“Like gunpowder, jealousy is a volatile element best handled with care and applied judiciously.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne upon hearing of Lord Atherbourne’s sustained enmity toward Sir Barnabus Malby.
She spun to watch him emerge from the shadows, his tall form clothed in the white linen shirt and buff breeches from earlier. He looked rumpled, as if he had thrown them on in a panic. “My brother is incapable of changing. He is like a plague. All one can do is attempt to limit the damage.”
“He—he has made mistakes …”
His long strides carried him into the lantern’s light, where she glimpsed his face for the first time. Dear heaven, he was furious. With her.
“This is not where you belong.”
“I know. I was just—”
“Come morning, Colin will leave here and never return.”
“Harrison, I am not certain—”
His head tilted slightly, his jaw like stone. “It is not your decision. It is mine.” His voice was hard and grinding, almost accusatory.
She did not understand his outsized anger toward her, and it sent her indignation rising. “He is your brother. Do you know what he has been through?”
His eyes flashed, nostrils flaring. “What he has been through?” While the words were quietly spoken, they might as well have been a roar.
“Er—Jane?” Colin muttered. “Probably best to let it be, for now.”
Harrison shifted his glare to Colin. “Leave us.”
“He is in danger, Harrison. Terrible danger. You cannot simply toss him to the wolves.”
Eyes flashing, Harrison moved closer. Colin stood and placed himself between his brother and Jane. He held up a hand. “I will leave, as you wish. No need for argument. It was a mistake to come here in the first place.”
“It is odd how frequently you realize your error only after the damage has been done.”
Colin dropped his hand, slumping in exhaustion. “I bid you good night, brother.”
After he left the room, Jane stared at her husband, wondering just what had come over him. His bitterness was understandable, perhaps, but his reactions went well beyond that. The undercurrent was a kind of volatile wrath, and seemed to be directed, at least in part, toward her.
“I cannot understand why you are so angry.”
His silence was long as he stared at her, his eyes flashing in the low light. A muscle ticked next to his eye. “Can you not? I awaken to find my wife gone. I search for her, only to find her alone with a man for whom she once risked her reputation. How much of a fool were you, Jane? Did you let him kiss you?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“You are oddly adept at seduction for an innocent, wife,” he murmured. “Did you practice your wiles on him? Did you touch him with your hands?”
“Wiles? Harrison, stop being ridiculous. I haven’t any wiles to practice.”
“That is a lie,” he said softly.
Releasing a sigh of frustration, she tried again. “In answer to your preposterous questions, no, he never kissed me. You were the first. And I never touched him, nor did he touch me, in any inappropriate fashion. All the inappropriate touching I have ever experienced has been with you.”
His face remained grim. “He claims you were friends. You frequently dress as a burglar and attempt to rob strange houses for mere friends, do you?”
“Harrison—”
“Answer me.”
She did not want to. It was embarrassing. But she could see he was suspicious of her relationship with Colin, and she could not allow his doubts about her fidelity to fester. “I—I do not …”
He waited then snapped, “Yes?”
“I do not have many friends.” Cringing at her own confession, she continued reluctantly, “Only one, really, outside of my family. Victoria. So, yes, to me, friends are precious. And yes, if Victoria had asked, I would gladly have dressed as a burglar and attempted to rob Prinny himself if I thought she needed me to do so.”
The hush of the room fell between them. The lantern light glowed across his features. Was it her imagination, or had he eased a bit? “Colin was never your friend. He deserves your scorn, not your loyalty.”
Her imagination, clearly. “I do not deny that.”
“Good. He will depart tomorrow, so you should have no further need to see him.”
“Harrison, you must let him stay at least a few days,” she said quietly. “He is being hunted.”
“It is not your concern.”
She stepped toward him, her chin rising with her temper. “Anything to do with you is my concern, you great lummox. How will you feel if he is attacked mere days from now?”
He blinked, seeming disoriented by her challenge. A muscle in his jaw flickered.
“Guilty, perhaps? Responsible?”
“He has brought this upon himself.”
Moving close, she laid her hand carefully over his heart, and felt him flinch. “Of course he has. But you are a far better man than he is. Please do not make a decision in haste. It may be one you will mourn forever.”
He swallowed visibly then covered her hand with his own. “Jane,” he said in a low rumble. “Let us return to our bed.”
“Harrison, I think—”
“I shall consider your argument and decide what is best in the morning.”
