The Valentine Legacy (25 page)

“James.”

He leaned down and kissed her. “Good morning,” he said, and kissed the end of her nose, her left ear, her chin. “Whatever are you doing still asleep? I exhausted you, is that it? You're supposed to feel all energetic, Jessie, not swooning in bed until half the day is gone.”

She smiled at him, the new Jessie gaining a hold. “After you've taught me everything about this marriage business, then I'll be able to tease you as well.”

“There's lots to learn, Jessie. It will take me more time than you can imagine to teach you every nuance, every slight movement that brings a different kind of pleasure.”

Her eyes nearly crossed. “Oh,” she said.

“I lied to you. Half the day isn't gone. I just wanted to
have breakfast with you so we could discuss what we'll do today. It's only seven o'clock. I've already bathed and dressed. Harlow is bringing up hot water for you. Would you like Mrs. Catsdoor to help you?”

She didn't want anyone to help her, unless it was James. She couldn't quite bring herself to ask him to rub her back with the bathing cloth. He turned in the doorway. “Oh, Jessie, who is Mr. Tom?”

She stared at him. She repeated so softly he barely heard her. “Mr. Tom?”

“Yes, who is he?”

Jessie seemed suddenly remote. Her eyes took on a faraway cast that made James feel her thoughts, whatever they might be, were miles away. “I don't know,” Jessie said slowly, her voice distant. “I remember a long time ago that I had dreams about him but then they stopped. This is odd, James. I haven't dreamed about Mr. Tom for years. Why would I dream about him last night?”

He had no answer to that. He'd known her for six years. He'd never heard her or her family say anything about a Mr. Tom.

The day stretched out endlessly, one slow minute at a time. James could hardly believe that it wasn't noon, the time he'd set to take her to bed again.

The sun was hot overhead. Jessie wiped away the sweat on her brow. Every few minutes she looked at her husband, and when he looked back at her, she knew exactly what he was thinking. She also knew she didn't have a stitch of undergarments on underneath her clothes. She scrubbed the horse harder until he tried to dance away from her.

She heard James laugh. She shook her fist at him. They worked the horses all morning, companionably because they'd been companions for so very long. At ease around horses, they knew how to behave, what had to be done. And they were at ease with each other. After all, they'd been
companions long before they'd been lovers. Jessie began to hum.

It didn't occur to her to believe James loved her just because he enjoyed lovemaking with her. No, what was important was that they were friends. She would build on that. There was a race in York, and James intended to ride Bertram in two heats.

Jessie rode Selina just before lunch, putting her through her paces. She was surprised at the horse's smooth speed, her flawless endurance. She suspected there was some blood other than Arab in her. No pure-blooded Arab could have as much stamina as Selina did.

When Jessie returned to the stables, she saw that James wouldn't be riding anything on Saturday. He was sitting on the ground, cursing the air blue, holding his ankle with one hand and waving his fist at Clothilde, one of the bay mares, with the other.

 

George Raven arrived two hours later at Candlethorpe, fetched by Mrs. Catsdoor's son, Harlow.

“Hello, Jessie. What happened to James? Harlow couldn't seem to put two words together for me.”

“It's his ankle. I don't think it's broken, but I didn't want to take the chance I was wrong. You are the doctor, after all.”

He gave her an angel's grin, for surely George Raven, shorter than Jessie and very slim, was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen in her life. No wonder Marcus had always complained about his attending the Duchess.

“A horse kicked him?”

“Yes, Clothilde. I do think she was laughing at him while he was sitting on the ground, cursing her. She did have this unholy look in her eyes.”

“Let's see how he's doing.”

James had refused to go to his bedchamber. He was
reclining on a beautiful blue brocade settee in the drawing room, the kicked foot propped up on several cushions. He was miserable, furious, and in a foul mood. It was past noon and here he was with his ankle hurting like the very devil. Jessie had all her clothes on, and he was nowhere near getting her into bed. Well, hell.

