Chapter Eight
Dinner that night was an uncomfortable affair. Neither her father nor stepmother spoke, nor did the Duke of Elsingham. Conversation consisted primarily of whatever the Duchess of Elsingham was spewing about fashion, purchasing new gowns in bright colors, attending balls and all other manner of nonsense. At the far end of the table, Charles Balfour sat in stony silence.
Jane noted the undercurrent of animosity between Charles and Althorn. They did little enough to disguise it, she mused. Of course, it might have been that she was so painfully aware of him after their earlier encounter. She couldn’t stop thinking of it and remembering just how it had felt. While she did not possess the words to describe it, she did know one thing with utter certainty—she wanted it to happen again.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Althorn looked at her over the rim of his glass. His gaze was heated, direct and spoke volumes about his feelings on the matter, as well.
Her face flushed with embarrassment at having been caught staring, but also with something else altogether. Averting her gaze, she willed her pulse to return to its normal rate and tried not to let herself be distracted by him. It might all be for naught, anyway. She had yet to hear back from her publisher and if the pamphlet was printed as per the usual schedule, it would come out two days hence. Her entire world could come crashing down then.
“Perhaps we could manage an outing tomorrow night?”
The suggestion had come from Charles. Jane blinked in surprise as she glanced up at him and then back to Althorn who appeared singularly nonplussed by the suggestion.
“That would be a lovely idea,” the duchess said, clapping her hands in delight like a child. “The theater perhaps? Oh, we haven’t attended the theater in an age! Wouldn’t it be delightful, Miss Barrett?”
Very much on the spot, Jane fumbled for a response. “While the theater would be lovely, I am not quite certain we should be making such public appearances just yet—Lord Althorn has only just returned and it might be… the etiquette of this situation is very much uncharted waters.”
“Pshaw!” the duchess countered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We ought to be hosting a ball given the joyous occasion of his return! But alas, that might be too much for my dear husband’s health.”
“And for my dear pocketbook!” the duke shouted. “There will be no ball!”
The duchess smiled even brighter, though it prompted a slightly maniacal gleam in her eyes. “Then the theater it is! We’ll go tomorrow night. Do we know what play is being performed? Not that it matters! Not a whit. I’m just so excited to go!”
Jane dared a glance back at Althorn. His expression was grim but he gave a curt nod before turning to Charles. “We shall attend tomorrow evening then. I’m sure no one can fault us for it. After all, my return was a joyous occasion. Wasn’t it, Charles?” His tone was goading.
Charles smiled coldly. “My dear cousin, I must admit to being quite overcome at the sight of you. I’ll make the arrangements,” he offered.
“There’s no need.” Marcus dismissed his offer summarily. “I have the use of a box. I had planned to take Miss Barrett for an evening, but there is no reason that we cannot all enjoy Lord Highcliff’s bounty.”
Charles’ expression was etched with resentment. “Of course. Always the best of everything for you, isn’t it, Marcus? Heaven forbid you have to rub elbows with the rabble… Highcliff’s box will do nicely.”
The undercurrent between them was positively vicious, Jane thought. She half-expected them to come to blows at any minute.
As dessert was served, her place was obviously devoid of any of the delicious fruit trifle that had been prepared.
“Are you not a fan of trifle, Miss Barrett?” Althorn asked.
Jane glanced at Mrs. Barrett who was eyeing her with diabolical glee. “I quite like trifle, in fact,” she replied. “Mrs. Barrett and I disagree on what my proper diet should be.”
Mrs. Barrett laughed uncomfortable, clearly stunned that Jane would make such an admission. “My dear girl! It’s only so that you will look your best on your wedding day!”
Althorn nodded sagely. “I daresay that Miss Barrett could not look any more perfect on that day than she does right now.” He gestured to one of the footman, “You will serve, Miss Barrett. And from this moment forward, no one, aside from Miss Barrett herself, will have any say in what she does and does not eat.”
The footman nodded, clearly aware that a war had been waged and won in that dining room. He fled back to the kitchens immediately after serving up another helping of the trifle.
With the decadent concoction placed before her, Jane took a small bite and enjoyed not only the flavor but the victory. She would pay for it later. But for the moment, she was thoroughly elated by the discomfiture of her vicious stepmother.
