Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Jemma returned from her daily walk, having taken longer than normal to purge her thoughts with alone time and fresh air. Lisette met her in the corridor up the stairs.

"There you are, Jemma! You really have the most wretched timing," Lisette grabbed her hand and pulled her back down the stairs.

"Is something wrong?"

"You will see." She did not stop until they were both in the drawing room. There, on the tea table, was a basket tied in ribbon. "It's a gift from Mr. Bentley. I am sorry you missed him."

"What sort of gift is it?" Jemma picked up one of several jars inside.

"Spices from the Bahamas as a thank-you for our support of his house-warming party."

The jar in her hand was labeled pimento. She held it to her nose and took in the strong peppery scent. "How very kind of him. Did he stay long?"

"Over an hour. I did think you would be back sooner, but he did not seem to mind."

Jemma sighed. "The man will be made a saint for all his patience with me. Thank you for entertaining him ... again."

Lisette shook her head. "You would have done the same for me. Did you enjoy your walk?"

"It was just what I needed, thank you." She set the jar back inside, her mind spinning. She couldn't keep missing Mr. Bentley. She needed progress, not time to wallow in her problems. "I guess it wasn't all I needed. In lieu of my commitment to give Mr. Bentley more of my time, I suppose I will have to invite him over again."

Lisette laughed. "Are we to have our own party?"

"No, I need something simple, with fewer guests." And most definitely not with Miles. She made a mental list of summer activities, stopping on the perfect one. It was the perfect balance of work and play—just as Miles had taught her. "I shall invite him to our annual strawberry-picking contest! I often walk by the patch, and it's brimming with ripe fruit." The Mannings had a large patch and held a picking contest every June but generally kept the activity in the family.

"I can see him enjoying that."

"You can?" She found she was holding her breath.

"He told us he loves plants after overseeing his plantations. Come, let's go ask Mama what she thinks."

Thankfully, both Mr. and Mrs. Manning were all too excited to add Mr. Bentley to the event. Mrs. Manning had even said it was right and proper to include him since he would be a member of the family anyway. They sent a note over to request his presence the following day, and it was returned not two hours later with an affirmative.

The weather the next day was picturesque, with enough cloud cover to make the temperature pleasant. Jemma dressed in a sturdier gown but one that also showed off her flair for style. Mr. Bentley smiled at her when he arrived, and they all filed out to the garden. With pails and baskets in hand, Mr. Manning staked out sections of the patch.

It was the perfect day to think of Mr. Bentley and only Mr. Bentley.

"There are only two rules," Mr. Manning announced. "One, the winner picks the most strawberries in a half hours' time. Two, no stealing from anyone else's pail."

"Easy enough," Mr. Bentley said, discarding his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves.

When all were ready in position, Mr. Manning yelled time, and they shot forward, frantically searching the plants for the ripe, red berries. The best part wasn't the picking. It was the half hour of exaggerated stories from Mr. Manning. Most were of past competitions he and his brothers had competed in. By the end, they were tired from laughing, groaning of aching backs, and congratulating each other on only one spilled pail—and it wasn't even Jemma's.

Mrs. Manning was declared the winner, and they all settled onto a blanket to sample the berries and drink cool lemonade. With Mr. Bentley seated nearest her, this was Jemma's chance to engage him in a more private conversation. She wished she hadn't spent so many years exerting her independence and trying to prove she did not need a husband or marriage. It would have benefited her now if she'd prepared herself properly.

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Bentley, what sort of pastimes do you enjoy?"

"Interesting you should ask. I happen to be an avid fan of cricket. It's been a few years since I've had a chance to play, but your friends have invited me to join a team. There is to be a match next week at Tom Harwood's estate."

"I hadn't heard," Jemma said, growing excited at the idea of a match in Brookeside. "I adore cricket. I make a good short slip, you know, and am a fair hand with the bat."

"You?"

The disbelief in his eyes made her choke back her words. "As a young, very young , girl. There are no women's teams here, so I, uh, was a good substitute when not enough players could be found." She laughed sheepishly. Not everyone thought it appropriate for grown women to play cricket. She had managed to keep from causing any accidents, but now her tongue was making blunders. Reaching for her lemonade, she took a long drink.

He shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "What sort of pastimes do you prefer besides cricket?"

She opened her mouth to tell him, but no words came out. She had to give him a proper pastime, not a Rebel one. It would be better to ease him into her bluestocking ways. Most men would not find her charities a favorable attribute. "I like to draw," she finally said.

He seemed relieved by her answer. "I have always wished for such a skill. Do you prefer nature or people as your subject?"

"Clothes, actually." She winced.

