attended assemblies, and then he was…” She put her hand to her mouth to prevent the sob that threatened at the rush of memories. It had taken fortitude to put the past behind her. After her father had been killed, she’d cut herself off from the rest of her family to ensure their safety. She’d planned to expose Lord Griffith when it was possible, but he was too powerful. If she had the clay tablet and money, it would be a different story. She needed another powerful man to be her ally, and perhaps Lord Deveril was that man. Either way, she dared not risk alienating him.
So when Lord Ruthcot gripped her shoulders and held her to him, survival told her she must fight him off and take to her heels.
Yet the feel of his beating heart against hers as he clasped her to him, despite her frown of objection, did something unaccountably alien to her. Warmth fed into her, brightening her somehow inside; making her feel alive. She relaxed into him even as she knew she was a fool to be so taken in. And yet, how wonderful it was to be held close by a man who excited something in the inner depths of her being. Whose rough jawline tickled her cheek in the most delightful way, as she was overcome by his wonderful aroma of bergamot and leather and fresh sweat.
Her body went slack, and her head fell back as his mouth came down upon hers. Gentle for just a second, until no doubt the unexpected enthusiasm of her response drove him on. Then he was drinking her in, and it was…wicked. Sensuous. Mind-numbing. She twined her hands behind his neck to deepen the drug-inducing sensations while he held her tight, his hands straying from her waist to her bosom then down to her thighs.
