Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

Miles slept all Friday and woke in the evening, feeling much improved. It was not quite dinner, but he was starving. He threw a quilted banyan his mother had made him on over his shirt and breeches, the loose robe coming to his knees, and went in search of food.

Mrs. Purcell sent up a familiar basket of chocolate biscuits—likely the same ones Jemma had tried to give him—and a steaming bowl of white soup. He picked up a heart-stamped biscuit and slipped one into his mouth, savoring the sweetness.

Unavoidably, his thoughts chased after his last encounter with Jemma, his memory sharpening with renewed clarity. Everything had been a little hazy until now. He was not often sick, but he did not recall any illness impairing his judgment.

He put another biscuit into his mouth. At least his taste was in order, even if his senses were not. Had he really laid his head on Jemma's shoulder? He cringed. No wonder she had been concerned enough to make the other male Rebels call on him. Though he was not certain if they were more worried about his health or about the cricket match.

Thankfully, he would not disappoint them on either count. He was feeling more himself already, and the game wasn't for another three days. He moved the bowl closer to him and ate the hearty soup. He had just finished when the door burst open and his brother, Kent, entered the drawing room. He was a younger version of Miles, with coiled hair a shade lighter and matching long legs, but his grin leaned more toward mischievousness.

"Don't get up." Kent strolled to the table. "A little bird ... actually a big bird with rather broad shoulders and a teasing grin, told me you were sick."

"Tom?" Miles pushed his empty bowl away.

"How did you guess?"

"Lucky, I suppose." Miles put out his hand, and Kent pumped it up and down. "It's good to see you. You look taller."

"It is because I am standing and you're sitting." Kent pulled out a chair and sat himself. His hands came up behind his head, and his long legs crossed at the ankle. "I had barely arrived in town when I was sent post haste to your side with a special message."

"Let me make another guess." Miles folded his hands on the table. "You were sent to remind me how serious beating the boys from Bradford in cricket is to this town and how I had better be well by Monday."

Kent's brow lifted. "I'm impressed. Do you often receive such perfect revelation as a vicar?"

Miles chuckled. "It isn't heavenly knowledge; it's Brookeside pride. Not to worry. No fever would stop me from standing with my team."

"I always did like a martyr's last speech."

Miles chuckled. "Then, you will be disappointed to know I am feeling better."

"Disappointed? I like our best batsman to be healthy more than I care for a martyr's last speech."

"That's the spirit."

"Now I've warmed up your mood," Kent said, "it's a good time to tell you I am staying here until the end of the match."

"Because it is closer to Tom's estate, or because you are worried about me?" Miles knew the answer, but he had to tease Kent anyway.

"Both." Kent reached over and patted Miles's cheek. Miles swatted at his hand but was not deeply irritated. Kent would be the perfect distraction to prevent Miles from thinking overmuch about Jemma.

After instructing his housekeeper to make up a bed for Kent, Miles was tired again. When he slipped into his own room, he discovered a folded letter on the ground. Instantly, he remembered the missive Jemma had placed in his hand in the copse of trees outside the church. It must have fallen from his waistcoat when he had undressed for bed upon his return.

He snatched it off the ground and broke the seal with his fingers. He knew it would be no confession of love, but like a glutton for punishment, he unfolded it and read the words.

Required chaperones? Forbidden eye connection?

His chances for winning over Jemma's heart grew slimmer by the second. Especially since the perils of alone time were steep indeed. However, only a complete fool would see this as a total loss. She had admitted to one thing. The truth was plainly written between the lines: he had affected her. Why else would she be preaching chaperones and this nonsense about how gazing into a woman's eyes could ensnare the wrong heart?

Hitting the letter against his hand, he knew he was stuck. Her six weeks would be up at the end of the cricket match. Time was running out. Jemma was just stubborn enough to go along with the Matchmaking Mamas and marry Mr. Bentley.

The lucky man.

With less restraint than he ought to have, he penned a reply at his desk. It wasn't poetic or even clever, but it would do. He would wait until he could deliver it personally the morning of the match.

The weekend passed quickly, and when Monday morning dawned, Miles had his full strength back. Kent's conversation and the anticipation for the match temporarily took over Miles's troubled mind. Even his staff was anxious for the match and planned to come cheer for the Brookeside team. Miles was determined not to think about Jemma and enjoy himself. If no opportunity presented itself to deliver his letter, he would not create one. The day was about bonding with his team and enjoying a sport—a leisure he did not often have.

On the ride to Tom's estate, Kent pulled his horse up next to Miles's. "How many days do you think the match will last?"

Miles shrugged. "I've heard the Bradford boys have put together an impressive team, but we are an active bunch and nothing to sniff at. I'd wager it lasts two or three days."

Kent pulled his hat down lower. "Tom predicted an even match. I've never played the full five-day limit. I love the sport, but who can last that long? It's beyond the pale."

Five days was long for even the most dedicated cricket player. "The Brookeside team won't let you quit. Chin up, Kent. We'll clobber them before it is drawn out too much."

They arrived early to Tom's estate, but so did many others. By quarter after eight, a large crowd surrounded the mowed field. A chalk line traced the oval boundary and the pitch where the batsmen and bowlers would play. A hum of excitement buzzed through their growing audience.

