“Choose your guests wisely, for the ones you can least tolerate invariably stay the longest.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Reedham upon hearing said lady’s plans for a grand hunting party.
Pulled by six gleaming black horses, the traveling coach of the Earl of Dunston was a sight to behold, but no less so than its occupants.
“Cornelius!” came a feminine cry as the door was shoved open abruptly. A small, wrinkled body attached to great, flopping ears leapt clumsily to the ground and immediately set to sniffing in a series of circles.
“Dear heavens, I fear he has murdered us.”
“Ladies, might I suggest we disembark before that fateful moment arrives?”
From Jane’s position on the front terrace of Blackmore Hall, it appeared the small, rusty-brown animal was having a good bit of trouble, as it repeatedly trampled and stumbled over its own ears. It sat down firmly on the drive and scratched one of the offending flaps with a vigorous paw. An icy-green skirt of sprigged muslin appeared next to what she assumed was a dog.
Lady Mary Thorpe, wearing said skirt along with a pink spencer and a dashing, furbelowed hat, folded her hands at her waist and took a deep, though discreet, breath of fresh air. The pretty, cinnamon-haired young woman ignored the dog at her feet to gaze up at Blackmore. Her expression of wistfulness—as though she imagined both the house and the man being hers—came as no surprise to Jane.
“I have told you countless times. You must cease feeding that dog bits of cheese.” As he bounded from the coach, Lord Dunston’s brown hair gleamed in the midday light, showing hints of his sister’s red. Lean and athletic, Dunston was not particularly tall, but his dark-green coat and gray trousers were expertly fitted, his waistcoat the fine patina of polished copper. He, too, appeared more handsome than anyone who had traveled the rutted road from Leeds should.
“Henry, I say. Help me down, you thoughtless boy.”
Lord Dunston glanced back at the matron currently stooped in the carriage door’s opening, waving a gloved hand beneath her slightly hooked nose. “Of course,” he murmured, hurrying to comply just as the coachman came around to her opposite side.
The weighty woman garbed in head-to-toe pink wore a forbearing expression, but was somewhat pale as she descended. “Never bring that creature on such a journey again, Mary. I fear my brief time on this earth has shortened substantially.”
The dog, exhausted from its whirling, sniffing explorations, stopped next to the carriage wheel, lifted its leg, and calmly urinated. When it was finished, Lady Mary knelt to lift the pup into her arms. “Nonsense, Mama. Cornelius is a good pup. Aren’t you? Yes, you are a good, good dog.”
Uncertain how long to wait for them to notice her standing on the front terrace, Jane took a resounding breath, tightened her stomach muscles to stifle the nervous flutters, and started forward. Before she reached the stone steps, she felt hands bracket her shoulders, slowing her progress. Her head swung around. “Harrison,” she murmured. “I thought …”
Over her head, he smiled at the earl. “Dunston, you always did enjoy adding unexpected guests to the list.”
Lord Dunston grinned as Harrison brushed past Jane to meet him on the drive with a warm handshake. “Apologies, your grace. This time, you cannot blame me. Mary insisted.”
The young woman kissed the wriggling puppy’s head and slowly walked toward the men. A gradual, twinkling smile and flirtatious eye-fluttering preceded a honeyed protest. “I was certain you wouldn’t mind, Harrison. You have always been so generous with your hospitality.”
Jane’s hand settled over her stomach. Was it possible to vomit from sweetness too revolting to witness? Perhaps if she vomited directly on the charming Mary, that sweetness would dissipate. It was something to consider.
Harrison bowed and grasped Lady Mary’s outstretched fingers. “Lady Mary. Lovely to see you again.” Was it Jane’s imagination, or was her husband’s voice significantly more melodious? Truly, it was a marvel. His words seemed almost a caress. “And Lady Dunston, a pleasure, as always. I do hope your journey was not too arduous.”
“No journey is too trying to be with you again, Harrison,” Mary, Queen of Sweets, simpered nauseatingly.
“Come, you must join us inside.” Harrison waved them all toward the entrance. Toward Jane.
As they approached, they all slowed. Dunston was the first to reach her. “Your grace,” he said with a quiet, warm smile. “Thank you for having us here.”
“L-lord Dunston. You are most welcome.”
Mary and her mother offered greetings as well, but theirs were unsmiling and only two words: “Your grace.”
An hour later, Jane wondered if anyone would notice if she slipped away to the library. She didn’t care which one. Anywhere that wasn’t here would do.
They all sat together in the gold drawing room. Lady Mary and Lady Dunston had positioned themselves on an ivory sofa, sipping tea, the sleeping dog lying at Mary’s feet. Harrison and Lord Dunston sat in chairs facing the fireplace. And Jane sat alone on a light-blue settee facing the two women, who conversed pointedly with everyone except her. Lord Dunston had attempted to draw her into the conversation a few times, but each time, it seemed Harrison would intervene, answering for her and drawing the conversation away again.
