Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Six Months Later Brookeside, England—May 1822

What did it mean that Vicar Miles Jackson received more romantic confessions than he did confessions of a sinful nature? The women of Brookeside were desperately lonely. He'd received three declarations of affection just this week. Two had been made by young ladies he had already politely rejected in the near past. The third was delivered by Mrs. Fortescue, a seventy-five-year-old woman—fifty years his senior. All three had hinted heavily for a proposal of marriage.

However, Jemma Fielding's entering the chapel just now was not , he was absolutely certain, a quest to confess her love.

A shame, that.

Her intelligent eyes gleamed when they met his, and her brunette locks bounced with her purposeful steps. She was easily the prettiest woman of his acquaintance as well as the boldest.

"Miss Fielding." Miles tipped his head, his black curls falling into his eyes for the briefest of moments. "What can I do for you?" The formal address was necessary since the elderly Mrs. Fortescue was still within listening distance, though he was beginning to think the older woman hard of hearing. He had rejected her confession in a firm but kind voice four times in the last quarter hour, and even now, she lingered.

"Mr. Jackson," Jemma greeted with equal formality, a businesslike posture in place. When she reached him, she whispered through a smile. "I have come to make a confession."

Amusement teased his mouth. One did not smile in preparation for the humbling practice of admitting one's trespasses. Miles lowered his voice and leaned toward her. "I doubt you have done anything serious enough to warrant speaking to me." He knew Jemma better than just about anyone in the world. They had spent nearly every summer together. She was fiery on occasion but harmless. "Besides, you don't even attend church. There's no sacramental rite I can offer anyway."

"I attend occasionally, and I never miss Christmas and Easter." She pinched her delightfully shaped lips together. "And I have done something serious—dreadfully serious. I insist on speaking to you in private and clearing my conscience."

He chuckled under his breath. There was no putting Jemma off. She generally persisted until she got her way. Whatever it was she had to say, it would be far better than waiting for Mrs. Fortescue to vacate the chapel. "Forgive me, Mrs. Fortescue, my attention is needed elsewhere. I hope you do not mind seeing yourself out?"

"What?" Mrs. Fortescue leaned sideways and cupped her ear.

He repeated the words carefully, with practiced patience. Even so, Mrs. Fortescue's pout went so deep it was nearly lost in her wrinkles.

"Good day, Mrs. Fortescue." He dipped his head and turned back to Jemma. "Just this way, Miss Fielding." He waved her into his small office, with enough room for a small oak desk, two sturdy, plain chairs, and a very narrow bookshelf below an oblong window. It was cramped, but Jemma had seen it before and wouldn't mind. He noticed at the last moment the freshly printed book on the shelf and quickly snatched it up and shoved it into his desk drawer.

"What was that?" Jemma frowned, her eyes darting from the shelf to the desk to him.

"Just tidying up," he answered, hoping she would leave the matter be. "Please, sit."

Once they were settled in their respective chairs across his desk from each other, Jemma's smile returned. Whatever she had done, she held no remorse. "Go ahead. Tell me what you did that was so dreadful."

"Well, it isn't a sin exactly."

Miles folded his arms across his chest, feigning impatience. "I gathered as much. Then, if not a sin, tell me what is so important you had to corner me here?" During her summers in Brookeside, she always came running to him whenever something bothered her, and while he did his best not to encourage it, he wouldn't want it any other way.

"I'm not cornering you." Jemma crossed her legs while her mouth formed a straight, stubborn line of pink—a look that often both exasperated and enthralled him. "This was the only way I could speak with you alone without your lady entourage jumping to conclusions about us."

He smirked. "Mrs. Fortescue is hardly part of any lady entourage. Her husband died this time last year, and she misses him. And I happen to remind her of him."

"You remind her of an eighty-year-old man?"

It was a bit of a stretch but far easier than explaining how Mrs. Fortescue found him attractive. He cleared his throat. "At any rate, Jemma, we could have met at the Dome." They had not had reason to gather together at their mutual friend Ian's Grecian temple for a secret meeting in some time; it was usually the place their friends discussed anything urgent or serious, and with the way Jemma was acting, Miles guessed this was just such a matter. It would have been more appropriate to speak there about whatever Jemma had on her mind than in his clerical office.

"Heavens, no. I am not ready to tell the other Rebels about what I have done."

"The Rebels are your closest friends." His too. They made it their job to right Societal wrongs. It could not be good if she would not confide in the group at large. His amusement slipped. "You did do something, didn't you? Well, so long as you did not kill someone, it cannot be too dire."

"It's worse."

Miles coughed. "Worse?"

Jemma nodded emphatically, then followed it with a grimace. "I'm getting married."

His next breath did not come. Or the next. When he finally inhaled, his head swayed from dizziness. "You are ..." He cleared his throat. "You're getting married?"

