Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Miles sat at the massive dining table in Kensington House, trying to focus on the ornate candelabras, the bright and wild landscapes from the West Indies adorning the walls, or even the blue-rimmed chinaware. Anything besides Jemma. Her every movement caught his gaze, her words his attention, and her presence his heart. And she was completely oblivious.

As he wanted her to be.

Mr. Bentley said something from his seat at the head of the table, drawing a laugh from Jemma and Ian on the other side of him. Jealousy like Miles had never experienced ruined his appetite and darkened his thoughts. His own mother—a matchmaking accomplice to Lady Kellen—had bragged that very morning about the credit she deserved for helping to choose the perfect man for Jemma.

He loved his mother, but he liked her less after such an aggravating conversation.

"You're not eating."

Miles lifted his gaze to meet Lisette's, who sat on his right. "Pardon?"

Her pale-blue eyes filled with concern. "You're pushing your food around, but I fear you've not even tasted it. Are you unwell?"

Miles masked his feelings and managed a small smile. "I must still be full from my lunch."

Lisette readily accepted his excuse, her eyes softening and her shoulders relaxing. Had she been so very worried about his health? His fierce jealousy moved aside to make room for simmering guilt. He stabbed a bite of roasted duck and forced it down to set her at ease.

It was a delicate dance between being Lisette's friend and trying not to give the wrong impression. The matrons always seated them together at dinner, so it was especially hard at parties. He cared for her as one did a sister, but he could not feel anything more for her. Still, he wouldn't be unkind either.

Lisette leaned toward him once more, and thankfully, this time, her words were not about him. "Mr. Bentley seems like a wonderful man. Do you not agree?"

It was bad enough to have to eat at the same table as him, but must he talk about him too? "Yes, wonderful." Wonderfully vexing.

"I admit I was wary about this," Lisette confided, "but I must give credit to the Matchmaking Society. Once again, they've proven themselves to have excellent taste."

Miles mumbled his agreement. At least someone was pleased about this. Then again, Lisette never saw anything wrong with anyone. She always found a way to see the bright side. If only he could borrow her perspective this time. If only he loved Lisette and not Jemma. "I take it you have forgiven Jemma for not telling you about Mr. Bentley sooner."

Lisette sighed. "How could I not? She's been hurting deeply for months. Oh, I know I mourn Grandmother, too, but it is different for Jemma. She and Grandmother had a special relationship I always envied. I just want her to be happy again."

Miles fingered his napkin, measuring his words. "And you think this is the answer?"

Lisette looked down the table at the intended couple, who were smiling over their shared conversation. "I can't be certain, but it's extremely promising."

Exactly what he was afraid of.

He recognized Jemma's canary-yellow gown of fine silk but noticed it had a new blonde lace trim across the neckline and along the short full sleeves. It was contrasted by robin's-egg-blue netted gloves he knew were lying on her lap until she finished eating. He always noticed what she wore, knowing she loved to be complimented on her trend-setting fashions. She detested sewing herself, but last summer, she had begun exchanging drawings with two modistes overseas, one French and the other American, and her talent had only grown.

Sighing, he looked away ... again. He hated that he knew this about her. It inevitably served to remind him of his position. He could not provide her the lavish lifestyle she was accustomed to. She was never wasteful, doing over old gowns and donating others to the poor, but she deserved to have every comfort she was used to. With Mr. Bentley in the picture, she would be amply provided for and would likely travel the globe on his arm. He'd say nothing of her gown, not tonight or any other night.

How many times had he swallowed words of praise in an attempt to hide his feelings?

He suddenly wished the marriage over and done with so he could move on with his life. There were so many parish needs for him to focus on, and pining for Jemma was an unproductive use of his time. Almost worse were the lessons on love. But while he might not be worthy of Jemma, at least he could help her feel more of worth. If he couldn't be the one to make her happy, he wanted someone else to do a proper job of it.

After the women left the table, Mr. Manning, Mr. Bentley, Ian, and himself remained at the table.

Miles forced a smile wide enough that he could feel the dents of his dimples. He might be somber by nature, but he wasn't one to sulk. It was his job to be welcoming and embrace everyone into the community, and he took his responsibilities seriously—even if it killed him. "I hope you're enjoying the neighborhood, Mr. Bentley. The rest of us are quite fond of Brookeside."

"It's charming," Mr. Bentley answered.

"Much like the ladies who reside here," Mr. Manning said, raising his brow. Ian's brow went up, too, and they all looked to Mr. Bentley.

"I must admit," Mr. Bentley gave a self-conscious chuckle, "I have not met many others yet, but I am impressed by both Miss Fielding and Miss Manning."

Miles squashed his immediate emotional response. "They are unparalleled," he added, determined to be agreeable.

"So, what are we doing in here?" Mr. Manning asked. "Let us join them post haste so Mr. Bentley might know them better."

Miles crumpled his napkin in his hand. It had been aggravating enough knowing their mothers were scheming against them, but this was further proof that the fathers were not without blame. First, Lord Felcroft had joined forces with his wife to match up Tom, and now, Mr. Manning was acting terribly suspicious.

