Wicked Wager. Julia Justiss

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      “Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliams, but for this occasion only, I shall accept Lord Nelthorpe’s escort.”

      “You are sure that is your wish?” Fitzwilliams asked.

      “It is.”

      “Very well, ma’am.” He made her a bow. “Returning to an unfamiliar land, even the land of your birth, can be unsettling, as I have reason to know. Call on me if I may help in any way. My aunt will visit you soon. Nelthorpe.”

      The two men exchanged stiff nods. After one last, quizzical look, Mr. Fitzwilliams walked away.

      “You miserable cur!” Jenna hissed as soon as Fitzwilliams was out of earshot. “With Garrett barely cold in his grave, how dare you approach me? Not even you could be arrogant enough to think you might still recoup your fortunes by trying once again to force me into wedlock!”

      For an instant he stood utterly still, surprise—or was it chagrin?—on his face, giving her the satisfaction of knowing her attack had rendered him speechless.

      “Excellent as that idea might be,” he replied, “I must confess ’twas not my intention—for the moment. I wished only to offer my condolences and my sincerest thanks for the mercy that saved my sorry skin.”

      Though she watched closely, she could find no undercurrent of mockery, no hint of arrogance in the tone of his self-deprecating words. Even the sardonic smile she’d come to associate with him had been replaced by an expression at once wry—and charming. Her face heating, she wondered if her harsh words had been overhasty.

      After all, she had not spoken to Nelthorpe—when he wasn’t out of his head with pain and fever—in three years.

      Three years with the army could bring about a lifetime of changes in a man, for good or ill.

      Before she could decide how to respond, he swayed slightly and had to take a half step to catch himself. Sweat glistened on his forehead and she noted shadowed, redrimmed eyes that hinted of nights with little sleep.

      Had he come here still half-disguised from last night’s carousing? Perhaps her verbal assault had not been premature, if he’d lost no time after returning to London in resuming his habits of dissipation.

      “You wish to return to the parlor?” he asked, offering his arm.

      “Yes,” she said, ignoring it, “as soon as I have delivered this message. Though I appreciate your…courtesy in coming to convey your regrets, in future you will not be received in this house—or in any other in which I reside. Nor do I intend to recognize you, should we meet by chance elsewhere. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

      His lips curved in a smile that looked—regretful? “Perfectly. And, I grant, you have a perfect right to feel that way. But if I’m not to be permitted to speak again, I beg a few minutes more now. Please, Lady Fairchild?”

      She opened her lips to reply that she had no interest in anything further he could say, but something about his appearance made her hesitate. Though she would never have believed it possible, the wretch looked…penitent?

      A ruse, no doubt, but perhaps she could permit him one last speech. “I suppose I can spare another moment.”

      “Thank you,” he said with what must be false humility. “When you found me on the field below Mont St. Jean, I thought you an angel. Though—” he broke into a grin “—before you feel moved to point it out, I hasten to add that I realize, were I to make my final crossing of the river Styx, it’s unlikely angels would be dispatched to greet me. Given what you know of my character, I’m surprised you didn’t leave me to finish the job of bleeding to death. Had you not stopped, I most certainly would have. And though at times during my recovery I wasn’t sure surviving was truly preferable, I still want to thank you.”

      She could read only sincerity in his expression, which made him so unlike the Nelthorpe she’d known that she was uncertain what to respond. At last she said, “I would hope I would offer assistance to any wounded, friend—or foe.”

      “Which just shows my initial impression was correct. You are indeed an angel.”

      Baffled, she shot her gaze to his face, but could detect in his tone neither sarcasm nor irony.

      Perhaps he had changed. If his pallor and unsteady gait were the vestiges of a drinking spree, he’d hardly be the only soldier to enjoy a liquid homecoming celebration.

      Feeling guilty again, she said, “I am nothing of the sort. I…I should not have spoken to you as I did. Pray forgive me.”

      His smoky eyes lit and his lip quirked in a smile reminiscent—and yet unlike—the sardonic look she’d come to know when he served under her father in the Peninsula. A steady, unnervingly intense regard that had prickled her skin with a curious mix of anticipation and dread whenever she caught—or more often sensed—him watching her.

      As her skin prickled now.

      Disturbed by that reaction, she abandoned her attempt to determine what exactly had changed about him. Dismiss him at once, some instinct for self-preservation urged her.

      “Best not apologize too quickly,” he said. “Now that I consider it, teasing you into marrying me might be too tempting a prospect to resist.”

      “I should think nearly getting your throat slit would have cured you of ever risking that folly again.”

      He tapped his fingers below the knot of his cravat. “Ah, but I bear your mark still. How could I resist you?”

      Though she’d fully intended to send him away, the intensity of his gaze held her motionless. A little thrill shocked through her, like when she’d run into warm ocean shallows off the Portuguese coast, only to find the water deeper, the current more dangerous than anticipated.

      Except for the morning she discovered him more dead than alive on the battlefield after Waterloo, they had not spoken since that afternoon after the battle of Badajoz when she’d foiled his attempt to compromise her into wedding him, sending him away instead, humbled and bleeding. Yet how many times over the intervening years had she felt resting on her that steady, unnerving gaze?

      Riding on the march, across the tent-filled enclosure of an encampment, from the other side of a dining room or ballroom…Though she knew after her marriage, Garrett must have warned Nelthorpe away, from Salamanca to Vittoria to Toulouse, even in Paris after the victory, she had sensed his gaze and looked about her—to find him watching.

      With Garrett no longer standing guard, what was she to do about it?

      While she hesitated, unsure whether to deliver a final dismissal or simply walk away from the unsettling force that seemed to emanate from him, she heard the slam of the entry door, followed by Manson’s urgent murmur. A moment later, a thin woman dressed in mourning black rushed up the stairs, spotted them, and stopped abruptly.

      Her eyes widening, she raised her arm and pointed at Nelthorpe. “That reprobate lives still? Then I am doubly glad you lost your husband, Lady Fairchild!”

      While Jenna recoiled in shock, the stranger advanced on her.

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