“He refuses to give me what I want—what I deserve. Well, we shall see about that.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her new companion, Humphrey, on the topic of her son, Charles, and his failure to provide her with even one grandchild.
Enormous, darkly lashed, blue-green eyes blinked up at Jane in wonder. A tiny arm stretched out toward her spectacles, poorly controlled spinning motions threatening to knock them askew as she laid a kiss on Gregory Wyatt’s precious forehead. His scent was angelic—mild and sweet—unlike anything she had smelled since Kate was a babe.
Jane sighed, cuddling the soft, wriggling infant closer. “He is ever so handsome, Victoria.”
Stroking a hand over her son’s abundant black hair, Victoria beamed a smile and nodded. “I did not think it was possible for anyone to be more beautiful than Lucien, but Gregory has persuaded me otherwise.”
“Ah, but his mama surpasses us both,” said the tall, impossibly handsome man entering the rose parlor. With raven-black hair, dark, flashing eyes, and the face of a fallen angel, Lucien Wyatt, Viscount Atherbourne, was quite the most breathtaking male Jane had ever seen. Even Lady Wallingham had once declared herself fortunate to be a generation removed from the dashing lord, or she almost certainly would have ended in scandal, just as Victoria had done.
Moving with athletic grace, Lucien first shot his wife a devastating half-smile, then bent to give her a kiss that lingered long enough to cause Jane’s blush. A bit embarrassed by their intimacy, Jane focused on the babe she held in her arms, brushing his tiny, perfect fingers until they clasped and clung around her thumb.
“Please forgive us, Jane,” said Lucien, his arm encircling his wife’s shoulders as he sat next to her. “It has been nearly an hour since I saw her last.”
Jane grinned, as she always did at seeing her two friends wallowing in their own bliss. Even as a part of her grieved her own emptiness, she would not permit her melancholy to spoil her friends’ visit. “Entirely understandable,” she murmured.
“Where is everyone?” asked Victoria.
“The gentlemen and most of the ladies have gone riding. Lady Wallingham and Lady Dunston had a disagreement over composers, and now they are both lying down. Apparently, debating the merits of Bach and Mozart is rather fatiguing.”
Lucien raised a brow. “Incidentally, who won the argument?”
“Lady Wallingham, I believe. Doesn’t she always?”
Victoria laughed at her wry response. “Oh, Jane. How I have missed you.”
Suddenly, Jane felt her lower lip tremble threateningly. She could not look at her friend. Her tears were choking her. “And I you,” she rasped, focusing with all her might on Gregory’s listing eyelids.
Quiet settled in, the silence growing long in Jane’s ears. Finally, Victoria said, “It looks as if your son is ready for a nap of his own, Lucien. Would you mind taking him up to the nursery? Roseanna is there now, preparing his cradle. I believe Jane and I shall take a walk.”
“Of course, love.” He stood and gathered up his son from Jane’s arms. The boy fussed a bit at first, but settled almost immediately upon recognizing his father. Lucien bent forward and kissed the babe with reverent tenderness. Just before he left the room, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t wander too far, ladies. It looks like a storm is headed our way.”
Victoria turned to Jane as the door closed. “Come, dearest. Let us ramble about a bit before the rain comes.”
After gathering their bonnets, Jane and Victoria made their way through the south garden, down the long slope to the fish pond, which was more like a goodly sized lake. The breeze rippling the water’s surface was laden with the moist scent of cut grass and warm earth, the air heavy and slow to stir in the midsummer heat. But Jane could see the deep, iron clouds from across the valley, just beyond the distant wood. They rose like a great fist into the sky above the trees.
“When Harrison wrote with his invitation, my heart was gladdened,” Victoria began, looping her arm through Jane’s. “Since your wedding, I fear I have driven Lucien mad with my fretting. Now, I can see for myself how you are faring, rather than bending Lucien’s ear about it. He shall be most relieved.”
Jane’s smile was half-hearted, her gaze turning forward to the path before them. “I am fine.”
