The Golden Lord by Miranda Jarrett

Author:Miranda Jarrett [Jarrett, Miranda]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9781459243200
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2003-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

“Jenny,” Brant repeated slowly, carefully, as if making sure he wouldn’t forget it, either. “Your real name is Jenny.”

She nodded, another fat tear sliding down the curve of her cheek.

He took a deep breath, marveling at exactly how fast a perfect morning could go straight to hell. “You remembered this?”

She nodded again, and the tear dripped from her jaw to spot the front of her gown. “This morning, while I was with Mrs. Potter. It came into my head, just like that, and it felt right, the way Corinthia never did.”

“Jenny.” It did feel oddly right; he couldn’t disagree. Jenny had the proper sprightliness to suit her.

But remembering even this much was the beginning to remembering everything else, and the end of her staying here with him. Was that the reason for that kiss, then? A farewell before she returned to her other life, a polite thank-you to him for charity rendered?

He sat back against the bench, purposefully trying to distance himself even that little bit from her. “So what’s the rest of your name?”

She looked down at her lap, another tear following the trail of the first.

“I don’t know,” she said, her misery genuine. “I told you, the name popped into my head, but that was all. The rest is still missing—as ‘empty as a broken eggshell,’ said Mrs. Potter.”

“Jenny.” Nothing more than that. He frowned, struggling to feel sorry for her and not so selfishly overjoyed. But if she couldn’t remember, she wouldn’t leave. “Jenny, Miss Jenny.”

“Yes.” She glanced up, a wobbly smile through the tears. “Hearing you speak it in your voice, I know it’s mine.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not.” He let his arm slip back around her shoulders, and she let it stay there, as if it belonged. “Jenny, oh, Jenny. I never did like Corinthia. Corinthia always sounded like a stout elderly aunt wearing scratchy lace and too much lavender scent.”

The wobbly smile gave way to a small chuckle, just as he’d hoped. “Did you have an Aunt Corinthia like that?”

“No, but an Aunt Augusta, which was much the same,” he said. “A grim-faced harridan who’d sweep in from the north, demanding forced kisses from her terrified young nephews. My brothers and I always looked for her broom in the stable, certain that was how she must travel, instead of in a lowly coach.”

She chuckled again, a warm, happy sound that made him happy, too. This wasn’t as fine as kissing her had been, but it was certainly pleasant enough, having her nestled here beneath his arm. Though the tears seemed done, it now seemed safe to acknowledge them, and he pulled out his handkerchief and passed it to her.

“She couldn’t have been that bad, Brant.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes and sniffled back the rest of the unshed tears. Weeping had made her nose as red as a small strawberry, but it had also magically turned her eyes a brilliant blue, her black lashes as spiky as beaded stars, and he considered the trade a worthwhile one.

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