When his family arrived, he waved. Behind them, he spotted Jemma and Lisette walking over with the Mannings to take their place under a tent with Lord and Lady Felcroft, Cassandra, the Sheldons, and Lady Kellen. He looked away, purposefully putting his arm around Mr. Reed to wish his teammate luck.

"The Bradford Gents are strong and quick," Mr. Reed said, studying their opponents.

Miles watched for a moment and found himself agreeing. "Don't worry, Reed, we have our own strengths."

"Oh, Mr. Jackson!"

Miles squeezed his eyes shut. He knew the high-pitched voice better than he wanted to. When he turned, he was surprised to see not just Miss Hardwick but also four or five other young ladies, each with a token offering in hand. Miss Hardwick put herself ahead of the others and held out a basket of baked goods tied with a ribbon. He thanked them all while desperately searching for a place of retreat. Paul stepped up and politely explained that the spectators had to stay back. Having perceptive friends was reason enough for rejoicing.

Was it too much to hope Jemma had not seen his entourage? Miles wanted to look over to the white tent to see her response, and it took great discipline to avoid her. If only Ian were not so intimidating, the women might flock after him instead.

The game began precisely at nine, putting any thoughts of Jemma from his mind. Brookeside won the coin toss and chose to play as the in-party, with Ian as the first striker and Kent preparing to run. Miles stood with the rest of his teammates, ready to bat when his turn came.

The bowler on the Bradford team opposite Ian signaled to his player and threw a roundarm bowl and sent the ball soaring. The ball bounced and went wide. The player delivered the second bowl straight, and Ian swung. His bat connected with the ball, and it flew toward the outfield, just shy of the boundary.

The Brookeside team jumped with excitement, and cheers rippled through the crowd. Brookeside made three runs before the ball was returned to the wicket keeper. Miles watched proudly as Mortimer Gibbons, the scorekeeper, made three notches in his long, hazel stick. After the first over, Kent was up. He hit the ball on the first bowl, and a fielder caught it. A disappointing out.

Their luck was back and forth for the rest of the inning. Just as the second inning ended, it was noon, and a break was called. The sky was overcast but the weather warm and a touch humid. Lady Felcroft served cold lemonade, meat, finger sandwiches, and cake to both teams.

Out of the corner of his eye, Miles noticed Jemma and Lisette making their way toward the Brookeside team. His lips turned up in anticipation, but he squelched such thoughts immediately. Jemma would be coming to congratulate Mr. Bentley on his fine catch in the last inning.

Sure enough, the women spoke with Mr. Bentley first. Dressed down to his shirtsleeves, the man had an advantage with his broad shoulders. Miles had always had a lean and long, narrow frame. It had never bothered him until this minute.

Tom interrupted his thoughts with his usual ridiculousness. "We're all kissing the ball for good luck."

He tossed the leather ball, and Miles caught it. "You bet a pretty penny on the game, didn't you?" Miles asked.

"Easy money," Tom said with a wink.

Miles grimaced at the ball. "Who kissed it last?"

"Pretend it was a woman."

Done. He pecked the ball with Jemma in mind. The sweaty leather would be nothing like her sweet lips, but in the name of the sport, he endured it. He tossed it back. "I want my cut of your winnings for that."

Tom's gaze slid away from him, and his whole countenance brightened. "Aw, there is my beautiful wife come to congratulate her husband on his fine bowling skills. Excuse me." Tom pulled his wife to him and shamelessly kissed her on the mouth.

Miles shook his head.

"I thought you approved of such demonstrations of affection," came his favorite contralto voice from behind him. Not only had she come to speak to him, but she had also brought up his favorite topic to discuss with her.

He turned slowly, his mouth pulling at the corners with amusement. Jemma wore a wide-brimmed, simply adorned bonnet, accentuating the loose tendrils framing her face. Her daffodil-colored gown stood out among the others, with puffed sleeves bunched once at her elbow and again to her forearm. Brown gloves matched the brown bows at her shoulders and the small, brown print dotting the rest of the gown. No one else was like her, and he wouldn't change a thing.

He overcame the momentary distraction of seeing her. "You misunderstand. I shook my head out of envy, not disapproval. I am happy for Tom and Cassandra. They complete each other."

Her cheeks colored, making her all the more beautiful to him. "You are fortunate to have so many young ladies vying for your hand to choose from."

So, she had seen his flock of admirers. Those ladies did not even know him—or see the real him. He had no interest in any of them. Besides, not one of them was Jemma. If only he could help her understand. If she gave him a chance ...

She stepped back. "I only wanted to commend your batting this morning—one friend to another. You played well, as always. Excuse me."

Her rushed words almost made him forget the letter hiding in his pocket. "Jemma, wait."

She faced him again, her entire person hesitant.

He stepped close to avoid others from seeing the exchange. "I thought we were not going to be awkward around each other. It seems there is more than one thing we need to practice." He looked over his shoulder as he slipped the folded paper into her hand. He wanted to weave his fingers through hers and kiss her palm, but as soon as he felt her fingers grip the missive, he stepped past her and walked away.

He wished he could see her face when she read his words, but indiscretion was more appropriate. Weaving through the crowd of people, he barely restrained his grin. Sharing a secret together was exactly what he shouldn't be doing. Desperate times required a bit of boldness. But with his letter delivered, it was time to forget her again.