Page 42 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

“It is not that I do not wish to marry you,” said Hugh slowly, his dark eyes flashing. “It is that I must not.”

The rain was still falling outside of the paned windows, and the two of them were still soaking wet from their stroll in the park.

Jemima thought she would be cold, but she wasn’t. Not in the presence of Hugh. Not as they spoke of such incendiary things.

She looked at him with eyes full of confusion. “Hugh—Captain Rotherham—are you in earnest? Are you truly saying that because you are a captain in the army and you march to the drums of war, you do not wish to be with me?”

“I love you,” burst out Hugh, his face determined, “yet what could I possibly say to your father when I asked for your hand? That I am the son of Harold Rotherham, accountant, with little certainty to speak of and no prospects?”

Jemima shook her head. “You cannot comprehend your worth and value, can you?”

Hugh broke off his gaze and picked at the grass stuck to his coat.

“You see the crutch that lies before you,” he said quietly. “It does not take a genius to suggest that a worse fate may be waiting for me in France, and then what should I do? I could return to you blind, or deaf, or without a limb altogether.”

“Or you may not come back at all.”

These words caused Hugh to look up abruptly.

“You are shocked?” Jemima asked wryly. “Yet you talk of such things willingly, without consideration of my fears or countenance? Captain Hugh Rotherham,” her voice turning serious, “you are a man who does not know how fortunate he is, how truly excellent is your character. Why, I have known you just above a month, and I am standing here soaking wet in an attempt to convince you of a worth so much more than the meager value you assign yourself!”

“I have nothing to offer you,” Hugh said in a dark persistent tone, “and—”

“No,” interrupted Jemima forcefully. “I do not care if you are determined to repeat your nonsense over and over again until this rain stops, the sun goes down, or the world ends. You cannot convince me that you are without merit and without worth.”

She could not understand from where the words came, but she had to speak them. She had to pour out her heart, had to ensure he knew, that Hugh knew just how wonderful he was.

Even if he did not marry her. Even if he followed the drums of war with no promises to her whatsoever.

“Your kindness to me, your bravery, your goodness of heart, far more wide-reaching than my own—and your passion,” and here Jemima colored slightly, but her voice did not hesitate, “your passion for life as well as for myself! All of these add up to a man who is worth something even more precious than anything I can ever give you.”

During her speech, her hands had somehow managed to become entangled with his own. The space between them had been covered, though she was unsure who had stepped toward the other, or if they had both moved to close the gap.

They had to be closer together. They were drawn together, inexorably.

His hands were strong, and Jemima grasped them, not taking her eyes away from those of Hugh as an internal battle occurred within them. At once calm, and at the same time wild with emotion and thought, Hugh stayed motionless and quiet.

But Hugh seemed to know her better than she knew herself. “Do not suppose, my love, that I am unaware of your multitude of merits,” he said with a smile.

Jemima laughed awkwardly and looked away. “I am well aware of my own failings, do not fear. There is a reason, as my father would put it, that I have survived these last five Seasons without eliciting any sort of courtship or offer of marriage. I am rude, abrupt, and unfaltering when speaking, with little regard for Society’s desire to keep this polite, quiet, and—”

“Perfection,” cut in Hugh, his smile deepening. “Why do you think I have been so drawn to you, Jemima, from the very first moment we met? Why do you think I have sought out your company, accepted your father’s ridiculous invitation for me to prance around and make an idiot of myself?”

“Politeness is an art form,” Jemima said with a sardonic smile, her hands still captive to Hugh’s, “and just because you have perfected it does not mean—”

“You are the one for me, Jemima.” Hugh’s voice was completely serious, and Jemima blinked away what she was sure were rain drops dripping from her hair. It could not possibly be tears. “No one else. You and I walk to the same drumbeat. You are intelligent and witty and beautiful and incredibly caring. You outweigh my value, were they to be measured.”

Jemima smiled. “You have more to offer me,” she said, her hands squeezing Hugh’s, “than any other man I have ever met.”

She waited once more for his reaction to her words, but he seemed to be stunned, gazing at her with an expression of confusion. Eventually, she remarked quietly, “And what do you have to say to that, Hugh Rotherham?”

The sound of his name seemed to release all the passion and tension within him.

Hugh groaned and, loosening his hands from her own, he reached to cup her face as he fiercely took possession of her lips.

Jemima sighed into the kiss, the pleasure of his tongue ravishing the soft warmness of her mouth. The forcefulness of his ardor was welcome as he possessed her like no other. There had never been anyone like Hugh, no one at all, and she wanted no other.

When he broke away from their kiss to stare into her eyes, she said breathlessly, “There is no other man for me than you, Hugh Rotherham.”

---