The Unwilling Miss Watkin Read online

  She had all but forgotten Portia Sinclair and her attempt to entrap Jareth in marriage. Eloise had little interest in seeing the girl, but she couldn’t find it in her to send Portia off. Excusing herself, she followed the butler downstairs.

  Her first thought on entering the sitting room was that Portia looked horrid. The girl’s face, framed by a straw bonnet, was blotchy, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. She kept clenching and unclenching her hands in the lap of her pink cotton gown, and, when Eloise moved forward to greet her, she shot to her feet as if guilty of being caught in some indiscretion.

  “How can I help you, Miss Sinclair?” Eloise asked, taking a seat on the closest chair and nodding to the girl to retake her seat opposite her. Instead, Portia threw herself down beside Eloise and turned soulful eyes her way.

  “Oh, Miss Watkin, I had to speak with you. Even though we are not well known to each other, I have sensed a refinement of spirit in you that tells me you will understand my plight.”

  “Your plight?” Eloise probed, wondering whether the girl meant to confess her plot against Jareth.

  She nodded, digging in her pink satin reticule to produce a silken handkerchief with which to dab at her eyes. “Yes. You see, I have fallen in love, but the gentleman does not return the sentiment.”

  Small wonder, if she chose to show her admiration by trapping the fellow into marriage. “I imagine there are many young ladies who would understand the difficulties of falling in love in vain. It seems the nature of the Season.”

  “Oh, indeed. But I must admit to my own naiveté. You see, I believed he cared, and I allowed him to take certain liberties with my person.”

  Eloise refused to encourage her by looking shocked. “Such things happen.”

  “So I have heard. But I fear my father will not be so understanding. I fear … that is, I believe … oh, Miss Watkin, I am in the family way.”

  Eloise felt cold all over. “Then the gentleman must be persuaded to do his duty.”

  Tears fell to dot her dress a deeper rose. “Oh no, he cannot. And Mr. Darby has made it clear that he despises me and wants nothing more to do with me.”

  The girl’s shoulders shook as she bent over the handkerchief. The end over her clenched fingers was neatly monogrammed with the letters JD. Eloise stared at them. Her intellect readily seized on the evidence. Here at last was the proof that Jareth had not changed after all, proof that he was despicable, that he was heartless. Yet her own heart protested. He had told her he was innocent. If she loved him, she had to believe him.

  But asking Portia whether she was certain her betrayer was Jareth seemed pointless at best and cruel at worst. Unfortunately, it was just as hard to believe the girl was set on entrapment as it was to believe Jareth was innocent. Her sorrow seemed very real to Eloise. In fact, Eloise could not seem to help feeling it inside.

  “It is devastating when men are so cruel,” she told Portia. “They either do not know or do not care the damage they leave behind.”

  Portia nodded, sniffing. “I was certain you would understand.”

  “Better than you can know. And from my experience, I can tell you that you must draw on your own strength, and that of God above, to see you through this.”

  “And my dear friends like you, Miss Watkin,” she amended, raising a tear-streaked face.

  “And your family,” Eloise insisted. “You must not fear to talk to them.”

  “I could never tell my father,” Portia said with a shudder that shook her slender shoulders anew. “And my stepmother has been insistent that I resolve the issue. I am not sure of her support. May I count on yours?”

  “I will do all I can to help you, Miss Sinclair.”

  Her gaze was worshipful. “Then you will speak to Jareth for me?”

  Eloise blinked. “Speak to Jareth?”

  She nodded. “Yes, please. Tell him about my concerns. Tell him how much I need him.”

  Eloise felt as if a rock had lodged in the pit of her stomach. The yearning she saw in Portia’s soft grey gaze, the throb of desperation in her voice—she had lived them. How could she refuse? Yet, if she believed Jareth, she had to refuse. “I could not possibly plead your case.”

  Portia took her hands in her damp ones. “But you must, Miss Watkin. I can think of no more eloquent champion. I know Mr. Darby highly esteems you. Surely he will listen to you.”

