He kept trying, but, by Saturday evening, he had yet to renew the lady’s acquaintance. He considered breaking his word to Lord Nathaniel and accosting her in public but decided against it. She was just as likely to cut him again. He resolved to wait on her front step until she returned, if need be. Eleanor, who with Justinian had joined him at the theatre, pointed out that Eloise would likely not be receiving until Sunday afternoon and he might as well come to church with them in the morning. Neatly cornered, he’d been unable to find an excuse to disagree.
The service at St. George’s Hanover Square was uninspiring. In fact, it seemed calculated to annoy him, being based on the text of David and Bathsheba. The similarities with his reason for leaving London did not go unnoticed. Of course, David had lusted after Bathsheba, and he had merely rescued Lady Hendricks. He did not think it wise to mention that to the good minister.
As his mind wandered with the sermon, so did his gaze. He noted with amusement who was squirming and who was snoring. Several ladies seemed intent on attracting his attention, even a couple with husbands in tow. The mothers of the younger ones seemed equally intent on disabusing any notions of his suitability. They at least knew better than to put stock in his attendance at church.
One particular young lady two rows in front and to the right continued to glance back at him. The third time he noticed, he realized it was the Miss Sinclair who had bumped into him at Almack’s. The light from the nave candles danced over her red-gold hair and silhouetted her slender form. She should have looked angelic, only her glances toward him were anything but. Only the obviously pointed whispers from the woman next to her (he assumed her mother) forced her gaze to remain forward for the last part of the service.
It was only as he rose to leave that he saw that Eloise had been sitting a few rows behind him. She wore a white muslin gown trimmed with pink rosebuds and satin ribbon. He had no trouble picturing her as an angel. Unfortunately, that only reminded him of their first meeting again. A shame all he could ask of her was her forgiveness. A greater shame that she would not even grant that.
She saw him watching her and leaned to whisper something in the ear of the older man who accompanied her. Surely he must be Baron Watkin, but he looked nothing like his daughter, outside his translucent skin. Jareth was highly tempted to push past the dowager ahead of him in the pew so that he might reach Eloise, but he forced himself to shuffle slowly toward the aisle. By the time he was free, Eloise had disappeared.
He dashed out of the church, raising no few brows in the process. He didn’t have to hear the gossip this time to know its content. By galloping out of the house of heaven he was once more proving he belonged to the house of hell. He did not let the sentiment deter him from scanning the steps and pavement around the chapel. She was nowhere to be seen among the crush of carriages.
But he was undaunted. It was Sunday after all. Surely this would be a day to grant forgiveness, if it were asked. Leaving Justinian and Eleanor to thank the minister for the service (and apologize for Jareth’s behavior if needed), he hailed a hack and went straight to the Watkin townhouse.
“Miss Watkin is expecting me,” he told the butler when the solemn fellow answered his knock.
“I regret to say that Miss Watkin has not informed
me
of that fact,” the butler replied. “Shall I take your card, sir?”
“As you already have a sizable collection, I think not. However, I should be happy to wait while you request additional guidance from the lady. Just promise her that I come as a penitent.”
“One moment, then.”
The butler’s idea of a moment clearly differed from Jareth’s. He counted off one hundred and fifty moments before the door opened again. By that time, he’d tipped his hat to six ladies, nodded to four gentlemen, and smiled appreciatively at five pieces of prime horseflesh.
“As I expected,” the butler said, “Miss Watkin is not at home.”
“Then I will wait until she is at home,” Jareth informed him.
The butler merely looked at him. “I regret that we seem to have no space available for you to wait, sir.”
Jareth flipped back his tails and settled himself on the front step. “Then I shall wait right here,” he called back over his shoulder.
The butler didn’t even sigh, though Jareth suspected he was hard pressed not to. “The under footman generally sweeps the front step at half past one, sir,” he said solemnly, “and it is nearly that now. I am certain you would not want to dirty your trousers.”
