Nightingale (3 page)

His reaction was swift, strong, and completely masculine. He wanted her. He'd always wanted her. He was glad the dark shadows could conceal his obvious arousal.

She shifted back but did not move her feet, almost as if she was naïvely oblivious to her effect on him. Otherwise, she could use it to her purpose. And then, she said, “I stated my reason for this call. I asked you to spare my brother.”

“At the expense of my honor.”

“No,” she quickly denied. “I would not do that. I didn't know it had been Cris who had made the challenge.”

“Probably because you and your mother never talked to him, did you? You assumed I was the guilty party,” he rightly surmised and shook his head. “He's passed out in his cups, isn't he? Dead to the world until his seconds wake him for the duel and as oblivious to his responsibilities to his title and his family as he ever was.”

“He's young—” Jemma started.

“He's a drunk,” Dane said, “and behaves as drunks often do—saying and doing things they regret once they are sober.”

He expected Jemma to challenge him, and that would be good. Her irrational defense of her family in spite of their numerous failings would make him angry. Anger would put distance between them and allow him to send her out the door.

Instead, she said, “Yes, he will wake at dawn and wish he'd not been so foolish as to challenge you.”

“Then let him cry off.”

Her eyes turned sad. “He won't.”

“Then I promise not to kill him. It is the best I can offer. I will not cower.”

With a soft cry, Jemma covered her ears with her hands and took three swift steps away, moving toward the circle of light surrounding his desk. For a second, she stood, head bowed. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands, her fists clenched as if strengthening her resolve.

She looked to him, her face half in shadows. “Cris will press.”

“He will attempt to kill me,” Dane agreed. “He made his intentions very clear this evening, and he is the sort who believes death is honor.”

“And you don't?”

Dane didn't answer. He couldn't. The golden candlelight highlighted her full curves and turned her muslin dress into a shadow box that emphasized the indentation of her waist and the flair of her hips. He'd once dreamed of possessively placing his hand there, of pulling her to him and not having to hold back the heat of desire.

He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation. “I was enjoying a game of cards until your brother started taunting me.” He added brutally, “His words were molded out of jealousy. He hates the fact that my fortunes have soared while your family's have floundered. When he became completely obnoxious, I said the real pity was that he had squandered a settlement his sister had sold herself for in marriage. He took offense.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “As do I.”

“Good,” Dane replied evenly, almost hating himself for his coolness. “Then the outcome on the morrow will be of no matter to you.”

“You are wrong,” Jemma responded. Her chin came up. “But then, you have formed your own conclusions about all of us. Everyone in town knows Sir Dane Pendleton takes pride in handling matters in his own way. You could have avoided the confrontation tonight if you had wished, but you didn't.”

Dane didn't reply. He couldn't. She was right. He had egged on her insolent brother . . . and maybe for reasons he didn't feel comfortable examining at this moment. Later, once she'd removed herself from him, then, perhaps, he could examine his conscience.

Jemma didn't seem to expect an answer. Instead, she accused, “You have held a grudge against my family for the last ten years and more. So let us have it out between us, Dane. Now, and be done with it.”

Her bold willingness to confront the past made him uncomfortable. It was one thing to nurse a grudge, another to flush it out in the open.

Her lips curved into a cynic's smile. “What? Have you nothing to say? When I first arrived you were very free with your opinions of my brother, but let us not mince words, sir.
I'm
the one who angered you. And for what? Because I chose to marry another?”

The walls of the room suddenly closed in around Dane. “You . . .
chose?”

Yes, he'd blamed her, but he'd always assumed her parents had forced her to abandon him. He'd wanted to believe she'd had no choice.

And he hated what he'd just revealed to her.

Worse, she knew.

She pressed her lips together as if swallowing words she feared to say. Her eyes filled with her own pain. “I would not hurt you.”

“You haven't.”
But she had.

“I wanted to wait for you . . . to tell you myself.”

Dane didn't speak. He feared he would break.

“Lord Mosby was kind. . . .” She didn't continue.

He reached deep inside to the hard resolve that had helped build an empire, the resolve he used as if it were armor.

“Never mind,” he answered. “My life has gone on without you.”

Jemma nodded, obviously struggling with tears—and
why not?
She'd chosen the wrong man. If she'd married him, he would have moved heaven and earth for her. Instead, she'd chosen the title, and her family was now close to ruin. In her shoes, Dane would cry too.

He opened the door. “I believe we have nothing more to say to each other.” The hall was dark. “I'll call for the footman. He shall see you home.”

But Jemma didn't move. She stood silhouetted by candlelight. “What is your price?” she asked, her voice tight with pent-up emotion.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, uncertain if he'd heard her correctly.

“Your price,
Sir
Dane,” she reiterated, and now he could not mistake the anger in her tone. “I've heard you believe everything has a price. They say you are part of the new age, the one that creates its own fortunes. I want to know your price for crying off from the duel with my brother on the morrow.”

“There is no price large enough for me to forfeit my honor,” he said coolly.

“Really?” she asked. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

There was a beat of silence, and then she said, “I believe there is something.”

“And what is that?” he asked, certain of himself.

“It's what you want, what you've
always
wanted.”

Dane smiled grimly. “I have everything I want.”

“Do you?” she replied. She dropped the shawl from her shoulders and, reaching up with both arms, pulled the pins from her hair.

It came tumbling down around her shoulders, almost reaching her waist. It was thick and vibrant and shone with a life of its own.

“Here,” she said quietly, “this is what I'm offering. My honor for yours. We've an old score to settle. Let us settle it now.”

J
emma dared to risk all. And yet, what choice did she have?

Or so she told herself.

