The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

“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.

22

HIS 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.”