Strathmere's Bride (21 page)

He looked stricken, as if he himself was appalled at his failure. “Because when I saw your absurd, brilliant little tea party, I couldn’t resist you any longer. I hoped that with the time apart, it would be different between us. But it’s not, is it? Dear Lord, it’s worse.” His voice lowered into a husky whisper. “I want to touch you so much.”

She yanked her arm out of his grasp. “How dare you say that to me. You call yourself a coward, and I quite agree, but for the opposite reason. Not because your self-control is too weak but because it is
too strong. You do not know what courage is. You English find virtue in having no emotions, but it takes real courage to
feel!
You play with me like those cats play with mice. First you ignore me, then you come to me—how dare you!
You
may strive to stifle your emotions, but I have no wish for that dry, stoic life.
I
have feelings, and you are trampling them, you clumsy man!”

In a lightning-quick movement, his hands grasped her on either side of her waist and he pulled her toward him. “Everything you say is true. I have said it to myself.”

“Then why are you here, Jareth?” Her voice was plaintive, but her hands flattened against his chest, sliding upward as his eyes dropped to her mouth and his head lowered.

He kissed her, long and languid, like a man savoring generations-old scotch. The heady effect was the same—dizzying, intoxicating—and when he broke the kiss to press his lips to the corner of hers, he gave her the answer, “Because I cannot stay away.”

“You should not have come,” she said. Her hand curled around the back of his neck as she turned her face into his to meet his mouth with hers.

He kissed her again, than moved to brush his lips along the line of her jaw. “My will has run out.”

“And what has changed? Is anything altered from what it was?” She was acutely aware of his hand splayed across her waist, moving upward, his fingertips just now grazing the underside of her breast.

His hand stalled. She had heard his labored breathing. “No. Of course, nothing is different.”

“Yes. I know.” She pulled away enough to look
into his eyes. “Then remove your hands from me and do not touch me again.”

She saw the words wound him, and for a moment of madness, she wanted to take them back, tell him she didn’t mean it, tell him she would take whatever he could give her, be whatever she needed to be to have him touch her like this again, but she clamped her will down over the impulse and notched her chin up, ignoring the stinging in the back of her eyes.

He sort of laughed and nodded, releasing her and taking a step backward.

“Very well done, Chloe. I applaud you. Next time, add a few epithets and think about the handy slap in the face. You are certainly entitled.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Of course, I shall endeavor to respect your request and see to it that there is no next time, but if there is, do not hesitate to put me in my place. But be brutal. For us clod-headed dolts, it is the only way.”

He gave her a bracing smile, turned and walked out of the stall.

When the children came in a while later, their fists bulging with wilted flowers, they found her crying. Rebeccah rushed to her, pulling her hands away from her face. Beside her, Sarah’s face was solemn alarm.

“Miss Chloe! Miss Chloe! What is it? Why are you weeping?”

Chloe pulled them both closer, a child in each arm. “Do not fret,
mes petites.
These are only tears of joy for Sarah’s wonderful recovery. Only tears of joy.”

H
aving resolved to himself not to allow his distance from Chloe to interfere with his seeing his nieces, Jareth made it a point to visit them each and every day, usually in the afternoons. At times, Chloe was there. Her manner was always polite and respectful, but she kept her distance and he didn’t challenge it.

Her spurning him in the stable had changed everything. There were no longer any possibilities between them. He had lived and breathed on those impossible possibilities, torturing himself with the idea that
perhaps…

It had always been in the back of his mind that he could have her if he so chose. She was there for him, within reach. It was up to him. He had only to hold out a hand and she would take it, allow him to draw her into his arms…

No longer did he have even those thin fantasies to soothe his yearning heart.

He still thought of her as his, he still cringed when he saw Gerald dogging her steps, he still craned his neck to catch glimpses of her when she passed by, head held high, pretending to ignore him.

Strong, indomitable, lovely Chloe. She was his love, his life. A mere governess, and yet the most noble woman he would ever meet.

And he was the duke.
He was the duke,
and there was nothing more to consider after that single, fatal fact.

Which is why when his mother insisted that he tarry no longer in asking for Lady Helena’s hand, he did not argue with the inevitability of the marriage.

Instead, he said, “You know I detest your meddling, Mother. I shall take care of it. I am well aware of my duty.”

“Yes, I know you are, Strathmere. However, what you are not aware of is that Lady Rathford has confided in me that she is considering taking Helena to London for the season.”

Jareth raised his brows and commented drolly, “Why, that little extortionist.”

“Well,” the duchess replied with a sniff, “you cannot expect a marriageable girl to wait around forever.”

