Page 27 of Gentleman Jim

“You may mark it down to my abominable curiosity.”

Maggie knew enough of men to recognize the sound of jealousy when she heard it. The irony didn’t escape her. “As you wish. For the price of one forfeit, then. It’s true. I was wearing the willow for a gentleman. But I don’t know if he was a soldier.”

St. Clare scowled. “You don’t know?”

“He and I were childhood friends. We were parted very unhappily ten years ago.”

The horses suddenly broke stride, causing the curricle to lurch forward. St. Clare muttered a blistering oath as he caught up the reins more securely and steadied them.

“He was my first love,” Maggie continued. “My only love, really.”

St. Clare’s attention appeared to be fixed entirely on quieting the horses, but Maggie would have had to be blind not to notice the tension in the set of his shoulders. “Young lovers, tragically parted,” he remarked sardonically. “An all-too-common tale.”

“We weren’t lovers.”

“Of course not.”

“Not but that we wouldn’t have been had he stayed.”

His gloved hands tightened on the reins, causing the already nervous horses to commence an agitated dance. “You shock me, Miss Honeywell.”

“Why is it shocking? I loved him. I expected to be with him always.”

“Many young ladies have no doubt felt the same about their first loves. Young gentlemen, too. It passes as one grows older.”

“Does it?”

His face was grim. “In most cases, I believe.”

“Perhaps I’ve trivialized it by saying that I loved him. I didn’t mean to, but how else can I explain?” She paused. “The fact is, he and I were more than friends. More even than lovers. We were soul mates. As essential to each other as light or air. From my earliest memory, I existed only for those moments when I could see him next, and he did the same. Neither of us was complete outside the presence of the other.” She looked out at the slowly passing landscape of the park as she combated an unexpected wave of sorrow. “I often think that, in the years since he left me, I’ve been living as only half a person. Waiting…” Her mouth curved in a small, rueful smile. “You wonder that I refused every offer of marriage. How could I wed any of the gentlemen who offered for my hand when I knew that the other half of my heart may yet come back to me?”

“But he didn’t come back.”

“No. I’ve always assumed that he became a soldier.” There was a slight tremor in her voice. “I believe he must have gone off to fight on the continent and…died there.”

“A cheerful thought,” St. Clare said.

“It’s been easier for me to bear than the alternative.”

“And that is?”

“That I never meant anything to him. That after we parted, he went on with his life and forgot all about me.”

“Impossible.”

“Is it?”

“No man who loved you in the way that you describe could ever forget you.” St. Clare brought the horses to a halt. “I believe you’re right, Miss Honeywell. This childhood friend of yours is dead. Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences on your loss. Enzo!” he shouted abruptly to his tiger. “Hold their heads.” St. Clare turned at last to look at her. “Will you walk awhile with me on the grass?”

Maggie searched his face. His expression was cold, his features as hard and unyielding as granite. Only his eyes—those dearly familiar gray eyes—betrayed the smallest flicker of emotion. It was fleeting. Practically nonexistent. But it was there. “I’m a bit tired from shopping this morning, but if you don’t mind my leaning on your arm, then yes. I’m pleased to walk with you.”

St. Clare jumped from the curricle and came around to assist her down. This time, she didn’t wait for him to extend his hand, but reached out immediately to grasp his broad shoulders. As she clung to him, he caught her around the waist and lifted her out of her seat, setting her down gently onto the grass.

He held her there a moment, his strong hands resting on the flare of her hips and his gaze locked interminably with hers. Any passerby seeing them would have mistaken it for an embrace. The result would be gossip. Scandal. Damage to Maggie’s reputation. And worse, to poor Jane’s.

Maggie knew she must put a stop to it. It would be easy enough. St. Clare wasn’t forcing himself upon her after all. A word or a gesture would be sufficient to discourage him. Indeed, with one firm backward step, she might be out of his arms.

But Maggie couldn’t bring herself to move away from him. She stood there, staring up at him as if in a dream.