Page 24 of Jaxon (Gentlemen of War #4)

Amelia

I quirked a brow but left the conversation hanging. He was impressed? About me?

Reflecting on our conversation, I came to the conclusion that this man certainly knew more about London society than he let on. He lives in a hunting lodge, wears buckskin trousers, which I must confess offered their own appeal, but as we walked arm in arm and spoke of societal events, it only confirmed to me that there was more to Jack than what he wished to reveal.

But why?

After his remarks at dinner last night over the exhibits in the British Museum, it piqued my interest. While he admitted to being well read, there were little comments he made here and there that showed a side of him not unaccustomed to high society, and this captivated me even more.

We walked closer to the bank and the river did not seem as terrifying as it had two nights ago. Yet, in the daylight, we could see that the bridge was completely destroyed—and without the means to cross the river safely we were surely stranded.

“The men and I will get to work repairing the bridge today,” he assured.

“How long do you think it might take?” I asked, though I realized even if the bridge was somehow completed in one day, I had no means to reach the lecture in time. The disappointment stung, but I had surpassed the selfishness of the quest and only grieved the part that involved Peter.

Looking back at how I behaved I was mildly embarrassed. I needed to seek forgiveness from my staff, and part of that meant making amends with Jack and his staff as well, only I did not know how.

As we continued to walk in silence like a couple strolling along Rotten Row, the peace of the surroundings soothed me in a most surprising way. Especially knowing how much I adored the hustle and bustle of London’s vibrancy. I treasured the city, rarely venturing to the country. Even when Father retreated to our country estate for the six-month hiatus from parliament, I remained in London. The sights, smells, and sounds truly felt like my breath of life. That is, until I learned of Peter’s death, then everything around me generated a memory—memories that at one time invoked happiness and excitement but now only infused pain. If it weren’t for my friendship with Elizabeth, I am uncertain where my sadness would have led me.

I took a deep breath and allowed all the foreign scents a chance to infiltrate my soul, marveling at the feelings that had surfaced. Though I could not name them all, other than the fragrances I was accustomed to in perfumes, the various aromas intrigued me. Instead of loathing the outdoors like I thought I might, being here with Jack beside me brought an element of peace I did not know I craved… until now.

“That smells like eucalyptus,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Yes.” Jack smiled, and a lightness appeared in his eyes. “The eucalyptus trees are some of my favorites. And cedar.” He pointed toward the house where a row of gigantic trees peered over the rooftop. “My brother and I once attempted to build a treehouse in one.” He chuckled and the sound was as soothing as the calm that washed over me. “It failed miserably.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yes, older by a few years, and two younger sisters.” He paused. “And I’m fiercely protective of them.” His words struck a chord. While Lester was good to me, much like an heir with responsibilities, it was Peter who behaved the part of a protector. What would he think of Jack? I wondered. Truly, I already knew that he would like him immensely, even the coarse parts.

Glancing over at Jack, his smooth complexion appeared quite content in this country life and, in the oddest sort of way, I felt envious of that content. As we continued to walk in companionable silence, my mind wandered over my future.

In truth, I believed the only manner in which I might find pure satisfaction would be with my freedom to choose my own path, whatever it may be.

Later that night when all had retired, I slipped downstairs and toward the hearth that was kept at a minimal glow. Glancing around and assured of my solitude, I removed my stockings and pressed my toes into the fur rug, cherishing the softness against my skin. I had yearned to do such a thing since the moment I saw it.

Angling one of the wingback chairs to face the fire, I warmed myself before I opened my book and began reading under the low lights. I had read this text on the travels of Sir Richard Hoare once before but wanted to take more specific notes of the locations of the rural sites for when I do go to Italy one day.

Before departing London, I had taken a map of the continent from my father’s study and tucked it inside the book prior to its being packed into my trunk. I was eternally grateful both had survived with little to no damage, and now excitedly comparing the book’s sketches to the map, yearning to have a greater understanding of the locales.

Fortunately, I discovered a piece of graphite in my desk drawer, along with a stack of parchment. The graphite stick would be considerably easier to use for notes than bringing quill and ink downstairs with me.

Once I received my dowry, Italy was sure to be one of the first places I would visit. I continued reading the next page and came across a vague description of a monastery’s location.

“No,” I muttered. “That can’t be right.”

“What can’t be right?” A low-timbred voice reached my ears.

I swung my head to the side to find Jack leaning against the column that separated the dining area, watching me. I had not even heard him arrive.