“I should have known Jessie would fall apart and send for you. Why didn't you tell me you'd been such a fool, Jessie? Ah, no answer, huh? You knew I'd box your ears, curse you.”

“He sounds practically well already. Now, James, leave poor Jessie alone. You've only been married three days. She did the right thing. Now let's see how hard Clothilde kicked you.”

“Bloody mare. I had to give her a physic. Sigmund was holding her and I was doing the offensive deed and she jerked loose from Sigmund and turned on me.”

“Clothilde was pretty angry?”

“She didn't even pause to question what she was doing. No, she just kicked out that hoof and got me good. Sigmund just sent me word that she's just fine now. Seems the release of her bile took care of her other problem. Ow! Go easy, you damned torturer.”

“Sorry. Jessie's right. The ankle's not broken, thank the good Lord, but James, you're going to be a gentleman of leisure for the next two days. Stay off that foot. Stay seated as much as possible, and keep the ankle up high. Now, here's some ointment for Jessie to rub into the ankle. It won't do much for the pain or swelling, but it will make you feel a bit better.”

“I'm racing on Saturday.”

“Not this Saturday you're not. No, don't complain or whine to me about it. Keep the weight off the ankle and relax. Jessie, will you keep him chair-bound?”

“Certainly, though he is capable of cursing the ceiling down on our heads.”

George Raven raised a very blond eyebrow. Jessie could just picture Marcus looking at him and telling him to go bugger himself. That word, the Duchess had told her once, had led to a great deal of consternation in the house when she'd wondered aloud what it meant. “You should have seen the look on Badger's face,” she'd said, laughing. “I thought he would throw the tureen of turtle soup he was making at my head.”

Dr. Raven said, “You curse in front of your bride of three days?”

James snorted. “You should have heard her curse when she was only fourteen years old.”

“He's right,” Jessie said. “I listened to him one day, admired his verbal ability vastly, and searched out every foul word spoken by every stable lad in Baltimore. My father wasn't such a bad source either.”

“What about your mother?”

“Don't sound so snide, James, just because you feel rotten. Ah, Mrs. Catsdoor, you're just in time.”

George Raven poured three drops of laudanum into a glass of lemonade and handed it to James. “Drink it and don't complain. It won't put you to sleep, but it will reduce the pain in your ankle to a dull ache.”

James drank the whole glass, wiped his hand over his mouth, and said, “I'm waiting. It still hurts.”

Jessie chose to ignore him. “As to my mother,” she said to George Raven, “she taught me other things.”

“Like what?”

Dr. Raven looked from one to the other. They were scrapping like two children. Of course James wasn't feeling all that ready for action at the moment, but he supposed he expected to see Jessie, the new bride, wringing her hands, hovering over James, giving him ineffectual but loving
pats—all in all, behaving like a besotted newlywed. But no, these two were behaving like two people who'd known each other for a very long time, two people who weren't particularly in love with each other. He wondered what the truth of the matter was. Neither the earl nor the Duchess had breathed a word of anything interesting to him or to his own new wife, Rowenna. He smiled as he straightened up. Rowenna would have been consoling him continuously had he been hurt.

“Go away, George.”

“All right, James. Jessie, just make sure he doesn't move around. Keep him chair-bound and bed-bound—well, that's not quite what I mean. No waltzes. No riding. I'll see you on Saturday. Not at the racecourse in York. I'll see you here.”

“Do come for luncheon, Dr. Raven. Perhaps you'd like to bring Rowenna as well?”

When Jessie returned to the drawing room some minutes later, James looked her up and down and frowned. “I will say this just one time, Jessie. You will not dress like a boy and ride Bertram on Saturday.”

She grinned at him like a pickpocket who had just snaggled St. Peter. “I daresay I could win some guineas for us, James. Candlethorpe is very nice inside, but we do need money for Marathon. It looks like an old barn inside. How much could I win at York?”

“Not enough, so you might as well forget it.”

“Perhaps enough just to buy new wallpaper for the parlor.”

