Free Nightingale by Cathy Maxwell

to be loved. First, by her parents. She’d done everything they’d asked to please them—she’d even given up Dane and married Mosby.
    And last night, she’d wanted to believe she could reclaim her lost opportunity with Dane, that he could love her again as he had once. Now she knew she couldn’t. “He was right to meet Cris. I pray no harm came to my brother.”
    Her mother could not have been more surprised if Jemma had struck her. “He could kill Cris.”
    â€œCris should learn not to issue challenges when he is in his cups.” Jemma looked to her mother. “Could he stand this morning?” Of late, there had been too many mornings when he could not rouse himself until evening.
    â€œHis seconds got him up.”
    â€œGood. At least he met the challenge like a man.” Jemma put her feet over the opposite side of the bed.
    Behind her, her mother said in round tones, “I must say you are shocking me! Have you so little feeling for your family?”
    Jemma closed her eyes against the burn of tears. With a strength she’d not known before, she rose from the bed, tucking the sheet around her, and faced her mother. “So little feeling?” Her voice trembled with the words. “Mother, I have given more than you can imagine.” She choked back any other angry words. She had to get out of this house, to plan what they would all do next. Her first concern must be finding out if Cris survived without harm. She had no doubt Dane was safe. He had a clear head. But her poor brother . . .
    â€œHelp me find something to wear,” Jemma ordered.
    Her mother raised her eyebrows but wisely kept her mouth shut. Jemma moved toward the water closet. The separate room had been designed for luxury. The brass-and-wood tub was large enough to accommodate two people, and he had only the most modern conveniences.
    â€œOh, dear, he has done well for himself,” her mother said. She was peering into the room over Jemma’s shoulder.
    Jemma faced her. “Find clothing. The armoire.”
    â€œYou know, we may be able to salvage something from this,” her mother said without moving. “We could accuse him of a breach of promise, or, if necessary, claim rape.”
    It was an unwise thing to say. The blinders were removed from Jemma’s eyes: She now saw her mother as the world did, a grasping woman who wanted everything without offering anything. Her father had been the same way. Of course, with him, Jemma had blamed his drinking . . . but perhaps not. Perhaps they were just greedy people—all of them, herself and Cris included.
    But she didn’t have to be this way. She could take control of her own destiny. To not be afraid to be alone, and maybe then she could recover her lost dignity.
    â€œI’m done, Mother. I will make no charges and do nothing that will harm him.”
    Her mother took a step closer. “If you don’t, we are ruined. This is an opportunity, Jemma, we can’t let it pass.”
    â€œHow? By destroying my reputation?” Jemma shook her head. “I will not lie. I gave myself to him freely. I loved him, Mother. I was young and naïve, but I loved him.” A feeling of overwhelming sadness threatened to engulf her. “Last night, for once, I followed my heart.”
    â€œThen continue to follow it.” Her mother placed her hands on Jemma’s shoulders.
    â€œAre you suggesting I be his mistress?” Jemma asked, shocked.
    â€œIf you are discreet, no one will be the wiser,” was the complacent reply.
    Jemma couldn’t speak. She was stunned. Worse, she was tempted. “No.” The word rang out in the air.
    Her mother’s lips pursed as tight as a prune’s—but at that moment, the door slowly opened. Dane was standing there. He leaned against the door frame, and she realized he may have been there for quite some time. He wore a bottle green jacket, buff