Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

But her anguish was for naught, because it was obvious he didn’t recognize her. The quizzical look in his clear blue eyes told her only too clearly that he had no idea who she was. Like most men who’d ever met her, he’d put her out of his mind as quickly as the introduction had been made, and the sting of his failure to identify her now hurt no less than it had all those years ago when he’d danced with her out of desperation to be near another lady.

Oh, yes, for what man ever remembered Miss Amanda Preston, the all-too-forgettable daughter of Lord and Lady Farleigh?

The disappointment flooding the lady’s lively green eyes was nothing compared to the stabbing grief that wrenched through Jemmy’s gut as he watched her struggle to get away from him.

He didn’t know why he expected anything different. Mayhap it was because he hadn’t flirted with, let alone held, a woman in so long. How easy it had been to delude himself in those few seconds, in the thrill of the chase, in the intoxicating desire of having a woman in his arms, as to why he’d turned his back on such conquests.

For any young woman who looked at him, no matter how well-bred or disciplined she might be, could not hide her dismay at the beastly reminders the war had etched upon him.

The pain in his leg he could live with. The scar on his face he didn’t mind, but a woman’s regard, the kind that spoke of approval and desire, something that had once seemed like his birthright, he sorely missed.

“I must be away,” the young woman said, as she scrambled up from the cot, unwilling to look at him. “This is hardly proper. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that we…”

Then it occurred to him what the real reason for her alarm might be. Not so much his appearance, but…

He didn’t even want to say it, it was so laughable. Not even Esme would dare such a bargain. “You don’t think that I’m—”

“I don’t know what you are, sir, but I am not… not…”

“Going to marry me?” he suggested.

This brought the chit’s gaze spinning back to his. “Marry you?”

Well, she needn’t sound so incredulous.

“I don’t believe,” she said, “that this situation calls for such drastic measures. I may not have much experience in these matters, but I doubt my clumsiness would be regarded as compromising enough to demand marriage. Indeed, if you think I’ve lured you here on some pretense—”

Jemmy had heard enough. He glanced around and spied his cane, which he caught up and used to rise from the bed. His leg wobbled beneath him, but he held his position as if he were facing the French. “Lured me here? I’m not the one lolling about Esme’s cottage in her altogether awaiting her true love.” His words came out bitter and harsh, more than they needed to be. He suspected it was the lingering sting of her rejection that spurred such venom, but if he was honest, he’d admit that it was fed mostly by his own disillusionment.

He’d believed in true love once. In happily-ever-afters.

“You’re mad,” she shot back, “if you think I’m here looking for a husband. What is it about this cottage that has everyone convinced I need to find romance?” She turned her back to him and finished smoothing her gown into place.

Unfortunately, the pretty silk fell all the way to the floor, and Jemmy cursed himself for helping her.

She truly did have a fine pair of legs, and it was a shame to hide them.

But that wasn’t the point, he reminded himself. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d have an opportunity to view them again. “Romance is the only thing most people have on their minds when they come here,” he told her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her brown hair tumbling in a long curl down her back. “Whatever for?”

“Because of Esme,” he said. He stepped a little closer to her. “You don’t mean to tell me you didn’t know that she is the matchmaker.”

“A matchmaker? Ridiculous. Whatever would I be doing with a matchmaker? I simply got lost in the storm last night and stumbled upon this place. Mrs. Maguire offered me shelter, and when I was awakened this morning, rather rudely I might add, she was gone.” She opened a plain leather valise and started searching through it as if tallying up her belongings. “Now if you are done with your speculations as to my character, I’ll be gone.”

Something about her indignation, her denial caught Jemmy’s curiosity. “What would you expect me to think?” he asked her. “After all, this is Bramley Hollow, so it is natural to assume—”

Her hand froze over the latch on her traveling bag. “Bramley Hollow?” Her eyes widened in recognition.

So she really hadn’t known. “Aye, Bramley Hollow.”

“And this is—” She looked about the room, her gaze darting over the bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters to the heavy pot slung in the fireplace.

“Yes, the cottage of the matchmaker,” he told her. “The matchmaker of Bramley Hollow.”

From the look on her face, she was no longer lost. She knew exactly where she was.

“Oh, this is a disaster.” Her hand now floundered about for something steady to grab hold of.