Feeling guilty again, she said, “I am nothing of the sort. I…I should not have spoken to you as I did. Pray forgive me.”
His smoky eyes lit and his lip quirked in a smile reminiscent—and yet unlike—the sardonic look she’d come to know when he served under her father in the Peninsula. A steady, unnervingly intense regard that had prickled her skin with a curious mix of anticipation and dread whenever she caught—or more often sensed—him watching her.
As her skin prickled now.
Disturbed by that reaction, she abandoned her attempt to determine what exactly had changed about him. Dismiss him at once, some instinct for self-preservation urged her.
“Best not apologize too quickly,” he said. “Now that I consider it, teasing you into marrying me might be too tempting a prospect to resist.”
“I should think nearly getting your throat slit would have cured you of ever risking that folly again.”
He tapped his fingers below the knot of his cravat. “Ah, but I bear your mark still. How could I resist you?”
Though she’d fully intended to send him away, the intensity of his gaze held her motionless. A little thrill shocked through her, like when she’d run into warm ocean shallows off the Portuguese coast, only to find the water deeper, the current more dangerous than anticipated.
Except for the morning she discovered him more dead than alive on the battlefield after Waterloo, they had not spoken since that afternoon after the battle of Badajoz when she’d foiled his attempt to compromise her into wedding him, sending him away instead, humbled and bleeding. Yet how many times over the intervening years had she felt resting on her that steady, unnerving gaze?
Riding on the march, across the tent-filled enclosure of an encampment, from the other side of a dining room or ballroom…Though she knew after her marriage, Garrett must have warned Nelthorpe away, from Salamanca to Vittoria to Toulouse, even in Paris after the victory, she had sensed his gaze and looked about her—to find him watching.
With Garrett no longer standing guard, what was she to do about it?
While she hesitated, unsure whether to deliver a final dismissal or simply walk away from the unsettling force that seemed to emanate from him, she heard the slam of the entry door, followed by Manson’s urgent murmur. A moment later, a thin woman dressed in mourning black rushed up the stairs, spotted them, and stopped abruptly.
Her eyes widening, she raised her arm and pointed at Nelthorpe. “That reprobate lives still? Then I am doubly glad you lost your husband, Lady Fairchild!”
While Jenna recoiled in shock, the stranger advanced on her.
Chapter Four
BEFORE JENNA COULD SAY A WORD, the woman continued in shrill tones, “Losing Colonel Fairchild was only what you deserved, after choosing to rescue men such as him—” the widow jerked her chin at the viscount “—whilst leaving good soldiers like my husband to die in the mud!”
’Twas no point trying to reason with this obviously grief-maddened widow, Jenna realized, trying not to let the cruel words wound her as she wondered what supposed incident had led to this outburst. Better to simply soothe and send her away. “I am so sorry—”
“Keep your regrets!” the woman cried. “Just wait until you, like I, have lost everything you hold dear!”
Before Jenna could imagine her intent, she hauled back her arm and slapped Jenna full across the face.
Reeling with the force of the blow, Jenna would have fallen but for Nelthorpe. After steadying her, he moved with surprising speed to seize the wrists of the widow, who’d drawn her hand back as if to deliver another slap.
“Madam, remember yourself!” he barked.
After a brief struggle, the woman’s fury seemed spent and she burst into tears, going limp in her captor’s grip.
As the butler and two footmen hurried up to assist Nelthorpe, Cousin Lane entered the hallway at a run. “Manson, what the devil is going on?”
He stopped short, taking in with a quick glance the milling servants, the weeping woman hanging in Nelthorpe’s arms—and Jenna, with her palm to her stinging cheek.
“For the love of God, Jenna, are you all right?”
Fighting back a sudden faintness, Jenna nodded. “I am fine, cousin. I—I should like to retire, however.”
“I’ll escort you up at once. James, keep watch over this…person while Manson fetches a constable.”
“No need for that,” Jenna interposed. “’Twas a…a misunderstanding. Manson, have a hackney summoned. I’m sure the lady is anxious to return home.”
Frowning, Fairchild seemed as if he would countermand her order before waving an impatient hand. “As you wish, Jenna. But, madam,” he said, turning to the woman, “if you ever approach my cousin again, I shall prosecute you.”
As the weeping woman was led away, he turned a hostile gaze on Lord Nelthorpe. “Did you bring that creature?”
Apparently her cousin’s opinion of Nelthorpe was no better than her own. Little as she liked the viscount, though, Jenna couldn’t let this pass. “Indeed not! In fact, he acted immediately to assist me.”
Lane Fairchild’s frosty gaze didn’t thaw. “Did he? How convenient. I suppose I must thank you for that.”
Lord Nelthorpe nodded. “Any paltry assistance I may have offered Lady Fairchild was entirely my pleasure.”
With some concern, Jenna noted that Nelthorpe was breathing rather heavily and looked even more unwell. Although grateful for his aid, Jenna hoped he wasn’t about to end the binge that had brought on that unhealthy pallor by casting up his accounts on the carpet.
Before she could intervene to speed him on his way, to her intense irritation, the parlor door opened and Lady Montclare stepped into the hallway, followed by her sister.
“Dear Jenna, whatever could be keeping—oh!” Lady Montclare ended on a gasp, her widening eyes taking in Jenna’s red cheek, Cousin Lane’s grim face and Nelthorpe, once again swaying unsteadily on his feet.
“Nothing to concern yourselves about, ladies,” Fairchild said. Ignoring the viscount in unmistakable insult, he took Jenna’s arm. “My dear cousin is rather fatigued. As soon as I’ve seen Jenna to her room, I’ll return to thank you more properly for your gallant support of the Fairchild family this afternoon.”
“Of course she is exhausted!” Mrs. Anderson said, her avid gaze flitting between Jenna and Nelthorpe. “But do allow us to assist. Sister, let us take dear Jenna upstairs and offer what comfort we can.”
“Nonsense, ladies, I am quite capable of going up alone,” Jenna objected. “I need only some solitude in which to repose myself. Please do return to the parlor with Mr. Fairchild and refresh yourselves with some tea.”
Then she felt it again—the almost palpable touch of Nelthorpe’s gaze on her. Without conscious volition, she looked over to him.
“I shall take my leave now, Lady Fairchild,” he said quietly. “Thank you again for your time.”
“A most thoughtful suggestion, ladies,” Cousin Lane interposed, again ignoring Nelthorpe. “Cousin, let me give you into these kind ladies’ care.”
She might not like Anthony Nelthorpe, but neither did Jenna approve Fairchild’s rude treatment of the man who had just rendered her timely assistance. Turning her back on the sisters, she extended her hand to the viscount.
“Thank you again, and good day, Lord Nelthorpe.”
He took her fingers. Her nerves jumped at the first contact of his gloved hands, then