“How utterly bizarre. Why are you spinsters? You must hate men. Is that it?”
We don’t hate them, but they drain our power and waste our energy, but she would never admit it. She chuckled instead. “We don’t hate men.”
“It sounds as if you do.”
“My kin have a tendency to be bossy and independent—it’s an inherited trait—so it’s hard for men to put up with us. It’s hard to have a successful marriage when we’re so insistent about having our own way.”
“Yes, I can see where a fellow would be completely emasculated by you. Was your mother’s hair red? Is that where you got it?”
“Yes, she had very pretty red hair.”
“And do you look just like her? Was she as striking and beautiful as you are?”
“Yes, she was very beautiful, and was that a compliment? If you’re not careful, you’ll be spouting poetry about my eyes.”
“Gad, I will be, won’t I? You have the strangest effect on me, and I can’t figure out what’s causing it.”
“Maybe Fate is driving you. Maybe you should start believing in it.”
“Who was your father? Who was his family?”
She clucked her tongue with offense. “You are so nosy. Why are you so intrigued by my past and my relatives?”
“I’ve never met a woman like you, and I’m anxious to deduce what kind of people could have created such an odd female.”
As with discussing her mother, she never mentioned her father. She was reticent about her mother because she’d nearly been swept up as a witch. Her father’s wife had urged a vicious priest to harass her, and he’d been dangerously thorough. Joanna lived far from the town where it had happened, and she doubted anyone would remember the incident, but she would never rekindle old, perilous stories. Nor would she focus a lens on her own habits.
During her mother’s ordeal, her father had refused to intercede, and Joanna blamed him for her mother’s ruin. Belinda had been young and naïve, and he’d coaxed her into the illicit liaison. Her reward had been his total disavowal of their affection—and of Joanna’s existence.
Joanna liked to pretend she’d been hatched from an egg, with no man ever planting a seed to make it transpire.
“You still haven’t confided in me,” he said. “Who was your father?”
“He was a scoundrel who used my mother badly, and I was the result.”
“Oh.”
“Is that enough information to satisfy your morbid curiosity? Or will you force me to provide details? I hope you won’t. It would embarrass me, and I don’t like to talk about him.”
“Just tell me this: Was he a nobleman?”
She blanched. “Why would the prospect even occur to you?”
“You’re so extraordinary. I can’t picture you being sired by a commoner.”
It was a sweet flattery, and in appreciation, she threw him a bone. “Yes, he was from an aristocratic family.”
“Will you ever confess his identity?”
“No. Never.”
“But you know who he is?”
“Yes, Captain Ralston, I know who he is. I wasn’t a foundling, left on the parish church steps.” She was weary of his interrogation, and she rose to her feet. “Are we finished? Is there anything else you need?”
“Am I being tossed out?”
“Yes. I’m busy—which you never deem to be possible.”
He studied her, then frowned. “I’ve upset you.”
“As we are barely acquainted, you couldn’t have.”
“Was it my inquiring about your parents? If so, I apologize. I didn’t realize it would be such a difficult subject.”
“There are . . . issues from my childhood. They distress me.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to admit who she was. She’d never boasted about being a Lost Girl at Ralston Place, so the Ralston family wasn’t aware of her connection to Captain Miles Ralston. She always protected her mother’s memory, and she wouldn’t ever explain why they’d fled England in such a hurry. There was never a benefit in declaring her mother had been accused of witchcraft.
If she spoke up about her link to Miles Ralston, what might Jacob Ralston say? She decided she’d tell him someday, but not that day. If she mentioned it just then, she’d never get rid of him.
He hadn’t taken the hint that he should go, and she glared at him, debating how she’d react if he declined to depart. It wasn’t as if she could pitch him out bodily.
His questions had stirred painful recollection that fueled her apprehension and claustrophobia—any reference to the shipwreck always did—and in order to calm down, she had to occupy her mind and hands with other tasks so she wouldn’t reflect on it. She opened the door and gestured outside, rudely indicating he should leave.
“I want to come to supper some night,” he said from over on his chair. “Clara invited me, and I demand you honor the invitation.”
“I have no kitchen skills, so I wouldn’t dare cook a meal for you.”
“Don’t you have a servant? Are you that poverty-stricken in your finances?”
“I have two servants.”
One helped her mix and deliver her remedies, and the other prepared their food and tended the house. They didn’t reside with her, but stopped by during the day.
“It means you employ a cook,” he said. “You don’t deal with it yourself, so you fibbed right to my face.” He grinned his devil’s grin. “For shame, Miss James.”
“Would you go?”
Finally, he stood, but he was in no rush. He sauntered over to her, and as he neared, so many raucous sparks ignited that she was surprised she didn’t catch on fire. No wonder young ladies landed themselves in so much trouble. Who could resist such a sly seduction?
Before she knew what he intended, he dipped down and kissed her. It was just a light brush of his lips to her own. She hadn’t expected it, so she hadn’t grasped that she should ward it off.
It was quick and dear, and her anatomy rippled with such excitement she was amazed her heart didn’t burst out of her chest. As he drew away, he looked cocky and assured, as if