“Well, I daresay, we’ll only have to purchase a bit of extra fabric for your wedding gown. It’s hardly the end of the world,” Mrs. Barrett finally said.
“If we had a ball and Miss Barrett could dance, she could eat all of the sweets she wanted and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference,” the duchess suggested with a slight pout.
The ridiculousness of it all struck Jane then. The entire house was filled with Bedlamites it seemed. Looking up, she met Althorn’s gaze and for that small moment, there was an understanding between them. Everyone in the house was positively mad but the two of them, and that was less an endorsement for them than an indictment for the others. Still, it helped the remainder of the meal to pass in relative peace.
*
In the library after dinner with his father, Mr. Barrett and his scheming cousin, Marcus wished himself anywhere else. He’d faced less animosity on the battlefield than he faced in that one room. Given what he’d seen at dinner, he doubted very seriously that Miss Barrett was faring any better in the company of his vapid stepmother and her beastly one. Mrs. Barrett was attractive enough but he’d encountered warmer corpses.
“When are you going to finally make good on this betrothal, Althorn?” Mr. Barrett finally said, skirting anything that resembled small talk and even civility. The man took a deep draw from his cheroot and then immediately followed it with a healthy swallow of brandy.
“When Miss Barrett feels comfortable enough to proceed, we shall. I daresay, sometime in the summer,” Marcus offered. There was a finality to his tone, a warning to those who might try to push either of them. More than ever, he was determined to make it work, but only on their own terms.
“The summer?” the duke scoffed. “That girl is practically in her dotage!”
“Hardly that,” Marcus replied dismissively. She was just shy of two and twenty. Did everyone really think that a girl of her age was too old to not have already been shackled to a husband? “It has been some time and many things have changed since last Miss Barrett and I met. It is only natural that we should take our time and get to know one another again.”
“You didn’t know one another to start,” Charles pointed out less than helpfully. “I think you are making a mistake, Cousin. You are creating an opportunity for her to develop cold feet and renege on the contract. You should pursue her more forcefully.”
The duke laughed as Mr. Barrett nodded. “Yes, indeed!” His father wheezed as he continued to chortle. “I’d never thought to hear such sensible speech from you, Charles! He’s quite right, Marcus. Marry the girl now before it’s too late!”
Mr. Barrett sighed heavily. “She’s willful and headstrong. Quite like her mother was in that regard… it took years to make that woman see reason. I fear you’ll have your work cut out for you with Jane.”
Charles continued, “If you took her off to Scotland in an elopement, it wouldn’t much matter if she consented or not.”
Marcus rose to his feet. “I’ve heard about enough of this. Miss Barrett and I will wed when she is willing and ready. Not before. If you’ll excuse me, your grace, Mr. Barrett, Charles… I’ve some correspondence to attend to.”
“You’ve only just returned,” Charles uttered in mock protest.
Marcus turned toward his cousin, noting the gleam in his eyes and the cocky grin that curved his lips. He’d never wanted so badly to plant his fist in anyone’s face. “And that is precisely why I must attend to things. Too much has been neglected in my absence.”
“Surely you needn’t rush off so soon,” Charles cajoled in the same grating tone. “Why don’t you share with us something of your experiences while we all languished here in London… bereft in your absence.”
Marcus met Charles’ challenging gaze levelly. “While my memories of Corunna and what happened afterward would be of particular interest to you, Charles, I doubt very much you’d wish for me to air such putrid recollections to everyone gathered.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Barrett interrupted. “Never understood the fondness some men have for sharing old war stories. Deucedly boring!”
“Then we are in agreement,” Marcus said. “If you will excuse me.”
“Before you go, Althorn,” Barrett said, “Summer won’t do. Two months hence you’ll be married to my daughter or I’ll be contacting my solicitors. I don’t like to be difficult… but we’ve all waited long enough.”
“I won’t be threatened or bullied, Barrett,” Marcus snapped. “You might have been able to get away with that before, but not now. I’ll marry her or I won’t, but it isn’t up to you or to my father. It’s between Miss Barrett and myself. And that will be the end of it.”
