Page 29 of Gentleman Jim

“I don’t pretend to understand how you came to be here, or why it is you’re pretending to be a viscount—”

“I am a viscount.”

He said it with such conviction that Maggie almost believed him. Almost. “If you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, why did you seek me out? You must have known that I’d recognize you.”

“You sought me out,” he reminded her. “To beg for Burton-Smythe’s life, if you’ll recall.”

“Not then. After that. At the theater and today and…” Maggie faltered. “If I’m a stranger to you, then…why did you kiss me?”

“If you must ask me that, I can only assume that you’ve vastly underrated your charms.” St. Clare looked down at her with studied nonchalance. “Consult your glass. You’re an uncommonly beautiful girl. What gentleman wouldn’t kiss you if given encouragement?”

“And I encouraged you, did I?”

“Didn’t you?”

Her brows knit together. “No… Perhaps… I don’t know! Are you trying to provoke a quarrel? Or is it simply that you wish to hurt me?”

A shadow of some unidentifiable emotion passed over his face. “I wouldn’t hurt you. Not now. Not ever. If you believe nothing else, you must believe that.”

“You have hurt me every day for the last ten years. You have broken my heart.”

Color rose in St. Clare’s face. Once again, he turned away from her to stare out at the grassy path ahead of them. His profile might have been carved out of stone. “I beg your pardon. I’ve behaved badly. That kiss was entirely my fault. I apologize for any distress it may have caused you.”

“And now you’re mocking me.”

“I am not—” He broke off, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like a frustrated oath. “This conversation is madness. Complete and utter madness.”

“Yes, I daresay it is.” Maggie raised a gloved hand to press against her flushed cheek.

If Bessie were here, she’d warn Maggie that she was working herself up into a state. That all of this excitement was going to send her straight into a swoon. And it was true. But it wasn’t only the excitement. She’d walked too far with Jane this morning, and now, already weakened, she was walking again with St. Clare.

Was it any wonder that she couldn’t catch her breath?

“Perhaps I am mad,” she said. “I suppose I must be to mistake you for Nicholas Seaton. Stark raving mad. You shall have to keep clear of me from now on. You shall have to cut my acquaintance.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.” He paused before adding, “I mean to court you.”

If he’d taken out a mallet and struck her on the head, she couldn’t have been more astonished. “Court me? But…why?”

“Why does any gentleman court a lady?”

“You can’t mean…?” Marriage. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was ludicrous. Unthinkable.

And utterly impossible.

In six months’ time she was to marry Fred. She had to marry Fred. There was Beasley Park to consider. The house, the land, and the tenants. It was her home. Her birthright.

He was too late. Nicholas Seaton had finally come back to her, and he was too late.

“I believe I’ve rendered you speechless,” St. Clare murmured.

Maggie gazed vacantly around the park. Her head was swimming. How far had they walked? There were no carriages about them, nor any other person out for an afternoon stroll. Where was Enzo with the curricle? Gracious, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were on fire.

“There’s a fallen tree just up ahead that will serve as a seat.” St. Clare’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Can you make it that far? Or shall I carry you?”

Maggie’s eyes flew to his. “I am not ill!” The exclamation—which she’d intended to be forceful—came out weak and breathless. She cringed at the sound of it. Good lord, what must he think?

But as St. Clare stared down at her, the expression on his face left no doubt that he recognized the flush in her cheeks and the hitch in her breath for exactly what they were. “Four nights ago, when you fainted in my grandfather’s library, your maid admitted to me that she’d once been your nurse. She said that, if not for her care, you might have died.”