She could feel Victoria’s eyes on her cheek. “No, dearest. You are not.”
Slowing to a stop, Jane suddenly gasped once, twice, trying to stem the swell of tears she could feel coming. The humiliating, blasted tears. Her third gasp came out as a sob. And she crumbled to pieces. Standing right there beside the fish pond, her best friend’s arms coming around her shoulders, her body curled into itself, wrenching with grief.
Victoria rocked her gently back and forth, whispering incoherently, stroking her back. “Please,” she said gently. “Tell me what’s happened. Let me help.”
It took Jane several minutes to compose herself enough to speak. Slowly, she lifted her head from Victoria’s shoulder and walked a few feet away, toward the edge of the water. She removed her spectacles, wiping them with her skirt, and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to mop her eyes before plopping the metal rims back onto her nose.
“I was right,” Jane said, her voice hoarse and ragged, her face hot.
“About?”
“He needed a different sort of duchess. Someone more like you. Or Lady Mary.”
When she finally spoke, Victoria’s voice was hesitant. “Did he say that to you?”
“He says it every time he looks at me. Or, rather, doesn’t look at me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jane turned back to face Victoria, crossing her arms over her waist, suddenly feeling hollow and cold. “He is too well mannered to say it aloud. But it is the only thing that explains how he behaves toward me.”
“How is that?”
“Like a stranger. A very polite stranger.”
Victoria’s soft mouth tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Where is he?”
“Do not be angry with him, Victoria.”
“I simply wish to speak with my brother. And perhaps throw something heavy at his head.”
Jane swallowed. “He is not wrong. I am hopelessly inept.”
Victoria scoffed. “Rubbish. You are more intelligent than ten of Lady Mary.”
“She would make a far superior hostess.”
“What makes you say so?”
“I attempted to plan the meals for Lord Dunston’s visit. Harrison had already done so without consulting me. You do not do that unless you have little faith in someone’s capabilities.”
Victoria’s blue-green eyes flashed, but she turned her head to the side before Jane could read her expression.
“Secondly,” Jane continued, “I have planned many amusements for Lady Mary and Lady Dunston, and they have refused most of them. I have failed miserably.”
“What sorts of amusements?”
“Oh, picnics by the pond, rides to the village to browse the shops, that sort of thing. I even hired a woman who sings quite beautifully in the church to come and perform for a night of music, but they will have none of it.”
Jane had never seen Victoria’s jaw clench in quite that fashion. It reminded her of Harrison.
“And what has my brother been doing all this time?”
Jane blinked. “He is away from the house most of each day. Riding with Lord Dunston and Papa. Hunting a bit. Showing them his new breed of sheep. I believe he acquired it from—”
“Jane.”
“Yes?”
“My brother is a dashed fool.”
Jane had nothing to say to that. Harrison was not a fool. But it would do no good to contradict Victoria in her present state.
“And you are not a poor hostess. However, Lady Mary and her mother are exceedingly poor guests. How many of your planned amusements have your family taken part in so far?”
“Four.”
“And did they appear to enjoy themselves?”
That made Jane smile. “Oh, yes. Maureen loved the shop with all the little timepieces. And Genie went mad for a bonnet she found with rosettes of bright-red ribbon. Kate performed beautifully on the pianoforte during the musicale. And, naturally, Mama and Papa adored the picnic luncheon. You should have seen them, feeding bits of Monsieur Renaud’s apricot tart to one another. Normally, those sorts of gestures between my parents make me slightly ill, but it was rather sweet.”
Victoria crossed her arms and gave Jane a look of triumph. “You see?”
Jane shook her head. “See what?”
“You are a splendid hostess. Splendid! You have anticipated the needs and desires of your guests, and offered ample choices to amuse and delight them without undue pressure to partake.”
Frowning, Jane replied, “Well, I did have three seasons as a guest, myself. I simply did what I thought anyone would appreciate.”
“Precisely.”
“But I am dreadful when it comes to conversing.”
