Page 1 of An Impulsive Kiss (Captivating Kisses #2)
Huntsworth, Surrey—1789
J udson Jarvis climbed from the carriage that had brought him home from his latest term at school. All the other boys had departed in the company of one or both their parents. An ache filled him each time he witnessed his fellow students greeting their parents, who enfolded their sons in happy embraces before leading them to the vehicle that would take them home.
Not Judson. His mother had died giving birth to him, while his father was continually in poor health and never left home. Because of that, Judson’s uncle lived at Huntsberry and was in charge of the marquess’ country estate, making all decisions regarding the land and its tenants.
Uncle Jeremiah never bothered to come for his nephew. Instead, he would send the carriage and merely have a footman and the coachman see that the heir apparent was delivered safely back to Huntsworth.
He thanked Tim, his favorite footman, who said, “I’ll see your trunk is brought to your room, my lord.”
“Thank you for bringing me home, Tim. You are a loyal and faithful servant. When I am the marquess someday, I will not forget your kindness to me.”
Tim beamed at him. “All in a day’s work, my lord. Happy to be of service to you.”
Judson entered the house, being greeted by Mrs. Clippman. He saw pity in the housekeeper’s eyes, something he saw repeatedly when other people looked at him. He was old enough to understand that sympathy showed compassion, whereas pity only showed how others felt sorry for him.
“Good evening, Mrs. Clippman. May I see my father, or is he already asleep?”
The last time he had been home from school, Papa had been more ill than usual. He had not received a single letter from his father this term and had tried to keep his growing panic at bay, fearful he would return home only to find Papa gone for good.
The housekeeper shook her head. “Mr. Jarvis told me to give you some milk and bread and see you to bed, my lord,” she said apologetically. “I’m certain you will be allowed to see his lordship tomorrow sometime. Your uncle, too.”
Anxiously, Judson asked, “How is Papa?”
“I am not a physician, my lord,” the housekeeper said crisply. “Mr. Jarvis will be able to tell you all about Lord Huntsberry’s condition when you see him in the morning.”
He knew the woman could tell him exactly the state of his father’s health, but she—like every servant in this household—was terrified of his uncle.
“Then I will bid you goodnight, Mrs. Clippman,” Judson said, trudging up the stairs to his bedchamber.
His trunk awaited him, and he opened and unpacked the little he had brought home for the summer. Many of his clothes and other possessions had vanished, as always. He was ten years of age but small in size and stature, leading the bullies at school to pick on him unmercifully. They also stole his belongings. Judson had long ago learned not to bring anything of value to school with him because it would be taken. No one in authority would help him recover it. The school’s tutors and its headmaster all turned a blind eye to any bullying amongst the students. If they were asked, they would deny the practice even took place.
A maid arrived with a tray for him. He thanked her and then ate the bread and cheese, washing it down with the accompanying cup of milk. He was determined to see Papa tomorrow morning, even before he breakfasted with his uncle.
Judson changed into a nightshirt, folding his clothes neatly and placing them on the chair next to his bed. He was too young to have his own valet, but Papa had said once he reached twelve years of age, he would be allowed to have one. Even though Tim was a footman, Judson had already decided to see him promoted into the position.
One good thing was that sleep would come easily to him tonight, thanks to there being no one here to roust him from bed and torment him. At school, he was afraid to close his eyes, living in terror of when the other boys would come for him in the middle of the night. Sometimes, only a day passed between attacks. Other times, a week, two weeks, or even a month would go by. He was never lulled into thinking the bullying had come to an end, however. Larger boys always came for him. They treated him cruelly, sometimes beating him until he was so battered and bruised, he could barely move. They never touched his face, though, not wanting to leave a trace of their abuse toward him.
On some occasions, he had been doused in cold water and made to stand for hours, shivering, his teeth chattering loudly. Once, a group had even left him locked outside in the snow, barefoot, wearing only his sodden nightshirt. It had surprised him that he had not died in the bitter cold. At times, he had actually prayed for death to come, not thinking he could endure another minute of the cruelty.
Yet he loved learning. Despite the fact no adult intervened in the horrible attacks on him, Judson soaked up every bit of knowledge imparted to him. He was excellent at maths and gifted when it came to languages, especially Latin, Greek, and French. He knew one day he would be the Marquess of Huntsberry, and he wanted to be prepared intellectually when he came into his title.
He awoke early, washing and dressing quietly before slipping from his room, and heading across the hall to Papa’s bedchamber. His uncle had long ago taken over the rooms meant for the marquess, saying they went to waste since his brother only occupied the bedchamber. Resentment toward Uncle Jeremiah roiled through him again, and Judson wished his father would banish his younger brother from the estate. Yet even at his tender age, Judson understood how his father could not handle the duties of his rank, and that Uncle Jeremiah did serve a purpose in the household.
