LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Wait!” Jenna cried, halting him. “’Tis a privilege to talk with one of Garrett’s true friends. And I…I’m not ready to go back in. Not just yet.”

      He raised an eyebrow. “Already trying to pull and twist you into their mold, are they?”

      “I shall have to fight them tooth and claw,” she said with a sigh. “Once I manage to summon the energy.”

      He nodded. “It’s walking the hallway for us, then.” Tucking her hand back on his arm, he continued, “Did you really escape a bandit ambush in India?”

      “It wasn’t so extraordinary as it might sound. Papa’s batman and I both had our Baker rifles—and faster horses.”

      He laughed. “It’s a crack shot you are, I’ll wager!”

      She grinned, warmed by his sympathetic understanding. “Naturally. I’ve spent all my life with the army.”

      “I hear you fended off an attack in Spain as well.”

      “So she did.”

      At the sound of that deep, uncannily familiar voice, a chill of alarm raced up Jenna’s spine. She whipped her gaze toward the entry where, before her astounded eyes, the rogue she’d hoped never to meet again began climbing the stairs, limping slightly. “As I can personally attest.”

      Jenna blinked, still not believing his audacity. “You!” she said in a strangled voice.

      Viscount Anthony Nelthorpe reached the landing and swept Jenna a bow. “Lady Fairchild, how good it is to see you again.”

      No doubt divining from the sudden stiffness of her body—and the low fury of her voice—that she did not welcome the newcomer, Fitzwilliams stepped forward to block the viscount’s approach. “Nelthorpe, I didn’t know you’d returned to England.”

      “Just back from Brussels, Fitzwilliams.”

      Though Fitzwilliams nodded pleasantly, his eyes stayed watchful as he remained between her and Lord Nelthorpe. “Lady Fairchild, may I take you back to the parlor?”

      “Allow me,” Nelthorpe said, holding out an arm. “I served in the same command as Lady Fairchild’s late husband and can express my regrets as I walk her back.”

      Fitzwilliams glanced from Jenna’s face to Nelthorpe’s extended arm and back. “Lady Fairchild, would you prefer that Nelthorpe escort you in—or that I escort him out?”

      Jenna tried to shake her mind free of anger and outrage to determine what would be best. She’d already failed to deliver the cut direct she’d previously decided would be the most appropriate response, should her erstwhile ravisher ever approach her again. She might still have the satisfaction of turning her back on him.

      But he had just demonstrated that, despite what had passed between them, he possessed the gall to confront her. Perhaps she ought to do the same and establish right now that though Garrett was no longer here to watch over her, she intended to have no dealings with Anthony Nelthorpe.

      “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.

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