Page 14 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

Jemima swallowed. The captain had a rather unfortunate way of saying precisely what she did not wish him to say—and for looking at her as though he knew her, which was of course impossible.

If only he did not look so dashing in his red coat and brass buttons. The medals had gone, perhaps only brought out for the march.

Still, he cut a very gallant figure. Jemima was not able to ignore the other ladies in the crowd who were glancing enviously in their direction.

As though she owned him. As though he was courting her.

She swallowed. She had to leave. “I just thought I would give you the recommendation of leaving, that is all. Good day to you.”

Strange reflexes were urging her to stay, but she overrode them and turned away—but a hand on her arm prevented her from going any further.

“I asked you yesterday if you wanted to go on a walk with me, to a park.” Captain Rotherham’s voice was low and serious, yet Jemima was able to catch every syllable, even over the loud shouts of the rally. “You said no. I am asking you again.”

Jemima opened her mouth to instantly reply in the negative, but her eyes were caught by his dark ones, and she stopped.

When was the last time that she had had a conversation of this length with a gentleman—with any man?

All she had done was berate him, yet he wanted to spend more time with her. What did he see in her that no others did? That she herself did not?

What harm could it do?

“Certainly, Captain Rotherham,” Jemima said matter of factly, certain she may regret this decision. “I will certainly walk with you. Which park do you consider most pleasant?”

Their five-minute walk to Hyde Park was taken in silence, awkwardness on both sides keeping them from speaking. Captain Rotherham was unable to walk at any great pace, wincing slightly with every step that he took.

“If you would not mind, we’ll sit here,” he said as they passed their first bench.

“Not at all.” Jemima silently willed herself to be less obstinate and inelegant. He was just a gentleman. A gentleman who captured her breath whenever she looked at him.

He sat on the left of the bench, his injured leg as far from her as it was possible to be; his body, however, was turned toward her, and Jemima could not help but be highly aware of the short distance between his hand and hers as the two palms both laid on the bench.

If he just reached out…if her hand were to move ever so slightly.

No. Hoping to distract herself from the potent presence of the man, Jemima looked around her. This was one of her favorite benches in Hyde Park, beside the lake and, in the summer, covered by a canopy of leaves, which rustled in any breeze that moved by.

This being November, however, it was a different scene. The lake was gray, almost silver, and there was no cover above. The trees curled upwards, inelegantly yet majestic, waiting for spring to return.

She had never come here with a gentleman, never sat with a young man whom she had not even known from Adam a mere day before.

Jemima shivered.

“You are cold,” said Captain Rotherham.

Jemima turned to look at him with an argument on her tongue, but it was stayed by the smile on his face. Still, she could not allow herself to giggle like a foolish chit on the floor of Almack’s. That was not who she was.

“Do not concern yourself,” said Jemima in an abrupt tone. What was she thinking? Walking out here with a complete stranger? Who did she think she was trying to impress? And yet, there was something about this man—something that had made her accept his offer of a walk.

Something that made her time with him…different.

Captain Rotherham laughed. “Where would we be without our British spirit? Come, Miss Fitzroy, it is laughable you should sit there cold whilst I wear such a warm coat.”

With those words, he pulled his jacket off and, despite her loud and clear protestations, wrapped her snugly into it.

Despite Jemima’s words, the jacket was very welcome. Not only did it immediately warm her, but it also meant she was inadvertently able to see a great more of Captain Rotherham.

Her assumption of his broad shoulders was confirmed as she saw his white linen shirt stretched tight across his chest. He was not wearing any cravat at his neck; a smattering of dark curls could be seen at his open shirt.

Jemima lifted her face to look at Captain Rotherham. He was smiling, and the warmth of his smile was quite startling. Jemima could not help but blush.

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