Secluded with the Rogue

2. Jack To The Rescue

Jack To The Rescue

L ord Jack Thorne, Viscount Oswald watched out the window of his carriage at the inconvenient storm raging outside. Whereas others might be warmed that it would snow around the holidays, Jack, most certainly, was not.

Nothing about the holidays warmed him—not the singing, not the decorations, and most definitely not having to spend two weeks with family and friends.

Not that he didn’t love his grandparents and his sister and her family—he did. But he abhorred the contrived notions of joy and peace and all the other expectations Christmas promised.

It was a time for memories to mock people—a time to remind them that life isn’t the fairy-tale one imagines it will be as children.

Jack was reasonably content and knew better than to expect anything more. His sister would mock him for failing to have “Christmas spirit,”—as though that was something any sane person wanted or needed.

The coach shuttered and Jack cursed at the snow outside.

Rather than sleep in his own bed, he was going to have to take his room at the Black Sheep, Old St. Vincentshire’s only inn.

And even more annoying, Lizzie, the barmaid who’d warmed his bed in the past, no longer worked at the inn. She’d been the one consolation he’d turned to on these occasions when he had no choice but to journey home. Unfortunately, when he’d visited in September, she’d informed him she was going to marry one of her father’s cousins’ sons.

What sort of fellow married a prostitute? Likely, the bloke didn’t know. As far as her family knew, she served ale and assisted in the kitchen.

Her groom was a lucky man though. Lizzie couldn’t cook worth a damn, but she possessed alternate talents to keep a man satisfied.

Mr. Chapman, the innkeeper at the Black Sheep, would have replaced her by now. But there wasn’t much consolation in that. Jack wasn’t interested in bedding just anyone. He’d known Lizzie for a few years before entering their arrangement, and was doubtful he’d find her replacement as suitable or enticing as Lizzie had been.

Nor as clean and… safe. In exchange for the regular stipend he’d provided her, he’d paid Lizzie enough that she could refuse other customers.

Which protected both of them from the pox as well as other maladies.

The best lay in the world wasn’t worth sacrificing one’s health, after all.

Damned inconsiderate of her father’s cousin’s son to come along and want to marry her, ruining a perfectly satisfying arrangement.

Jack dismissed a hollow ache that had plagued him recently. It didn’t really have anything to do with Lizzie, or the holidays, or anything of substance. And it would pass. It always did.

The world simply wasn’t the colorful place it had once been. It was… muted.

Perhaps after the holidays, once he’d returned to London, he would seek out that pretty little redhead who’d caught his eye at Drury Lane. He could make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

He reached his hand into his coat and rubbed his cock over his trousers but without much enthusiasm.

Pox on the holidays.

A burst of wind shook the coach, causing Jack to abandon such thoughts and grasp the leather strap above the window.

All that was visible outside was white, with an occasional glimpse of trees in the distance. Jack was lucky to have a driver as weathered and stubborn as Cyril, although even a beast such as Cy must be cursing these frigid conditions about now.

Jack turned to the window but then jerked back at the sight of a startled-looking woman staring up at him. Long brown hair whipped around her, and then she fell away from the road, disappearing.

He pounded his fist on the ceiling. “Hold up, Cy!” And then Jack uttered, “Damnable vexatious woman,” when they jerked to a halt. The unfortunate near-collision meant he was going to have to leave the warmth of the heated brick inside his coach and venture into this damned weather.

If he’d imbibed, he might believe her face had been an apparition… but no. She’d been an actual, live woman who had been foolish enough to put herself in harm’s way.

He pushed the door open and, skipping over the step, hopped out, sinking his new black Hessians into at least six inches of a slushy mixture of dirt, water, and snow.

“Was that a woman?” Cyril asked from where he’d risen from his seat on the driver box.

“I’ll see to her.” Jack waved his driver off.

“We shouldn’t stop for long, my lord.”

Jack huffed and then marched toward where he presumed he’d find the foolish woman. If she’d the slightest bit of sense, she would have picked herself up and chased after them, begging for a lift that would surely save her life.

Apparently, this one lacked sense.

Or—Jack considered with the slightest guilt—she was unconscious.

A few more steps and he caught sight of what amounted to nothing more than a brown scrap of humanity.

Drawing closer, however, he reconsidered.

Not a scrap.

The woman lay on her back, arms wide, as though she had frozen in place while making a snow angel. Wavy chestnut hair, at least two feet long, possibly three, fanned out around her face forming a starburst. Her lips were red and plump, and a few perfect snowflakes had latched onto dark, thick lashes.

“Miss?” Who was she? Why had she been traipsing outside alone? With her hair loose, no bonnet in sight, she couldn’t be a lady. He reached out and shook her arm. Her coat was worn but well-made, and she wore soft leather gloves.

“Miss.” He shook her.

“Is she dead?” Cyril’s voice barely carried over the wind.

Jack noticed the rise and fall of her ample bosom, mostly hidden by her ugly coat. Not dead.

And then she was staring up at him.

Such brown eyes ought to have been unremarkable. But they were mocha-colored with unevenly distributed flecks of gold and green that evoked images of fathomless forests.

She blinked a few times and then licked her lips.

“Am I dead? Are you my handsome prince?”

Good Lord, she was dicked in the nob.

“Are you injured?” Jack leaned over, his gloved fists sinking into the snow around her head.

Twin lines of confusion appeared between her brows. “I thought my prince would have golden hair, but yours is as black as night. And your eyes are even darker.”

