Chapter 2
CHAPTER
a
2
H ello, Miss Cronenworth. Fancy meeting you here."
Jackson Bennett, the newly-installed Earl of Thornhill, stepped in front of Miss Cronenworth to block her way. He grinned, as if he'd played a great trick on her.
She'd been marching down the busy London street, not looking where she was going, so it had been easy to accost her. The crazed female was by herself, with no maid to act as her companion. He'd startled her and she jumped a foot and lurched back.
The Matron's Brigade had just concluded another of their ridiculous protests and she'd attended the rally. The mob was breaking up, the area emptying, and he'd blustered up to intercept her as she was leaving.
The gaggle of harpies had congregated outside his favorite theater, and his private club was located across from it. Through an upstairs window, he'd watched them vent and chant, and he'd been exasperated by their venom. Why couldn't they mind their own business?
Passersby had mostly ignored them, but they deemed themselves to be very important, so they'd created quite a stir. The grouchy group was harassing many actresses he knew and liked and he didn't care for their conduct or motives.
When he'd noticed Miss Cronenworth standing in the milling crowd, he'd spied on her for the whole event. She'd dressed as the others had, in their uniform of a white gown with a red sash, so she was obviously a member. The red was meant to indicate their level of fury over the immoral state of the nation, but while she was attired in the appropriate costume, she hadn't participated with any visible glee. Her lack of zeal had delighted him and he wondered why she'd shown up at all. She appeared to be as annoyed by the vicious shrews as he was himself.
Her face was so expressive and he could read every emotion exhibited there. She was aghast to see him, horrified to be recognized, and frantically calculating how she could escape his presence without humiliating herself more than she already had.
From the minute she'd stumbled on him a few days earlier, when he'd been kissing Lola, he'd been thinking about her. He wasn't a fellow who wasted energy obsessing on any topic, so it was odd that he'd grown fixated. Yet she was wedged into his brain like a gnat he couldn't swat away.
Lola was his long-time mistress and they were a disgusting couple who never followed the rules laid down by Polite Society. Blatant demonstrations of physical affection were completely intolerable, so Miss Cronenworth had to have been shocked by what she'd witnessed. For some unfathomable reason, he was suffering from the worst impulse to voice his regret for what she'd observed. Since he never explained any of his antics, it was a peculiar twist with regard to her.
He wallowed in the corrupt dregs of the demimonde and he engaged in every possible vice. He especially availed himself of the pleasures that doxies dispensed, and he never kept company with gently-bred females. They bored him silly. His tastes ran to trollops and slatterns who'd shucked off the norms foisted on them in Puritanical England. His motto was: The looser the better .
When she'd raced out of his house, she'd looked so pretty and so innocent. Her mortification had been a vivid reminder that he ought to mend his dissolute habits. He hadn't reached that point though. In the distant future, he supposed he'd rise to the occasion and embrace his elevated station, but so far, he hadn't been able to convince himself to change.
After serving in the army for over a decade, much of it in India, and his being critically injured in the process, his views had been altered. Where once he'd been responsible, competent, and dependable, he'd wound up incompetent, unreliable, and irresponsible. A near-death experience could do that to a man.
With his almost perishing, and his condition not fully recovered, he was reveling in the fact that he was still alive. He never focused on negative subjects, and he was on a frantic mission to constantly recollect that he'd survived his ordeal.
She lived across the street from him, and he'd hoped they'd have an opportunity to chat about the awkward kissing incident, but she'd deftly evaded a second meeting. The more meticulously she'd hidden from him, the more determined he'd been to bump into her. He was contrary that way.
His carpenters all knew her. Apparently, she was a neighborhood busybody who'd tracked every portion of the remodeling. They insisted she was harmless, and they'd profusely apologized for letting her barge in and snoop, but he hadn't been upset by her interest.
The Thornhill title had been dumped on his shoulders without warning, and he'd received the country estate that was connected to it, but the property had been neglected and the manor sitting empty for ages, so the place was a decrepit ruin. He couldn't bear to visit or ponder the cost and effort that would be required to make it habitable, so he didn't ponder it and he definitely never visited.
Instead, he caroused in the city and it was much more suited to his decadent preferences. He'd been renting rooms, staying in bachelor's apartments, until Lola had persuaded him to carry on like the aristocrat he'd been raised up to be. The town house was the first residence he'd ever purchased, and it was a petty conceit, but he couldn't help being overly proud about it.