I snapped my book closed on the notes and map, sealing them inside and placing my hands over the book’s title to hide its identification. His eyes dropped to my lap, then followed down my legs to my exposed feet. Horrified at the memory of removing my stockings, I furtively curled them beneath the edge of the chair.

“N—nothing,” I stammered.

A mischievous smile emerged as he strode over and held his hand out. I clasped my hands tightly around the book as if my life depended on its proximity to my body. He wiggled his fingers. “Let me see what has you so flustered.”

“I am not flustered.”

“Then why are your cheeks pink?”

I felt the heat that had settled in them and knew that he was right, and they were certainly getting worse by the second.

“Come now,” he urged in a friendly tone. “We agreed to be friends. Let me see what you are reading.”

I handed it over reluctantly.

He peered at the title, astonishment transpiring. “ Recollections Abroad, by Sir Richard Hoare.” He then gazed at me. This time, admiration flashed through his eyes and it tickled my stomach.

Why would it matter to me what he thought?

“Tell me what your thoughts are on…” He flipped the book open and held the notes and map in his right hand. Glancing over the page, he continued, “the fortress ruins of Ansedonia and Saturnia and their subterraneous vaults.”

I pursed my lips together. I had never shared such opinions with a man outside of Peter.

One of his eyebrows raised. “I assure you, Amelia, I find your keen intellect rather refreshing so do not fear, I won’t judge you.”

Now my lips parted and a small gasp escaped. “You do not think it impertinent for a woman to be fond of such… coarse subjects?”

“Coarse?” He quirked a brow. “England was formed from such uncivilized historic beginnings. If it weren’t for inquisitive minds, we would know nothing of our origin.” He paused. “And as to your question, no. In truth, I wish more women were involved in academic sciences. We might have made greater strides by now.”

“You are in earnest?” I know I had asked him similarly on our walk, but I could not seem to comprehend that a man might actually wish to hear my position on a subject outside of music or fashion.

“Certainly. Now share with me your thoughts about these great antiquated civilizations.”

He handed the book and its pages back to me as he pulled another wingback chair forward, angling it toward mine. Sitting, he faced me as if this was to be a conversation between two Oxford Fellows.

I had yearned to speak of it to someone since I could no longer share my thoughts with my brother, and as I spoke of the discoveries Sir Richard Hoare had made in Italy, I was enormously thankful Jack did not make jest of it.

“Have you been to Italy?” he inquired.

“No.” I shook my head slowly. “Though I wish to see the ruins of Talamone, Orbitello, and Grosseto. Mr. Hoare speaks of their archaic magnificence and grandeur with a reverent adoration.”

“What of Rome?”

I smiled. “Yes, that one, too.”

As we conversed, it became quite apparent that Jack had an extensive knowledge of many subjects, and this only increased my own fascination. He carried on excellent conversation and his comments often intrigued me. I had already noticed he was not the brute of a man as he seemed in the beginning but was in fact quite intelligent, kind, and polite.

As we neared the end of our discussion of Italy, the fire had died down considerably and the ability to see clearly had become restricted. Not to mention the fact that we were alone in this room late into the night and, despite my attempt not to recognize the romantic overtures, my pulse often paced parallel to his words or proximity.

Jack stood to his feet and pushed his chair back in place. “Does your betrothed cherish your delightful mind, Amelia?”

Betrothed? I froze. I opened my mouth to respond, but I could not force the lie to continue.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “It is impertinent of me to speak of such personal matters.” He raised his arm. “Might you allow me to escort you back to your room?”

I remained still. I strangely desired for him to know that I was not betrothed and had only spoken out of anger and fear of what my host might presume. Managing a nod, I tucked my papers into my book and under one arm while I wrapped my other through his and, for a brief moment, I envisioned him escorting me out to the ballroom floor, regardless of my bare feet. Did Jack know how to dance? His broad awareness of all other subjects surely led to a knowledge of basic social interactions and pleasures. Did I wish for him to ask me to dance? I nearly choked at my swift response.

Undoubtedly.

We walked in silence until we reached the top of the stairs. “You promised a night of music, Jack,” I playfully suggested as we turned to approach my bedchamber door. “Might we have one tomorrow night?”

His lips lifted in a partial grin. Surprisingly, in our short acquaintance I had come to recognize the degrees of his smiles. The first one, of course, was his sardonic one… thankfully I had not seen that one reappear. Another was his mischievous, sly one like this one, and lastly, the full smile I had seen on our walk. I wasn’t sure which of the last two I preferred more.

“I believe that is certainly in order,” he said, drawing me from my woolgathering. “Would Daisy sing?”

