Wide-eyed with disbelief and too delirious to stop herself, Jessie hurried around the desk to give her brother an affectionate hug, the first such embrace between them in years.
Amos recoiled from her at once. Grasping her upper arms, he peeled her from his person. “Jessamine! Please! Recall yourself at once!”
Jessie retreated, stung. “Yes, of course. I... thank you, Amos. I-I don’t know what came over me,” she said as stoically as she was able, and then turned to go, her eyes misting.
She didn’t know why it should surprise her so each time he rebuffed her, but it never failed to do so. And yet, this once, she had a concession from him, at least. She refused to feel dispirited.
He’d not always been so heartless, and she couldn’t help but ponder what could have changed him so—though she had a very good idea.Their father.Always it came back to their father. His Grace the Duke of Westmoor had lived the most unapproachable of lives, and Amos, in trying to prove his worthiness, was fast becoming a perfect replica of him.
Her older brother, Thomas, who’d been two years Amos’ senior, had been their father’s indisputable favorite. Poor Amos had lived in the shadow of that fact, trying so very hard to measure up, even unto the end. All for naught; after word had arrived of Thomas’ death, their father had simply lost the will to live. She and Amos had not been enough to keep him happy and healthy. It had happened so quickly that Jessie sometimes wondered whether her father’s death had, indeed, been a natural passing. But then, just as quickly, she discarded the ugly notion. His physician had declared it to be his heart, and that’s what Jessie wished to believe.
But it confounded her that her father had worried Amos would never measure up to the title, for Jessie thought Amos was more like their father than any of his three children—Thomas included. Like their father, Amos would take great pains to insure his victory, she knew. But in this matter of her life, Jessie vowed to fight him unto the bitter end. He didn’t like to lose, she knew, but perhaps in time he would come to forgive her.
If he saw that she was happy...
She was miserable.
God forgive her, but she had the most overwhelming desire to turn her goblet of good Madeira over Eliza’s gaping bosom. There was absolutely no denying it, the evening was a miserable disaster. Jessie had hoped her brother would come to admire Lord Christian as she had, but sadly that was not to be.
Eliza, to the contrary, seemed to have taken to him quite well, she thought sullenly, and if she continued to admire him so openly, she’d cause Amos’ antipathy to wax irreversible tonight!
Amos sat in resolute silence, regarding—or rather, disregarding—their guest with an air of disaffected aloofness, while Eliza never averted her eyes from him, even for an instant. Understandably, it was becoming more and more difficult for Amos to retain his air of indifference. Jessie’s sole comfort was the fact that Christian seemed not to note any of the tumult surrounding him. That, or he simply could not be offended.
“M’lord,” Eliza purred, taking a dainty sip from the finely etched crystal goblet she held in her hand. She waved the glass beneath her nostrils, sniffing deeply of its sweet contents, her breasts rising with the effort. “You haven’t said what it is, precisely, you plan to do with your newly acquired estate.” She leaned further, swinging her goblet airily. “You will refurbish it,of course, but have you decided upon a particular architect as yet?”
“I’m afraid I have not, Countess, though tell me...” Christian’s gaze shifted from Amos’ choleric face to that of his beautiful, simpering wife. “Have you an interest in that sort of thing?”
If he truly wished to avenge himself upon Westmoor, Amos’ flirty little wife was extending him the perfect opportunity. Though he found her golden good looks and rehearsed elegance quite irksome at the moment. God’s teeth, for the pained expression upon Jessie’s face, he wanted to strike her dumb—he who had never laid a finger upon any woman in anger.
“Oh, yes!” Eliza assured. “Perhaps, my lord, you might even find me”—She smiled prettily, puckering her lips in blatant invitation—”of some assistance when the time comes?” She cocked her head suggestively. “We are neighbors, after all?”
“Perhaps,” Christian yielded, his lips curving ruefully. “Perhaps I shall, madame.”
His gaze returned to Jessie, and he found her expression apologetic. He smiled, reassuring her and her features softened in response. His heart squeezed a little. It was inconceivable that she should look at him so adoringly. Incomprehensible, and God help him, he found himself reluctant to tear his gaze away.
“What I would like to know,” Amos interjected, his tone frothing with rancor, “is how you intend to finance such a venture. Correct me if I am mistaken, sirrah, but you haven’t the first resource from which to draw the necessary funds in order to undertake such a monumental task—much less to complete it.” Provoked by Christian’s inattention, he persisted, “It was my understanding that Rose Park is just short of desolation, a miserable estate, if ever I’ve seen one.”
Tearing his gaze away from Jessie, Christian arched a brow. Rose Park might not be the grandest estate, but it was his now,regardless that some would say he’d gained it by disreputable means. His lips turned faintly at the corners. “So then, you have seen the estate?” He smiled, knowing bloody well Westmoor had not personally set eyes upon the property—his whoreson agent had.
“Well,” Amos dissembled, glancing at his sister and taking a deliberately casual bite of his lemon-seasoned sole. “Not precisely... Let us simply say I have it from a very reliable source—but you have yet to answer my question, Haukinge.”
“Amos,” Jessie interjected. “Perhaps it is none of our concern?”
Back to the business of championing him, was she?
Christian watched as Amos turned to pierce his sister with a glare. Bastard. His gut wrenched. Perhaps this time she might appreciate reinforcement. Christian, for certain, had digested more than enough for one evening. He waited until Amos was finished berating his sister and then met and held his gaze. It was curious how similar in color his eyes appeared to Jessie’s... and how very different. Hers fairly sparkled with life and warmth, while Amos’ were cold and removed. Wholly devoid of compassion.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” he said. “While ’tis certainly true I’ve no real English assets?—”
“Of course you do!” Jessie argued in defense of him. She glared at her brother. “You have Rose Park!” She gave him a fleeting nod and then turned once more to glower at her brother, daring to rebuke him on Christian’s behalf.
Christian nearly laughed outright at her militant expression—the vixen. He found himself wishing, not for the first time this night, that she were sitting beside him, not across the blasted table. What he wouldn’t give breathe the essence of her beside him, inhale it into his soul. The thought alone aroused him.
“So I do,” he relented, chuckling low. “Though as your brother can attest, Jessamine, Rose Park cannot as yet be considered an asset, per se. It is, in fact, a liability at present, though rest assured. Simply because I’ve no English land to speak of is not to say I’ve no assets at all. Rose Park shall not remain a liability for long.’’
“Truly?” Eliza asked, intrigued now in earnest. “How exciting!” She cast Amos a tight little smile, and then turned to regard Christian with slitted eyes. “I doubt my husband was aware of that fact, m’lord. Do tell us more. I so enjoy discussing one’s…” Her gaze slid to her husband as she emphasized with raised brows. “... assets.” Leaning seductively forward, she managed to display a sight more of her abundant cleavage.
Christian choked upon his Madeira, nearly spitting it upon the white linen table cloth.