*
Charles watched his cousin leave. It couldn’t have gone any better than if he’d planned it to the last detail. As Barrett and the duke argued amongst themselves, Charles refilled his brandy snifter and then offered the prize he’d been instructed to dangle.
“What if it wasn’t up to them at all?” Charles murmured.
That softly uttered question halted the conversation between the patriarchs. They turned and looked at him suspiciously.
“What do you have in mind?” the duke asked.
Charles nodded his head. “Marcus has always been a firm believer in what is right and proper… what if the proper thing to do was to force the marriage? What if the threat of scandal was so great he had no other option but to press the match more forcefully than he has to this point?”
Barrett scowled. “Are you suggesting that he should compromise my daughter?”
“No. Because he wouldn’t,” Charles answered. “Marcus is far too much of a stick in the mud to ever give in to passion in such a manner. The girl doesn’t have to actually be ruined. There only has to be the illusion of compromise. Tomorrow night’s outing would be perfect.”
Barrett took another hefty swallow of his brandy. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing yet,” Charles lied. “I’d never think to act without your approval… but if Miss Barrett and Althorn were to be caught in a compromising situation—say alone in a darkened room at the theater as if they’d snuck away for a tryst—the only honorable thing he could do would be to proceed with the wedding posthaste.”
The duke chortled. “I don’t know what you’re about, Charles, not when you were angling for a go at her yourself only days ago! But if it’ll get the job done, you may do whatever is required!”
Charles glanced at Barrett. The other man nodded his agreement. “Very well, your grace, Mr. Barrett. I have arrangements to make. I bid you adieu until tomorrow night.”
*
“I have never been so mortified! Naturally, he is her betrothed, but until such time as he can call himself her husband it is her father and I who should be in charge of her behavior!” Mrs. Barrett was speaking far more forcefully than was wise in the presence of a duchess. Overset by Marcus’ interference at dinner, she paced the room, alternately bemoaning her ill treatment and maligning the character of her stepdaughter’s betrothed.
Jane didn’t roll her eyes, sigh heavily or do any of the other things that fully expressed her misery at having to listen to her stepmother going on and on about Althorn’s high-handed tactics at dinner. It would only draw attention to her and, for the first time, it appeared her stepmother’s ire was directed elsewhere. Doing anything to jeopardize that was not in her best interest.
“I really can’t say what on earth has gotten into him,” the duchess chimed in. “Although to be fair, I hardly know him. I only met him a handful of times before he departed for the army. How strange it is to be his stepmother when he’s actually the same age as I am. I don’t even know what his favorite foods are. My goodness, what a terrible hostess I’ve been. I should find out straightaway what his favorites are and have cook prepare a special meal for him!”
“No doubt, it’ll be horribly fattening and he’ll grin like a fool while my worthless stepdaughter inhales half of it!” Mrs. Barrett snapped, her ire once more aimed in Jane’s direction.
The duchess tittered, casting a sidelong glance at Jane before falling into peals of giggles. “Oh, dear! It is ungenerous of me to say so, but you are growing quite plump, my dear Miss Barrett! Perhaps, you’d best accept Marcus’ offer while it still stands?”
“Is there anything else about my person you wish to discuss?” Jane demanded. “Perhaps we should look at all the ways my hair is displeasing. The color is not blonde enough to be fashionable. It refuses to heed pins and resists all attempts at taming and proper curls. Or mayhap, my eyes are the wrong shade of blue. By all means, Mrs. Barrett, your grace… please, feel free to pick me apart and identify every flaw. But then, I’ve never had to invite you to do either, have I? You’ve both willingly done so for years!”
The duchess’ smirk turned icy cold and her eyes gleamed. “My goodness. It appears that having a present and very much alive betrothed does not suit you at all, Miss Barrett. Why, I daresay it has made you an utter termagant.”
Mrs. Barrett was gaping at her like a fish for a long moment before gathering herself enough to scold. “How dare you speak so ill to our hostess! Have you no notion of how poorly your behavior reflects upon your father and me? What on earth must her grace think of us to see you so poorly behaved?”
