“The allure of country dancing escapes me. You neither speak to your partner nor discover anything more interesting than his ability to avoid colliding with fellow dancers.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her new companion, Humphrey, who shook his head in agreement.
She danced with Dunston. And then with the vicar. And then with two more men. Yes, they were country dances with scarcely any touching. But she had refused to dance with him. Her own husband.
With his back leaning against the limestone wall of Blackmore, Harrison took a sip of punch and watched her over the rim of his cup. She was flushed from her exertions, her spectacles slipping down her small, rounded nose with increasing frequency, the wreath of flowers and leaves sliding a bit to one side on her head. At midnight, she had announced in a breathless, wobbling voice that every lady would be given one to wear. With torches casting the terrace in a golden aura, flower-crowned ladies twirling and laughing with their dark-clad gentlemen, and festive music lifting them all on lively waves, the scene fairly glowed with fay enchantment.
Part of him witnessed her triumph, his brave Jane, and cheered with pride. But the darker part sent blood burning through his veins, his need of her and hatred for any man who looked upon her making his head spin as much as the deceptively innocent punch. This was what he must resist. After everything he had learned of his father, after all he knew of who he was and the dear price he would pay should it escape his control, he must find a way to temper his feelings for her. He had thought withdrawing from her company would help. It had not.
“Harrison?” Victoria touched his arm, startling him. “Aren’t you enjoying the party?”
She, too, was glowing and happy, having just finished a dance with her husband, who stood like a tall, dark guard behind her. Atherbourne briefly glanced between him and Jane. She was still conversing with Mr. Hargrove, a sandy-haired, wealthy merchant from Leeds. The corner of his brother-in-law’s mouth lifted in a knowing smirk.
Harrison glowered at them both. “Do you not have something better to occupy yourselves than monitoring my enjoyment?”
“No need to be cross,” Victoria replied. “I was simply going to ask if you have danced yet.”
“I do not wish to dance.”
His sister’s chin went up in a familiar warning sign. “Well, I am glad to hear it, for who would want to dance with someone so sour?”
Harrison did not reply, taking another leisurely sip of his punch and trying very hard to ignore them. Was that bloody merchant inching closer to Jane?
“Your wife, on the other hand,” said Atherbourne dryly, “seems rather fond of dancing.”
He would have shot his brother-in-law a fierce glare, but he was preoccupied with more important matters. The bloody merchant from Leeds was brushing against her arm, turning so that he could show something to her. Their backs were to him, so he could not see what it was. But it did not matter. Mr. Bloody Hargrove should mind his proximity or he would soon discover how the stones of the south terrace tasted.
“I am simply over the moon for Jane,” gushed Victoria. “It is most difficult to plan a ball of this scale in so short a time. But I have always suspected she would make a splendid hostess, if given the chance. She is quite skilled and—”
“He is not listening, love,” Atherbourne interrupted.
“He’s not?”
“No.”
“Then, what is he doing?”
“Obsessing.”
She tsked. “Harrison does not obsess. He is highly logical. It is much more likely he is in his cups. That punch is almost entirely wine.”
Atherbourne cleared his throat and coughed. “Perhaps you are right, angel. I must be mistaken.”
Victoria murmured a bit more before her voice receded. Harrison took little notice. Jane was smiling at Hargrove. Smiling. Her dimples were practically winking at the man.
“It won’t help, you know,” came Atherbourne’s sardonic voice again.
“What?” Harrison growled.
“Keeping your distance. Worsens the effect.”
Finally, he tore his gaze away from Jane to meet Atherbourne’s dark eyes, which were surprisingly serious. “Whatever you think you know,” Harrison said softly, his voice a warning. “You do not.”
A slow smile curled the man’s mouth upward. “It begins with the small things. The way she smells. A little crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she laughs. Then, you find yourself wondering if you have some kind of illness. A fever, perhaps. Surely that is the only way to explain feeling like a feral beast every time she says your name.”