He'd been charmed to learn that Miss Cronenworth was so curious about the upgrades he'd ordered. He'd like to dawdle with her over a pot of tea and discuss his every choice. He couldn't discuss any of it with Lola; she didn't care about what he'd implemented. She only cared about how it would uplift her status after they moved in.
Miss Cronenworth had sidled away from him and he said, "I take it you weren't expecting to cross paths with me this afternoon."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe we've ever been introduced. I'm sure you have me confused with someone else."
He scoffed. "Don't pretend you don't know me. It won't work. I interrogated my carpenters about you and they filled me in on every detail."
Her embarrassment was acute. "Since I have no idea why you'd have been talking about me, I can't imagine what a group of carpenters could have shared. I've never spoken to a carpenter in my life."
She was a fiery little thing, short and slender, bossy and confident, which should have guaranteed he wouldn't notice her. If he had a type of woman he liked, it was buxom, shapely tarts like Lola. Miss Cronenworth was so petite that a stiff wind could blow her over, but she had the most gorgeous brunette hair. It was a dark brown shade, but shot through with strands of red and gold.
He was trapped in a world where almost every female was blond, so her striking hair set her apart. Two alluring curls had escaped her bonnet and they bounced on her cheeks. He could barely keep from wrapping one of them around his finger and drawing her closer.
She had the biggest blue eyes he'd ever seen, and when she gazed up at him, he was totally flummoxed, as if he were a young boy with a crush. He was a skilled rogue, who'd sailed the globe and participated in every kind of adventure, so he couldn't deduce why she had such a strange effect on him, but she was stirring all sorts of bizarre sentiments.
Where would it lead? He was anxious to find out.
"Give over, Miss Cronenworth," he said. "I'm not about to have you claim we're not acquainted. I'm cordial with your brother, Arthur, so you'll never pull it off. Besides, I'll probably invite you to my house-warming party. Will you come?"
"I wouldn't dare attend and Arthur is my stepbrother. Not my brother."
"I stand corrected."
The pompous shrew spun and stomped away, and her snooty attitude irked him beyond his limit. He was a handsome, dashing army veteran who'd previously had a uniform covered with medals. It meant women had fallen at his feet.
He'd just turned thirty, and now—along with his good looks—he was an aristocrat, so it wasn't arrogance to brag that he was popular with the ladies. Every female he encountered, from highborn to harlot, was eager to glom onto him. He didn't suppose Miss Cronenworth should be allowed to storm off in a huff.
In three quick strides, he caught up with her, but his haste made his leg ache. His old wound always plagued him, but he ignored it. He clasped her arm and slipped it into his, so she couldn't run off and disappear. He wasn't about to humiliate himself by chasing after her. He couldn't chase after her; it would hurt too much.
He'd annoyed her and she glared at their joined arms and said, "What are you doing?"
"We're strolling."
"I don't want to stroll with you."
"Why not? It's a beautiful day and I'm an intriguing gentleman. You ought to be flattered that I'm willing."
He'd uttered the comment facetiously, but there was quite a bit of truth in it too. He couldn't figure out why he was bothering with her, but she needed to be more appreciative.
She snorted with derision. "It's obnoxious of you to assume I'm flattered."
"I'm a cocky beast. I can't deny it."
"We haven't even been introduced, yet you imagine I should oblige your whims and commands."
"Every female I meet obliges me, so I've grown to expect it."
"I can't abide such masculine vanity."
"You've only scratched the surface," he said. "Wait until you've known me for awhile. I'll drive you to distraction with my pride and narcissism."
"That would occur if we were destined to socialize, which isn't going to happen."
"We're neighbors and I'm friendly with your stepbrother. How could we not socialize?"
She grumbled and asked, "What's your name? You haven't told me."
"Did I neglect to mention it? How rude of me." He halted, clicked his heels, and bowed. "Jackson Bennett, at your service."
"You haven't clarified your position in the world, Mr. Bennett. Why is that precisely? Are you notorious? Arthur likes to fraternize with wastrels. Are you one of them?"
"I am the most hideous scapegrace of all. In his entire circle of chums, my reputation is the very worst."
"You bluntly admit it?"