“I am poorly behaved?” Jane queried with a bitter laugh. “I am insulted at every turn by the both of you. Snide, nasty comments about my age, my weight, my figure, my general state of attractiveness—or unattractiveness if the two of you are to be believed! I am told over and over again how very grateful I should be for any male attention but specifically from one so exalted as the marquess! I refuse to be the butt of your jokes or the whipped dog at your feet anymore! I’m done with it, I tell you!”
Both women gaped at her, but it was the duchess who recovered first. Her eyes were overly bright and though she smiled, the expression showed an inordinate amount of her teeth, giving even such a beautiful woman a somewhat feral appearance. “If our company is so disagreeable, then perhaps you should not suffer it any longer.”
At that point, Jane rose to her feet and summoned all the wounded dignity she possessed. “I’m quite tired. It’s probably the aftereffects of having a full stomach for the first time in ages. I believe I shall retire. Good night, your grace. Good night, Mrs. Barrett!”
Without waiting for either of them to grant her leave, Jane fled the room in full retreat. All she wanted was an escape from the constant badgering and the general unpleasantness of her stepmother’s company. The Duchess of Elsingham was tolerable, most of the time, if vapid. A thoroughly self-centered person, she at least wasn’t full of spite and vitriol. Or hadn’t been until Charles Balfour had proposed to her. At that point, the woman’s demeanor had become much more vicious. Jane had often thought over the last few years of how strange their bond seemed to be, but now uglier suspicions were supplanting those vague notions she might have had about the nature of their relationship.
Leaving the drawing room, she made quickly for the stairs. She didn’t want to give her stepmother a chance to recover her composure and call her back. As she rounded the corner and reached for the banister, she found it already occupied. Lord Althorn was there, a few steps ahead of her.
“Are you fleeing the baying hounds, as well?” he asked with an amused curve of his lips.
His lips were a dangerous place for her gaze to fall, she thought. She didn’t need any further reminders of the kiss they’d shared earlier. “Something to that effect. Is everyone in this house simply impossible?”
“In a word, yes.”
The drawing room door opened. Panic took over in that instant, spurring her instinct to flee further from danger. “Hurry,” she whispered. “Before she sees either of us!”
Together, they fled up the stairs and disappeared once more into the shadows of the curtained gallery. From below, as they huddled together behind the curtain, Jane could hear her stepmother’s voice. “How on earth did she vanish so quickly?”
The duchess’ musical laughter tinkled like bells. “I have no idea. It’s best to let her go, however. She’s in a snit and will likely stay that way for some time. Imagine being so overset by simple words of advice on how best to please her husband-to-be! Let’s have some sherry, shall we? Sherry always makes things better!”
When their voices trailed off, Jane breathed a sigh of relief. It faded into something far different. She hadn’t realized how close they were standing or that they were, once more, in the very same spot where he’d kissed her just that afternoon.
“Pray tell, Miss Barrett, what words of wisdom did they impart on how to please your husband-to-be?” The words were whispered against her ear, softly and with enough heat to make her shiver.
“It doesn’t bear repeating,” she said. “It’s the same sort of nonsense they always spout off.”
“I take it your stepmother is displeased with you?” he queried.
“In spite of my rather improper retort to their well-meaning advice, I believe she is more put out with you at the moment,” she answered, striving for a light tone and failing miserably at it. “Mrs. Barrett does not like to have her authority questioned… not by anyone.”
He moved closer, so close that even in the dim light she could see the dark shadow of his beard just beginning to form. She could smell the faint scent of her father’s cheroot clinging to his clothes and the scent of brandy. “I take it you are fleeing my father?”
“And mine,” he admitted. “I dislike being bullied… but more than that I dislike sitting there while Charles plots and schemes against me.”
She frowned at that. “Do you really think he would do that?”
His expression shifted, becoming darker and infinitely more grim. “I know it beyond question. It would not be the first time he has betrayed me. But I do not wish to discuss my cousin with you, Jane.”
She felt her breath shudder from her as he uttered her name. It was like a caress—titillating and forbidden. “Then what is it you wish to discuss, my lord?”
He lifted one hand and grasped the single untamed curl that had escaped from her chignon. As he rubbed the strands between his fingers, he said, “The most pressing topic on my mind at the moment is whether or not you mean to let me kiss you again.”