I returned his smile. “She would if you asked her to and…” I hesitated. “Perhaps we could dance too? A—a c—country dance?” I risked a glance at him once more.

His eyes lit up and his full smile emerged. On second thought, this one is my favorite . “I believe Mr. and Mrs. Gentry, Anna, and Jesse would all delight in such a night. Possibly even Diggs and O’Keefe.”

“That would be lovely,” I said with a sigh.

I could not prevent the stirrings that prickled along my skin as Jack lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles like a fine gentleman would. His lips rested softly against my skin with the perfect amount of pressure.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “F—for escorting me,” I added quickly so he didn’t believe I was thanking him for kissing my hand, though it certainly deserved its own gratitude.

When he released my hand, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a long chain. As the locket appeared, I gasped. “Where did you find that?” I had believed my locket had disappeared forever.

He smiled softly. “I discovered it attached to a part of the carriage. I believe the picture inside is ruined. Hopefully your intended will not be too distraught by that.” There was an unmistakable woe to his voice.

“My intended?” I said distractedly, reaching out. I cupped the jewel tenderly in my hands, letting my fingers graze over the embellishments of its design. “Oh, indeed, m—my intended.” I wished I could take back that blatant lie and begin anew. “No, he won’t,” I whispered. I wanted to tell Jack the truth, but how would he receive the news that I lied to him? He would never trust me. I was a guest in his home, still unable to leave before they repaired the bridge. No, I needed to keep up the appearance that I was affianced and then, once we were gone, we would never cross paths again.

And suddenly that was a truly dispiriting thought.

I clicked open the locket, revealing that water had indeed ravaged most of the miniature inside, leaving just a faint outline of Peter’s head and a wisp of his hair. “It is my brother,” I declared, tilting it toward Jack so he could see. “He gave this to me the last night we were together.”

“Your brother?” he murmured, his gentle tone hinting he suspected a deeper story behind carrying such a keepsake. “What happened to him?”

Tears welled up and I could not hold them back. I blinked hard, fighting their release, but failed as they trailed my cheeks. Warm hands cradled my cheeks as thumbs brushed my skin, wiping the tears away but leaving a phantom sensation behind. My gaze cut to his. Jack’s blue eyes deepened in the flicker of the wall sconce’s firelight, brimming with nothing but compassion. My heart raced.

“He died in the war, didn’t he?”

I attempted to form words, but nothing came out, even when my lips parted and my mind wished to answer, nothing surfaced.

“We lost many honorable men over there,” he added. “Many, many good men.”

I tilted my head curiously. “You were there.” The words came out more as a statement than a question.

I could see part of his carefully constructed wall begin to crumble. He had revealed something about himself he did not wish to. Jack’s hands dropped to his sides and I instantly mourned the loss of his touch.

“Yes,” he said. “I was on the continent for several years.”

“What was it like?” I had recalled Peter’s letters, the ones that were sadly ruined, but I could not bring myself to discard them. They were so vague when describing the battles. “Peter spoke about the lovely scenery, the bland food, and the cold nights, but nothing of the war itself.”

Jack shook his head. “It is not something that should be shared in polite conversation.”

I reached out to grasp his sleeve but, in doing so, my hand clasped his. I should have removed it the moment I felt his skin, but I would not attempt to deny the warmth and comfort that came with the connection. We both peered down at my hand at the same time. “Please tell me,” I pleaded and lightly squeezed. “I want to know what it was like for him.”

Jack’s look was filled with sympathy. He threaded his strong and capable fingers through mine as he led me to a small, wooden bench at the end of the corridor, gesturing for me to sit before he let go of my hand. I wished he hadn’t. I yearned for the spark he generated with every touch.

Sighing heavily, he sat down beside me. As his shoulder gently brushed mine, he revealed a distant look. “I served on the Iberian Peninsula in 1812, and from there Germany and France. I saw many different men fighting in various capacities, but the one thing I saw in common was their love for this country. Men fought to the very end with a passionate desire to stop Napoleon. They fought for their mothers, fathers, brothers, and… sisters.”

I sniffled when he emphasized “sisters”, then in the most unladylike manner wiped my nose on my sleeve. I should have been mortified that Jack had seen such ill-mannered behavior, but he only retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. “Thank you,” I chuckled weakly between sniffles.

“Tell me about Peter,” Jack asked sweetly.

I smiled. I had not had many occasions to share such reflections recently. Elizabeth had heard everything I had to say, and Lester was newly married and living elsewhere. “Peter attended Cambridge and played cricket. It was one of his favorite sports. He took a beating but played with heart.”

