Page 49 of Heiress Gone Wild

A promise he knew might be in great danger if he stayed. He thought of Marjorie in the carriage a short time ago, with all the same desire he felt reflected in her eyes. But he knew, as she did not, where such desires could lead, and if he lingered here, he risked breaking the promises he’d made to her father. God help him, he did not think he’d have honor enough or strength enough to stop himself.

It was galling to admit how vulnerable he was where she was concerned. He’d known her little more than a week, and yet, she aroused in him a passion he was finding hard to master. If he gave in to it, he would prove himself to be the very thing he was supposed to be protecting her from.

“I will do all I can for her, Irene,” he said after a moment, “but I’m of little use to her here. The best thing I can do is leave her to your excellent chaperonage while I see to her business interests.”

“I care nothing about her business interests,” Irene said with uncompromising bluntness. “I have no intention of allowing you to leave that poor girl with people who are virtual strangers to her and take off for the wilds. She is not a suitcase, and I am not a locker at King’s Cross.”

“I know that, but damn it, Irene, there’s nothing I can do for her here. The girl needs to be introduced, brought out into society, and in that regard, I’m about as useful as a chocolate teapot.”

“You’ll be far more useful than you realize. A good-looking, single man with money and titled connections is akin to the Holy Grail, dear brother. You will be an irresistible attraction to the young ladies. A fact that,” she added as he groaned, “will enable Marjorie to more easily meet young women her own age and make friends.”

“Poor friends, indeed, if their sole reason for being so is to get close to a single man with money.”

Irene, sadly, ignored that very valid point. “A man like you is an excellent asset to any hostess, especially during the season. You will be of great use at social events, balancing the numbers at dinner parties and entertaining our guests, that sort of thing.”

He stiffened in dismay. “You cannot be serious.”

Clara decided this was the perfect moment to offer an opinion. “Irene, I’m sure our friends will adore hearing tales of his life in the American West,” she said, making Jonathan realize in chagrin that they’d planned this, together, probably on the telephone right after Irene had received his telegram. “He can partner the wallflowers when we have dancing, perhaps introduce some of his old schoolfellows to Marjorie.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, appalled by that thought. “If my friends from Winchester and Oxford are anywhere near as wild now as they were in our schooldays, I wouldn’t let any of them within fifty yards of the girl—and neither would you, if you knew even a fraction of the things we did. As for the rest, I can’t imagine she’ll be doing much dancing. She’s in mourning, you know.”

“She won’t be attending any balls, that’s true,” Irene conceded as she added milk to the teacups and began to strain the tea. “But it’s quite all right if she dances here, in our home. Many of our friends play the piano, so we often roll back the carpets and have a bit of dancing after dinner. And if we do, I’ve no intention of telling Marjorie to go sit in the corner. As for you, Clara’s right that you’ll be an excellent dance partner for any of our female guests, including her.”

Jonathan thought of Marjorie with flashing pink sapphires around her throat and a dawning sensual awareness in her eyes. He thought of her in his arms, her mouth beneath his, her body yielding to his advance without restraint. He thought of how it would be, continuing to have her so close, and yet forbidden, and he felt as if he’d just entered Dante’s seventh circle of hell. “And how long am I expected to be the useful single man at dinner parties, dancing with wallflowers and introducing suitable bachelors to my ward?”

Irene considered as she dropped sugar into the teacups. “If I thought I could get away with it,” she said, reaching for a spoon, “I’d say until she’s married, but knowing you—”

“Irene, be reasonable!”

“You think I’m not being reasonable?” She paused, staring at him, one blond eyebrow lifted. It was a look he remembered quite well even though he hadn’t seen it for ten years, and wisely, he decided to change tactics.

“But her trust fund has shares in South African companies. If war with the Boers breaks out, she could lose 10 to 15 percent of her inheritance. What sort of guardian would I be if I let that happen?”

“And yet, I remain unmoved.”

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, ignoring Clara’s smothered laugh. “Can’t we fashion some sort of compromise?”

“As I recall,” Irene said, “half the problems you had with Papa came from your inability—and his—to compromise.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m thinking of the girl, not of what’s fair.”

Deservedly rebuked, he fell silent.

“How long,” Irene asked as she stirred the tea, “until Marjorie is of legal age?”

“She turns twenty-one August thirteenth.”

“Very well.” Irene tapped the spoon against the rim of the last cup and set it aside. “Here is my offer: I will introduce the girl about, assist her in making friends and such. Clara will do the same. You, meanwhile, will postpone your trip until her birthday, and during that two months, you will put yourself at my disposal and hers, just as I described.”

“And what am I to do between dinner parties? Lounge about, twiddling my thumbs?”

And torturing myself.

“Given your restless nature, I would suggest you find something useful and productive to do. As for the girl, you can assist me in preparing her for life as an heiress in British society. Ensuring that she is happily settled here is as much a part of being her guardian as watching over her finances, in my opinion. And no, this is not optional.”

He exhaled a sigh, falling back in his seat. “And when she turns twenty-one, what then?”

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