Not bothering to knock, he merely slipped into the room. Usually, a servant sat with Papa overnight, but he saw no one in the room doing so. He went and opened the curtains before going to his father’s bedside, taking in his gaunt frame and labored breathing. Papa was incredibly pale, looking worse than he ever had. Part of him believed this would be his last summer with Papa, and he worried about what life would be like with his parent gone.
Judson wrapped his hands around one of his father’s, wishing for a moment that he had a different father. One who was healthy. One like other boys had. His schoolmates talked about how their fathers had taught them how to hunt. Ride. Fish. Swim. Papa had never been strong enough to do any of those things, and Judson had never learned any of those skills. He was too afraid to ask his uncle to teach him any of them, and if he asked a servant to do so, they would likely be in trouble and even lose their position if they did so.
“I am thirsty,” his father whispered hoarsely, his eyes opening. In them, Judson saw recognition, and his father smiled weakly at him. “My boy.”
“I am here, Father. Home for the summer. Let me get you something to drink.”
He released his father’s hand and looked to the table by the bed. A bowl half-full of broth stood there. Turning back to Papa, he helped him to sit up a bit, plumping the pillows behind his back. Then he reached for the bowl and held it to his father’s lips. Papa took a couple of sips and closed his eyes.
“Do you want more?” he asked eagerly.
“No.” The word came out defeated.
Judson put the bowl down again and perched upon the bed. He took Papa’s hand in his again and sat, content to merely be in his presence. His love of learning had been instilled in him by his father, who was a voracious reader.
Papa’s eyes slowly opened again. “Tell me... about school.”
He had never shared how he had no friends, much less revealed the extent of the bullying. Instead, he only told Papa of the good things, not wanting him to worry.
“I took the spelling prize again this spring,” he said enthusiastically. “I also had two poems published in the school newspaper.”
For the next few minutes, he entertained Papa with amusing stories of things that had happened at school, as well as his other accomplishments. Judson paid dearly for each academic success, though. Many of the bullies struggled in their coursework, and they punished him for how well he did in every subject.
“It seems you have had... a lovely time, Judson.”
“I have learned so much, Papa,” he said, knowing that was a truth, even as he glossed over how awful the entire year had been. His suffering was nothing compared to Papa’s.
“I need to go down to breakfast, Papa,” he said. “Get some rest now. I will be back to see you later. I will read to you if you like.”
The marquess gazed at him intently, as if he could see into Judson’s soul. “Be a good man, my son. I am already so very proud of you.” Exhausted, his father closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He leaned over and kissed Papa’s cheek before he left the room, making his way downstairs. Entering the breakfast room, he saw his uncle already there. Another man was present, as well, and Judson recognized Lord Blackwell. The earl was a frequent visitor to Huntsworth. Judson thought the nobleman to be a braggart and a drunk.
“Good morning, Uncle Jeremiah, my lord,” he said, taking a place at the table.
Immediately, a cup of milk and plate of food were set in front of him by different footmen. He had to force himself not to gobble it down.
“How were your marks this term?” his uncle asked.
“I earned top marks, Uncle,” Judson replied. “I scored the highest in each subject of any boy in my class.”
His uncle did not congratulate him, but Lord Blackwell said, “You might be smart, but you are still a scrawny little thing, aren’t you? When are you going to get some meat on your bones?”
He wished he could reveal that often much of his food was stolen from him by other boys, and that was the reason why he was so thin. Instead, he kept his mouth closed, knowing the earl didn’t expect a response from him.
Lord Blackwell, whom Judson suspected had been a bully during his own school days, pushed harder, saying, “It is too bad you are not like your uncle here. Why, Jarvis was the most fit, athletic student during our schooldays. He could shoot with great accuracy and was by far the best rider, both then and now.”
“My nephew takes after his parents, Blackwell. You know that. His mother was so fragile, she died giving birth to her brat. And my brother has never been strong. He emerged from the womb a weakling and has been so all his life. Huntsberry always had a tutor at home and never spent a single term away at school.”
Judson hadn’t known that about Papa and wished he, too, could be educated at home.
Boldly, he asked, “Would that be possible for me to do, Uncle Jeremiah? I am far ahead of my peers in my work. If I were able to remain at Huntsworth and continue my studies with a tutor, I could progress much further and faster.”
“No,” his uncle said bluntly, squashing Judson’s hopes. “School is where you will stay. I do not have time to look after you, since your father has thrust all the responsibilities of the Marquess of Huntsberry upon me, while I can never hold the title.”
His gaze pierced Judson. “I should have been the one who inherited everything. I was the one who was always stronger and cleverer. You are a little weakling—just as your father is.”
The harsh words washed over him, bringing hurt. He had never had much attention from his uncle, but he had also never been spoken to in such a sour manner. It was obvious his uncle’s hatred and resentment ran deeply, for both his brother and nephew.