“I certainly would not,” Jareth retorted, glancing down at his dove gray trousers, one of the few of his belongings that didn’t need refurbishing. “In fact, if such were to happen, I would likely cry out. Loudly. Repeatedly. I should think your neighbors on the terrace might remark upon it, unless of course they are also not at home.”
The door snapped shut.
Jareth waited. He’d never liked having to wait. If he had, there might be fewer ladies on Justinian’s list. Certainly Eloise wouldn’t have been on it. From the first, he could not get enough of her.
He had never doubted she’d appear at the oak. He’d felt her interest in the chapel. She would come, if only to be sure of him. Having ridden all his life in the Darby woods, which they shared with the school, he knew exactly how close he could get to Barnsley without getting caught. He’d tied his horse at the oak just before midnight and lit a hooded lantern. But he didn’t need its feeble light; he could hear the footsteps hurrying toward him.
She burst into the small clearing, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, her slender form enveloped by a rich burgundy cloak fit for royalty. Now he realized the expense of the cloak should have been a clue that she was no impoverished teacher. Then it had seemed fitting raiment for her beauty and their secret meeting. A few leaves clung to her ringlets as if Oberon himself had crowned her. Seeing him, she stopped and sucked in a breath. He was suddenly afraid she’d run back the way she’d come.
He swept her a bow in the glow of the lantern. “Ah, Titania, Queen of the Fairies, well met.”
She stood a little taller, but some of the tension seemed to fade from her. She cocked a brow. “This morning I was an angel and now I’m a fairy. Have you seen fit to demote me, sir?”
“Never,” he assured her fervently. He laid a hand on his chest. “Queen of the angels or queen of the fairies, you remain queen of my heart.”
Her regal air vanished as her eyes widened again. “Really?”
The surprise vested in that single word should have been another clue, this time of her youth and inexperience. Then, he had been too intent on making her his to question anything she said or did. He had hurried to assure her of his utter devotion.
They had met most every night like that for nearly a month, sometimes at the tree, sometimes elsewhere in the wood. At first, she had allowed him no more than a few chaste kisses that merely left him hungry for more. Occasionally he’d consider giving up, but something in the way she’d look at him in parting, green eyes flickering beneath dark lashes, would encourage him to keep returning. That and the way her laughter tickled more than his ears. And the way her smile made him feel taller, more clever, and infinitely more handsome than his older brothers. In fact, she’d made him feel as if he could do no wrong.
Until that fateful night in the stables.
He shook himself. What was he doing reveling in the past when his future was in jeopardy? He and Eloise had chosen to go separate ways. Time to earn her forgiveness and get on with it. Jareth began to whistle.
When nothing happened, he started a hymn.
When Shepherds Watched Their Flocks
gave way to a rousing chorus of
Oh God, Our Hope in Ages Past
. It wasn’t until he exhausted his meager knowledge of proper songs and moved on tavern ballads like
The Busty Barmaid of Berkeley
that the door opened again.
“Miss Watkin will see you now,” the butler intoned as if nothing untoward had happened.
Jareth rose and followed him into the townhouse.
He had always considered the butler to be too high in the instep to belong to someone as winsome as Eloise, but the interior of her home suited her no better. The colors were pale and lifeless, the furnishings bare of ornamentation. Even the stiff-backed woman in the portrait over the stairs looked uncomfortable. He straightened his cravat self-consciously as the butler led him up the stairs to a withdrawing room at the front of the house.
The room was just as bad, with its cool colors and uncushioned wood chairs, but the sight of Eloise in one of them did much to raise his spirits. However, as he moved closer he could see that she held herself so stiffly her back failed to touch the lyre pattern of the wood behind her. Her hands, sheathed in lace gloves in the pattern of roses, clenched so tightly in her lap that he thought she might pop a seam. He bowed, and she nodded her permission for him to sit. The butler stationed himself beside the door.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Jareth said by way of preamble. “But I must speak with you.”
“No, you must not,” she replied firmly. “We have nothing to say to each other, Mr. Darby. I granted this interview to make sure you understood that.”