"By all means." Mr. Bentley stood. "Shall we?"

Miles followed the men into the drawing room, lagging behind while he mentally prepared himself for another grueling hour of practicing patience.

But he'd hardly suspected Jemma to snag his arm at the entrance and yank him to the side as she did now.

He looked at her hand on his arm and ignored the twist in his chest. "Don't tell me you ripped another gown," he said.

She was acting as strange as the first time she'd met Mr. Bentley.

"No, I merely wanted a man's opinion." There was not a trace of her usual confidence in her eyes. "How did I do? Do you think he likes me?"

Miles glanced around desperately for a way to avoid answering, unable to keep himself from noticing the fine room Jemma would someday be the matron of. It was adequately sized, with a tall, masculine fireplace highlighting the main wall. Two high-back chairs were placed opposite it on the other end of the room, with Ian occupying one of them. The others were seated in two indigo-blue sofas flanking the fireplace. Lisette sat beside Mr. Bentley, their discussion conveniently keeping them unaware of Miles and Jemma's conversation.

"Why not ask Mr. Bentley himself?" Miles finally answered. He tried to step around her, but she moved in front of him again.

"I could never be so direct." She glared. "I was simply curious if something was said over port." She glanced at his waistcoat and pointed with a blue-netted finger. "What is this?"

As he had not his box of sweets with him at present, he thought she must be referring to his father's watch he often wore to remember him by. When he looked down, he saw his handkerchief sticking out enough to reveal his initials embroidered in the corner.

"Lisette always stitches laurel leaves around her initials, the same as this one. Did ... did she gift you it?" Jemma's mouth stretched into a wide, excited grin.

Miles could kick himself for not selecting a different handkerchief to bring.

Jemma gave a hushed squeal. "When did this happen?"

"She gave me a few for Twelfth Night ages ago," he mumbled. "I was not aware I brought this particular one tonight." He had made a point never to bring them anywhere, in fact.

She gave him a sideways glance. "Are you certain you did not hope for her to see it on your person?"

"I had no such hope." Miles shoved the handkerchief deeper into his pocket. The last thing he desired was to give Lisette the wrong impression about his feelings. "You did not see anything either. Let's sit down before the others think you are partial to me and not Mr. Bentley."

She blinked rapidly, and her shoulders drew inward. "They wouldn't think it because they know you are intended for Lisette." She shook herself and straightened again. "I won't say a thing, but please don't hide her gift on my account." Jemma, notorious for breaching propriety where he was concerned, reached over to pull the handkerchief out again. But he could be as unyielding as she in this matter, at least. He reached for the pocket at the same time. He hadn't meant to, but he snatched her hand in his own to stop her.

"What is all the whispering about?" Mrs. Manning called from the sofa. "Come join us, you two."

Miles shifted to hide the fact that he held her hand, when he should have let go. "Jemma ..."

Mrs. Manning's voice carried over to them. "The young adults in this town are always coming up with ways to improve Brookeside. They are, no doubt, conversing about another project."

She was not completely wrong.

Jemma glanced down at their hands and visibly swallowed. "Yes? What is it?"

His heart thudded in his chest. How he'd dreamed of holding Jemma's hand, and for longer than just a mere assistance into a carriage. The day he'd met Mr. Bentley, she had grabbed his hand for a brief moment, and it had only served to tease him. His hold instinctively tightened on hers now, drawing it closer to his chest. Why had this happened now, when she was more out of his reach than ever?

"Please, Jemma," he said softly, "leave the handkerchief alone." He hadn't meant for the tone of his voice to drop or for his thumb to slide across the back her hand, smooth just below the netted fabric. A rush of warmth traveled up his arm to his chest. No matter how many years of being in her company, she always rendered him this way. Touching her only enhanced his reaction.

She bit her bottom lip, her gaze drawing up to meet his. "All right." The words came out in a slow, deliberate whisper. "If you insist."

He drank in her doe-like gaze, wishing to savor her nearness. At long last, he released her. It wouldn't do him any good to hold on to another man's future wife, no matter how tempting she might be.

Jemma exhaled a shaky breath, tucking her hands into the folds of her dress. "I suppose you know best. You've always had a gentle touch with every situation, and I trust you." With a short, unaffected smile, she slipped away from him and strode toward the others, taking a seat beside Lisette.

Gentle.

His gentle touch.

A heavy sigh filtered through him. Would that it were a firm grip, capable of holding on to her. He'd once thought no one capable of such a feat, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd been wrong. Clenching the hand that had held hers moments ago, he moved to an empty chair closest to Mrs. Manning on the sofa and Ian in the tall-back chair beside him.

"More secrets, Miles?" Ian whispered, his gaze both curious and suspicious.

Always careful not to show his true feelings, he waited until the conversation around them muffled his answer. "It appears the Matchmaking Mama's are plotting to marry you off next."

Ian's gaze turned to steel. "What?"

The word drew the attention of the others.

"What ..." Ian repeated, "an interesting picture on the mantel, Mr. Bentley."

"Ah, thank you for noticing." Mr. Bentley motioned everyone's attention to the painting. "It is an oil depiction of a sunset over Barbados. I am partial to art, if you have not noticed from the dining room. I brought back as many pieces as I could so I might be surrounded by the brilliant colors I found there."