“Jessie—”

“You look very interesting, James, like a languid poet—perhaps Shelley, though he's dark, isn't he?—with your foot propped up, that lock of hair hanging over your forehead, all slouched down in that chair.”

“Promise me. I don't want Sigmund running in here in
hysterics because you and your breeches are gone and Bertram's gone as well.”

“I daresay I'd take Sigmund with me. I wouldn't know where to go, you see.”

“Do you want me to tie you to that chair? I will, Jessie, if you don't give me your sacred promise this very instant. Say it, Jessie. Say ‘I swear I won't go to York on Saturday.”'

She gave him a shameless grin, an old-Jessie shameless grin. He wanted to come inside her so badly he hurt worse than his blasted ankle. He'd never before realized that the new Jessie was the old Jessie beneath her clothes.

H
IS TWISTED ANKLE
provided respite. Jessie knew he wanted to have sex with her—goodness, before lunchtime, he'd said with a wicked laugh—but she also knew that the way it would have to be accomplished would be a method that would doubtless shock her to her toes. She eyed James and decided he wouldn't have the guts to ask her to do it, which was a pity, but in the long run, better for the welfare of his ankle.

Because James knew her so well, he just sighed deeply, squeezed her hand, and sighed again. Jessie grinned at him. “My ankle will heal soon enough,” he said.

“It had better.”

“That's my Jessie.” But he'd wanted to cement what he'd gained. If enough time passed, perhaps he'd see that look of bewildered embarrassment on her face again. He didn't want her to retreat, to freeze up on him. Well, damnation. Sigmund and Harlow had helped him upstairs. It had been Harlow's request to be his gentleman's gentleman, and he'd not done a bad job of getting his clothes off him and putting him to bed.

Jessie hadn't volunteered, and James wasn't about to ask her. He didn't even know if it had occurred to her. Love-making after proper preparations was one thing, undressing a man with an ankle swelled to the size of a Darlington melon was quite another.

His ankle was throbbing, his belly wasn't too happy from Mrs. Catsdoor's attempt to reproduce Badger's green-pea soup, and he was bored, conversation between him and Jessie having dwindled during the long evening into inquiries about his ankle followed by his own curt replies. She'd tried, he'd give her that, but his ankle still hurt like the devil and he made a terrible patient.

Once he was in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest, and Harlow removed from his bedchamber, he called out, “You can come in now, Jessie. I'm all shrouded in blankets and sheets, everything repellent covered, except for my damned foot.”

She came through the adjoining door. He knew she'd just been waiting in there for him to call her. She was wearing a very plain dressing gown, probably one that belonged to the old Jessie. Did she fear he'd attack her if she wore one of her new-Jessie dressing gowns? Probably.

He eyed her anew for any interest. “Are you going to sleep in here with me?”

“I'm concerned that I might roll over on you or kick your ankle.”

“I'm not worried. I want you here.”

She started to shake her head, and he said quickly, “I might need you during the night.”

She nodded slowly then. He closed his eyes as she eased another pillow beneath his foot, her fingers lightly touching his big toe as she said, “Is that better?”

“Better than what?”

She sighed. “George told me you'd be difficult. When Papa got kicked in the leg some years ago, I was the only one who would spend any time with him. Mother told him he could drown in his own bile for all she cared.”

“I don't want to do that. Why are you wearing that hideous dressing gown?”

“I don't want to torture you, James. One of the
confections Maggie gave me, well, you just might break your ankle trying to get to me. I don't want that on my conscience.”

He swallowed hard. “Shall I tell you a story?”

“No. I'm very tired. I want to go to sleep. Oh, I nearly forgot. Dr. Raven said you were to have another glass of lemonade with laudanum.”

He decided he wanted it. He didn't want to lie awake, his ankle hurting like the devil, listening to Jessie breathe next to him, within arm's distance, within touching distance. No, better to retreat into oblivion.

He slept through the night. Jessie, a light sleeper, kept waking up, listening to him. He didn't wake up in pain.

 

The next day his ankle was very much improved. “ Perhaps,” he said at breakfast between bites of toast and eggs, “I'll be able to ride Bertram tomorrow.”

