tea. She drank most of it before turning her head away.
Dismissing him. He sensed her withdrawing into herself and understood that she was now to be left alone.
He withdrew as well, to finish closing the curtains. Then he slumped onto a hard-backed chair and sat with his elbows propped on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He couldn’t bear seeing her like this. Not Jessica, who had always charted her own course and commanded the elements like a goddess. At least that was the impression she had given him during the short time they spent together.
Had he left the party a few minutes earlier, they would never have met at all. It was supposed to have been his last night in London, and he’d stopped by Lady Somebody’s ball on a hunt for several gentlemen who owed him money. Meandering from room to room, he neatly cornered his prey and accepted whatever they were carrying—banknotes, rings, pocket watches—to cover their gaming debts. Naturally he couldn’t let it be known that he was departing on an India trader the very next morning. They’d never have paid up.
His voyage to England, a dream he was unaware he’d had until the opportunity presented itself, had come to nothing in the end. His expectations had been too high, perhaps, and the reality too bloody realistic.
His very distant cousin Bertram, eleventh Baron Duran, turned out to have been a successful drunkard and a dismal gambler before tripping over one of his wife’s lapdogs and tumbling down a flight of stairs. He left behind him a mountain of debts, a bad-tempered wife, two ill-favored daughters, and a besmirched title that, in the absence of any closer male relation, had devolved upon an astonished Hugo Duran. The agent who finally located him in Calcutta had conveyed the news without mentioning the debts and the daughters.
Down on his luck at the time, Duran had quite fancied the notion of assuming his new position. Within a week he’d sold his small house and his string of excellent horses and set out for his ancestral home.
Six months later, gazing on the derelict house and weedy gardens, he bade farewell to that most treacherous of whores—hope.
The property was not entailed, and the owner of a nearby estate, eager to expand his holdings, paid a decent price for Duran’s inheritance. He ought to have pocketed the money and hared straightaway back to India, where he might have lived in style for several years. But for reasons that still eluded him, he had paid his cousin’s debts and made generous provisions for the two unlovely daughters, who thanked him by demanding he provide them husbands as well. That meant extravagant dowries, and there went the last of his money.
Or nearly the last, because he had set aside the fare to India and a few hundred pounds for a London holiday. The Season was in full swing, the viscount to whom he’d sold his property had offered to sponsor him, and for several weeks he cut a dash at all the best places.
England suited him. He even liked the climate. But far too soon he was attending his last party and making a final circuit of the ballroom when he saw, gazing at him from a pair of wide, curious eyes, a stunningly beautiful young woman.
There was no accounting for his dizzying suspicion that his life had just unalterably changed.
As it turned out, only the next three weeks were affected. He’d paid a substantial penalty to secure passage on a later sailing and spent his days gambling for funds to keep himself afloat in the meantime. His nights had been spent with Lady Jessica Carville.
A small sound cut into his reflections, and the bedchamber door opened to admit Shivaji with a trayful of fresh supplies. He set it on the table and stood for a considerable time looking down at the still, pale figure on the bed. Then he beckoned Duran into the passageway.
“The pain increases,” he said. “She grows restless. Soon she will awaken, and then you may wrap cloths dipped in warm water around her
Dismissing him. He sensed her withdrawing into herself and understood that she was now to be left alone.
He withdrew as well, to finish closing the curtains. Then he slumped onto a hard-backed chair and sat with his elbows propped on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He couldn’t bear seeing her like this. Not Jessica, who had always charted her own course and commanded the elements like a goddess. At least that was the impression she had given him during the short time they spent together.
Had he left the party a few minutes earlier, they would never have met at all. It was supposed to have been his last night in London, and he’d stopped by Lady Somebody’s ball on a hunt for several gentlemen who owed him money. Meandering from room to room, he neatly cornered his prey and accepted whatever they were carrying—banknotes, rings, pocket watches—to cover their gaming debts. Naturally he couldn’t let it be known that he was departing on an India trader the very next morning. They’d never have paid up.
His voyage to England, a dream he was unaware he’d had until the opportunity presented itself, had come to nothing in the end. His expectations had been too high, perhaps, and the reality too bloody realistic.
His very distant cousin Bertram, eleventh Baron Duran, turned out to have been a successful drunkard and a dismal gambler before tripping over one of his wife’s lapdogs and tumbling down a flight of stairs. He left behind him a mountain of debts, a bad-tempered wife, two ill-favored daughters, and a besmirched title that, in the absence of any closer male relation, had devolved upon an astonished Hugo Duran. The agent who finally located him in Calcutta had conveyed the news without mentioning the debts and the daughters.
Down on his luck at the time, Duran had quite fancied the notion of assuming his new position. Within a week he’d sold his small house and his string of excellent horses and set out for his ancestral home.
Six months later, gazing on the derelict house and weedy gardens, he bade farewell to that most treacherous of whores—hope.
The property was not entailed, and the owner of a nearby estate, eager to expand his holdings, paid a decent price for Duran’s inheritance. He ought to have pocketed the money and hared straightaway back to India, where he might have lived in style for several years. But for reasons that still eluded him, he had paid his cousin’s debts and made generous provisions for the two unlovely daughters, who thanked him by demanding he provide them husbands as well. That meant extravagant dowries, and there went the last of his money.
Or nearly the last, because he had set aside the fare to India and a few hundred pounds for a London holiday. The Season was in full swing, the viscount to whom he’d sold his property had offered to sponsor him, and for several weeks he cut a dash at all the best places.
England suited him. He even liked the climate. But far too soon he was attending his last party and making a final circuit of the ballroom when he saw, gazing at him from a pair of wide, curious eyes, a stunningly beautiful young woman.
There was no accounting for his dizzying suspicion that his life had just unalterably changed.
As it turned out, only the next three weeks were affected. He’d paid a substantial penalty to secure passage on a later sailing and spent his days gambling for funds to keep himself afloat in the meantime. His nights had been spent with Lady Jessica Carville.
A small sound cut into his reflections, and the bedchamber door opened to admit Shivaji with a trayful of fresh supplies. He set it on the table and stood for a considerable time looking down at the still, pale figure on the bed. Then he beckoned Duran into the passageway.
“The pain increases,” he said. “She grows restless. Soon she will awaken, and then you may wrap cloths dipped in warm water around her
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