  “This truly should be a matter between the two of you,” Eloise insisted. “You must talk with him yourself.”

  Her eyes filled with tears again. “I cannot bear it! He is so firm in his resolve, and his moods frighten me.”

  “Indeed,” Eloise said, extracting her hands from the girl’s clammy grip. “Then I wonder that you wish to be reunited with him.”

  “I would not so wish, but for the child,” she replied, dropping her gaze. “Surely my baby deserves better than to be born a bastard.”

  Eloise flinched, but stood her ground. “Better to bear a bastard, Miss Sinclair, than marry one. Besides, if you only had the one moment of passion with Mr. Darby a few days ago, it is much too soon to be certain that you have conceived a child, and not all that likely either, as I understand it.”

  She crumpled the handkerchief, keeping her gaze downcast. “The incident at Lady Wenworth’s was but the last of a string of encounters. I fear I fell in love with Mr. Darby at first sight, several days before the night he startled you at Almack’s. He was so dashing, so charming, so persistent that I was swept away.”

  “Yes, Mr. Darby has that effect on people,” Eloise acknowledged, mind whirling. Could it be true? Could Jareth have been carrying on with Portia Sinclair from the start? Her mind willingly conjured up any number of exchanged smiles and furtive touches. Yet she also remembered how cool he had been to Portia recently when compared to the warmth and good humor he had shown Eloise. Had it all been a sham over the last month?

  “Then you will speak to him?”

  She must, if only to hear his side of the story. Eloise nodded. “I shall discuss the matter with Mr. Darby this very day. But I make no promise about the outcome, Miss Sinclair. I should not like to advise him against his best interests.”

  “But surely it is in his best interests to take responsibility for his actions,” she protested. “Surely you would want him to provide for this child.”

  “Certainly,” Eloise replied readily, though she was not ready to admit there was a child as yet. “At the very least I can contrive to have him discuss the matter with you as he should.”

  “Oh, Miss Watkin,” she breathed, “you are an angel.”

  “Nonsense,” Eloise replied, remembering all too well how Jareth was wont to use the name. “Now, you should go home and get some rest. Return tomorrow at this time, and we shall see what can be done.”

  Portia rose, and Eloise rose with her. The girl threw her arms about Eloise and hugged her close. Eloise stiffened. Portia hastily let go.

  “Forgive me for being so familiar. I am overwrought. Thank you, thank you, dear Miss Watkin. I shall see you on the morrow, and I shall pray for a happy end.”

  Eloise nodded, moving to open the door for her. A waiting footman stepped forward to see her out. Eloise turned from them and went to sink back upon the chair she had vacated.

  Incongruously, her heart demanded that she believe in Jareth, in the love he had confessed, and the love she felt for him. But how could she reconcile that love with what she now knew to be true?

  For when Portia had hugged her, their bellies had brushed. Under the high-waisted gown, Portia was blossoming. Portia Sinclair was indeed with child.

  Could Jareth be the father?

  She would have liked nothing better than to hide away and think. Between the confession with her father and Portia’s revelation, she hardly knew her own mind. Unfortunately, she had no sooner retired to her room than she found she had another caller.

  Martha brought her the news. “Lord Nathaniel to see you, Miss,” she said after rapping at the door and bein
g bid to enter. Eloise would have liked to tell him to call another time, but as Bryerton had already apparently told him she was home, she was honor-bound to greet him. She rose wearily to follow Martha back down the stairs, but something in her maid’s manner stopped her. The woman’s mouth was even tighter than usual, and she stood like a statue in her black uniform.

  “Is something troubling you, Martha?” Eloise asked.

  Her maid kept her gaze on the floor. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, Miss Watkin.”

  All at once Eloise had had enough. If she and her father could develop a satisfactory relationship, why should she hesitate to tell her servant what she desired? She planted herself directly in front of the woman. “But I am asking you to say what’s troubling you. You oversee some of the most intimate moments of my life, Martha. If you have knowledge that concerns me, I wish you to tell me.”