She propped her elbow on the desk and rested her hand upon it, releasing a deep sigh. "I told you it was dreadful."

A weight settled in his stomach. This meant one thing. "Have the Matchmaking Mamas found you a husband?" He did not care for their unusual methods, even if they were upstanding members of their community.

"Not yet, but I do hope they hurry. It's been three months since I requested they find someone for me. I know it was in the middle of the Season, and they are down to only five members with Grandmother gone, but they are not being at all helpful by drawing this out."

Miles pinched his nose and shook his head. "Wait. You're telling me you solicited their help ... of your own free will?" This was not the Jemma he knew. Was this the result of her mourning for her grandmother? Mrs. Fielding's death six months ago had upended the entire community but especially Jemma and their dear friend Lisette—Jemma's closest cousin. Miles had also felt the loss acutely. It had resurrected old feelings of loss from when his father had died. Miles had been but a boy then, yet it had forever changed his life.

No, Jemma couldn't have wanted this for herself. It contradicted her long-standing hopes for her future. Her life's dream was to be a rich spinster who spent her days changing the world for the better.

"If you don't believe me, the others never will." Jemma stood and started pacing, which was quite difficult, considering the small perimeters. "It's not like I want to be married. It's more, I have to get married. I promised Grandmother over her deathbed that I would put aside my recalcitrant ways and settle down."

Miles shook his head, his normal, calm presence fading under his mounting shock. "You would never promise something so absurd." Mrs. Fielding was not the type to blackmail her own granddaughter, but nothing would have made Jemma change her mind so easily.

"She was in so much pain, Miles. She would not give up the ghost until I agreed. What was I supposed to do?"

"Lie," he blurted.

Jemma glared at him. "This is not the time to be sarcastic. Honestly, a vicar telling me to lie. I hope no one overhears you."

He had forgotten his position for a moment and where he was sitting. "Forgive me. It was a very poor joke." He loved Mrs. Fielding. He missed her. Of course he didn't mean what he'd said. But Jemma couldn't marry. It would ruin everything.

"There's more. I promised to ..." Her mezzo voice, like music to his ears, dropped into a contralto tone before fading completely.

Miles leaned forward in his seat. "You promised to what?" What could be worse than Jemma's requesting the matrons of the town to handpick her spouse?

"I promised to fall in love with him."

Those slowly spoken words made his jaw slacken. She might as well have announced she had a fatal disease, for this revelation gutted him all the same. Say something, man. Anything. "Oh."

It was the best he could do. Just the thought of Jemma loving someone else made his blood run cold. He supported marriage—even performed marriages—but with Jemma, it was different. She had been untouchable before, safely secured from any persistent suitors or vile men wanting her dowry and beauty for selfish reasons, and mostly thanks to her own unflappable determination. There had been no reason to worry overmuch about his own position being so far beneath hers. A lowly vicar for a friend suited well enough, but not for a husband, not when she could have a titled man, if she desired. She could never have been his, but at least she would never have been anyone else's either.

When he caught her eye, she stared right back. "You have to help me."

Relief surged through him. She regretted her choice. Good, at least she saw the error of her plans. He blew out his breath. "It won't be easy. The Matchmaking Mamas are relentless. But I shall do my best to convince them of your mistake. The other Rebels will help too. You can depend on us."

Jemma frowned. "You haven't been listening."

How he wished it were so. He never missed anything Jemma said. Unlike other debutantes, she never pretended to be anything other than exactly who she was. She was both intelligent and innocent, brave and kind, fierce and gentle. What she said always carried value. Yes, he always listened.

"I don't need you to save the day, Miles, or step in as my clergyman. I am quite determined to marry whomever the Matchmaking Mamas choose. I could never trust myself with such an overwhelming decision. No, I am here to request a favor. I am in need of Mr. Romantic's assistance."

His friends still bandied about his adolescent nickname, but he did not like the way she employed it now. Without any effort of his own, women seemed to think him some Adonis. Whatever charm he possessed, it worked on everyone but the lady in front of him—the only one who truly mattered. "You've made up your mind? There is no convincing you otherwise?"

She shook her pretty head, the tenacious, unyielding pink line of her mouth haunting him.

He relented and collapsed back in his seat, still reeling from shock. "What ... what is it you expect of me?"

She came to his side and tapped his chest right over his heart. He winced, though her touch had been light. When she pulled away, he quickly covered the aching spot with his hand.

"No one is as in tune with people and their feelings as you are. I want you to teach me what you know. I want you to teach me to love my betrothed."