She loathed tea, and so she had nothing to do except fold her hands in her lap and stare over their heads out the window. It put her in mind of one of Lady Wallingham’s luncheons, albeit slightly less vicious. And less stimulating.
“I offered him Ulysses’ next foal. That persuaded him, at long last, to sell me one of his champion stock,” Harrison said to Lord Dunston, describing his negotiations with Lord Wallingham, Lady Wallingham’s son, who owned the finest stable in England.
“Ah, that would do it. I don’t suppose you would consent to let me ride the old boy while I am here.”
“Of course. If you are not too fatigued from your travels, perhaps we could go for a ride now.”
Dunston took a quick sip of his tea and nodded. “Capital idea. Ladies, care to join us?”
Jane sat straighter, ready to bolt upstairs to change into her riding habit. Anything, please, dear God, to extract me from this room.
“Oh, heavens no. You gentlemen need time together without us ladies tagging along,” Lady Dunston answered for them all. She waved her fingers in a shooing motion. “Run along now, and leave us here to our own amusements.”
Jane noted Harrison frowned rather severely in her direction, but Dunston stood and bowed, so Harrison followed suit, though reluctantly. He paused at the white paneled doors, glancing back at Jane with that same perplexing expression. Then Dunston pulled him away, and she was alone.
With them.
“So,” said Lady Mary brightly. “Duchess. How are you settling into your new role here at Blackmore Hall?” Her laugh tinkled through the air and down Jane’s spine like a cat’s claws on dry rock. “I daresay it is a far sight grander than your quaint home in—where is it?—ah, yes, Nottinghamshire. Becoming the Duchess of Blackmore must be quite a challenge for someone like yourself.”
Jane’s fingers pressed tighter together where they folded in her lap. “It—I have …” She stopped to clear her throat. “It has gone well. Thank you for asking.”
Lady Dunston took a leisurely sip from her china cup and set it back in its saucer with a delicate clink. “Yes, we were simply astonished when we heard Blackmore had offered for you. Imagine it. You had danced together only once. Your families were acquainted, but there was no indication of an alliance of this sort. So sudden!” She took another sip, her eyes gleaming and shrewd. “Naturally, we wondered if the unfortunate rumors played a part in the engagement. Scandalous accusations, simply scandalous!”
Jane did not respond. At the moment, her mouth was locked, her stomach cold and sick.
But Lady Dunston felt no such misgiving. “All of that has been laid to rest, of course. No one would dare accuse the Duchess of Blackmore of being a thief!” She said the last word in a whisper, too tawdry to speak aloud.
Mary raised one cinnamon brow imperiously, bent forward to set her cup on the marble-topped table, then gathered her sleeping dog into her arms. She stroked his brown, wrinkled head and smirked at Jane. “How very fortunate your engagement was announced at the precise moment when you were attacked by scurrilous rumors.” All hints of a smile faded, and her eyes grew hard. “But, then, Harrison is more honor-bound than most.”
There were so many things Jane wished to say. They burned in her throat—hateful, venomous things that would turn Mary, Queen of Sweets, as sour as a cask of vinegar. But she could not. The words were trapped by the knowledge that Mary was too bloody close to the truth.
When Jane did not respond, Mary glanced at her mother. “I am growing weary, Mama. I believe I shall lie down a while.”
Lady Dunston nodded and set her cup on the table. “Yes, dear. I believe I shall do the same.”
With that, they both rose from the sofa, Mary carrying her sleeping hound. Then they exited the gold drawing room without offering Jane so much as a nod for the sake of courtesy. If she were not terribly relieved to see them depart, she might just take offense.
*~*~*
This was rubbish. He should cease fretting over her. But her face as he had left the drawing room had made him long to toss Dunston and his family out on their backsides. Which was entirely unreasonable.
“… decided to wear the horse’s shoes myself.”
She’d been withdrawn, unsmiling, her skin pale in contrast with her dark hair. The memory of it still caused acid to churn in his gut. He did not know what was wrong, could only surmise that having unfamiliar guests in her home was deeply disconcerting to her.
“Not altogether comfortable, I must tell you.”
The change in her was worse than he had anticipated, her behavior growing steadily more quiet and reserved over the past few days, until she was shrinking into herself whenever he came near. He had tried to kiss her last night, but she had turned away, claiming her monthly courses as an excuse to sleep alone. He knew better, but he had not wanted to press her when she clearly felt overwhelmed by their guests’ imminent arrival.
“And then the saddle—oh, how it chafes.”
Harrison tore his gaze from the trees in the distance and glanced over at his daft friend, who sat atop an ambling Ulysses. “What the devil are you on about?”
Dunston grinned. “A bit distracted, are we?”
Harrison grunted. “I would be enjoying a fine summer day if not for your nonsense.”
Chuckling, the earl tipped his hat. “A pleasure to be of service.”