  Martha stiffened even more, if that were possible. “Mr. Bryerton has other ideas on the running of the household,” she muttered with her usual glower. “I would not like to cross him.”

  “You leave Mr. Bryerton to me. While I respect his position as head of the household staff, I have needs that must be met. Now, please, Martha, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Martha hesitated a moment more. Then her carriage relaxed, and she raised her head to meet Eloise’s gaze. Eloise was surprised to see a smile beaming from Martha’s square-jawed face.

  “While you were with Miss Sinclair, Lord Nathaniel called on your father,” she confided, excitement evident in the way her large hands trembled as they came together before her. “I hope we shall soon have cause to wish you happy, Miss Watkin.”

  Eloise didn’t have the heart to disappointment her. Martha pleasant was far too precious to waste. Still, she could not set up false expectations. “I hope so too, Martha. Though perhaps my happiness lies with a different gentleman.”

  Martha’s dark eyes were knowing. “Mr. Darby beat his lordship out, did he? Good for you, Miss Watkin, for getting that gentleman to offer a ring at last.”

  Eloise shared her smile. “Thank you, Martha, though in truth he hasn’t offered that ring just yet. I expect him later today. Now I’d better go break the news to Lord Nathaniel.”

  She wasn’t entirely sure how she would go about it, but that conversation also proved easier than she had thought. The viscount was pacing the garden withdrawing room when she entered, his brown coat dark against the pale walls. As soon as he saw her, he rushed to her side. Face flushed, he started to go down on one knee. Eloise braced her hands on his broad shoulders to stop him.

  “Please, my lord, won’t you sit beside me on the sofa? I think we would be more comfortable there.”

  He heaved himself back to his feet. “Certainly, certainly, if that is what you wish.”

  Eloise went and spread the skirts of her green-sprigged muslin gown to sit. Lord Nathaniel perched on the opposite side of the sofa. He eyed her warily as if he saw the change in her. She wondered if her new-found confidence was so obvious.

  “You intend to refuse,” he guessed, clasping his hands together as if to keep them from trembling.

  Eloise was ready to agree straight out, but for some reason, Jareth’s advice about the fragility of gentlemen’s feelings came to mind. Perhaps she should try to keep his pride intact.

  She lowered her gaze. “You honor me by speaking to my father, Lord Nathaniel,” she murmured. “Had I realized sooner that that was your intention, my decision might have been different.”

  “Darby,” he surmised. “Drat his eyes. I was afraid he had stolen a march on me. But with the scandal over Miss Portia Sinclair, I thought perhaps you might see him differently.”

  “Oh, I do, I assure you. He will never be the man you are, my lord, but I find myself content with that.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I hope that we can remain friends at least.”

  Eloise assured him that she felt the same way and rose to see him out. As the door closed behind him, she shook her head in wonder. Gentlemen certainly took disappointment well when one cradled their pride.

  She paused on her way up the stairs. Pride. That infamous Darby pride. Even Lady DeGuis had remarked upon it. Jareth made light of things so easily that she had not thought him infected, but she saw now that she had been wrong. It had been pride that drove him away from her and pride that kept him from returning afterward. Could pride be associated with his reaction to the mention of money?

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. He was surely destitute. Had she, in fact, seen him spend a penny since arriving in London? He had sent her flowers, but he might have gotten those from a Darby hothouse. Certainly he had a limited wardrobe, and she had yet to see him in a carriage or on horseback. She hadn’t even seen him enter the Fenton, when she thought on it. For all she knew, he slept in Hyde Park!

  But surely his future was not so bleak. Pride may have kept him from taking charity from his brother, but she did not think his stories of Cheddar Cliffs were a hum. His eyes glowed when he talked of the estate. But he could not claim it until she granted forgiveness. He had stayed in London, in near poverty, on her whim.

  She shook her head again, continuing upstairs. They both had much to learn. She only hoped they might learn it together. In refusing Lord Nathaniel, she had cleared the way for Jareth to make his declaration. His pride had kept him from committing himself to her last time.

  Would he actually take that step now?

