Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

With his jacket discarded and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, Miles perched on the end of the dock at Bellmont Manor's upper pond with his young fishing companion, Tom's son, Alan. Relaxing back on his arms, he let Alan take the lead, watching him hook a worm to the end of his rod. While Alan cast the line, Miles's eyes traveled the length of the pond. How he appreciated the beauty here. It was one of his favorite views in not just Brookeside but all of England. It had always had the ability to clear his mind, which he sorely needed these days.

Vibrant greens and dark swirls of blue covered the canvas only God could have painted. Old oak and yew trees bordered one side of the pond. Among them, a tall willow dangled its flexible branches and teased young boys to swing on its limbs into the sapphire water.

It was the perfect place to talk about love—and the perfect place to avoid it.

Today, he hoped for the prior. And he in no way meant to include Mr. Bentley in the discussion.

A noise distracted him, and he looked over his shoulder to see Jemma ride up. She dismounted and tied her mare to a tree. He wasn't surprised to see her cast off her bonnet with the same ease he had tossed aside his jacket. The pond lent some freedom from propriety's prying eyes.

The light caught on her brown tresses swept up on her head and the long lines of her neck. Just the sight of her sent his thoughts spiraling in all the wrong directions. It would help if her beauty were not superior to the picturesque nature in front of him. Not wanting to be caught staring, he forced himself to look forward again—to think about the pond and only the pond.

The property belonged to the stern Lord Kellen, who was rarely at home, but Ian had no qualms sharing his father's land with his friends. Which meant the Rebels frequented it often in the summer months, along with the Dome, situated an easy walk from the pond. Both had become a secluded corner of the world for them.

The seclusion today would be ideal for their lesson, but he was also relying on the pond's ability to diminish the weight on his mind—the resolution he had made to himself the last time he'd seen Jemma.

Next to him, little Alan adjusted his fishing rod.

"What do you think of this fine fishing spot?" Miles asked.

Alan shrugged. He could talk plenty, but at a mere six years, Alan also had a unique ability to stay quiet—likely from his time at a workhouse—which allowed him to become quite efficient at catching fish. Unfortunately, it also enabled him to sneak away far more often than either Tom or Cassandra appreciated.

Today, however, his silence would be just the thing Miles needed in a chaperone, so he didn't press the boy for more. It wasn't what Lady Kellen would call an acceptable substitute, but Alan would be a sufficient buffer between him and Jemma. It was getting harder and harder to control his feelings around her. Each time he saw her with Mr. Bentley, Miles was more desperate than the time before—a sensation he wished he could drown in the depths of the pond and walk away from.

The clipping of Jemma's half boots on the wooden planks matched the beats of his heart, increasing in sound and pressure as she neared him. He glanced up to meet her green, marbled eyes, bright in the morning sun.

"Good day to you, Miss Fielding," he said to her as if surprised to see her. "Have you come to fish with us?"

"Fish?" She glanced at Alan and caught on to his subtle clue. "Yes, I came to fish." She pushed her skirts to the side and took a seat on the opposite side of Miles, tucking her legs under her dress as she did. He rather liked that after all these years, she still could be at ease in a natural setting, despite the finery of her gowns.

She leaned her head toward his, chasing away any thought he'd had of him being at ease. "If I'd known we were fishing, I would have brought my lucky rod."

He pulled his gaze to the slow-rippling water. "You don't have a lucky rod."

"I could have had one made, and it would have out caught yours."

He laughed under his breath. "Impossible. All the other lucky rods you claimed to possess in the past didn't do the trick. We'll see what you can do with an ordinary, luck-free rod, shall we?" He reached for his own rod, lying unused beside him, and handed it to her.

She inspected it carefully. "Does this one catch husbands?"

Miles was beginning to despise the word. "Indeed. The smelly, fishy kind."

"My favorite. I will take a dozen, please."

He gave a short laugh and turned to Alan. "What would Miss Fielding do with a dozen husbands?"

Alan scrunched up his nose and shook his head.

Miles chuckled and placed a worm on the hook at the end of his rod, rinsing his hand in the water when he finished. "Let's start with catching one , shall we?"

Jemma cast her line with a smooth flick of her wrist. For a moment, they sat in a comfortable silence, listening to the hum of insects and feeling the alternating cool and warmth on their cheeks while the sun grew higher.

"I've missed this," Jemma breathed.

He nodded. "It's like the old days, is it not? I can see Paul swimming laps, Tom pushing Ian in when he isn't looking, and you and Lisette paddling around in the old rowboat, barely big enough for two."

"I can imagine the very scene. You would have been on the old rope swing, hollering and whooping before you dropped with a splash."

"Now you know why I picked this backdrop for our next lesson. I thought we ought to discuss the concept of work and play."

Jemma grinned. "An odd choice, I daresay, but one I think I will like. But will Mr. Bentley like it? A few weeks have passed, and I've made little progress."

"You will have to trust me."

"After seeing your admirers flock to your sermon on Sunday, I am convinced you know what you are doing. Go ahead, teach away."

He chose to ignore her ridiculous statement about women flocking to him. He had one woman—one—he desired to run to his side, and she came to criticize him in lieu of Lisette or to beg for advice. He'd wanted to be done with these ridiculous lessons, but when given a chance to be with her again, he would cave every time.

