.
James was still vaguely surprised he hadn't been arrested by the constables that appeared on the scene. He probably would have been, and then he would have actually had even more trouble to deal with if it weren't for Jo, who swept in weeping and moaning that those men had attacked her brother when all they'd done was walk in looking for a bit of food.
Somehow, possibly because she was so loud, possibly because they found it as hard to resist Jo's green eyes as he did, they believed her, and the brawl at the Astley public house was written off as the work of drunkards, and no one would ever know that the Earl of Westmont was there at all.
Jo's face was white and still as they rode the rest of the way to his townhouse on Park Lane, and silently, they cared for their mounts before entering the house. He trusted the servants to be discreet, and he sent Jo to one of the guest rooms with the housekeeper.
"After you are rested, perhaps you would join me for dinner?"
The slight smile he saw on her face gave him hope, but he couldn't help but notice how very pale she looked, how drawn and worn.
The house on Park Lane was as elegant as ever, but James hadn't expected to be back for at least a few more weeks if not a few months. There was only a small staff to keep the house functional, and though it was being aired out, there was something musty and unused about it.
He dismissed his valet for the evening, instead choosing to bathe and shave on his own. James was slightly amused to note that doing so almost felt like a luxury now after spending so many nights sleeping in odd places on his trek from West Riding with Jo.
He winced a little as hot water hit the scrape high on his cheek, the only injury he had sustained from the fight. When James looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, he looked grim to his own eyes.
You have to tell her now. There's no real getting around it. After she kept you out of jail and a worse scandal, she deserves to know.
He felt like a man going to his own execution as he walked to dinner. He wondered if she was even going to be there or if she would politely decline, saying she would eat in her own rooms. No, that was hardly Jo's style. She would be there, if only to demand an explanation.
When the footman ushered her into the private dining room, a small space apart from the grand one in the main hall, James stood and drew her chair out for her. She was lovely, dressed in something in pale ivory lace that he didn't recognize.
"Did you wear that on the road, and I was just too distracted to notice?"
"It was at the bottom of the bag Clarine Waters packed for me, if you can believe it. She really wanted to make sure that I was well-thanked, and perhaps to ensure that I was prepared for any impressive parties that we might encounter."
"You look beautiful."
She flashed him a smile, but he could see that the compliment slid off of her like a drop of water off of a slick surface.
They were silent as the footman served the first course, and then, when he would have stayed, James shook his head.
"We'll be dining privately tonight."
Jo shot him a quizzical look.
"I thought it would be best to have some privacy to speak with you about... well, today."
"Ah. Yes."
She was quiet, but there was an expectant air to it.
James sighed.
"You asked me ages ago why I wasn’t in London. We fought about it."
"I remember."
"Yes, and looking back, I did not behave very well. At any rate, if I had been more frank with you then, I might not feel the way I do now."
"And how do you feel now?"
To James’ shock, she took his hand gently.
He squeezed her fingers in thanks.
"Like I'm about to lose... something. But that matters less than the truth, or so I was always taught. I left London because I was involved in a duel."
"James! Did you kill someone?"
"No. But I did wound him, and directly after, I did not care so very much if I had killed him. You see, I caught him at Whites' speaking about my... my parentage."
"I don't understand."
"My mother. There were always rumors about her. She was... of what the quality like to call disputed heritage. She was the bastard daughter of a viscount who was made legitimate just before he died, when he married her mother."
He didn't look at Jo. If he had to see disgust on her face, he wanted to put it off for as long as possible.
"She did act as a child on the stage, but the stories of that were always wildly exaggerated. But she met my father, they fell in love, they married, and had me... and none of it ever mattered to the ton. She was a black mark against my father, and against me, and I know their mocking words haunted her even on her deathbed."
James closed his free hand into a fist. The other hung on to Jo's hand as if he was afraid to lose her.
"I lost my head at White's that night, and on the dueling ground after as well. Then I did it again today. Jo... I would tell you that that's not me, but it is. I will not hear her degraded and..."
James stopped abruptly as Jo rose from her chair and came to stand in front of him. It sent a shock through his body as she raised his chin with one hand, so he could look her in the eyes. When she spoke, there was so much warmth in her voice that he ached.
"You idiot."
"What?"
"Do you think I care about all that? Do you think I'm going to fault you for defending a woman who meant so much to you, for giving childish morons what they deserve? Never."
As if to punctuate her words, Jo leaned forward, her simple braid slipping over her shoulder, and kissed him.
All he could feel were her small fingers on his jaw, her warm lips on his, the stray strands of hair that escaped from her braid against his cheek. All he could feel and smell and taste was Jo, and he knew at the center of his being that he would remember this until the day he died.
Then there was a soft knock at the door, signaling the arrival of the footman with the second course, and with a flurry of skirts, Jo was back in her seat, looking as if she had never kissed him with such tenderness.
"Such good fish, my lord," she said gravely.
James wanted to laugh, not just at her spirit, but at the knowledge of what he knew he was going to do next.