A prince! Jack chuffed.

Either she’d hit her head or escaped from Bedlam.

“Do you need a hand?” Cyril shouted above the wind from behind him. By now the efficient driver had hopped down from his box and was walking around the horses, smoothing his hands along their sides and no doubt crooning words of encouragement.

As all good drivers did.

“I’ve got her,” Jack yelled back and then sighed down at this forlorn little wretch. “Can you walk?” As pretty as she was, he had no intention of allowing his driver, his horses, nor himself to freeze to death on her behalf. “We can’t stay out here all day.”

Without waiting for an answer, he slid one hand under her back to sit her up.

“I think so. I’m not hurt.” Perhaps she wasn’t a simpleton after all. “Just cold and wet, and I might even be a little lost.” She shook her head as though to dispel cobwebs.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No.” But she was glancing around, still looking confused. “I landed in the snow.”

Pulling her upright, Jack vaguely noted that her hair fell past her waist. He didn’t have time for this.

Impatiently scooping one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, Jack lifted her out of the snow and began marching back to his carriage.

She didn’t fight; she clutched onto him tightly. “You are saving me. Even though I’m far too heavy. You aren’t a highwayman, are you?”

“Just a weary traveler, madam.” Jack would have laughed out loud both at the notion that he was saving her and also that she would cling to someone who she thought might pose a danger to her safety. “Do you know your name?”

“You are a my very own Christmas miracle.” She sounded awestruck and stared at him as though she actually believed such nonsense.

“A name, madam, do you have a name?”

“Delia,” she answered. “Miss Delia Somerset.”

If she lived locally, the name would be familiar to him. It was not.

He arrived at the carriage and, exasperated, hefted her inside. “There is a brick at the foot of the front-facing seat.” Only after she’d scrambled onto the bench did Jack climb back inside himself and claim the spot beside her.

She narrowed her eyes when they lurched into motion and then widened them. “My spectacles! I lost my spectacles!”

So much for Christmas miracles.

“You’re lucky that’s all you lost.” Jack exhaled through his nostrils.

“And my valise! And reticule! I have to go back.”

“Too late for that.”

She raised a fist to her mouth, her gloves soaked and muddy. As were her coat and shoes. “But…” She twisted to peer out the window behind them. “They hold all my earthly belongings.”

Jack felt a minuscule sliver of guilt but shrugged. “They can be replaced. Our lives cannot.” A bit dramatic to be sure, but he wasn’t about to put all of them in danger by having his driver turn around so they could go in search of a few fripperies and a pair of spectacles.

She turned away from the window to stare back at him. “Of course, you are right.” A shiver rolled through her very feminine frame, and she hugged her arms in front of her. “I… I. Thank you. I would have perished back there if you hadn’t come along.”

She spoke like a lady, but no woman of gentility would presume to walk alone as she had. Certainly not with her hair hanging loose.

And yet, the conflicting nature she presented was surprisingly appealing.

“What, in God’s name, were you doing walking around in the middle of this godforsaken blizzard?” Not that he cared, but he was mildly curious.

“I’ve traveled from London to take up new employment.” She bit her lip. “In Old St. Vincentshire.”

Ah… Jack paused, his level of interest going up a notch. But of course, Mr. Chapman couldn’t hire a local woman to replace Lizzie. Any suitable miss who lived near Old St. Vincentshire would have family to complicate matters.

“And you have walked all this way?” He cocked a brow.

“Not at all.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “I got off the mail coach at the wrong stop, and it was gone by the time I’d realized my mistake. I was told it was an easy walk from Half-Moon Village to Old St. Vincentshire. But the snow…” She wrinkled her nose. “It would have been easy enough in the summertime.” And then she sighed, perhaps again mourning the belongings she’d left buried in the snow.

“Your new employer is expecting you?” Jack allowed his gaze to appreciate the length of her hair. Even tangled and damp, the strands beckoned his fingers. What must it feel like dry and combed, draped across a man’s bare chest?

“At the inn.” And then she turned to him. “Is that where you are going?”

“I’ll be stopping there for the night.”

“I don’t suppose they’ll be expecting me this late.”

“They might.” Jack took a moment to contemplate what sort of arrangements the innkeeper would have made with such a woman. “Have you a good deal of experience at this sort of thing?”

“Some,” she said. “But I’ve never been paid for it before.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully.

“And now that I’ve lost my valise and reticule, I look forward to getting to work immediately.”

And then she smiled at him.

By God, she was good at this.

For whatever reason, be it the dry spell he’d had recently or the fact that she sounded almost like a lady, Jack found himself eager to be her first customer.

But he didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. She would not be traveling to Old St. Vincentshire to take over for old Mrs. Bogartis. He would have been informed if the school planned on hiring someone new.

Perhaps she was going to work as a maid at one of the local landowners’ estates. He glanced at her hair, which curled softly as it dried, half falling behind her, the other half cascading over her breasts.

No lady of the manor would hire a woman like this. But, even so, Jack could be wrong…

“What sort of duties will you be performing at your new post?” he asked.

Her plump lips stretched into a wide smile. “I shall be providing comfort, companionship— Oh!” she broke off, sliding into him when the carriage skated sideways and then tipped before Cyril righted them.

Jack smiled to himself while at the same time debating the merits of his uncanny ability to identify her sort.

And rather than allow her to slide back to the far side of the bench, he dropped one arm behind her, snuggling her up beside him. When she glanced over, he raised his brows.

“Safer this way, don’t you think?”