"Yes, and it's my father's fault. He's a gambler and wretch, and with him as my role model, I didn't stand a chance of developing stellar character."
"How do you earn an income? Are you a gambler too?"
"It's just one of my many vices."
She smirked with disgust and attempted to march off, but he grabbed her again so she couldn't flee. She didn't complain, so evidently, he was making progress.
They ambled along in silence, the crowd thinning as they moved away from the Brigade's assembly, and eventually, she said, "What about your mother? Why didn't she instill some ethics and morals?"
"My poor, poor mother," he murmured. "She married too young and my father drove her to an early grave."
At the frank confession, she staggered, but she swiftly regrouped. "Honestly, Mr. Bennett, that's an awful secret to confide about your parents."
He shrugged. "It's true though. Should I pretend it's not?"
"You should either show some respect for them or you shouldn't talk about them."
"My father has always resided with me, and he's so foolish and negligent that I've been forced to support him since I was a child. I can't forget that he's a knave."
"According to your account, you're horrid too, but how old are you?"
"Thirty. How about you?"
"Twenty-four. With you being an adult, you don't have to be such a laggard. You could fix yourself and become a decent person."
"You've identified the problem in a nutshell. I've never wanted to grow up or act my age."
"Ooh, you men!" she fumed. "You infuriate me with your obstinacy and bad habits."
"Is that why you've joined the Matron's Brigade? Are you hoping to make men behave better?"
"Well, someone ought to try, don't you think?"
"Have you wondered if it might not be a huge waste of effort?"
She wrinkled up her nose, and it had him noticing that her cheeks were dimpled, and she had freckles dusting her nose. Every small detail fascinated him.
Suddenly, a fussy, short fellow rushed up. He was dressed in a brown suit, bowler hat, and wearing spectacles, so he had to be a lawyer or a clerk.
"Miss Cronenworth!" he cried. "May I please have a minute of your time? It's dreadfully important."
She blanched, and from her strident reaction, it was clear she had no desire to confer with him. Jackson shoved him aside, saying, "Be gone, you impertinent devil. She's not interested in whatever you're peddling."
The man extended a sheaf of papers, as if he was determined she take them, but Jackson shoved him again, then hurried her away. The crowd swallowed them up and instantly provided a barrier.
"Who was that?" he asked her.
"I have no idea. The past few weeks, whenever I've been out and about, he's attempted to accost me. He's so persistent that I'm worried he might be touched in the head. I mean, if he has a relevant topic to discuss, why not simply knock on my door?"
"Exactly. Would you like me to have him investigated? I could."
She waved away his suggestion. "He's probably harmless. I'd just like him to leave me alone."
"Maybe he's upset about your participation in the Matron's Brigade. Your group only harasses women, so obviously, you blame them for the kingdom's sins. Are you a devout Christian? Do you view them as the descendants of Eve?"
"No. That's not it."
"Then why keep on with that gaggle of harpies? You can't suppose men are innocent victims. I've never known a man to be led astray by a woman. In my experience, it's always the other way around."
"I completely agree."
"You were picketing over the actress, Tilly Dreadful, who works at that theater. Have you ever met her? Have you ever seen her perform?"
"No, but she's being singled out as an example of moral indecency. The stories about her are shocking."
"What if they're just that? What if they're stories? I'm acquainted with her and I think it's cruel for you to torment her. She's gorgeous, talented, and very nice. You'd like her."
"It's not up to me. I simply write an occasional pamphlet that lists our goals. It's the sum-total of my involvement."
"Is that why you were lurking on the edge of the protest, rather than shouting insults?"
She didn't reply, and he sensed that she was choking on a slew of comments she wasn't keen to voice. Finally, she said, "I will admit that I'm not excited about my membership. My stepmother, Georgina, and her sister, Gertrude, were lured in through the Ladies Aid at our church, and Georgina urged me to pitch in."
"Are you wishing you hadn't?"
"I'm wishing men would stop being so debauched."
He could see his carriage up ahead, his outriders watching for him to return. With the Brigade's rally in progress at the theater, they'd had to park several blocks from his club. He hadn't thought he'd been proceeding in a specific direction, but had he been? Would he offer her a ride? He couldn't imagine her accepting.
"Are you walking home from the event?" he asked her.
"I haven't decided. I may hail a cab."