Judson glanced about the room and saw the pity in one of the footman’s eyes. The servant averted his gaze.
Knowing he would be severely punished, he still looked directly at Uncle Jeremiah and said, “But you are a second son, aren’t you, Uncle? I am the heir apparent. One day, I will be the Marquess of Huntsberry. And you will not.”
His uncle frowned deeply. “Insolence does not suit you, Boy.” He signaled a footman. “Remove his food.”
The footman did so, and Judson wondered when he would have his next meal.
“Go to your bedchamber. I will deal with you later,” his uncle ground out. As Judson rose, he warned, “I better not find you anywhere else. You are not to visit your father without my permission.”
“Yes, Uncle,” he said meekly, leaving the breakfast room.
Returning to his bedchamber, he was thankful he had already visited with Papa earlier. He could live without the food, but he wondered how long Uncle Jeremiah would keep him from Papa’s side.
Thankfully, in times such as these, he was not bored. Reading was his favorite pastime, and Judson enjoyed escaping into other worlds, pretending he was someone brave and strong, such as Odysseus. Underneath his bed, he kept the complete works of William Shakespeare. He pulled the massive tome from its hiding place now. He remained on the floor, opening the book, and placing it in his lap. In case his uncle did come to see him, it would be easy to close the book and slide it under the bed and pretend he was merely sitting on the floor, staring into space.
Several hours passed, and he ignored the hunger pangs in his belly as he read Part 1 of Henry IV , chuckling to himself about Falstaff’s antics. Then he sensed the door opening, and he quickly placed his volume of Shakespeare under the bed. As he shot to his feet, he saw Tim closing the door. The footman hurried toward him, handing him a wrapped cloth. Judson opened it, finding a slice of bread and a hunk of cheese.
“Eat quickly, my lord,” Tim urged. “I heard your uncle is coming to see you soon.”
Gratitude filled him. “Thank you, Tim.”
The footman winked at him. “Can’t have you going hungry now, can we, my lord?”
He hurried from the room, and Judson quickly ate half of what had been brought. The rest, he wrapped back in the cloth Tim had brought it in and placed it on the floor behind the window’s curtains. His uncle would never think to look there. If Uncle Jeremiah cared to search the room, he would likely go for the wardrobe first and then the trunk. He might possibly look under the mattress or bed, only finding the volume of the bard. The food should be safe in its hiding place.
Another hour passed, and he wondered if Uncle Jeremiah would make an appearance or not. Suddenly, the door flew open, startling him. He was glad he had moved to the window seat.
“Come,” his uncle ordered.
Not knowing where they were going, trepidation set in. He crossed the room, moving toward his uncle, who stepped into the corridor and then moved into Papa’s bedchamber. Relief swept through him, but it quickly dissipated when he spied his father. His breathing was harsh and sporadic, and his face was bright red, as if from fever.
Judson ran to the bed and touched Papa’s forehead. “He is burning up,” he cried. “Send for the doctor.”
“I have,” Uncle Jeremiah said. “It will not do any good. This is the end. Say your goodbyes.”
A lump formed in his throat, making it almost impossible to speak. He forced it down as tears swam in his eyes. Judson cradled Papa’s cheeks.
“I love you, Papa. Please, don’t leave me.”
It was as if his father could no longer hear him, though. His breathing now rattled loudly and was so erratic, Judson worried that each breath Papa took would be his last. He found himself climbing onto the bed, curling up at his father’s side, one arm possessively over him.
In his head, he silently repeated over and over, Please, don’t go. Please, don’t go.
His father shuddered violently, and Judson held tightly onto him, knowing this was the end and wanting to convey his love for this gentle, kind man.
Then Papa wheezed a final time—and was still.
Judson continued to lie still, not ever wanting to let go, but his uncle harshly commanded, “Get up.”
Reluctantly, he did so, taking a seat in the chair next to the bed.
“I will stay with him until the doctor arrives.”
Uncle Jeremiah came to stand next to him. He clasped Judson’s shoulder so firmly that a small yelp emerged.
“You will go to your bedchamber and remain in it. You are no longer needed here.”
Stubbornly, he said, “I will stay with Papa. I do not want him left alone.”
His uncle’s fingers squeezed tightly, but this time, Judson refused to make a sound.
Seeing his defiance, Uncle Jeremiah then lifted Judson by his shirtfront, dragging him across the room and to his bedchamber.
Tossing him onto the floor, he said, “You will stay here. Until I return.”
Contempt for his only living relative filled him. “I am now the Marquess of Huntsberry. I will do as I wish.”
Uncle Jeremiah gaped at him—and then broke out in laughter. Anger burned through Judson.