“Not in your wildest fantasies. No. I won't allow that, James.”

“I wouldn't even have to leave until later tonight. Some years ago, Frances, the Countess of Rothermere, worked with an architect in York and invented a carrier for horses. That way the racehorse arrives all rested at the course, not exhausted from having walked the whole way.”

“That's ingenious,” Jessie said, dropping her fork and sitting forward. “What does it look like?”

“A covered smallish wagon that's pulled in turn by two horses. You just secure the horse's reins to the bar to keep him still, and off you go. The rear upper half of the wagon is open, so there's plenty of fresh air.”

“Goodness, how I'd like to see that. A woman, Frances Hawksbury, had the idea?”

“Yes. Contrary to popular belief, her husband wasn't at all dismayed that she, his wife, came up with the idea and not he. He tells everyone he knows about it. I've seen several of them around now.”

“I wish I were smarter, then maybe I'd have thought of that.”

“You're smart enough. Be quiet. I thought I'd build a couple so I could race horses at courses farther away, say in North Carolina or Washington City.”

“Oh, James, that would be wonderful. I remember we raced the local ponies on the Outer Banks, near Ocracoke. It's odd, you know, but we haven't gone to the house on Ocracoke since I was a young girl. I suppose Papa just grew tired of listening to Mother carp about all the insects that were always biting her. They bit Glenda as well, but not Nelda or me. Isn't that strange?”

“I've heard it said that bugs only bite succulent flesh.”

“I daresay that the Duchess would have thrown her peas at Marcus if he'd said that to her.”

He liked the way those streamers of hers curled lazily down to nearly touch the collar of her pale yellow gown. The new Jessie was in full bloom this morning.

“Are you wearing your underwear underneath that gown since I'm incapable of doing anything?”

Her fork hit her plate. She looked down at the small yellow pile of eggs. She said, “No.”

His eyes nearly crossed. The throbbing in his ankle was nothing compared to the sudden surge of lust in his groin.

“You're torturing a sick man.”

She tilted her head to one side, the streamer falling loose beside her cheek, and grinned at him, a teasing grin, one that Glenda wouldn't hesitate to copy if she'd had the pleasure to see it.

“I've been thinking about what would please you today. I've decided I'm going to take you for a ride in the landau. We're going to have luncheon with the Duchess and Marcus. What do you say?”

He thought about his ankle being jostled around for two
hours to Chase Park and two more hours back to Candlethorpe, and nodded.

“Good,” she said, tossed down her napkin, and rose.

An hour later James was very comfortably ensconced in the landau, his foot propped up on pillows, all secured with ropes tied to the sides of the landau. No jostling.

“Frances's horse wagon gave me the idea. You know, tying the reins to keep the horse steady?”

He just shook his head and relaxed while Jessie click-clicked Phantom, his magnificent gray Barb, who was snorting happily, and broke into a trot.

But they didn't go to Chase Park that morning. They were only thirty minutes from Candlethorpe when two riders came into view. It was the Duchess and Marcus coming to see the felled master of Candlethorpe.

Amid the laughter, the questions about James's ankle, the shaking heads at the quirks of coincidence, and Jessie's inventive way of tying James in place, Phantom suddenly reared up, shook his great head, and tried to jerk the reins from Jessie's hands.

James jerked the reins from her gloved hands, stood up, barely, and began to execute a very strange series of movements, bringing Phantom first sharply to the left, then pulling him inexorably to the right. He did this three times. Finally, Phantom heaved a great sigh and stood docilely in the middle of the road, his head facing the hedgerows.

“What was that all about? What happened?”

Marcus reached over and patted Phantom's neck. “Good fellow,” he said, then added to Jessie, “James was a robber. He bought Phantom for fewer guineas than the Duchess spends on a pair of gloves.”

“Yes,” the Duchess continued. “He all but stole him from this squire who was going to put him down because he nearly trampled his nephew, a repellent little boy who
would probably have been better off for the trampling.”