“I will not be rushed,” he protested m response to the flitter of panic in his stomach.

“It is time, Strathmere. You are taking too long about it, and the Rathfords will consider that an insult if you wait much more. It will seem as if you do not deem Helena worthy, as if you are delaying entering into a contract with her because you are waiting for someone better.”

“That is absurd, the woman is superior in every way.”

“Yes, she is, and men in London will vie for her hand. You cannot hesitate. Act now, before she is
lost to you.” Her voice was like a hiss in his ear. “What is it you are waiting for?”

What
was
he waiting for?

There was nothing in his future to change his circumstance. No one would or could come to divest him of his title or free him from his obligations or elevate Chloe to a titled lady socially worthy of a duke.

His mother’s scornful voice came at him again. “Is it that silly little French girl? Is that what is keeping you from wedding Helena?”

Jareth started. His mother scoffed, “Oh, I’ve seen how you look at her. I have known for some time that the chit is in your blood. You men are alike; lust rules you, threatens your good sense. Really, Strathmere, she can never be for you. She is but a servant, you are a duke. More, she is a ridiculous girl with all manner of unsavory ideas. Bed her, if you haven’t already, or keep her somewhere as your mistress, only be discreet. And get on with your marriage.”

Jareth finally found his voice. “You shall not speak to me in this…forward and embarrassing manner.”

“I shall,” she countered in a regal tone. “Your father was much the same. He fancied himself a connoisseur of women. I never minded as long as he kept his tarts in a respectable manner. I am a woman of the world, Strathmere, and I know the ways of men. I knew my duty with your father, and I carried it out. So, too, must you do yours.”

He was filled with revulsion at what she was saying. “I shall not insult Chloe by making her my mistress.” But he had already, hadn’t he? He had taken her virginity when he knew he could never make the
promises that she longed for from him, that she deserved.

“Then you must send her away.”

No. No! “I shall not,” he said calmly.

“It is inevitable. She cannot stay.”

“That I will never do. If not for my own selfish reasons, then for the children. They need her, and I, for one, can put my personal feelings aside to give them that.”

“Their need for Chloe is passing. It was
you
who took Rebeccah out of her nightmare, and it was you who elicited the first sound from Sarah.”

“The doctor informed me that the children would recover in their own time. It was merely coincidence.”

The duchess was smug. “All the more reason to dismiss the girl. As you say, they will recover in their own time. The children will miss her at first, of course, but eventually their affections will transfer to their new mother. Helena will be excellent with them, do you not agree? No more cavorting in the dirt, no more screeching and leaping about like wild animals.”

How dreadful for them, mother! Helena is a beautiful, talented, but dried-up ghost of a woman!

“And consider this,” she continued in her sly, insinuating way. “If Chloe should stay when Helena comes, what will that be like for you? Would you truly want your wife and your mistress in the same house? It is just not done, Strathmere. You would be torn in two.”

He already was, he reflected. “Chloe is not my mistress,” he said softly. It was a feeble defense because he was beginning to see that what his mother
was telling him was true. He had been a deluded fool to ignore it this long.

“If she isn’t already, she will be. Desire rules the male animal—another inevitability. You must admit, Strathmere, the girl is a disaster.”

“Very well,” he murmured. “I shall speak to Lord Rathford this week.”

His mother bowed her head into her trembling hands. “Wonderful, Strathmere. I knew you would not disappoint.”

She hurried from the room, no doubt to kick up her heels or drink a toast in private or indulge ın some other celebration of her victory.

And his utter defeat. He went up to the nursery. Bette was there with the children. “Where is Miss Chloe?” he asked.

“A letter came from her father, your grace, and I told her I would stay with the children if she wanted to take the time to read it. I believe she brought it with her to her garden.” She paused, uncertain. “I hope that is all right, your grace.”

Her garden. Yes. It was, would ever be Chloe’s garden.

He smiled at Bette. “That was very thoughtful of you. If you wish, you may go. I can be with the children since I’ve come for my visit in any case. I will stay with them until Miss Chloe returns.”

“Yes, your grace,” she said and left him.

Sarah brought him her bear. “Samuel,” she said, or at least it was a reasonable pronunciation of the word. He thanked her and greeted the bear, knowing she liked it when he playfully spoke to their toys as if they were real. “What would you enjoy doing today?”

They decided to paint a bit together. Her pesky kitten, Harry, felt the need to investigate this fascinating activity and tracked watercolors all over the table. Jareth had to stop and clean it up.

“Bad cat,” Sarah said with a severe frown.

“Yes, very bad cat,” he agreed.