"Clothes?"

"I like to predict upcoming fashions and sometimes even create my own." She pointed to the cape-like collar buttoned at her neck and draped just over the top of her shoulders. "The French wear their pelerine with tight ruffles around the neck, but I adapted the design for a looser ruffle around the neck and a fringe at the hem."

She had no expectation of him knowing about the intricacies of women's fashion, but it was important to her. He gave a slight smile and nodded in feigned interest before reaching for another strawberry.

Her shoulders dropped. This wasn't going well at all. Mr. Bentley wasn't trying to find her lacking, she knew he wasn't. Even so, their personalities were not melding together. Feeling frustrated and quite desperate, she recalled Miles's most recent lesson. The bonus one that had worked quite well on her.

It was time for sparks to fly. She squeezed her hands together tightly in her lap and cleared her throat. "What shade of blue would you say your eyes are?"

Mr. Bentley looked up, his eyes wide. "Uh ... I have not thought on it before."

She purposefully leaned forward, intent on falling into his gaze and staying there as long as it took. His blue eyes were indeed an interesting shade darker on the edge and quite light at the center. Why had she never noticed them before? "They are quite a nice color, Mr. Bentley." She studied them longer than necessary, searching for his soul, as Miles had instructed.

While he came across as a man of experience, his eyes were surprisingly innocent. They were also honorable and kind. She waited for the sparks. She waited to fall. She would wait all day if she had to.

Mr. Bentley wiped at his face. "Do I have strawberry juice all over me?"

Jemma did not see anything. "No, not at all."

"But you keep staring at me."

She forced a grin, albeit a lopsided one. "I know. Is it not wonderful?"

"I, uh . . ."

"Oh, I do not mind if you stare at me in return. You might even see ... something." She tilted her head, trying to assume her best angle.

"Why? Did you get something in your eye?"

She batted her lashes, not because she wanted to look pretty but out of frustration. The man was not getting it. But if Miles could turn eye connection into an intimate moment, the principle must work for others. "Never mind, my eyes are fine." She tilted her head at a different angle. "Look to your heart's content, Mr. Bentley. We have all afternoon."

In fact, they had a lifetime.

Mr. Bentley blinked a few times, the tops of his ears reddening. He turned away suddenly. "I think I might pick a few more strawberries." He climbed to his feet and took long strides toward the patch.

Her jaw slackened. Had she just scared him away? A confident, grown man? How could they possibly get married if he could not endure her looking at him? She pushed aside her frustrations, refusing to let this be a sign of failure. Besides, the afternoon was still young.

She jumped to her feet and chased after him.

But try as she may, the next few hours passed without her being able to salvage a friendly mood between them. If Jemma came too close, Mr. Bentley acted like she might bite. And if it would have helped, she might have tried. Her desperation turned into annoyance. She even took eye connection to a whole new level, attempting to pin him in one place with her glare.

Lisette took note of Mr. Bentley's avoidance and Jemma's agitation and attempted to make herself a middleman, but the atmosphere felt entirely too awkward. What had Jemma done wrong?

With Miles, everything was natural. Love was as simple as breathing.

After Mr. Bentley left, Jemma took a walk, having missed her earlier exercise and feeling desperate for a moment alone. Her half boots crunched against the rocky road while her hand trailed against the smooth stone half wall running along the perimeter. Her thoughts were circling faster than the crows above the field beside her. The sound of a horse galloping nearer drew her attention. She looked up.

Miles?

Her heart pounded. A few moments later, she knew for certain. When he had nearly reached her, she fumbled with her hands, not certain how to act. The vision of their dance together stole away all her rational thought and sent her pulse racing fiercely through her body. Miles slowed his mount and alighted before she could regain her presence of mind.

"Jemma, I did not think to meet you on the road today." His smile faded. "But you are not well. What is it?"

There was not a trace of awkwardness in his manners. Had he not seen the secret in her eyes that night? Did he not know? And hadn't he said plenty in his own gaze? "I am well ... truly."

"I am happy to hear it." His whole presence exuded confidence. More so than she had seen in him the last month. His smile returned. "Are you coming or going?"

"Actually, I was about to turn around."

"May I walk with you for a bit?"

Why did such a question send fire to her cheeks? "Please."

Miles nodded, and they fell into step. "I am just on my way back from a visit with Mr. Reed."

"I see." She blinked. Such a normal topic. Had she dreamed it all? She must have, for he was acting much too calm. Then, had nothing changed between them? It could be as if they'd never danced. She was relieved and oddly hurt. "How is Mr. Reed? I was sorry to hear about his wife."

"He is soldiering through, I daresay. He even agreed to play in the cricket match against Bradford."