Victoria sighed in exasperation. “Jane, has Lady Wallingham declared you a disaster?”
It took her half a minute to answer, as she had to filter through the dragon’s many lofty opinions and unsubtle criticisms from the past few days. Her eyes flew wide. “No.”
“And would she have, if you were?”
“Unquestionably.”
“There you have it.”
It was a revelation. One Jane had not even considered. “But, if I am not a miserable failure, then why has he become so distant?” It was bewildering. They had been so close. So close.
“I do not know, dearest. Harrison is … he is complicated. Do you remember our father?”
She nodded then corrected herself. “Well, not really. I just remember being quite intimidated by him.”
Victoria’s smile was wry and sad. “Yes. He was intimidating. And very, very cold. Harrison took the brunt of it. He protected us, Colin and me. Loved us in a way our father never did. In truth, Harrison was more a father to us than a brother. He takes his responsibilities quite seriously. You might even say gravely.”
Jane recalled Harrison’s face when he had described being forced to burn all his favorite books, simply because they allowed his imagination to roam free, which was unacceptable in the future Duke of Blackmore. But he had kept one, buried it like a treasure.
And dug it up only after his father had been buried instead.
She drew in a shuddering breath as a heavy drop of rain splattered on her arm. Her nose flared as she smelled the rain coming.
Victoria’s arm came around Jane’s shoulders. “I wish I could tell you why he is treating you this way. From your letters, I had thought perhaps you were developing some affection for one another.”
Jane smiled and covered her friend’s hand where it lay on her shoulder. “Affection? No. Nothing so easy as that.” She chuckled, hearing thunder boom in the distance. The storm was closer now, the raindrops more regular. “I am in love with him, Victoria. I love him so much, I could die for the longing.” She squeezed her eyes closed and felt Victoria’s head lean against hers.
“Oh, Jane,” she whispered.
The clouds began to open and pour forth their deluge. Within seconds, the warm, fat drops dripped from the edge of her bonnet and began soaking her sleeves and bodice. But they continued to stand together, Jane and Victoria, staring out at the water.
“He does not love me,” she murmured. It was the first time she had spoken it aloud, an agony so deep, she could not alleviate it with tears. “I must live with that.”
“You cannot possibly know that for certain. Has he said as much?”
“No. But ever since Lord Dunston and his family arrived, Harrison has treated me differently. First came his doubts about my competence. Then, for the past few weeks, he has been so cold.”
Victoria slid around to face Jane, gripping her hands and shaking them. “Then we shall take on each of those problems, one at a time. First, you will demonstrate beyond all doubt that you are more than capable of being his hostess. Then, we shall rid ourselves of Dunston and Mary and their mother—and anyone else who clutters this house and gives him an excuse for his avoidance. Then, you shall work to discover his true feelings for you.”
Victoria’s grand vision was beginning to make her nervous. “And if it turns out that he has no feelings for me? Or that what he feels most is regret for our marriage, but he is too honorable to cast me aside?”
Her best friend’s chin went up, a drop of rain plunking from her brim onto her small, refined nose. “If that is true—and I do not believe it to be so—but if it is, you will come and stay with me at Thornbridge for a while. Until your heart has healed enough to return.”
That, Jane knew, might take an eternity. But she did not say so. It was a most generous offer. She nodded her acceptance.
Victoria looked to the sky as another peal of thunder rang out, this time louder. “Perhaps we should return before we are washed away.” She looped her arm through Jane’s, and they shared small grins as they started back up the path. “We have plans to settle—plans to make Blackmore yours again.”
*~*~*
The cry of an infant ringing down the corridor of the upper floor caught Harrison’s ear as he headed to his bedchamber to change out of his wet clothes. What the devil?
His question was answered by the man exiting one of the guest chambers five doors away. “Atherbourne,” he said. “When did you arrive?”
Lucien Wyatt strode toward him, cradling a squirming, squalling bundle. He wore a harried expression. “About two hours ago. Victoria went for a stroll with Jane, and I’m afraid Gregory is a bit put out with missing his luncheon.”
