He had only thought he was tongue-tied before. Now words deserted him utterly. The rational thing to do would be to keep silent, to dump her back at her home, in hopes that she would cry herself out in her own room. But she was here now, and weeping quietly into her skirts. And he had run away too many times, leaving her to believe she wasn’t good enough.
Touch is a circuit.
Gareth swallowed fear and awkwardness. He compressed them into a solid lump in his chest. And then he did something he’d never done before. He crossed the hired coach to sit beside his sister. And he put his arms around her.
She stiffened in shock. In those first delicate seconds, he almost pulled away. Then she folded into his embrace. To his surprise, he found that the cold really did flow out of him. And it didn’t go into Laura. Instead, her sobs quieted to soft hiccups. They thawed each other.
Newton would have been flabbergasted. This kind of energy was not conserved.
By the time her sobs quieted, he’d found the right words. “I learned how to balance accounts,” he said, “instead of how to be a brother. I’m not any good at it, although I’m trying to learn. But, Laura, I loved you from the first moment you pulled my hair. I always have.”
She inhaled sharply. She tilted her face up to his, her eyes wet and round.
“Now come,” he said. “Does your Alex love you back, or is he a hopeless idiot?”
“He loves me,” she said quietly. “But I’m afraid he’ll stop after we marry. He’ll change his mind. He’ll—”
“He’ll love you more. Trust me.”
“Really?” She was far too somber.
“Really.” He had no words to make her smile, and so Gareth tweaked her nose.
And she giggled.
It had been a long time since he’d laughed. But despite all those years, he still remembered how. What he’d forgotten was the lightness of his soul when he did so. The moment was perfect.
Almost perfect. One small corner of blackness coiled beneath his good humor. He recognized it for the unworthy creature that it was, but still it poked its head out, whispering darkness.
Men leave. Why should Jenny’s last comment sting so? It was no more than he deserved. And Laura, of all people, knew the truth of what she said. After all, he’d been leaving his sister since she was born, returning to his grandfather’s estate after every short visit.
He’d lost years of Laura’s life to the responsibilities of the marquessate. He’d likely lose Jenny, too. His title eventually devoured everything that mattered. But as he held his sister, he could not identify the purpose of it all. And that frightened him more than anything.
ONE HOUR PASSED as Jenny waited in trepidation. Then two. She could imagine all too well the cold castigation Gareth might heap on her head. He’d told her not to interfere. And what had she done? Interfered, and in the worst way possible.
Her own fear gradually gave way to anger. Jenny’s choices were dwindling with her remaining stock of coins.
The money Mr. Sevin had stolen would no doubt seem paltry to Gareth. But to her, that money had not been mere coin. It had been independence. Without it, she’d lost her ability to pretend Gareth was a lover, an equal, instead of the superior Lord Blakely. If she took his coins now, he would turn into another client, a person she’d have to please at the expense of her own feelings.
During the twelve years of Jenny’s career, the weight of Madame Esmerelda had closed around her, suffocating. She’d tailored every word she said. She’d listened to every fear that her clients brought to her, and under the guise of a false persona, had given the reassurances they wanted to hear in return. There’d been no room for Jenny Keeble.
A week of freedom from those stultifying confines had convinced her never to crawl back into that small space. And so she refused to beg Gareth for his good opinion. She’d lived that way once. She’d never do it again.
Gradually, her feelings came to a roiling boil. How dare he, after all? How dare he look down his nose at her for telling his sister she was strong? How dare he make Jenny feel smaller than an ant? She was his equal—or, at least, she wanted to be.
Even if she didn’t take his coins, she could not lie to herself any longer. His equal? She wasn’t acting as if she were his equal. She sat here, awaiting his return so that he could pass judgment on her behavior. And so had it been ever since he’d visited her on that fateful night. He decided whether to come to her or not. He waited on no invitation, and of course extended no reciprocal visiting privileges.
Something snapped inside her. She could do nothing about Mr. Sevin. She had no power to stay in London, once her coins ran out.
But she’d be damned before she let this dreadful imbalance continue.
She donned half boots and trundled out the door. The wind tossed her hair on the way and mussed her skirts. She looked a fright. But her anger had not lapsed by the time she reached the great stone edifice Gareth called home. She cast one look at the servants’ entrance and then raised her nose in the air.
Right. His equal.
Jenny marched up to the solid black double doors that fronted the street, raising her chin in borrowed bravado. She rapped the brass knocker sharply.
The door swung open. The butler took one look at her and his face tightened in recognition. He drew himself up, and glanced down his nose at her faded blue dress.
“Tell Lord Blakely Miss Keeble is here to see him.”
He pushed a silver salver at her. “Have you a card?”
“No. But you have a voice. Tell him.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Keeble. He’s not home.” His tone was depressing.
“Oh, dear. But his lordship specifically said he would be here at this hour.”
“He is about to leave.”
“Excellent. I’ll just sit here on the stoop and wait, then.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Although he may be delayed in his departure. Perhaps for as much as two hours.”
Jenny smiled angelically. “Then won’t he be angry when he finds you’ve made me wait all that time? Maybe you ought to consult him.”
The butler grimaced and shut the door. Perhaps fetching reinforcements to oust her? Maybe asking his almighty Lordship what to do about the annoying woman encamped upon his doorstep. Jenny waited.
It was a bare minute before the door opened again. “His Lordship will see you, Miss Keeble.” To his credit, the butler did not let a hint of his former contempt show.
Jenny let out the breath she’d been holding. Gareth allowed her entry into his home. She didn’t know what to make of it. The butler led her down the familiar hallway.
Gareth’s back was to her as she entered his study. He was seated, talking to another man. As the butler opened the door, both gentlemen stood. Gareth turned.
Any lingering anger on Jenny’s part evaporated. He smiled. Not in polite welcoming greeting; in unpracticed pleasure. The expression was like a sunburst over her heart. And those golden eyes lit at her arrival. Her fingers curled of their own accord.
“Ah,” said the other man before Jenny could be announced. “The hypothetical Miss Keeble.”
“White?”
The other gentleman nodded at Gareth’s terse command.
“Out. Now.”
As short and rude as Gareth sounded, Mr. White grinned and raised his fingers to tip an imaginary hat. And then he disappeared. The door shut on him and the butler, and silence fell.
Jenny ought to start the conversation. But her righteous anger had evaporated with his smile, and it seemed silly to declare war on a man who looked at her with that much pleasure.
He spoke for her. “Do you know what it’s like to know your sister is afraid of you?”
His tone was calm, conversational. And like that, he sucked all the air from her lungs. Jenny shook her head, mutely.
“My grandfather had my guardianship after my mother remarried. He kept me on the estate with him, or here in London. To teach me, he said. But what I lea
rned was not to show any emotion. Most particularly not tears, laughter or enjoyment. Those things, Grandfather said, were softness, inherited from my mother. She remarried as quickly as she dared after my father died. And she did so, knowing it would mean leaving me alone with my grandfather.”
Jenny looked up into Gareth’s eyes.
“Eventually, I just stopped showing what I felt. It was easier. And Grandfather was right. Because when you’re a marquess, and you don’t laugh when you should, people jump to make things right. When you’re a marquess and you send a man a cold, cutting glance, he shivers. He taught me to be a scalpel.”
“Well,” Jenny said slowly, “given your skills at carving, that was foolish of him.”
A smile fluttered on his lips. “Indeed.”
“Would you know,” Jenny remarked, “I don’t believe I would have liked your grandfather.”