Harrison stared at the other man. It was all he could manage. No one knew this. How could he know? Harrison had not even told Jane.
“The worst is not the wanting, although that is rather frightening in its intensity. No, the worst is when you are parted from her. The only greater agony is in knowing you are the cause of it. And that she suffers for your foolishness.”
He did not want to hear more. “You cannot possibly understand,” he said hoarsely, his eyes pulled helplessly back to her. Jane.
“Perhaps not. But in the unlikely event that I do, a bit of advice.” Atherbourne clapped his upper arm with some force. “Try to avoid doing permanent damage.”
Victoria waved her husband over for another dance, leaving Harrison alone with his thoughts. Across the terrace, Jane chatted with Maureen, having blessedly lost Mr. Hargrove. Atherbourne’s final piece of advice rang in his head. It was the very thing Harrison had been attempting to do—avoid disaster. But his feelings for her had only grown stronger. Now, he could not be certain of anything except this: He must protect her, no matter the cost.
*~*~*
Exhaustion had come for Jane’s soul long before the last guest’s carriage left Blackmore’s drive. But she had persevered. She was rather proud of that. Now, standing at the rim of the south terrace, looking out into the velvety-soft night, she gently lifted the listing wreath from her head and set it on the table next to her gloves. The daisies had wilted a bit, much like she had.
“Your grace, the tables have been cleared of food. Would you care for something before you retire?” Mrs. Draper inquired from behind her.
Without turning, Jane shook her head. “Thank you, but no, Mrs. Draper. Why don’t you and the others find your beds? The rest of this will keep until the morning.”
“You are too kind, your grace. And may I say, it was a magnificent ball.”
Jane nodded her thanks, hearing the housekeeper move away, the clink and swish of footmen and maids clearing the debris slowly fading as they finished their tasks and gratefully departed.
Hugging her waist and sighing, she noted the torches had been extinguished, leaving only the stars and a low, setting moon to light the tables and urns of flowers, turning the scene silver instead of gold.
She had done well, she decided. With Victoria’s help in formulating the guest list, the vicar’s advice on finding worthy musicians, her sisters’ willingness to pick wildflowers, and the tireless efforts of Blackmore Hall’s superb staff, Jane had managed to play hostess to a grand summer ball without humiliating herself. In fact, she liked to think even an Oddflower might have enjoyed attending as a guest. The most difficult part of the evening had been greeting and conversing with everyone, but the idea for writing a script had come after Lady Wallingham’s complaint that most matrons lacked originality in their speech, and that they often seemed to be “reciting lines committed to memory in the schoolroom.”
And, of course, Harrison had been there. With every new face, each time she had stumbled over her words, he had stood at her side, sensing precisely when to intervene and when to let her be. He had only left after she’d rejected his suggestion of a dance. She could not explain why she had done it. Too much magic in the air, perhaps. She had needed to keep her wits about her.
Taking one last breath of the warm August night, she turned toward the drawing room. And there he was. She stopped, her heart thudding against her breast as it had earlier, when she had seen him in his black coat and trousers, his gold waistcoat and white cravat. Those simple garments framed him like a portrait of a god. To her, even now, as he examined his watch with exhaustion clear in his profile, he was the handsomest of men.
Drawn toward him almost compulsively, she halted again when she saw who approached from the corridor. Lady Mary, dressed becomingly in green and white, laid her hand on Harrison’s arm and smiled up at him adoringly. Acid roiled in Jane’s stomach, watching them laugh together, the way he tilted his head to speak with her. The girl’s dog followed her into the room, sniffing his mistress’s slippers. Jane hoped Cornelius did something vile with those slippers, and that Mary, Queen of Sweets, did not discover it until it was too late.
Instead of her fantasy coming true, however, Mary bent to gather the pup in her arms, and she carried him toward the north entrance hall, presumably so that he could defecate in a more appropriate venue.
