Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)
Three
Jemmy couldn’t believe the chit’s audacity. If his suspicions were right, she was running away from some sort of trouble, and here she was telling him to toss aside everything he held dear and start his life anew.
Why of all the—
Then a quiet voice whispered up from his heart, Perhaps you’ve already begun.
He shook his head. It wasn’t the same thing. He was doing what any gentleman would do— assisting a lady in need. It wasn’t the same as what she was suggesting.
Not in the least.
Then he looked into her eyes, at the passion behind her challenge. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt his heart beat, hammering in his chest. Not from struggling up the front steps of Finch Manor but from the thrill of living. Of being in the company of a woman.
Even a vexing one like Miss Smythe.
Gads, he’d spent the past hour flirting with the chit. He hadn’t wooed a woman in so long, he was surprised he still remembered how.
He glanced over at the stubborn tilt of her chin. Lord, if he didn’t know better he thought he should look for a gauntlet tossed between them.
“So what would you have me do?” he asked, almost afraid to hear what this hoyden would suggest.
Her eyes widened, as if she too were surprised by his inquiry. Though if she felt any hesitation, it didn’t last long. “To start with, return to Town,” she said, settling quite comfortably into her role as his guide. “I would advise you to partake in all the pursuits that young men do in London. All of them.”
He wondered if she truly understood what that meant. As if holding her in his arms, toppling onto the bed like a pair of lovers hadn’t been enough reminder of what he was missing. But London? Therein lay a life of mistresses and willing widows. Of flirtatious pursuits and passionate nights.
He was loath to admit it, but what she suggested terrified him, right down to his unpolished and scuffed boots.
Go back to Town? To have the eye of Society upon him? What if he fell? Or just stumbled? He’d look the buffoon. And worse than being laughed at, he didn’t want the pitying glances he knew would be directed at him, discreetly of course.
Hadn’t Miss Smythe, once she’d gained a look at his scarred face, scooted out of his grasp with all due haste? Lesson learned there.
No, he’d been foolish to dream of military grandeur in the first place, and now he preferred to exhibit his mislaid and tattered ideals in private.
“I have no desire to go to London,” he told her, picking up the reins and urging the horse forward again.
She laughed. “Liar. Tell me you wouldn’t love to spend an afternoon at Tatt’s? Or off in one of those clubs you men find so satisfying?” She paused for a second. “What does go on at White’s? I would so love to see that infamous betting book.”
“Inside White’s?” He nearly dropped the ribbons. “That is certainly no place for a lady.” Now he was convinced the chit was mad. A young woman inside those hallowed halls? Never!
“But it is for a gentleman?” she argued. “How is that? I’ve never understood the distinction.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his explanation.
“Well…well…” he began. “Oh, demmit, suffice it to say it is not a fit place for you. Or any lady.”
“If I wasn’t going to Brighton, I think I might want to discover the truth for myself.”
That did it for Jemmy. He would see her on the mail coach for Brighton if he had to pay the fare himself and bribe the driver to keep her locked inside the coach until she was at the very edge of the sea, well and good away from White’s.
They continued along the lane in silence and he tried his best to ignore the wicked smile tilting her lips. Gads, what the devil was she imagining with such a look on her face?
“Don’t you want to hear what else I would do?” she offered just then.
“No!” he shot back. “It’s bad enough I’m bound for the Bramley Hollow gallows, but I won’t lose my membership at Brook’s as well.”
“At this pace you’ll have us both dancing to the hangman’s tune.” She laughed and took the reins from him, giving them a confident toss. The horse responded by picking up its pace. “Besides, ’tis a long way to Brighton, and I haven’t the time to tarry.”
He retrieved the ribbons from her grasp, his pride once again piqued. He might not make an elegant leg, but he could still drive a cart. “What has you in such a hurry?”
That stopped her smug stance. “As I said before, the matter is personal.”