James laughed. “Poor old Phantom has this habit of seeing double. When Marcus and the Duchess stopped their horses right in front of us, Phantom saw four horses and four riders and decided it was time to leave. I tried many maneuvers, and finally hit upon the solution. I keep his head turned slightly to either the left or to the right. That way he can't see the horses and double their number.”

“It works,” Marcus said. “Now, since the Duchess and I have come all this way, let's go to Candlethorpe and we'll spend the day amusing you.”

“You knew about James's ankle?” Jessie asked, eyeing James carefully as he turned Phantom around. Marcus and the Duchess didn't ride in front, but rather they stayed on each side of the landau.

“George Raven came to Chase Park yesterday. Anthony had decided that Marcus's cat, Esmee, would make a fine napping companion for Charles and put her next to his little brother. Esmee, who'd just eaten an entire trout for her luncheon, snuggled next to my sleeping son. Charles woke up, yelled his head off when he saw Esmee's face only an inch from his, and his nurse, Molly, fell, hit her head, and knocked herself unconscious trying to get to him to see what the matter was. She's fine now, just a ferocious headache. Marcus was forced to discipline Anthony.”

“What did you do, Marcus?” James asked.

The earl gave his wife a sideways look, then mumbled, “I smacked his bottom, made him apologize to Molly, then sent him to his bedchamber and told Spears he wasn't allowed to eat or play for at least fourteen hours.”

“We then left so Spears could change Anthony's punishment to suit his own opinion,” the Duchess said. “It was well done of you, my dear. I suspect even Spears was im-pressed with your firmness.”

“I'm glad I'm not there to see what Anthony's doing,”
the earl said. “About you, James, what happened?”

“James was giving Clothilde a physic. She didn't like it.”

“No man or animal would,” Marcus said. “Serves you right, James.”

The Duchess carefully lifted off her riding hat, a lovely affair with a band of bright red around the black base, and hit her husband's arm with it. “You think a woman would enjoy such a thing?”

“I was speaking for all mankind, and that includes women.”

After the ensuing verbal debris eventually cleared, James realized he hadn't felt his ankle at all.

The Duchess and Marcus didn't leave Candlethorpe that evening. After dinner, they left Mrs. Catsdoor rendered nearly speechless at their praise for her boiled knuckle of veal and her
vol-au-vent
of plums. The evening was spent singing some of the Duchess's ditties and playing whist.

That night when James was lying on his back in their bed, his foot propped up on its complement of three pillows, Jessie getting ready to snuff out the candles, he screwed himself to the sticking point and said, “Jessie, would you like to try something a bit different?”

“What?”

“Perhaps you'd like to kiss me a bit?”

“I don't know, James,” she said, frowning down at him with great interest. “It might not be wise. You tend to lose control of your hands when you kiss me.”

He sounded desperate. “I know, but I was hoping that perhaps you'd like to follow my instructions and we could do more than just kissing. You could, well, basically, you could sit on top of me and—”

“Sit on top of you? Why on earth would I want to sit on top of you, James?”

“Not just sitting. That wouldn't accomplish anything, unless you were reading a book, and I don't want you to do that. No, you would actually take me in your hands and—” She was looking at him as if he'd told her he was going to strap her down on the rack and start stretching. He stalled. He lost his nerve.

She wished she knew what to do. He wanted her on top of him? She'd never seen a mare atop a stallion. It was a fascinating thought, but not with that swelled ankle of his. No, it had to wait, curse the fates. She began whistling, snuffed out the candles, and climbed in beside him. She wished the bed were larger. She could feel the heat of him, feel each movement he made. When his hand touched her side, she squeaked.

“Hold my hand, Jessie,” he said, and she did.

She fell asleep rubbing the callus on his thumb.

James lay awake longer than he wished. Somehow he'd imagined Jessie would be more willing to try new approaches to lovemaking. The good Lord knew she'd always been brash, more confident than a female should be, eager for new experiences, always twitting him, mocking him, beating him at the damned racecourse, and protecting him from Glenda.