Page 71 of The Gentleman's Confession
“I wanted to believe you were friends alone,” Mr. Bentley said, shaking his head, “but now I know my suspicions had merit.”
“It was one-sided,” Miles said, hating the truth of it. “Miss Fielding has been hurt by my actions, and I deeply regret coming between you both.” When he finished his heartfelt apology to him, Miles slipped out of the room, leaving the rest of the difficult conversation to his friends. He couldn’t bear hearing Mr. Bentley waffle over his decision to marry Jemma. Miles scrubbed a hand over his face and stumbled into the library. The hour was impossibly early, but they all were eager to have some sort of plan in place before the cricket match resumed.
He suddenly hated cricket. It seemed terribly inconvenient and trite now. He draped himself over the sofa, not caring who would see him or that it wasn’t his house. It was better than storming Jemma’s room and pleading for her to forgive him—to see him differently—to give them a chance. But his words would fall short. There was nothing left to say that she wanted to hear.
If God wanted to humble him, it was working. Deep down, he had felt his friendship with Jemma had superseded any hold Mr. Bentley had had over her, but how wrong he had been. He’d been wrong to hope she would set aside her desires for this man or for her cousin.
Everything was wrong. Despite what he preached about not caring what man thought and only what God thought, he was undeniably guilty. Especially as the vicar of many who would gather in the crowd today. The burden of their opinions tortured him. Not to mention he had broken the trust of his closest friends.
Several minutes passed before his friends filed through the door.
“It’s done,” Ian said.
Miles pulled himself into sitting position. “And?”
“And he is a better man than I would be.” Tom threw himself on the other end of the sofa and kicked his feet up onto a small table.
Paul shut the library door behind him. “He has agreed to marry Jemma and pretend the kiss never happened.”
Miles’s stomach sank like a rock. Where was the consolation in this? How could his soul know peace if the two would still marry? “Some kiss, when the girl doesn’t even remember it,” Miles mumbled.
“What was that?” Tom leaned nearer to him.
Miles cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
“By the way, Lisette just arrived,” Paul said, shoving his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.
Miles scratched his cheek. He had told them briefly of his apology to her the night before. No one had said anything, but he knew they hoped he would fall out of love with Jemma and resolve things with Lisette. “Did she look well?”
“She wasn’t crying,” Tom said, as if that were the defining level of a woman’s emotions.
“Because she was too worried about Jemma’s reputation,” Ian added. He paced to the window. “People are already gathering on the field.”
Miles sighed. “Is someone going to update Jemma before the game?”
“We will let Cassandra and Louisa take care of it,” Paul said. “They have volunteered to sit with her for the morning. Besides, some things come across better from the gentler sex.”
“Agreed,” Tom said. “Jemma will be relieved that Mr. Bentley will still have her, no doubt.”
Tom hadn’t meant to injure Miles with his phrasing, but the wordrelievedwas like a sucker punch. Would it be so terrible if Jemma married him? Apparently, they all thought it would be.
Tom inched to the edge of his seat. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am exhausted. Let’s finish the cricket match for good today, Rebels. The worst is over.”
“The worst is over for you, you mean.” Miles stood. “Never mind, let’s go.”
“Sit down,” Ian said, crossing the room to him. “We aren’t quite finished here.”
“Ian’s right,” Paul said. “Besides Miles and Jemma being at odds, and Lisette no doubt upset, the neighborhood isn’t going to be excited about the scandal their vicar caused.”
Miles reluctantly sat down. “Am I to be the next Rebel project, then?”
“Would you prefer we call the Matchmakers in to assist you?” Ian’s top lip drew back in disgust.
“No . . . no, I don’t.”
Ian folded his arms, and his fingers drummed against the sleeve of his jacket. “You are supposed to be the expert on love, Miles, not me. Somehow, you’ve created an ugly web strung with broken hearts—the center of which is your own.”
Miles shrugged. “Maybe Tom will finally cease calling me Mr. Romantic.”