"You don't have a maid or chaperone to accompany you, so you're traipsing about on your own. Is that wise?"
"I'm an adult, Mr. Bennett, and I don't require a nanny's protection."
"That's a very modern attitude to have, but we're basically strangers. What if I'm a nefarious criminal? What if I kidnap you, murder you, and dump your mutilated body in the Thames? Are you willing to risk it?"
She clucked her tongue with offense. "Would you be serious? I'm not afraid of you and you can't make me afraid."
"I'm just pointing out that there can be consequences for rash choices."
"There is nothing rash about strolling around London in broad daylight."
"If you say so," he muttered. "I'm betting you haven't visited any of the neighborhoods where I'm wont to wander."
"Yes, well, you've confessed to being a wastrel, so I'm not surprised that you wallow in seedy areas."
They approached the vehicle and his servants leapt to attention. The driver climbed into the box, and an outrider set the step, while another whipped the door open. Jackson halted and gestured to it.
"This is my carriage," he said. "Will you permit me to take you?"
She studied the men in their livery, peeked at the ornate crest on the side, then she frowned. "You're not a mere mister, are you? You're someone much more important than that."
"Maybe."
"Tell me who you are."
" I am Jackson Bennett. I wasn't lying about my name. For many years, I was Sergeant Jackson Bennett, formally of the Hundred-First Horse Guards, but currently, I'm usually referred to as Lord Thornhill."
" Lord Thornhill?" She scrutinized him dubiously, then glared at the nearest outrider and asked, "Is that the truth? Is he Lord Thornhill?"
The man nodded, then winked at Jackson. Most of his servants had been in the army with him in India, and once he'd arrived back in England—and had received his title as a reward for valor—he'd tracked them down and given them jobs. The nation was awash with unemployed, hungry veterans and he'd been relieved to help.
Their positions weren't all that grand though. Not yet anyway. And their salaries were definitely pathetic. He was a successful gambler, so he'd won enough money to buy his house, but he didn't suppose he'd ever accumulate the necessary funds to restore Thornhill.
He'd been handed a prize that was an empty shell and he tried not to be bitter about it. After all, how many commoners had ever been elevated to be earls? He tried to simply be glad that his courage had been noted in high places. With how desperately he'd been wounded, he'd thought he deserved some recognition, but with Thornhill being so dilapidated, he couldn't figure out if he'd been honored or denigrated.
The prior family who'd held the title had died out, and he had no idea what livery their servants had previously worn. For his meager staff, he'd purchased some old theater costumes from an actor-acquaintance, and he deemed it completely appropriate for them to be dressed in costumes.
His status didn't seem real, and he and his servants might have been playing parts in a bizarre melodrama.
"What is your rank?" she asked, her skepticism not assuaged.
"I'm an earl. A very new earl."
She sniffed with disdain, as if he'd spewed an epithet. "Who was insane enough to give you a title?"
"Ah…the King?"
"Why would he have?"
"I'm sure it will astonish you, but it was for bravery in the line of duty. I saved the life of a royal cousin."
His outrider chimed in with, "And he was almost killed in the process."
Jackson motioned for him to be silent. He felt as if he'd cheated to win a peculiar lottery and that he hadn't earned the accolades that came with it.
"I've read about you, haven't I?" she said. "There were stories in the newspapers. You're famous."
"That might have been me." He asked again, "May I see you home?"
"No, thank you," the snotty minx retorted.
"Miss Cronenworth, Theodora… May I call you Theodora?"
"No, especially not with me discovering who you are. But may I apologize for sneaking into your house the other day?"
"There was no harm done. Don't fret over it."
"It was awful behavior and I shouldn't have snooped. It's a bad habit of mine: blustering forward without thinking."
"I've noticed that about you."
"Tell your wife how sorry I am. I will be mortified forever."
Lola wasn't his wife. She was a fallen woman of low morals whose father had been an officer in the East India Company. Jackson's affair with her had begun in India, and after he'd been incapacitated and sent back to England, she'd traveled with him. They shared a lengthy history that bound them together, but they didn't have much in common, and she could be exhausting.
He often debated as to how he could be shed of her, but he didn't have the energy to fight over the issue. She had no money, had burned all her bridges, and was estranged from her family. If he tossed her aside, what would become of her?