  Chapter Twenty

  Jareth was none too sure of his chances when he arrived at the Watkin town house that afternoon in his best blue velvet suit. Although Eloise’s father had not been particularly discouraging, his own experiences with Eloise of late had been too volatile to assure him of success. In fact, the only person who seemed certain of the outcome was Eleanor.

  “If she is the lady for you, you will succeed,” his sister-in-law predicted. “Look at Adam and Helena before their deaths. Look at Alex and Patricia. For that matter, look at Justinian and me.”

  Jareth had grinned. “Now that was an interesting courtship. It only took my brother, what, fifteen years to propose?”

  “Precisely. If we could find our way together, so can you and Miss Watkin. Let me know when we may wish you happy. I would be delighted to throw you an engagement ball.”

  Jareth knew he was fortunate. Given the situation with Portia Sinclair, his sister-in-law could just as likely be happier throwing things at him as for him.

  Mrs. Sinclair had been adamant that he offer for Portia. He had, of course, refused. The despair in Portia Sinclair’s eyes had cut him to the quick. Yet he knew he had not caused her pain. Her problems were not his responsibility.

  But his refusal had not been accepted. He remembered how Mrs. Sinclair had puffed out her chest when he and Justinian had met with her.

  “What other alternatives can there be, my lord?” she had demanded. “Do you think you can possibly pay me enough money to look the other way?”

  Justinian had lifted a brow even as Jareth folded his arms over his chest.

  “Who mentioned money, Mrs. Sinclair?” he challenged.

  She shook her head. “I am not so naïve as that, Mr. Darby. When a girl has been ruined, there is a price to be paid, either in marriage or in restitution. If you will not have the one, it stands to reason you must have the other.”

  Jareth quirked a smile. “Very well, Mrs. Sinclair. You can have my entire fortune.”

  He was not surprised by the greed that lit her narrow eyes. He stepped up to her and took her hand. Holding it palm up, he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and fished around. With a flourish, he handed her a shilling, pressing it deeply into the flabby folds in her grip. He closed her fingers over it.

  “Guard it well, my dear,” he cautioned. “You never know where someone’s going to cheat it from you.”

  “Jareth,” Justinian growled in warning.

  He stepped back from Mrs. Sinclair, but not before he saw her face
flush with anger. She had thrown the coin on the floor and stormed out.

  She had since sent a note stating that she expected to hear their resolution by the end of the week. He would not waiver. Justinian and Eleanor were united in their support of him. He refused to let them down. Neither would he let Eloise down. He could not lose her now.

  The thought was a burning coal in his gut. He could not lose Eloise. She made him feel things no other woman made him feel. She caused him to look at the world with more compassion than he had thought possible. With her at his side, he was a better person. Cheddar Cliffs, money in his pocket, his family’s good will, none of it mattered if he lost Eloise. Indeed, he could not imagine life without her. He was well and truly reformed.

  He patted the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat as he waited in the Watkin withdrawing room. His last belonging of any worth had been the signet ring his father had given him. But losing it was a small price to pay for the engagement ring that nestled in his pocket. The center diamond wasn’t overly large or ostentatious, but the emeralds surrounding it matched the green of Eloise’s eyes. He hoped she would be pleased with it.

  That she was not pleased with something was evident by the way she entered. Her walk was hesitant, her gaze on the Oriental carpet at her feet. It was all he could do to keep from running to her and taking her in his arms. When he realized the butler was nowhere in sight, he knew he was in trouble.

  “Do you have designs on my virtue, madam?” he tried joking.

  She took the farthest seat from him. “I thought you wished to discuss your designs, Mr. Darby.”

  He moved to sit closer to her. She leaned back. Refusing to be defeated, he reached out and took her hands. They were icy in his grip.

  “I have made my designs transparent,” he assured her. “I love you, and I wish to spend the rest of my life with you.” He pulled back a hand to retrieve the ring from his pocket.

  Eloise stared at it. Her lower lip trembled, but other than that she gave no sign that his confession had moved her. “What of Portia Sinclair?” she asked simply.