Page 60 of The Gentleman's Confession
“I suppose I am.” He lifted his head up and stood. “Can you manage to keep your seat on the bench if I leave you? I would hate for you to ruin another pretty dress.”
She stood, too, no longer caring about the damage to the back of her gown. “I promise not to fall twice.” She wished such a statement applied to her love life as much as her clumsiness. “Now, go home, Miles Jackson. I will send the others to look in on you.” On a whim, she tucked her letter into his hand and stepped back. She pointed to the path. “Go.”
He did not reply, his gait tired as he walked back up the path. She whispered a prayer for his health. She wanted to rush to his side and let him lean into her, but she resisted. Part of binding up her heart meant letting someone else be the one to tend him. She stabbed her fingernails into the palms of her hands. It was much harder in real life than in her head.
CHAPTER 27
Miles slept all Friday andwoke in the evening, feeling much improved. It was not quite dinner, but he was starving. He threw a quilted banyan his mother had made him on over his shirt and breeches, the loose robe coming to his knees, and went in search of food.
Mrs. Purcell sent up a familiar basket of chocolate biscuits—likely the same ones Jemma had tried to give him—and a steaming bowl of white soup. He picked up a heart-stamped biscuit and slipped one into his mouth, savoring the sweetness.
Unavoidably, his thoughts chased after his last encounter with Jemma, his memory sharpening with renewed clarity. Everything had been a little hazy until now. He was not often sick, but he did not recall any illness impairing his judgment.
He put another biscuit into his mouth. At least his taste was in order, even if his senses were not. Had he really laid his head on Jemma’s shoulder? He cringed. No wonder she had been concerned enough to make the other male Rebels call on him. Though he was not certain if they were more worried about his health or about the cricket match.
Thankfully, he would not disappoint them on either count. He was feeling more himself already, and the game wasn’t for another three days. He moved the bowl closer to him and ate the hearty soup. He had just finished when the door burst open and his brother, Kent, entered the drawing room. He was a younger version of Miles, with coiled hair a shade lighter and matching long legs, but his grin leaned more toward mischievousness.
“Don’t get up.” Kent strolled to the table. “A little bird ... actually a big bird with rather broad shoulders and a teasing grin, told me you were sick.”
“Tom?” Miles pushed his empty bowl away.
“How did you guess?”
“Lucky, I suppose.” Miles put out his hand, and Kent pumped it up and down. “It’s good to see you. You look taller.”
“It is because I am standing and you’re sitting.” Kent pulled out a chair and sat himself. His hands came up behind his head, and his long legs crossed at the ankle. “I had barely arrived in town when I was sent post haste to your side with a special message.”
“Let me make another guess.” Miles folded his hands on the table. “You were sent to remind me how serious beating the boys from Bradford in cricket is to this town and how I had better be well by Monday.”
Kent’s brow lifted. “I’m impressed. Do you often receive such perfect revelation as a vicar?”
Miles chuckled. “It isn’t heavenly knowledge; it’s Brookeside pride. Not to worry. No fever would stop me from standing with my team.”
“I always did like a martyr’s last speech.”
Miles chuckled. “Then, you will be disappointed to know I am feeling better.”
“Disappointed? I like our best batsman to be healthy more than I care for a martyr’s last speech.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Now I’ve warmed up your mood,” Kent said, “it’s a good time to tell you I am staying here until the end of the match.”
“Because it is closer to Tom’s estate, or because you are worried about me?” Miles knew the answer, but he had to tease Kent anyway.
“Both.” Kent reached over and patted Miles’s cheek. Miles swatted at his hand but was not deeply irritated. Kent would bethe perfect distraction to prevent Miles from thinking overmuch about Jemma.
After instructing his housekeeper to make up a bed for Kent, Miles was tired again. When he slipped into his own room, he discovered a folded letter on the ground. Instantly, he remembered the missive Jemma had placed in his hand in the copse of trees outside the church. It must have fallen from his waistcoat when he had undressed for bed upon his return.
He snatched it off the ground and broke the seal with his fingers. He knew it would be no confession of love, but like a glutton for punishment, he unfolded it and read the words.
Required chaperones? Forbidden eye connection?
His chances for winning over Jemma’s heart grew slimmer by the second. Especially since theperilsof alone time were steep indeed. However, only a complete fool would see this as a total loss. She had admitted to one thing. The truth was plainly written between the lines: he had affected her. Why else would she be preaching chaperones and this nonsense about how gazing into a woman’s eyes could ensnare the wrong heart?
Hitting the letter against his hand, he knew he was stuck. Her six weeks would be up at the end of the cricket match. Time was running out. Jemma was just stubborn enough to go along with the Matchmaking Mamas and marry Mr. Bentley.
The lucky man.