He didn't explain any of that to Miss Cronenworth though. If she presumed he was married, she might be more amenable to accepting a ride. He couldn't let her march off by herself and he couldn't walk with her. His poor leg would never stand the strain.
"Please get in," he said. "I have an injury and I can't trek about with you."
"I'll be fine, Lord Thornhill. You needn't worry about me."
She stomped off and he shouted after her, "Do you ever do what you're told?"
"Not usually," she shouted back. "My stepmother despairs for my future."
"I can certainly understand why."
She grinned, suddenly looking impish and dangerous to his equilibrium. Their gazes locked, and it was very odd, but the Earth seemed to grind to a halt. Pedestrians stopped moving. Carriage wheels stopped rolling on the cobbles. Birds stopped cawing in the sky. There was just him and her, frozen in their spots. It felt as if the universe was marking the encounter, ensuring they marked it too. It was an eerie sensation, almost as if he'd been bewitched.
As quickly as the moment arose, it ended, and he said, "I'm a man and an earl and you're a woman. You have to heed me."
"I never listen to men and I'm not about to start with you."
"You're vexing me and I don't like it."
"I'm positive you'll survive."
She whipped away and continued on, and she was immediately swallowed up by the passersby.
His men were gaping at her, gaping at Jackson, then an outrider said, "Will you permit her to traipse off on her own? It's not very smart."
Jackson grumbled with frustration. "We'll trail after the petite shrew to guarantee she meets with no obstacles or villains. It's not as if we're busy."
It was the current dilemma in his life: He was never busy and the tedious days trudged by in a slow form of torture where he was totally irrelevant. When he'd been in the army, his hours had been filled with important, worthwhile tasks. Now, he simply loafed and reveled, and his sloth was humiliating. He'd always been a man of action and activity and he didn't know how to malinger.
The most pressing problem was that, with his being an earl, he wasn't supposed to ever work. It was viewed as being beneath his station to toil away at any endeavor, but previously, he'd always been a member of the lower classes. He'd never been a shirker, but he was gradually turning into his father, Cedric, who was fifty and had never been anything but a scapegrace and libertine.
Jackson had prided himself on his dedication and industriousness, but evidently deep down, he was much more like Cedric than he'd ever cared to admit.
He climbed into the vehicle, and when an outrider tried to assist him, he waved the man away. For the most part, Jackson was hale and mobile, but occasionally, his leg protested to remind him that he would never be the same. His servants frequently leapt to help him—even when he didn't need to be helped.
"Keep her in your sights," he told the driver. "If you see her experiencing difficulties, we'll intervene."
His men jumped aboard and they started after her at a leisurely pace. It took forever to arrive in their posh neighborhood. She hadn't realized that he'd been behind her the whole way, so she'd already become a huge bother, and he didn't like to be bothered.
She approached her door and they reined in right next to her. Only then did she glance over and notice him.
Her jaw dropped and she said, "You followed me?"
He leaned out the window to reply. "Yes. I warned you not to walk by yourself. You're very bold, but that doesn't mean nothing bad will happen."
"I've reached my destination safe and sound, so your conduct was completely unnecessary, and you've caused me to fret over your mental faculties. Are you a tad deranged?"
"Yes. I'm half-mad. Can't you tell?"
"Yes, I can definitely tell."
She whirled away and went inside, and he allowed her to depart without further argument. She'd wasted enough of his time. He was tired of sitting in the carriage, and he wished his house was finished, so he could cross the street and be home. Yet it would be a week or two before he could move in, so they traveled on to his bachelor's apartment.
Lola would be waiting for him and he sighed with annoyance. He'd be happier if she wasn't there, but it would be too hard to force her to leave. She'd glommed onto him like a leech on a thigh and he couldn't pry her off.
He relaxed on the seat and refused to ponder the situation. Instead, he thought about Miss Cronenworth and when he might be with her again. He was acquainted with her stepbrother, Arthur. They gambled together constantly, and Arthur regularly lost large sums of money that Jackson was delighted to win.
Shortly, Jackson would settle into his new home and he would host a party to mark the monumental event. His father, Cedric, had been adamant that they celebrate. Jackson would invite Arthur and would insist he bring Miss Cronenworth.
He'd asked to call her Theodora, and she'd declined the courtesy, but he never let women decide how he would behave. So it would be Theodora from this point on.