Page 25 of The Gentleman's Confession
“I will send for the turpentine,” Miss French assured. She hurried away, both hands now scratching under her bonnet.
Jemma did not wait for Miles to take her to task. She put her arm around Miss Hardwick. “What a sweet puppy.”
“He’s sick,” Miss Hardwick repeated, her eyes turning to implore Miles again.
“What he needs is someone to pray for him,” Jemma said.
Miss Hardwick gasped. “That is exactly what I have been saying!”
“Mr. Jackson is much too busy, but I am available.”
“You?” Miss Hardwick wrinkled her perfect nose. “I would prefer that a vicar do it.”
“I can—”
“There are no rites for sick animals,” Jemma said, cutting Miles off before he could volunteer. “And I am excessively good at praying. What is your puppy’s name?”
“Jackson.”
Jemma coughed. Miss Hardwick had named her puppy after Miles? These impertinent women took all sorts of liberties. Jemma regained her breath and gently pulled Miss Hardwick back a step. “Come, we will have a beautiful prayer over Jackson and get him right to bed. He looks terrible, you know. His demeanor is all wrong. You mustn’t make him suffer another moment waiting for a man.”
Miss Hardwick studied her dog. “His demeanor is wrong? I had thought him excessively sleepy, but I believe you are right.”
Lazy, more likely, but Jemma was no doctor. She led Miss Hardwick away, looking back over her shoulder for a brief moment.
Miles slumped against the door, looking like he needed a trip overseas just to forget his morning.
“You’re welcome,” she mouthed.
He produced a tired but mischievous grin and mouthed back, “Come tomorrow,” then pointed toward the side of the church and the path leading to what had become more their bench than his.
Their secret exchange sent an unexpected flutter through her middle. She nodded before turning back to Miss Hardwick, pretending to pay attention to her. It proved difficult when all she could think about was Miles’s smile and her reaction to it. He desired to be with her more than those other beautiful women because of their friendship, and yet her body was responding as if it meant more.
Her steps beside Miss Hardwick slowed. It suddenly struck her that her sense of accomplishment for chasing away the others was motivated by her own jealousy and not by herdesire to protect Lisette. She slid a fingernail between her teeth, completely tuning out the woman next to her. This wasn’t good. Miles had better hurry and marry her cousin to keep his fans at bay—and to remind even her that he was taken.
y
Miles caught himself smiling on his way home that evening. Several times throughout the afternoon, images of Jemma had flashed in his mind—her face when she had first seen him cornered against the door, the adorable way her eyebrows had flared whenever Miss French had touched his hair, and the genius way she had convinced every woman there to leave him alone. She had a gift.
Even if he had to have a bad case of lice because of it.
He entered his house through the kitchen, curious to see if Mrs. Purcell had dinner prepared. It was early yet, but he had worked up quite an appetite daydreaming about Jemma. The smell of stew simmering over the fire wafted through the air. Mrs. Purcell stood by the pot, her apron on, and her big wooden spoon stirring the carrots and potatoes.
“Good evening, Mrs. Purcell.”
Mrs. Purcell doted on him like a second mother. “Yer ’ungry early again, ain’t ye?”
“How could I not be? I can smell your divine cooking from a mile away.”
“Enough of yer flatterin’ words, Mr. Jackson. Go ’elp yerself to a roll. There’s butter in the crock.”
He snatched a roll off the counter and slathered it with butter.
He was on his second roll when Mrs. Purcell brought him a bowl of stew. “It’s rabbit. A Miss Smith ’ad it sent over for ye.”
“Miss Smith?”
“A little speckled thing.”