"Do tell us another story about your travels," Jemma pleaded.

Miles nearly glared at her, but Ian's whisper distracted him from his purpose. "Who is the unlucky lady my mother is foisting on me?"

Miles wanted to watch Jemma's reactions, not converse with Ian. Under his breath, he blurted the first name he could think of. "Mrs. Fortescue."

Ian wrinkled his nose. "You're joking."

"For seventy-five, she is not so bad on the eyes. Give her a chance."

Ian snorted, drawing everyone's attention again. He coughed into his hand. "Forgive me, I'm getting a cold." With his overly dry sense of humor, no one questioned him.

Jemma did not even bat an eyelash of concern for Ian's health, for she was too intent on capturing Mr. Bentley's attention. "What were you saying, Mr. Bentley, about being at the Manning House yesterday?"

"Merely, I am sorry to have missed you," Mr. Bentley answered. "A good walk, however, is important for one's health."

"I do love long walks," she said. "But I will be certain to be home during calling hours tomorrow if you are inclined to visit again."

She wasn't being subtle. Could Miles blame her? There was no reason to play coy when her marriage to Mr. Bentley was inevitable. He stole a glance at Lisette, who sat poised beside her cousin. Glowering, he propped his head on his hand and went back and forth between the two women. Lisette was more somber, like himself, practical, and plenty pretty. Why did she not make his heart race?

Jemma, on the other hand, acted with certainty, carried a zeal for life about her, and often said and did the unexpected. How many times had he told himself that they were not even compatible?

Along with the differences between the two women, they had similarities enough. Both were loyal, caring, and sympathetic. But only one combination of traits had drawn him in completely from the time they were children. When Jemma had been nine and he not yet thirteen, he had fallen for her for the very first time.

He knew the very day: a warm summer afternoon when he'd thought his life had ended.

With his father dead a year and Miles much too young to work off the mountain of debt left to him, there was no way for his family to keep his newly inherited house. It was time for Miles and his family to say goodbye to Brookeside. The only life he had ever known. The adults gathered in small circles in the garden after Sunday services and whispered about the sorry fortune of his family. Miles and his friends also huddled together, safely hidden behind the church, to have their own discussion of the dreadful news.

Regardless of the circumstances, goodbye would not suffice for Jemma. Even then, she'd visited only in the summers, but no one had minded her and Lisette tagging along with them, not when Jemma's splendid ideas had kept them all entertained. When she'd discovered his news, it had not mattered that she had spent the least amount of time with Miles out of everyone. She'd declared Miles was not leaving Brookeside nor any member of his family. It had been the first time Miles had seen her passion flare to life.

Jemma had climbed up on the stump she'd been sitting on, her small fists tight, and yelled at their small group. "Look at you, sorry lot, giving up on your friend. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Miles is staying, and that is final!" Those words had been the catalyst behind uniting the others to his cause—that and her brilliant idea of instigating a romance between his mother and the new rector.

Initially, everyone had thought her ridiculous. But her enthusiasm and intractable determination had given them hope, and they'd tried anyway. In the end, his mother had remarried a wonderful man, allowing Miles and her to stay in Brookeside. The whole town had seemed to rally around the project. It had been a fair toss up of who had interfered more in the courtship—them or, believe it or not, the matrons of Brookeside.

When summer had ended and the regretful time had come for Jemma to return home with her grandmother, Miles had been as sorry as she. He'd run all the way to the Mannings' house in the rain and hid behind an old twisted tree to watch their carriage pull away. He hadn't wanted her to go. She had given him his life back. But it had been more than gratitude. His adolescent heart had been pricked by the first sensation of love.

Right then, he'd made a decision. He'd lifted his face to the sky, rain drops hitting his skin and chasing down his face, and had vowed to someday marry Jemma Fielding. Neither of them would ever have to leave Brookeside again.

Not two years later, Lisette's near death had complicated everything.

Jemma turned away from Mr. Bentley's enthralling conversation just then and met his intense stare. She screwed up her face in confusion and mouthed. "What?"

He shrugged and straightened.

She frowned and went back to listening to Mr. Bentley, but Miles could not look away so easily.

"You're being obvious," Ian whispered from beside him.

Miles swiveled his gaze. "Am I?" After all these years, were his feelings finally transparent?

Ian put a hand up to shield his words from the others. "We can't both hate the idea of another matchmaking conquest by our mothers. If I have to be supportive—and believe me, it's a real sacrifice—then you do too."

Miles gave a reluctant nod. He'd be supportive and continue to give romance lessons to Jemma, but he didn't have to like it. Everyone had a line, and Mr. Bentley was not even aware he was crossing Miles's. Time, however, would not be something Mr. Bentley robbed him of. They weren't engaged yet, which meant there was nothing wrong with him seeking Jemma out. Or maybe he wouldn't have to seek her out at all. Her silly lessons would do the trick. Though the reason for them did not sit well with him, it was an hour alone with her he would not waste. And then he would do right by her and see her married to Mr. Bentley because at least one of them ought to be happy.