Rebeccah hadn’t wanted to be disturbed, having been deep in play when he arrived with a miniature set of dishes, the small table and chairs, and several dolls whom she could boss and would not protest. She came up to him now and asked, “Uncle, will you read to me?”

“Of course. Go choose a book. Sarah, would you like to hear a story, as well?”

The youngest child’s tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she swirled a soggy paintbrush on paper. His invitation she ignored. Jareth went to the rocker, and when Rebeccah returned with an old, tattered volume, he pulled her onto his lap.

“What is this?”

“It is Papa’s diary from when he was a little boy. Miss Chloe has been reading it to me.”

“Well, how wonderful!” he exclaimed, running his hand over the worn leather. He had never known Charles kept a diary. It was something he would very much like to read himself. “Where did she leave off?” he asked, opening the book carefully, not wanting to crumble the brittle pages.

“There,” Rebeccah answered, and snuggled in closer against his chest.

Jareth shrugged at the vague answer. There was no marker in the book, so he supposed one place was as good as any.

“May 13, 1826. I spent all day with the tutor, as is my daily habit, one I detest. Jareth is in the garden again. I was supposed to be doing my history lesson, but I watched him from the window. Got three good whacks when Mr. Hampton returned and found me there. For laziness, which is true, I suppose.”

Jareth paused, glancing uncomfortably down at his niece. This was certainly not the type of reading he thought appropriate for such a small child.

“He sounds sad,” Rebeccah said.

“He must have been having a gloomy day. Let us turn to another entry. Ah, here.

September 11, 1826. Mother is angry at me again. I am forever disappointing her, I think. She is always saying, ‘Father would have done this,’ or ‘Father would have done that.’ I can’t stand it sometimes. At times I fear…

“Rebeccah, why don’t you run and get the storybook we read the other day, the one with all the gay pictures in it.”

Rebeccah slid off his lap to obey. “That wasn’t exciting at all. It was
boring,”
she complained as she went off.

Jareth read on while she was away, caught in a macabre fascination at his brother’s spiraling despair.

I hate my life. I sometimes wish I could disappear. Today, I was lying in my bed and Mr. Hampton went to complain to Mother and I
wished I could die. Dying would be peaceful. I wish I could have some peace.

Jareth’s hands started to tremble.

Rebeccah returned with the book he had asked her to fetch. “Here it is, Uncle. You can read if you wish. I want to go back to my doll party.” She skipped over to the table and chairs to resume her play.

He took the picture book dumbly, then let it fall to the floor. The sound made the girls start, and they stared at him.

How had he not known his brother was so unhappy? Hadn’t he sensed, even in the smallest way, his despondency?

Of course he had, in that vague, unspecified guilt that had dogged him as a young boy. Everyone else thought Charles the favored one, they even at times felt sorry for Jareth, the second-born. Charles was the heir, the star, the fortunate one, but Jareth had sensed the truth, even back then, in a nagging sense of remorse at his brother’s burdens.

Staring off, seeing beyond the playthings assembled on the shelves in front of him, he tried to recall Mr. Hampton. Had he been cruel? To Jareth, the tutor had always seemed rather disinterested, just as his mother had been. They had treated him differently, of course. Mild to the younger son, the two of them had ridden Charles like demons.

That time at the lake, when he and Charles had capsized—it must have been that summer. Yes, he recalled it was the summer before Charles had gone away to school.

He had wanted to die. They had squeezed all the
joy out of his life until all he wanted to do was to die. And he almost had.

Charles had been eleven years old that summer.

He didn’t realize Chloe had come in until he heard Rebeccah say, “Miss Chloe, come quick. It’s Uncle. He’s crying!”

Was he?
Touching his fingers to his cheeks, he saw they were wet.

“Why is he crying?” Rebecca asked again, her voice rising.

Chloe came up quickly and snatched the diary out of his hand. “Where did he get this?” she demanded, her voice stern as she whirled on Rebeccah. Jareth looked over, puzzled. Why would Chloe be upset at her for sharing the book with him?

“I told you this was for you when you are older, when you can understand,” Chloe scolded. Turning to Jareth, she said for his ears alone, “Oh, Jareth,
je suis désolée.
Come, sit. I see you are upset.”

“This…” He waved a finger at the book.

“We found it some time ago. I forbid Rebeccah to read it, or rather refused to read it to her. I shall speak to her severely, I can assure you.” She wrung her hands in distress. “I suppose I should have told you about it earlier. I had no idea of what it contained, but I should have been more careful with—”

“Don’t,” he commanded. “Do not explain. It is not your fault.”

She blinked and, thankfully, stopped talking. He stepped past her, not bothering to excuse himself as he fled the room.