He seemed calmer when she touched him. Perhaps that was the key. She nodded her assent, and together, they returned to her chamber and to each other’s arms.
*~*~*
The next morning, Blackmore Hall was bustling in preparation for the visit from Lord Dunston, who was set to arrive in only two days. Maids polished the stair railing, footmen relocated furniture, and Beardsley and Mrs. Draper orchestrated the efforts like conductors of a master symphony.
Jane was a bit bewildered, as they had not bothered to consult her on a stitch of it, but for the moment, she had more important matters to consider.
He had changed his mind. Because of her.
Upon waking alone, she had hurried Estelle through her toilette, eager to find Harrison, who was in his study, meeting with his steward. He rose as she entered, stiffened as she asked for his decision, and finally informed her that Colin would be permitted to stay for the remainder of the week in a cottage on Blackmore lands.
Ignoring the steward, she had rushed to where her husband stood, taken his face in her hands and kissed his wondrous mouth. The kiss had gone a little long, considering a virtual stranger was watching. By the time she’d pulled away, Harrison’s face was flushed, his eyes gleaming with lust. Feeling a trifle embarrassed, she had quickly left the room, hearing him clear his throat loudly and say, “Now then, where were we?” as she closed the study door.
At last, she could resume planning for Dunston’s visit. Harrison had told her of his friend’s intentions weeks ago, and she still dreaded it like a dress fitting with Mrs. Bowman. However, she consoled herself that it would be no worse than the London season with its balls and routs and musicales and endless entertainments.
Entering the kitchen, she immediately spied the mad Frenchman with the penchant for vulgarity. “Monsieur Renaud,” she called above the hectic noise of maids chopping and hauling and gossiping. A cube of turnip landed at her feet. The cook glanced over his shoulder from his position at the oversized range.
“Duchesse,” he grumbled brusquely.
She bustled forward, sidestepping a basket of onions to draw up beside him. “I am here to discuss the meals for Lord Dunston’s forthcoming visit.”
He eyed her balefully. “Hmmph. Did you speak with Madame Draper?”
“No, I am afraid she is occupied.”
Moving to the work table, he barked at a harried blond maid, “Thin! Slice them thin, you stupid girl. This is soup, not slop for pigs.”
He sighed, leaning a hand on the table, retrieving a cloth from his apron pocket, and wiping his forehead. A dark lock of hair fell over one eye rakishly. He tossed his head and squinted at her. “What would you like to know?”
“Oh, you misunderstand. I would like to plan the meals. With your very wise counsel, of course.”
His dark eyes dropped, and he rubbed the cloth over the back of his neck. “It is done, Madame.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Le duc has already made a list of his preferences.” He waved negligently toward a long shelf beneath the high windows, where several sheets of paper were scattered.
“He … he has?” She turned back to the cook, but he had resumed stirring at the range.
Her lips tightened. This was most peculiar. In every household she knew of—Victoria’s, Annabelle’s, her mother’s—the lady of the house was responsible for meal planning. Every one.
When she had first arrived at Blackmore, the meals had already been arranged and were well managed by Monsieur Renaud and Mrs. Draper, both highly competent servants. She had felt no need to intervene; likewise with the general running of the household. However, a visit was a special occasion that required the guiding hand of the hostess.
Unless the host had determined she was incapable of attending to such a basic duty.
Hurrying back to the study, she gave a quick knock, pausing to adjust her spectacles and take a deep breath.
“Come,” she heard through the door.
Pushing it open, she noted the steward was still there. The mild man with thinning hair and spectacles stood upon seeing her, as did Harrison. But her husband’s perusal was a good deal more thorough. And more heated. Though his expression remained closed, his eyes traced a path of fire from her violet silk hem to her hair, coming back to linger over her bosom then settle on her face.
“Your grace,” said the steward.
She nodded a greeting, but found it hard to tear her gaze away from Harrison’s. “May I speak with you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Of course. That should be all for today, Mr. Talbot.”
Taking the hint, Mr. Talbot bowed and left, closing the door behind him. The moment it clicked shut, Harrison moved from behind his desk, stalked toward her, wrapped her in his arms, and kissed her senseless.
She hummed a weak protest against his invading tongue, but quickly forgot why she was protesting. Then, she forgot why she had come into this room. And, for that matter, her own name.
“Jane,” he whispered.
Oh, yes. That was it.