Harrison’s eyes dropped to the babe’s red, angry face. Even furious, his nephew was more handsome than he had been two months ago, his cheeks fuller, his hair thicker.
Atherbourne held his son out slightly toward Harrison. “Like to give it a go?” he said sardonically.
He snorted. “No. I shall leave that to you.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll have one of your own soon enough.”
He felt his stomach drop, his jaw going slack. His heart stopped, then twisted painfully, then started up again with a hard, grinding thump. “Is Jane …?”
The viscount with the bloody warped sense of humor burst out laughing upon seeing Harrison’s expression. “No. At least, not that I know of. But if I were you, Blackmore, I would practice my response in the mirror a bit before that time comes. Women in a delicate condition do not like to be disappointed.”
The man’s dark eyes darted over Harrison’s shoulder, lighting up with a feverish glint. He turned around to see his sister coming toward them. She was sodden from head to toe.
Victoria paused only long enough to greet Harrison and kiss his cheek, then rushed forward to take Gregory from her husband’s arms. “What is it, little one? Are you hungry? Mama is here. Not to worry.”
He noticed Atherbourne’s eyes clung to Victoria the same way her gown was clinging to her form, his hand dropping possessively to her waist. Without another word to Harrison, the couple disappeared into their chamber.
Turning back to his original destination, Harrison was once again stopped in his tracks. Jane was there, coming toward him.
She was a lush, rounded Venus. And she was all but naked.
Her gown, a lilac-hued, layered muslin dress with a bit of white embroidery at the bodice, was soaked clear through, hugging every curve and mound and hollow. Her nipples were hard, prominent points thrusting out against the fabric of her bodice. Like they wanted his mouth to warm them.
Her head was down, her attention on a small notebook in which she was intently writing with a pencil. If she was not careful, she would collide with him. Her full, generous breasts would press against him. Those hard, ripe nipples would brush his chest. He would have to wrap his arms around her, perhaps grasp her hips to steady her. Then, when she finally looked up and saw who held her, her mouth would open, her lips softening, trembling for his.
But none of that happened. Instead, her eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of him, and she stumbled to a halt, still several feet away. “Har—Harrison.”
Oh, God, he had missed her voice, with that little hitch when she said his name.
“You were caught in the rain as well, I see.” She gestured to her chamber door, just past his shoulder. “I was going to change my dress.” Her lips quirked, and she glanced down at her gown. His eyes followed helplessly. “This one did not fare well at all when the storm loosed upon us.”
Her breasts began to move up and down at an increased rate. A tiny droplet of water rolled teasingly across her skin, from the little indentation at the base of her throat, down to the valley between her beautiful, succulent breasts. He pictured his fingers following the same path. Then, his tongue.
Dear God, he was on fire for her, his ballocks aching, his cock full to bursting after only seconds.
This was wrong. An obsession. He must stop. It was too dangerous.
His muscles clenching to tear his gaze away, he stepped back, giving her ample room to ease past him and enter her chamber. But instead of using the distance he had given her, she inched closer to him, her hand coming up and stretching out toward him like a leaf seeking the sun. He could not allow her to touch him. If she did, he would break.
He backed away, his movements stiff, his jaw hardening. Not knowing what else to do, he bowed formally, saying, “I shall see you at dinner.”
Her head gave a small jerk; her eyes, so soft and dark, sheened with tears; her lips turned down at the corners and trembled. His response had wounded her. He could see it happening, but could not reverse the damage. Unable to bear it, he reached for her, but she didn’t see. She turned her back and fled into her chamber, closing the door with a soft click.
The force that tethered him to her carried him forward, his hand settling on the white paneled wood. He stopped himself from following, but he could not move away from her door. His forehead met the cool surface, the torment of longing and sorrow and regret devouring him until he wanted to tear his entire house to pieces.
“Jane,” he whispered, the word almost a prayer.
My Jane. My love.
*~*~*