As they approached the rise above the river, near the place he and Jane had picnicked the day Colin had returned, Harrison’s thoughts flew back to his wife. In truth, they never strayed far from her.
“Perhaps we should turn back,” he said to Dunston, who raised a brow.
“We have been gone for only a half-hour.”
“I would prefer not to leave the ladies alone for too long.”
Dunston covered a sudden cough. “You are concerned they shall perish for want of our company?”
Harrison sent him a well-deserved glare.
“Rest easy, old friend. The ladies are perfectly capable of drinking their tea and exchanging their gossip without our assistance.”
Training his eyes forward, Harrison did not reply. What could he say? That the gnawing need to see Jane was afflicting him like a bad case of consumption? After only a half-hour?
“Ah,” said the annoying Dunston. “You miss her.”
“Absurd.”
“Hmm. Yes, a bit. But also true.”
Harrison pulled his horse to a stop in the middle of a grassy meadow above the river’s rise. The field was covered in daisies. “I am not some besotted swain. Jane is … She is …”
Having pulled ahead, Dunston turned Ulysses around to face Harrison. “Your wife,” he said softly.
Sighing in relief that Dunston understood, Harrison nodded. Yes. She was his wife. What he felt was perfectly normal. Part of a husband’s duty was to protect her and provide for her comfort. It was not that he missed her. He simply needed to see her. To ensure that she was safe. And comfortable.
Dunston’s hands overlapped and rested on the low pommel. “How are you getting along?”
He blinked. “Quite well, actually.” Recalling the day she had teased and seduced him past his reticence at Blackmore Castle, he could not stop his mouth from lifting in a smile. “She often surprises me.”
“Does she?”
“Do you know, she found a book I read as a boy. We read it again together.” He nodded toward the river. “Just over there. Every time I think I understand her, she does something confounding.”
“And you enjoy spending time with her.”
His eyes riveted to their spot, where she had laid her head on his thigh, stroked his cheek with her soft, white hand. “Yes. She is so beautiful, Henry,” he said absently. “Her laugh has a charming little catch just at the top. It makes you glad you are close enough to hear it. And when she smiles, her cheeks form these tiny dimples. Playful little things.”
“I have seen them.”
“Her voice …” He paused to take a breath, his longing intensified by every word. “It changes like the pattern of light on water. When she is happy, the rasp is slight. When she is vexed with me, it deepens like a pup grumbling about being awakened from a nap.” When she was aroused, it stroked over him like roughened silk, soothing and enflaming at once, but he could not tell Dunston such a thing. Aside from being inappropriate, the man would believe him hopelessly infatuated.
“I’m afraid I’ve not had much occasion to appreciate her voice. She has always been a bit on the quiet side,” said Dunston, his expression oddly neutral.
“That is only because she does not know you well. She may be shy at first, but once you are her friend, you will quickly become enchanted by her winsome nature. Her wit is unlike any other female’s. Did I mention her laugh?”
His friend smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Yes, you did. Not to worry, Harrison. I am certain as we grow better acquainted, I shall discover all the facets of her beauty, just as you have.”
Focusing on Dunston’s face, Harrison inquired sharply, “What are you implying?”
His eyes widened. “Nothing whatever!”
“It sounded distinctly like an implication.”
“I find her quite lovely, Harrison. Others have called her Plain Jane, but I never have. You know that. Besides which, her new gowns have done wonders.”
A slow, burning fist twisted around his stomach. “You have been eyeing her gowns?”
“Er—wait. Are you angry because I find her plain or because I do not?”
“She is not plain.”
Dunston cleared his throat several times, requiring him to duck his head so that his hat brim hid his face from view and his fist covered his mouth.
“Plain implies she is ordinary. Unexceptional. Those words are the opposite of Jane.”
“Oh, dear God,” Dunston muttered. “Harrison—”
“When you must look at her, you will keep your eyes on her face. Not her skirts. And certainly not her bodice. Nor her hands.”
“Her hands?”
Harrison reached into his waistcoat pocket to pull out his watch. It had been forty minutes. “We should return to the house.”
Dunston began to protest, but Harrison had already turned his horse and headed toward home. He needed to see her. It was an ache inside him that would not abate. He pushed his horse from a canter to a gallop. Soon, the grass beneath him was flying past, the trees lining the hills a blur, but still, it was not fast enough.
They entered the stable yard at such a clip, the horse slid and stomped to a halt, its head coming up in protest. The animal’s heaving breaths matched Harrison’s as he dismounted in a leap and tossed the reins to the freckle-faced groom.
He needed to see her. To ensure she was well, and that her time alone with Lady Dunston and Lady Mary had not proven too discomfiting. To hold her close if it had, and perhaps offer a kiss as a distraction. To feel her hands stroking his face.
He did not even pause to wipe his boots, loping across the south terrace and straight to the gold drawing room. But he was too late. She wasn’t there.
She wasn’t anywhere. Jane—his Jane—was gone.
*~*~*