His mouth found the juncture of her neck and shoulder, nibbling deliciously. “Perhaps we should lock the door,” he panted against her skin.
Her eyes popped open. Wait, wasn’t there something …?
He was gathering up fistfuls of her skirt when she remembered. “Harrison.”
His lips dropped to her collarbone.
“Harrison, stop.” She pushed gently at his shoulders. He straightened and frowned at her fiercely, but he complied. “I need to discuss something with you.”
He ran a hand through his hair and released a breath. “It cannot wait until after?”
For the briefest moment, she considered it. He was so very tempting, with his smoky-blue eyes and his strong, muscled shoulders and his—but no; it must be now. “I just came from the kitchen.”
“Why would you visit the kitchen? That is not a proper place for a lady.”
She waved that away. “Don’t be silly. My mother visits the kitchen regularly to assist with meal planning. It is a less formal practice, I’ll grant you, but quite effective.”
“Your mother,” he said dryly.
She sniffed. “Yes. In any event, I consulted with Monsieur Renaud about—”
“I do not want you speaking to that Frenchman.”
“Whyever not?”
“He is coarse.”
“We get on quite well, actually.”
His eyes sharpened, his mouth flattening. “Do you, now?”
“He informed me that you have already planned the menu for Lord Dunston’s visit.”
“Is there a problem?”
She frowned. “Well, I had assumed—”
A knock interrupted. It was Beardsley. “I beg your pardon, your grace. The footmen have moved the blue chairs into the yellow bedchamber. Mrs. Draper is inquiring if you would also like the green divan replaced.”
Jane opened her mouth to answer, but Harrison replied over her head, “No. However, please tell her I shall speak with her shortly. The linens in the rose room are in need of changing.”
The butler bowed and departed. She turned to see Harrison once again sitting behind his desk, opening a drawer, and withdrawing a sheet of paper.
“What—what are you doing?” she asked.
He did not stop writing. “I find it helpful to make a list of tasks for the servants.”
She pressed her lips together and adjusted her spectacles. “Is there not something you would like for me to do?”
The pen halted. He glanced up with a devilish look. “Many, many things, yes.” He resumed writing. “But I’m afraid that must wait. This evening, perhaps.”
Clearly, he preferred to manage the household himself. Or he did not trust her to do so. But then, maybe she was overreacting. She tried again. “Harrison, I could help …”
“No need.” He dipped his pen in the inkpot. “It is all well in hand. Perhaps you could find a book to read.”
For such a small, inconsequential thing, his absent statement hit her with unexpected force, right around her stomach. The sensation felt similar to the time Genie had accidentally elbowed her in the solar plexus while they’d been struggling to cinch her first corset. In the same way, his casual comment knocked the breath from her lungs.
Was that the only skill he thought her capable of? Reading? Naturally, she loved to read, so she spent a good deal of time doing so, but she had been trained to run a household. She had expected to take on those duties when she married, as all wives did. Her husband, however, did not appear convinced of her competence.
Certainly, she had little doubt he desired her. But in the midst of her elation over that fact, she had neglected to consider that lust did not equal regard. I am a fool, she thought. A plain, awkward woman who has forgotten how this marriage began.
She examined his beautiful blond head where it bent over his list, daylight glinting off the short golden strands, his shoulders straight and broad beneath gray superfine. She swallowed hard against a sudden ache.
How could she forget? They had been a mismatch from the beginning. She was not meant to be a duchess. Not meant to manage an estate as magnificent as Blackmore Hall.
Quietly, she turned and made her way to the old library, with its dark wood and heated memories. There, she sank into her favorite chair, let her head ease onto its wing, and composed a letter to … oh, she did not know. Herself, she supposed.
Dearest Jane, she would write. You knew better once, did you not? I wonder how you managed to convince yourself that you were worthy of him. The truth was there the day he offered for you. Inside, as you busied yourself making the best of things, you have known all along. But his kisses turned you forgetful. His eyes caused you to see things that weren’t there. Now, you’ve given him your heart. And all the while, the truth stands watch like a storm on the horizon, constant and patient. You may ignore it for a time, but not forever. Dearest Jane, wake up. The storm is waiting.
She laughed at herself as a tear tickled its way down her cheek. Swiping it away impatiently, she could almost hear Lady Wallingham’s trumpeting voice castigating her: Foolish girl. Foolish, foolish girl.
*~*~*