Jane watched Harrison’s shoulders slump, his head bowing, his hand running through his hair in a gesture more reminiscent of Colin than of her husband. He looked so weary, so worn. Before she could think better of it, she entered the room and said his name.
His head came up in a snap. “Jane. Where have you been?”
“The terrace. It is late. I am surprised you and Lady Mary have not retired before now.” Was that her voice, sounding so waspish?
He frowned. “Lady Mary? She was taking her dog outside. She stopped to bid me goodnight.”
“Yes, and she just happened to find you here waiting for her. How coincidental.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “Your implication is absurd.”
“Is it, now?”
“Yes. As you can see, she is no longer in the room. Had we desired an assignation, I assure you, it would have taken place in a more private location and lasted considerably longer.”
The thought of him in a private room spending “considerably longer” with Mary, Queen of Sweets, produced a strange red haze over her vision. She now felt she was standing outside herself, observing a different Jane speaking words she had never dreamt of saying. “Is that where you go each day, Harrison? Escape your pathetic wife so you can enjoy an assignation with that cinnamon-flavored trollop?”
Dimly, she saw his brows arch in surprise then sink low over glittering eyes.
“Is she more to your liking? More graceful when she goes to her knees for you? Or is that only something you do with us improper chits?” Who was the bloody harpy saying these hideous things? She couldn’t seem to stop the words. “If you’d wanted her, you should have married her, husband.”
Clearly, her exhaustion had worn away whatever armor had carried her through these past few days. There was nothing left of her bravado, of her determination to move on from grief. This was rage. Pure rage, spewing forth in the most undignified fashion, revealing far too much.
“Are you finished?” he said softly.
Considering she wanted to vomit, yes, she was likely finished.
“You are obviously distraught and weary after a trying evening. I shall forget we spoke. Perhaps you will regain your senses by morning.” He turned on his heel, his boots ringing loudly on the wood. She followed him all the way to his study. He was standing at the window inside the dim room before she caught up with him.
“Go on then,” she sneered, slamming the door closed. “Walk away. You’re becoming rather good at it, aren’t you?”
He pivoted and strode back toward her at twice the pace. “Do not push me, Jane. I have had quite enough.”
“And what happens when you pass ‘quite enough,’ husband? Do I then become an acceptable substitute again?”
“You have never been a substitute for anyone. Now, cease this nonsense. You are overtired and raving like a lunatic.”
“Do not. Speak to me. As if I were a child.”
“A child would have more sense. I do not understand why you are behaving this way.”
She held her arms out wide. “Because of this blasted night! I did this, all of it, for you! So you would see that I am capable of it. And you haven’t said a word. Not one word.” She thought perhaps tears were spilling down her cheeks, but she could barely feel her skin. “You still speak to me like I haven’t left the schoolroom. You see me as an incompetent ninny who cannot manage the simplest functions every wife in England performs.”
“That is ridiculous. If I had known you wished to arrange such an event, I would have gladly permitted it sooner.”
“I do not want you to permit me. I wish for you to have faith in me, to encourage me and be proud when I succeed.”
“Your shyness is no secret. Hosting a ball of this size is naturally difficult for you. I never doubted you could, Jane, only that you desired to.”
Her chin rose. “And what is your answer now? Now that I have done it.”
His eyes were full of caution, as though watching a shower of sparks fall on a pile of gunpowder. “My answer?”
She swiped at her cheeks impatiently. “For your coldness. Explain it, then, if it was not because you regretted our marriage.”
“I do not regret our marriage.” His answer was ghostly, almost a whisper.
She stepped closer. “I do not believe you.”
He was breathing faster now, his eyes dilating, his face tight. He did not respond.
So she lashed him again. “If Lady Mary were your wife, you would not have treated her as you have treated me. Admit it.”
Still, he refused to answer.
“Admit it!” she shouted.
“It is true,” he said hoarsely, breaking her in half. “I would not.”
*~*~*