"I only just heard of this match. I am happy to hear Mr. Reed will come out for it."

"It will be good for him." Miles slowed his pace. "What about you? Are you ready to tell me what happened? Did you make another bungle with Mr. Bentley?"

She gave an airy laugh. "How did you guess?"

"I could never have guessed before this past month. Making bungles is not something typical for Jemma Fielding."

His eyes drew her in like they had done the night of the dance. She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed it for a moment. "I've never felt this kind of pressure before. I cannot even be myself." Nor could she control herself, it seemed.

"Hmm." Miles strung out the monotone note, thinking aloud. Had he always looked so dashing while pondering something? "We ought to think of something to distract you. How about some kissing until an idea strikes?"

Her heart stopped just before her feet. "You ... you want to kiss me?" How could he say something of such great magnitude so nonchalantly? As if everything did not hinge upon such an action! Her pulse raced through her veins again, stealing her breath with it.

"I, uh ..." He paused and pulled a small tin box from his waistcoat pocket. "I think you misheard." He popped open the box. "Kissing comfit ?"

She let out a high-pitched, strangled laugh. "A comfit, you say? Good heavens." She plucked the bite-sized purple sweet from his hand, grateful to have something else to look at. "I did not know anyone still called them kissing comfits." Before he could answer, she shoved the treat into her mouth, willing it to cool her scorched cheeks.

Miles chuckled. "If it was good enough for Shakespeare, it's good enough for me."

"You writers must share a sort of kinship, it seems." A sweet plum flavor suffused over her tongue. "Regardless of its name, I must admit, it is delicious." She glanced up and regretted it. She sucked on the small confection for all it was worth, not so much to savor the sweetness around the coriander-seed center but to keep her mind off the way Miles moved his mouth around his own comfit.

Had she really believed he wanted to kiss her? Knowing her weakness toward him lately, her mind might have simply heard what it wanted to hear. Thankfully, her errant thoughts ended when Miles abruptly snapped his fingers.

"I have it. You need a diversion. Some Rebel fun."

Fun? Her? "I'm intrigued." And it wasn't just because his eyes were alight and she had to know why. "Do I get to keep score in the cricket match?"

"Unfortunately, we have found someone to take on the task already. I do hope you will come cheer us on instead."

His hopeful look melted her heart. "I wouldn't miss watching the Rebels beat those big-headed Bradford boys."

"That's the spirit." Miles laughed, not at all shocked by her strong words. His prominent dimples creased his cheeks and drew her eyes to his mouth. It wasn't a sweetmeat that came to mind either. She shifted so her bonnet blocked her view of him and, in return, his view of yet another blush.

Clearing her throat, she said, "I am not certain how being an audience for the game will require any Rebel fun."

"Ah," Miles said. "My idea for diversion has nothing to do with cricket. I have some charity baskets to deliver tomorrow. Why not join me? Afterward, we can visit a few more affluent families to gather funds for our Greek campaign."

"Truly?" She had donated gowns for charity before but never delivered any item personally. But a Rebel cause was something she was familiar with. A cause to champion was more soothing to her dampened spirits than even reading ridiculous tidbits in the gossip columns. "I am not certain I can be helpful with the baskets, but I know I could beg our neighbors for donations."

"I believe you will find both tasks enjoyable. The two are not so dissimilar."

Perhaps not for him. It was part of his profession to help them. "I have always preferred keeping my anonymity or serving people who do not know me personally. I will be recognized here. Will they think me self-aggrandizing?"

"They will think you are a good and kind person, just like I do. But I won't force you. If you are not comfortable with the idea, we can make other arrangements."

She was much more comfortable saying no, but part of her wanted to take on the difficult task and prove she was capable of it. "I will come."

He smiled. "Why don't you bring Lisette and maybe even Mrs. Manning, if they are agreeable to our project. These visits must be done properly, with adequate chaperones. We must tamper your Rebel spirit for independence for the betterment of the Greek people."

She laughed and agreed, feeling lighter than she had all day. "Thank you for cheering me up, Miles." He had come at the exact moment she'd needed him.

"You are very welcome. By the time we are finished, you will be able to face Mr. Bentley with confidence."

Face Mr. Bentley? Her smile froze. How had she forgotten him so quickly? Standing next to Miles, his alluring dimples teasing her, had distracted her completely.

Miles had emphasized the man's name for a reason. Was he testing her? She focused her attention on the road directly ahead, forcing thoughts of Lisette and greater commitments to be diligent. She would discipline her mind.

But it was growing harder by the day. Exhaustingly so.

And Miles's presence was not helping.