He spread his hands, offering her his most charming smile. “But Miss Watkin, I am a changed man. I am determined to overcome my past and restore myself to the bosom of my family.”
She stared at him. “You have reformed?”
“Completely,” he assured her with what he hoped was sufficient fervor. “I seek to gain forgiveness from all those I have wronged.”
“All of them?” She raised a brow. “I should think that would take some time, Mr. Darby.”
He refused to flinch. “Actually, it has been mercifully quick. The others whom I have approached have been eager to see me walk the path of righteousness. Indeed, my brother is so convinced of my change of heart that he promised me a position managing one of his estates.”
“Indeed.”
Her decidedly chilly tone was not the least encouraging, but he pressed on.
“Knowing you as I did, I felt sure your generosity of spirit would shine forth and you would also support me in my change of heart. I realize we parted under difficult circumstances, but I assure you that I bear no ill will.”
Her green eyes were as cold as the waters of the North Sea. “How very charitable of you, to be sure.”
Her sarcasm was so obvious he knew he was in trouble. He would have to try harder. He went down on one knee before her. Her eyes widened in obvious surprise.
“Miss Watkin, Eloise,” he implored, gathering her icy hands into his warmer grip. “Surely you remember what we meant to each other once. I realize you may feel differently now, but could you not find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Her posture seemed to grow even more rigid. She withdrew her hands from his. Her rose lips pulled back over straight white teeth.
“Never,” she spat.
Chapter Six
Eloise had the pleasure of watching Jareth blink in confusion. It would have been even more satisfying if he had flinched or cried aloud, but given his black heart, confusion was probably the best she could hope for.
“I beg your pardon?” he tried.
“Yes, you did. You begged my pardon, and I refused to give it. Completely understandable given our situation, I should think.”
His look lightened, intensifying the blue of his gaze. “Of course. I was too precipitous. Forgive me for not explaining myself further. The delight of seeing you again tied my tongue.”
So, he still thought words would be enough to sway her. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your tongue, Mr. Darby, seems to be the only thing that is working, for if your brain were as agile, you would understand why I cannot forgive you.”
When she did not elaborate, he frowned, silvery brows lowering over his long nose. “Perhaps my brain is addled, as you say. Please tell me what concerns you.”
She could feel Bryerton standing by the door and knew she could not tell Jareth all she would have preferred. She settled for the most grievous sin. “You did not think to contact me before now?”
“I did not dare,” he replied simply, with that smile that would once have made her heart flutter in her chest. The fact that it was nearly doing that very thing now only made her sit straighter.
“You did not dare or you could not be bothered,” she accused.
“I assure you it was the former. I thought it best not to make our connection more widely known.” He cocked his head, bringing her attention to the way his platinum hair curled around his ear. “I had my valet check on you, but when he returned with no bad news, I assumed I was the more affected by the event. After all, I’m the one who ended up with a scar on his ...”
She bolted to her feet. “That will be all, Bryerton!” Scowling at Jareth for putting her once more in an untenable position, she waved her butler out.
But just as Jareth could not conceive of his own faults, so evidently Bryerton could not conceive that she would purposely break with propriety.
“Shall I escort Mr. Darby to the door, Miss Watkin?” he asked in evident confusion.
“No, thank you,” she said pointedly, feeling herself grow redder with each word. “I must speak with Mr. Darby, alone.”
Bryerton’s facial expression did not change from its usual solemnity, but by the way he stiffened she knew she had offended him. Still, he obviously did not want to compound her error with one of his own, namely to point out how scandalously she was behaving.
“As you wish, Miss Watkin,” he intoned. He bowed himself out, leaving the withdrawing room door conspicuously open.
She shook her head. He was obviously trying to salvage her reputation, even if she would not. But her father was just down the corridor in his study, and she could not trust that he would not walk by or even walk in while she told Jareth off. She walked to the door and shut it. Turning, she found Jareth regarding her thoughtfully.
“I take it our former association is a state secret,” he said.