Blinking away his dark thoughts, he recited his prepared lesson in a dry, dull voice, refusing to get too excited about the subject matter, for Alan's sake ... "From what I have observed, a couple tends to do one of two things: work too much or not enough. This is the same for both the poor and the rich. There seems to be a fine balance in which relationships hang on the pendulum. When out of balance, the couple suffers. Frivolity, relaxation, or social engagements, whatever form of play it is, can be tiresome in its excess. It, too, requires the utmost care of balance. Do you understand why diligence in this matter can affect love?"

Her dark lashes lifted as she looked up at him, but it wasn't tears of boredom he saw there. She was paying rapt attention. The silly girl valued his words. He frowned. Did she really appreciate his abstract theories? He'd never spoken them aloud before. His heart stuttered at her impressed expression.

"You've always had a way with words, Miles. You make me think about the ordinary things in a whole new way." She set her hands behind her on the dock and leaned back against them. "Balancing work and play sounds simple enough, but it makes far more sense for a wedded couple. How do I apply it to Mr. Bentley and myself while we are courting?"

As if he would tell her such a thing. "I think the student ought to come up with the application herself."

"I think I already know the answer," Jemma said. "If I am too involved in my Rebel efforts, even letting them occupy my mind with abundance, I won't be making enough room for Mr. Bentley."

Jemma had always been a quick study. "Yes, but not exercising your efforts and talents for a good cause would make you a dull companion." Miles didn't finish his thought, but he wanted to tell her that no matter what, she couldn't give up her time with the Rebels. Him aside, it was her calling as much as his was the church.

Jemma didn't seem to notice his inner struggle. "I quite agree with everything you've said. Mr. Bentley and I will also need leisure time together, like this." She leaned toward Miles. "Thank you for bringing me here and helping me remember better times." She held his gaze a moment too long, and a kind of sweet tension settled in the air around them. She might speak of Mr. Bentley, but her gaze said something else entirely. Her lips tugged at the corners, drawing his eyes to them. Miles wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss her.

How he wished he knew how she would respond to such a gesture.

How he wanted to find out right now.

"Close your eyes for a moment, Miles," she whispered.

His eyes did the opposite, widening. "Jemma—"

"I mean it. Close your eyes."

She was so intent upon it, he had to obey. For a moment, he forgot about Alan sitting quietly beside him, about Lisette and her hold on his future, and even Mr. Bentley. His eyes closed, and he held perfectly still, though his heart raced, and his next breath stuck inside him.

Nothing happened at first. He heard a rustle and felt her arm brush his. A waft of rose water reached him, the scent nearly undoing him. A small splash sounded, and he briefly wondered if it was the fishing rod.

"You can open them now."

He did, curious and confused. She pointed past her skirts pulled up almost to her knees and toward her feet, now submerged in the water. Her half boots and stockings lay neglected beside her, and her mouth was pulled into a sheepish grin. "I did not want you scolding me about propriety again, but I couldn't help myself."

If only he were half as tempting as the water.

He smirked at his own foolishness. No kiss. No mystery revealed. He didn't wait for her to close her eyes but pulled off his own boots, shoving his toes into the frigid water. He sucked in his breath. "It's freezing!"

Alan giggled beside him, and Miles gave him a wink.

"I was going to warn you," Jemma said, "but you seemed determined."

"I couldn't let you have all the fun."

"Speaking of fun, might you have been having a little too much of it?"

He scratched his head, ruffling his obnoxious curls. "Vicars can't put their feet in water? Do my hairy toes offend you?"

"Are they hairy?" Jemma bent over to see.

He laughed. "Just tell me, Jemma: What am I doing wrong this time?"

"It's Lisette." She seemed to force the name from her mouth and kept her eyes on the water. "You haven't worked very hard to build a relationship with her."

Lisette again? How could she be so blind? Maybe it was Mr. Bentley's presence in town. Maybe it was these dashed romantic lessons. Maybe it was the nearness of Jemma and the ache for one more carefree day. Maybe it was his resolution to finally show her he was not just a vicar. Whatever it was, he blurted the words: "I love Lisette."

Her whole posture went rigid. "You ... you do?"

"As a friend ."

She blinked once. Twice. A dozen times. "I, uh, I don't understand what you're saying."

He sank his head into his hands and groaned.

"Miles Jackson!" Jemma's voice grew more flustered. "What are you saying?"

"Jemma, it was never meant to get so out of hand."

"Stop." She pulled her feet from the water and drew herself into standing position. "If you have grown apart, it is all your fault. You've neglected her, and it is high time you take your own advice."

Miles copied her, jumping to his feet. "It's not a matter of effort."

"What effort? I haven't seen much for years."

Her temper was flaring, and she wouldn't see reason until she calmed down, but he couldn't wait. This was his chance to explain himself and rid her of her ridiculous dream—this obsession—she had of him and Lisette marrying. "It's not what you think. Let me explain. I cannot marry Lisette."

Her eyes narrowed to two angry slits, and he almost missed her hands fly to his chest. In a reflex, he grabbed them. "Were you going to push me in?"

"No, but if it shocks some sense into you, I will gladly do it. You cannot make a woman believe you love her, then change your mind."

"Who said I changed my mind?"

She wrestled to free her hands. "Are you or are you not going to marry Lisette?"

Miles dropped his hold on Jemma and blew out a long breath. "I ... cannot marry her. I never wanted to marry her." He opened his mouth to explain further, but hoping she'd listen was as logical as letting his guard down.

Jemma pushed him, and this time, he was not ready for it. Somehow, her small amount of weight gained just the right momentum, sending him sprawling backward into the water. Nothing cleared a man's head as fast as a shockingly cold bath.

If only one's heart were so easily wiped clean.