“You are but a mere boy,” his uncle pointed out. “I am your guardian. Until you reach your majority at one and twenty, you will dance to the tune I play.”
Judson spent the next three days locked in his room. Servants came at regular intervals with a tray, but not one would speak to him. He spent much of his time at the window, watching the comings and goings since it faced the front lawn. The local doctor arrived soon after Judson’s confinement. Then neighbors came, including the Marquess and Marchioness of Aldridge, whose estate bordered Huntsworth. He assumed they came to pay their respects.
Finally, he saw the wooden coffin bearing his father’s body leave the house. It was placed in a cart and driven away. Shortly afterward, his uncle and Lord Blackwell left in the marquess’ carriage. Judson supposed they were going to Alderton, the nearby village. A section in the church’s graveyard was given over to the Jarvis family. He only hoped Papa was being laid to rest next to Mama.
It was late when the carriage returned. Only Uncle Jeremiah climbed from it, and Judson wondered where Lord Blackwell was. Shortly afterward, a knock sounded on his door, and Clippman entered. The butler had deep circles under his eyes, and Judson thought the servant must have sat vigil each night at his former employer’s side.
“My lord, Mr. Jarvis wishes to speak to you in the study.”
“I am allowed to leave to go and see him?” he asked, not wanting to anger his uncle.
“Yes, my lord.” The butler paused. “May I express my deepest regrets to you on the loss of Lord Huntsberry?”
“Yes, thank you, Clippman. I appreciate your words.”
The butler led him to the study. It was a room Judson had always enjoyed being in. He and Papa had spent many hours there, reading together, talking over history and religion and even a bit of politics.
When he entered, his uncle sat at Papa’s desk. Fury filled him, but Judson knew if he lashed out, it would do no good. His uncle was just as much a bully as those boys at school. He decided he would bide his time. It would take years.
But he would have revenge on Jeremiah Jarvis—and anyone else who had ever hurt him.
Clippman closed the door, and Judson stepped forward. “You wished to see me, Uncle?”
“Yes.” His uncle rose and came from behind the desk. “Have a seat.”
He took one next to the window, while his uncle sat opposite him.
“The solicitor has come and gone. Everything is official. I am your guardian and the executor of my brother’s estate until you reach your majority.” Bitterness crossed his face. “Even in death, I do the work of the Marquess of Huntsberry, yet I am denied the title.”
Fear filled him. The only thing standing between Uncle Jeremiah and the title was Judson himself. He would not put it past his uncle to do something dastardly and put an end to him. But he could never allow Uncle Jeremiah to see any sign of weakness. He must behave as if nothing had changed. Still, from this moment going forward, Judson would be on guard. He would never drink or eat anything his uncle offered him. He would do his best to never be alone with him. He wanted to live.
And be the best man he could in order to honor his father.
Uncle Jeremiah studied him. “You are too delicate. So very weak. You took the worst qualities from both your parents.” He paused. “It will be my job to toughen you up. Make you a man.”
Judson did not like the sound of that, but he did not react.
“Remove your clothes,” Uncle Jeremiah ordered.
“What?” he cried, leaping to his feet.
“You heard me. As I am your guardian and in charge of this estate, I am not to be questioned. No servant will ever stand against me. Do as I say.”
Bile rose in his throat. Even if he attacked, trying to claw his uncle’s eyes, he would prove no match for the older man. Jeremiah Jarvis was thirty years of age and in the prime of his life.
Having no choice, Judson stripped off his clothes and stood, jaw locked, glaring at his uncle, whose eyes roamed his nephew’s thin, bruised, scarred body.
“I see you have a few bruises,” Uncle Jeremiah noted. “It seems your school chums have also tried to make you a man.”
“Beating me will not make me a man,” he responded, causing his uncle to slap him.
Judson saw stars, but he did not cry out. Did not whimper. He merely stood his ground. He had already had plenty of practice doing so.
His uncle retrieved a cane. “It pains me to do this, but someone has to make a man out of you.”
He took each blow without a word. The cane cut into him, and Judson knew he would have scars from it. But he would never give his uncle the satisfaction of hearing a single squeak come from him. He would take anything doled out by this horrible man.
And return it sevenfold when he became an adult.
“You may dress again,” Uncle Jeremiah said, removing his handkerchief and wiping the cane. Judson stared at the blood. From that moment, his heart became encased in ice.
He decided he would never feel any emotion again, other than hate. He would allow his hate to grow, feeding it steadily over the years, until he exacted his revenge. On his uncle. On every boy who had struck and mocked him. His father had wanted his son to be a good man, but Judson knew as the years progressed, any good inside him would be beaten away, leaving him thirsting for revenge.
When the time came, he would punish everyone who had wronged him. Injured him. Wounded and harmed and terrorized him. Judson knew it would cost him his soul.
And he didn’t care.