down his drink on Jason’s desk and folded his arms behind his back in the manner of a child reciting lessons. “I am not to seduce Miss Weston, no matter how prettily she begs me. I am to ignore her so that, in her despair, she turns to you.”
Jason fought a smile. “So long as you let her alone, you may tell yourself whatever lies you wish.”
“I realize it’s been a while since you’ve interacted with the fair sex. If you need me to give you some pointers or—”
“Charles, don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
His brother-in-law gazed around the study, as if searching for clues to jog his memory. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Then think harder,” Jason ground out. “I do not need your help, as I am planning on having as little involvement with Miss Weston as possible. I fear Katherine would be upset with me if I strangled the chit, and I have an alarming urge to do so nearly every time we converse.”
“I would suggest that’s frustrated desire, but I’m sure you would tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are correct.”
Charles eyed him warily. “I’m correct that your urge to strangle Miss Weston is frustrated desire?”
“No, you were correct that I would tell you that you were wrong. In any case, if I did happen to pursue a female, I would not need your help.”
He pushed a laughing Charles out the door and locked it. He sat down at his desk, savoring the quiet. Lord, he hoped what he had told Charles was true. He had no real experience with rejection.
The women of his youth had put themselves in his path. Actresses, bored widows, and the like. He never knew if they wanted him for his title or for his looks. They hadn’t wanted him for himself, that much was certain. Those women had had as little interest in knowing him as he had in knowing them. There was only one way they knew each other, and that was in the biblical sense.
And then, during his last year at university, Jason had met Laura. On the death of their father, Laura and Charles had moved to Cambridge to live with their uncle, the Master of Trinity College. From the first time he saw her, Jason was besotted. He had foolishly expected her to fall in line with the rest of the women of his acquaintance, but Lord, had he ever been wrong. Her serene, smiling exterior had masked a backbone of tempered steel. The first time Jason had tried to steal a kiss she’d given him a black eye.
The devil knew why, but he had gone back for more. Not for another shiner—he only had to be taught that lesson once—but for more of her. She hadn’t believed he was serious in his addresses, but she’d let him court her, hoping to attract a more suitable suitor. After a few months, however, he had managed to persuade Laura of his intent.
Her uncle had given them his blessing at once, but then Hinchliffe was no fool. His brother- in-law had been awarded a baronetcy, the title of which had passed to his nephew, but having his niece land the heir to a marquisate was beyond his wildest imaginings. Jason’s father had come from London, where he was relentlessly pursuing a young, beautiful widow, and had been delighted by his son’s choice of bride.
Jason hadn’t cared a whit for either Hinchliffe’s or the marquess’s approval—if necessary, he would have eloped to Gretna Green. To the moon, even. So long as he and Laura were together, nothing else mattered. They had been so happy, so in love. . . .
He should have known then it was too perfect to last.
Chapter 7
“Not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes.”
Twelfth Night , Act II, Scene 3
W ith Cook busy getting ready for the Christmas feast on the morrow, dinner that evening was a quiet, simple affair. Actually, most of Jason’s meals were quiet, simple affairs, since he thought the preparation of elaborate dishes quite unnecessary for one person. For a long time he had found sitting alone in the dining room so dismal a prospect that he had taken his meals in his
Jason fought a smile. “So long as you let her alone, you may tell yourself whatever lies you wish.”
“I realize it’s been a while since you’ve interacted with the fair sex. If you need me to give you some pointers or—”
“Charles, don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
His brother-in-law gazed around the study, as if searching for clues to jog his memory. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Then think harder,” Jason ground out. “I do not need your help, as I am planning on having as little involvement with Miss Weston as possible. I fear Katherine would be upset with me if I strangled the chit, and I have an alarming urge to do so nearly every time we converse.”
“I would suggest that’s frustrated desire, but I’m sure you would tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are correct.”
Charles eyed him warily. “I’m correct that your urge to strangle Miss Weston is frustrated desire?”
“No, you were correct that I would tell you that you were wrong. In any case, if I did happen to pursue a female, I would not need your help.”
He pushed a laughing Charles out the door and locked it. He sat down at his desk, savoring the quiet. Lord, he hoped what he had told Charles was true. He had no real experience with rejection.
The women of his youth had put themselves in his path. Actresses, bored widows, and the like. He never knew if they wanted him for his title or for his looks. They hadn’t wanted him for himself, that much was certain. Those women had had as little interest in knowing him as he had in knowing them. There was only one way they knew each other, and that was in the biblical sense.
And then, during his last year at university, Jason had met Laura. On the death of their father, Laura and Charles had moved to Cambridge to live with their uncle, the Master of Trinity College. From the first time he saw her, Jason was besotted. He had foolishly expected her to fall in line with the rest of the women of his acquaintance, but Lord, had he ever been wrong. Her serene, smiling exterior had masked a backbone of tempered steel. The first time Jason had tried to steal a kiss she’d given him a black eye.
The devil knew why, but he had gone back for more. Not for another shiner—he only had to be taught that lesson once—but for more of her. She hadn’t believed he was serious in his addresses, but she’d let him court her, hoping to attract a more suitable suitor. After a few months, however, he had managed to persuade Laura of his intent.
Her uncle had given them his blessing at once, but then Hinchliffe was no fool. His brother- in-law had been awarded a baronetcy, the title of which had passed to his nephew, but having his niece land the heir to a marquisate was beyond his wildest imaginings. Jason’s father had come from London, where he was relentlessly pursuing a young, beautiful widow, and had been delighted by his son’s choice of bride.
Jason hadn’t cared a whit for either Hinchliffe’s or the marquess’s approval—if necessary, he would have eloped to Gretna Green. To the moon, even. So long as he and Laura were together, nothing else mattered. They had been so happy, so in love. . . .
He should have known then it was too perfect to last.
Chapter 7
“Not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes.”
Twelfth Night , Act II, Scene 3
W ith Cook busy getting ready for the Christmas feast on the morrow, dinner that evening was a quiet, simple affair. Actually, most of Jason’s meals were quiet, simple affairs, since he thought the preparation of elaborate dishes quite unnecessary for one person. For a long time he had found sitting alone in the dining room so dismal a prospect that he had taken his meals in his
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