The first gift brought to Marsh House was a magnificent chestnut stallion, his mane and tail threaded with red silk ribbons. A blood red rose graced the horse's bridle. The stallion was an incredibly inappropriate gift for a woman, especially an unwed girl of good family. A young boy dressed in the livery of the Dunbars’ held out the note.
I would court you.
Jemma ran her fingers through the thick mane of the stallion, reveling in the horse's beauty. She stood for several moments, her heart softening, until she remembered her stallion Ajax, a gift from her father. Her horse was probably languishing in Preston Jones’ stable right now, payment for one of Augie's debts. The thought strengthened her resolve. She sent the young boy and the stallion back with a note of her own.
No.
Two days later, another, even more inappropriate gift arrived. A large wooden box which when opened, revealed a brace of pistols with intricately carved ivory handles bearing Jemma's initials. This time the note read;
I would take you hunting in Scotland. The Highlands are beautiful this time of year.
She ran her fingers over the pistols, marveling at the workmanship. They must have cost Nick a small fortune. She thought of her first meeting with him and the inclination she'd had to shoot him for his arrogance. Jemma hastily scribbled a reply.
I am afraid the temptation to shoot you would be too great, Your Grace.
Now, another gift arrived.
“Do open it.” Aunt Mary took a bite of a berry scone as Jemma untied the ribbon, then choked on her scone as the contents of the box were revealed. “Goodness me.”
Jemma pushed aside a pile of tissue paper and lifted out a beautiful pair of doeskin riding breeches. She marveled at the softness of the leather, knowing instinctively that they would fit perfectly. Nick was ridiculously enamored of her predilection for breeches. He would know that she would only wish to ride astride, not sidesaddle as the ladies of thetondid
The note accompanying the breeches read;
I planned to take you riding in Hyde Park, but alas, you returned the horse.
Petra clapped her hands at the sight of the gift, barely sparing a glance at her mother, who was now fanning herself furiously.
“How very scandalous of your duke.” Petra was not the least upset that the duke's affections now fell on Jemma.
“He is not my duke,” Jemma snapped at her cousin. “I find his gifts to be tiresome and his pursuit of me to be folly.” She set the box in front of Petra. “Have them sent back, please.”
“As you will, cousin, but I do not think His Grace would have pliedmewith such luxuries.” Petra covered up the breeches with tissue and carefully retied the ribbon about the box.
“Niece,” Aunt Mary lay back against the tufted cushions of the couch, “whatever the cause of your falling out, surely it can be remedied. The duke is determined to win back your affection. Lord Marsh is very much in favor of the match.”
“We do not suit.” Jemma took a sip of her tea and dared Aunt Mary to contradict her. “At all.”
Aunt Mary merely raised a brow at her tone and turned her attention to Petra.
Jemma fumed and sipped her tea. She wished Nick,His Grace, would just leave well enough alone. Hard enough to come to terms with the fact that she was not Jemma Manning, but Jane Emily Grantly, that the Corbetts whom she thought of as her family, cared more for her wealth than herself. She supposed she should not really be surprised that the fortune hunter who took her virtue was really a duke. Why the ruse? Why had Nick been in Bermuda?
She tried to wrap her head around the events of over a year ago, going over every detail carefully in her mind, but ended up only causing herself to either rail at Nick or lie weeping as she thought of her father. The uneasiness and confusion of her father’s false identity mixed with Nick’s own deception left her angry at both men, but only Nick she blamed for the disaster of that night at Sea Cliff.
* * *
“Miss Jane Emily,”Anna, the maid, stuck her head through the door of Jemma's bedchamber. They are waiting for you downstairs. Lady Marsh bids you to hurry or you will make the entire family late.”
Jemma turned and straightened, smoothing down her skirts, wishing she could admire the beauty of the green silk taffeta, but her dread at the upcoming event cancelled out any joy she may have felt at the loveliness of the gown or the upcoming ball.
“A moment,” she instructed the maid, thinking of escape and wistfully glancing at her open window and the trellis beneath it. She’d tried to plead illness to avoid the ball tonight, but Uncle John called her bluff with a visit by his own physician, who pronounced Jemma fit as a fiddle. More sternly than she’d ever seen him, Uncle John told her pointedly that he would not tolerate her further disobedience.
As she made her way down the stairs, her hand lingering against the balustrade, she thought of her father. He had never spoken again after that horrible night, but only lay in his bed, his eyes following Jemma's every movement as she mopped his brow. She sensed he wished to speak to her, but when she gave him pen and paper, he turned his face to the wall.
“No amount of gifts or platitudes can replace my father.” She felt a fresh rush of anger towards Nick and held on to it tightly. “Nick has much to answer for.”
“There you are.” Rowan's cheery tone floated up to her. “I worried that I would need to come up and fetch you.”
Her cousin looked especially dashing tonight in his black tailored evening clothes. His dark brown hair gleamed in the candlelight and his face held a slightly impish look.