Jack chuckled and looked pointedly down at his hand where a horseshoe scar appeared near his knuckles. Though he made no mention of how the scar came to be, he asked, “Was he a wicket-keeper?”

“Yes,” I responded with surprise.

“That is the most difficult position of all.”

Jack seemed quite familiar with the sport… once more advancing my curiosity. “He also loved to hunt Barbary ducks on my father’s property. Our cook hated plucking them, but they were delicious, and he was an exceptional shot, often bringing home five or six at a time.”

“There are a pair of Barbary ducks mounted in Mr. Duncan’s bedchamber.”

“Yes, I saw them the first time I visited his room. I don’t recognize all the animals you have here but a few.” Somehow, Jack had lifted my spirits by redirecting the conversation and I appreciated his efforts more than he might ever know.

“Did he like to read as much as you do?”

“More. He is the reason for my obsession, truly.” I laughed. “It is his fault I fell in love with history.”

“Who are his favorite authors?”

“He adored Jonathan Swift, Horace Walpole…”

“ The Castle of Otranto ,” he interjected.

“Yes,” I could barely keep my excitement contained. “I only finished it a few months ago. Have you read it?”

His smile grew and caused my heart to skip a beat. “I have, and I enjoyed it immensely,” he said so naturally. “Especially the appearance of his ghostly grandfather.”

“I particularly loved Isabella’s determination.”

“Yes,” Jack said with an unusual glint in his eye. “Reminds me of someone I have only recently become acquainted with.”

I laughed but did not respond, fearing I misunderstood his intent. “Peter also enjoyed the work of Thomas Amyot. We both did.” I was reminded of why we were in this predicament and my intent to see him speak. It all seemed like ages ago now, though it had been mere days.

“I have read his collection of speeches,” Jack said.

“Upon his return, Peter was going to study under an associate of Amyot’s, Francis North, Earl of Guilford.” I swallowed hard. “Peter’s last letter said he hoped to return by Michaelmas, but he never did…” Just saying those words out loud caused my breath to suspend.

“I’m so sorry, Amelia.” Jack’s hand returned to mine as if compelled by an invisible draw. The tenderness of his touch warmed my heart. “No sister should have to endure such news.”

“His letters were destroyed in the carriage accident. This is all I have now.” I pinched the locket between my fingers. “At times, I find I cannot even stomach the idea of anything French. I am angry and hurt. I feel betrayed even considering French fashion.”

“I can see that,” he said. “But we must remember, there are sisters in France who are mourning their brothers’ deaths, too. Each side believed they were fighting for the right reasons.”

I had not considered this. I had been so consumed with the anger I felt for the enemy, I had not stopped to reflect on the innocent victims of the war… on both sides. “If only Napoleon had remained on Elba. If he had not escaped and fought one more dreadful battle, Peter would be here with me now.”

Jack’s muscles went rigid and his face turned pale. It surprised me to see how quickly his demeanor had shifted. “Waterloo,” he mumbled the word.

“Yes, Peter died at Waterloo,” I confirmed. Suddenly distracted by his shifting countenance as he pulled his hand away, I inquired, “Are you well?” Reaching for his forearm sleeve, I missed as he stood abruptly, not so much that it appeared rude, just careful. When his jaw tightened, I wondered if I had overstepped. Something in my sentence had triggered an ugly memory for him.

“Were you at Waterloo, Jack?” I asked.

His gaze shifted to mine and something distant and cold replaced the warmth. “The Battle of Mont-Saint-Jean,” he whispered in a slightly haunted voice. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat then opened them again. “Will you be fine getting to your bedchamber?”

My brows furrowed. I was only a few steps away from my door, so naturally, I would be fine, but my mind drifted to Jack and what internal torment waged within. “Yes, of course.”

“I forgot to check the horses before I turned in for the night. I bid you goodnight.” He nearly bowed, fumbling with his neckcloth as if it was tied too tight.

“Bid me goodnight?” I said, my voice laced with surprise. “Who are you truly, Jack? I’ve never heard a tradesman utter those words.”

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, and he seemed to bury his discontent in a curt nod. “I was raised properly, Miss Amelia. Goodnight.”

He briskly circled about and took several steps away when I called out, “Jack?”

He stopped in place with only his head noticeably turned. His handsome profile glowed in the shadows of the sconced flame.

“Thank you.” I held up the necklace. “I am deeply obliged to you for bringing this back to me.”

He dipped his chin, then turned away, descending several steps at a time and disappearing out the front door as I remained motionless, wondering what I said or did to upset him so.