His eyes bulged. Teach her to love a stranger? The devil, he wouldn't! His obligation as her good friend did not include such utter nonsense. He stood and straightened his jacket, his tone controlled and professional. "I sincerely regret, I won't be able to help you." He reached out and took her arm. "I'm a busy, busy man." He propelled her toward the door. "However, if you change your mind about this ridiculous deal you have made, I will do all I can to remedy it." He opened the door and practically pushed her out.

Or he would have had she not gripped his arm. "Miles! You cannot abandon me in my time of need!"

He glanced around to make certain no one had witnessed their familiarity. The church was blessedly empty. Thank goodness Mrs. Fortescue was no longer in the vicinity. He was not acting very priestly. Taking a moment to collect himself, he answered calmly. "It is not abandonment; it's deflection." He tried to pry her fingers off his arm, but she clung all the tighter.

She straightened, and the hardened look in her eyes commanded his attention. "If you don't help me, I will tell the Matchmaking Mamas you are ready to plan your wedding to Lisette!"

Miles froze.

If watching Jemma marry someone else would torture him, marrying Lisette would possibly be worse. Beautiful, kind, sweet Lisette. She deserved the very best in a husband, and somehow, the town had conjectured him to be her equal. If saving her life as a child and being her friend meant this, then he was guilty. But despite being honor bound by Society's expectation to marry her, Miles could never love her.

Not while his heart beat for only one woman.

Not when he'd secretly loved Jemma his entire life.

He relaxed his arm in defeat. "What do you want me to do?"

Jemma squealed and jumped up and down. "I knew you would help me!" Her enthusiasm waned for a moment, and her glare was back. "But it does not mean I do not think it horrid how you keep Lisette waiting and pining for you. It is quite wrong of you to let all these other women trail around you while she suffers at home. Oh, I know, I know. You are a young vicar, and the women are merely bored and lonely. I have heard all your excuses. I do believe you have been dutifully focused on getting your career in order, but it is high time you swept my cousin off her feet and posted the banns."

This was not a discussion he had ever wanted to have with Jemma, of all people. "Don't get distracted. Explain to me the expectations of your request."

Jemma's lips broke into a grin, her dazzling smile threatening to undo him as never before. "Lessons."

"Lessons?" Her smile forgotten, he studied her, searching for signs of madness.

"I haven't any specifics in mind because I wouldn't know the first place to start. I will depend on you completely to teach me everything I need to know."

A small groan slipped, and he leaned against the doorframe. "I've never been married. Isn't there someone better suited?" Their Rebel friends would gladly offer assistance, and without an inner battle tormenting them in the process.

"When the Matchmaking Mamas Society originated and shortly after ensnared Paul in their grasp, you were the most vocal in support of marriage, remember?"

He never thought he'd regret stating his beliefs. "I have nothing against marriage. It's a Godly institution, and those who treat each other with respect find it quite fulfilling. If you recall, I also endorse people selecting their spouse for themselves. "

"I'm letting them select a spouse for me. Isn't that close enough?"

His head swung like a pendulum from side to side. "Not for me."

She frowned again. "You're acting needlessly protective of me."

"I'm acting sensibly."

She squinted at him. "It is not like you to put off helping someone. Are you feeling well?"

He rubbed his temples. "I might be taking ill, yes. I'm afraid that leaves Tom and Paul, then, since they are the sole married Rebels."

She wrinkled her nose. "Nonsense, I could never ask a married man to teach me. What would their wives think?"

"Then, ask their wives." He could barely stomach this conversation, let alone what it would entail should he agree.

"But I do not know them like I know you. I'd be so embarrassed. Besides, it has hardly been more than a day since they returned from London, and we need time to become reacquainted. And I cannot ask Lisette." She tossed him an angry glare. "It would serve to remind her of her own loneliness."

Miles's jaw flinched. "You cannot mean to come to confessional every day. Someone will catch on."

Jemma's brow danced up and down. "Ah, this part I did plan. Go about your business, and I shall find you when you're needed."

He straightened. "I cannot give myself to all your whims."

"Of course not. I will coordinate my daily walk with your schedule. I have already been insisting on taking long walks alone for the last month in preparation. No one will be the wiser."

Miles ran his hand through his hair but snagged a finger on an obnoxious black coil of hair. "Very well. One lesson, but that is it."

"It will take at least ten."

"Five and no more."

"Done!" Jemma released him and skirted out the door. "Get some rest. We have a great deal of work to do!" She knew she had trapped him, the little vixen, and wasn't going to stay long enough for him to change his mind.

He shook his head after her. This was all Mrs. Fielding's fault, God rest her soul. Her death now seemed suspiciously convenient. She exacted a promise from Jemma and then hid in heaven, where she could safely watch without taking responsibility. He sighed. He did not really think such terrible things about Mrs. Fielding. But would that he could change places with her now. He had a feeling teaching Jemma how to love another man would kill him anyway.