“I shouldn’t,” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t pitched so low and breathlessly on purpose. It was simply all that she could muster at the moment. As a protest went, it was quite possibly the weakest one ever offered.
He leaned in even closer, until he could whisper in her ear as his breath ruffled over her skin and made her shiver.
“That wasn’t a no, Jane.”
“I don’t think I can say no. I know that I ought to… for so many reasons. For propriety, for my own peace of mind, for my previous certainty that there could never be anything between us but a contract. And yet, I cannot make myself utter the word,” she admitted grudgingly.
He smiled then, and his hand that had been caressing that single curl suddenly delved into the mass of her hair. Pins scattered as her hair spilled over her shoulders and into his waiting hand. “An unwillingness to say no isn’t precisely a yes but, at this point, I’ll take what I can get.”
She wasn’t caught off guard or taken unawares. This time, there was anticipation, there was foreknowledge of what was to come. Even then, she wasn’t fully prepared for it. As one arm snared about her waist and pulled her even closer, his other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back. The only thing that shocked her was her own eagerness. And when his lips pressed against hers, the frisson of excitement carried with it something else—longing.
Jane realized, in that moment, that she’d been waiting for him to kiss her again almost from the second their first kiss had ended. It was as if every moment of the day had just been a delay until they could get to this. She would never have considered herself a passionate person. She certainly wouldn’t have ever entertained the possibility that she might be a wanton. And yet, she found herself accepting that fact with far more ease than she should have. Given that she was still uncertain of the desired outcome of their courtship, her capitulation could not have been more unwise.
As his lips moved over hers, his tongue sliding between them to tangle with hers in a sensual dance, thought fled. Jane gave herself up to the kiss, sinking against him. Her hands locked behind his neck, holding him close. It was an unconscious gesture, but a telling one. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours that they stood there, locked together, sharing what, for her, was the most intimate encounter ever.
When at last he dragged his lips from hers, she whimpered a slight protest. It was soon lost in a soft sigh of pleasure as his lips trailed over the sensitive skin of her neck. The scrape of his teeth elicited a shiver from her as the sensation of it aroused a yearning inside her she had never known. What would it feel like to have his lips on her elsewhere? To feel the gentle sting of such a bite on even more tender flesh?
“Jane,” he whispered, “We should stop… while I still have the strength to do so.”
“How is it that we’ve gone from snapping at one another to this? How?”
He shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I can only say that this is far preferable to me than us forever being at odds with one another.”
“It doesn’t change anything… I still don’t know if I want to be married.”
He took a step back but didn’t let go of her entirely. “I didn’t expect that you would have such a complete about-face. You have reservations and I won’t press you for more than you are willing to give me.”
And that was the crux of it. Because when he was kissing her, she would willingly give him everything. It didn’t escape her notice that both of their more intimate exchanges had only halted because he had done so. Had it been left up to her, they would have gone on indefinitely, and likely culminated in an act that there was no returning from.
“Be truthful with me, Althorn.”
“Marcus,” he corrected.
“Marcus, then… do you really want me or is this just a convenient way to manipulate my feelings so that I do what you want.”
At first, she thought she’d angered him. He was silent for the longest time. When he did answer her, he did so in a manner she could not have anticipated. He clasped her hand in his and brought it between them, pressing her palm against the front of his breeches. The hardened flesh beneath her hand pulsed at her touch.
“Rest assured, Jane, that my response to you is very real. I want you. My body does not lie,” he said.
“But your lips do?”
“I have not told you everything, but I have not told you anything that is untrue,” he said. “I mean to marry you. I mean to fulfill my contractual obligations. But this… this thing between us is something else, something I could not have anticipated. Regardless, I am grateful for it. What better omen could one have for a betrothal than to have such a keen desire for one’s betrothed?”
“Desire is not love,” she protested.
“No… but I daresay that desire is the seed from which it can grow. Love isn’t simply one thing, Jane. It’s a combination of them. Desire is part of that. Trust is another.”
He kissed her again, a surprisingly chaste brush of his lips against her cheek. With that, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the darkened hall beyond, leaving her to ponder the weight of what he’d said. Could she love him? Could he love her? And would she ever be able to trust in the sincerity of his love when the marriage itself had been bought and paid for?