She stood in front of Dane, her heart pounding so hard against her chest that she was certain he would see her fear. Other than her family and her husband, no one had ever seen her hair down. She expected him to say something, to move, react. Instead, he stood as if turned to stone. Her shadow blocked his expression, and she shifted so the wane candlelight highlighted the hard planes of his face. His mouth had a grim set, and his brows formed an angry vee.

“You would abase yourself for your brother?”

If he'd struck her he'd not have caused more hurt. But then Jemma faced the hard truth. “If you've lived as long as I have with men whose lives are dictated by the bottle, you'd have little pride left. I've learned in this life one does what one must.”

Those words caught him off guard, and she felt as if she'd gotten a bit of her own back. She pressed on before she lost her courage. “Do we have a bargain? My honor for yours?”

Dane leaned back so his expression was once again hidden in the shadows. “I don't know,” he said slowly. There was a moment of silence, and then he asked, “Why?”

There was a wealth of understatement in that one word.

“What choice do I have?” It was hard to keep the bitterness from her voice.

Without Cris, she and her mother would be thrown into the streets or, worse, forced to depend on relatives who had nursed numerous grudges against her family. Her father had burned many bridges, and now she and her mother paid the price.

Over the last two years, she'd sold everything she could to keep the estate going. Heirlooms that had been in the Carson family for generations had gone for a song to pay off mounting debts. If her husband had been a better steward of his own money or if his heir and family had been more generous to his young widow, Jemma's circumstances would have been different.

She'd learned not to indulge in “what ifs.” Recently, she'd even made discreet inquiries about her finding employment—but no one wanted a governess with a title. Her mother had suggested that she remarry, but Jemma was happier in her own bed.

And then, tonight, her mother had begged her to come to Dane.

He was right. The weak were cunning creatures, and Jemma had no doubt her mother had known matters between them would come to this, to her bartering all she had left to offer. The only question was why had Jemma herself been so naïve? Why did she always trust too much? Or had there been a secret desire on her own part to see him again?

She shoved the idea from her conscience and straightened her shoulders. “Do we have a bargain?” she demanded before she lost her courage.

He slowly circled her.

Jemma forced herself to stand very still while she was inspected as if she were livestock. She clenched her fists at her side, digging her nails into her palms.

Dane stopped behind her. He stood so close that she could feel the heat from his body. He was tall, much taller than Mosby, and yet she knew they would fit together well.

His deep voice said, “There was a time when all I ever wanted was you.”

Her knees went weak. She didn't want to be reminded of the choice she should have made. A choice she'd already paid a price for. A dear, dear price.

She brought herself back to reality. “I've heard you treat your mistresses well.”

As if offended, he took a step back, and she could breathe easier. “I do,” he replied. “But what makes you think I'm willing to pay
your
price?”

There was a harshness in his tone that had nothing to do with anger, and she almost laughed. She knew he wanted her. The tension between them in this room was too strong for there not to be lust. And she realized with brutal honesty that a part of her, the very secret part, wanted him, too. There had been many times with Mosby when she'd shut her eyes and thought of Dane and had wished he had been the one laboring over her—

She broke off the thought.

Jemma had been faithful to her vows. She'd given her husband what she'd owed him and she'd cared for the man in his final sickness, a wasting illness that had lasted years.

But she'd never given him her heart. That, she'd lost years ago to Dane.

Or at least, to the man he had
once
been. He was a hard man now. One who dealt in coin and did no favors for anyone.

In fact, she wasn't certain she
liked
the man he had become.

“You'll pay my price,” she said boldly, facing him so they both stood in the tight circle of candlelight, “because you want me. And because if you don't take me this night, there will always be a question in your mind.” Just like there was in hers.

His lips curved into reluctant acknowledgment and, yes, a hint of respect. “How far we have both come, hmmmmm, Jemma? Who would have thought?”

“I try not to think about it.”

He nodded. He understood.

He picked up the candle. “Well, then, shall we adjourn to a more comfortable room?”

There it was. He had agreed.

Her heart in her throat, she whispered, “Yes,” not sounding half as sophisticated as she would have wished.

If he noticed, he didn't say a word, walking instead toward the door. She fell into step behind him as any good concubine would . . . and lost another piece of her soul.

Would her mother care? Would Cris appreciate the lengths she was willing to go for her family?

No.

Dane led her out into the wide corridor. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the painted wainscoting. It glanced off paintings on the wall. They said Dane collected the Renaissance masters, especially those works of art depicting the Holy Family. She remembered his aspirations at one time of wanting to enter the clergy and to live a life of service.

If he'd let it be known back then that he'd been willing to change his mind and make a fortune for himself, then her father would have had a different opinion of him—and her fate would have been different as well.

Why did regrets always taste like bile?

Dane led her up a wide set of stairs with carpet so thick they didn't make a sound. They walked down a hall lined with doors. It was hard to imagine such a big house for one man, but there seemed to be no presence of life in any of the rooms they passed.

He stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall and opened it. The room was well lit, with a fire burning in the hearth. Jemma caught a glimpse of a man's legs stretched out from an upholstered chair and knew Dane's valet had been waiting for him.

“Stay here,” Dane ordered, leaving her in the hall while he entered the room.

The valet sleepily came to his feet. He was a short, thin man, who was rumored to be the best “gentleman's gentleman” in London—or so Jemma had heard.

“Troy, that will be all for this evening,” Dane said, dismissing him.

“Very well, sir. Have a good night.” The valet started for the door, then stopped abruptly, his foot poised comically in the air, at the sight of Jemma lingering in the hall. Obviously Dane didn't bring women to his room often, a curiously comforting, and embarrassing, thought.