“Might I suggest you abandon this penchant for reckless imbecility before your options are reduced from limited to nonexistent?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew regarding his reinstatement at Oxford following said lady’s heroic intervention on his behalf.
Jane had tried everything. Curled up in her favorite chair, near the window of her favorite room—Berne House’s cozy, oak-paneled library—she sipped at her favorite morning beverage (coffee stirred with a jot of cream and sugar, though everyone thought her mad to take it in such a way), and read her favorite novel.
None of it helped. Two days had passed, and still, she could not get comfortable. Like a subtle itch beneath her skin, the knowledge of her recent escapade and its dreadful consequences refused to leave her in peace, even for a few hours. Tales of that night already had traveled from the men present in Lord Milton’s drawing room to the ladies of the ton. The latter wasted no time in tearing her to pieces.
Her family’s only hope, according to Lady Wallingham, was Blackmore. Jane had not asked how the duke might intervene on her behalf; he was one of the most powerful peers in England, but even he could not stop determined gossips with a bone between their jaws. She could only surmise that perhaps by forcing his brother to publicly apologize and defend Jane’s honor, her reputation might be repaired sufficiently to remove the taint from her sisters. Still, although he had agreed to speak with her father, she was less than optimistic.
Reaching beneath her spectacles, she rubbed her tired eyes. When she slept at all, her slumber was fitful and filled with disturbing visions of Colin Lacey laughing and mocking while his brother’s cold gaze silently condemned her. A shiver ran up her spine. She toed off her slippers and leaned against the chair’s wing, then tucked her feet beneath her lap blanket. Sighing, she returned to her book. Surely Mr. Darcy could make her forget about the insufferable Duke of Blackmore.
Blast. Why must I constantly dwell on that man?
Her high-backed chair was turned away from the door, so she did not see it open, only heard the click of the knob turning and felt a draft of air. This was followed by the voice of their butler, Godwin. “Lord Berne will join you momentarily. Would you care for tea?”
“No.”
Jane froze as that one deep, frost-coated syllable pinned her in place.
“Very good, your grace.”
The door closed and silence fell. She could not hear him move. Was he even still in the room? Ninny. Of course he is. Should she say something? Spring from her chair and directly into a curtsy? What would he say? No doubt it would be infuriating. Or humiliating. Or some combination thereof. Absently, she placed her cup back into its saucer with a soft clink.
Suddenly, the sharp rap of boots moved toward her, approaching at a commanding clip. Bloody hell. She squeezed her eyes closed then opened them when the boots stopped.
“Lady Jane,” he said tightly, his jaw incapable of mobility, it seemed. He wore green today—a dark-green superfine tailcoat along with a buff waistcoat and trousers. If she did not know what a high-handed, supercilious horse’s backside he was, she might be inclined to melt and sigh over his handsomeness.
Were she prone to such silliness. Which she was not.
Knowing the duke’s less admirable qualities only too well, she ignored the dictates of good manners and chose to remain seated. “Your grace,” she said casually, reaching for her coffee and taking a small sip. “You’ve come to meet with my father, I presume?”
A part of her—the part that was heartily tired of being the pitiable Oddflower—reveled in the calm, cheeky way she delivered her message. Shy little Jane won’t be so easily cowed as all that, will she? But another, more cautious part fairly screamed that she should get up, curtsy, apologize, and leave the room as expeditiously as simple physics would allow. The Duke of Blackmore was not a man to trifle with.
Particularly when her family was relying upon his assistance.
Saying nothing, he simply stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at her from his great, lofty height. His eyes sharp and cold enough to pierce her midsection, that blue-gray blade ran her up and down, slicing through her in a wave of bright, shivery tingles.
It was dashed disquieting.
Setting her cup on the side table once again, she cleared her throat and slid her feet to the floor. Then she clutched her book to her chest, turning slightly to discard her blanket and rise. She curtsied, hoping he did not notice her lack of slippers.
But he wasn’t looking at her feet, or even her face. His eyes instead were fixed on her hand. She looked down. A perfectly ordinary hand—her left one, as she’d needed her right to set aside the blanket. Perhaps he was noting her book.
“Have—have you read it?”
On anyone else, she would have judged his expression a blank stare. But surely the vaunted Duke of Blackmore was not so absentminded.
“Pride and Prejudice,” she clarified. “It is one of my favorites.”
“A novel?” he said finally.
She nodded.
“I do not waste time with such fribbles.”
Her mouth quirked. “Of course not.”
Frowning, he elaborated, “On the rare occasions when my schedule permits reading for purposes of leisure, I prefer subject matter which is both practical and edifying. Fiction is neither.”
“Naturally.”
“You sound as if you do not believe me.”
Jane raised her eyebrows. “I assure you, your grace, I believe every word.”
His frown deepened, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He stepped closer, now less than two feet away. “Are you mocking me, Lady Jane?” The words were spoken softly, but with a dangerous edge that sent gooseflesh rising. Suddenly, it did not seem particularly wise to poke this particular lion.
“N-not at all.”
He stepped forward again, forcing her to retreat until the backs of her legs brushed against her vacated chair. My, my, she thought. He is so much larger than one anticipates from a distance. Examining her face, her throat, then dropping to where her hand clutched her book and back up to her spectacles, he eyed her with an intensity she felt as a stroke of flame. Automatically, she reached up to touch the metal rims at her temple. His gaze tracked her movement like a predator. “Someone should teach you better manners.”
He was alarmingly close, mere inches from her. She could smell his sunlight-and-starch, feel the warmth of his body. An odd ache settled between her heart and her stomach, probably because she needed to breathe. Yes, that was it. Her lungs were burning.
His head tilted. “Your husband, perhaps.”
That absurd statement caused her to suck air into starving lungs on a choking gasp. “H-husband,” she coughed, shaking her head. “I do not know what you’ve been told, your grace, but I fear marriage is quite imposs—”
“I know everything.”
She paused. “Then you must know I have destroyed any chance—slight as it was—of making a proper match.”
His eyes flashed as though she’d said something both pleasing and disagreeable. “You blame yourself?”
She stared up at him, wondering at the question. “It was my fault. Whom else would I blame?”
“My brother.”
“Colin lied, it is true. But he did not force me to dress in a lad’s coat and breeches, put on a ridiculous mask, and creep through a man’s window. Those regrettable choices were mine and mine alone.”
He seemed genuinely perplexed by her statement, perhaps expecting her to dissolve into tears and hysterical recriminations of his deceitful kin. Then his expression cleared, becoming tighter. “You should not defend him.”
“I did nothing of the—”
“He is unworthy of such devotion.”
“Yes, well, plainly—”
“And he is leaving England.”
She blinked, momentarily stunned. “L-leaving? Where—”
“It does not matter.” His shoulders—appearing broader than normal, perhaps due to his proximity—straightened as his head came up in a now-familiar arrogant pose. “You will forget about him, beginning now.”
Why, oh why, dear God, was her temper so easily and terribly ignited by the one man her family needed most? She had to grind her teeth and take a bracing breath to prevent herself from striking back with a childish retort. The words were there, clamoring at the back of her throat, held captive by caution. Ordinarily, her shyness might trap them inside, but lately, she did not feel shy with Blackmore. He infuriated her too much—burned right through her self-doubt and left no room for hesitation.
Perhaps that was why, as he opened his mouth to speak, the words she’d been fighting not to say burst forth from her lips, the ropes binding them weakened by heat. “How would you propose to ensure my forgetfulness, your grace? I daresay the only way to determine whether I have complied with your demand is to be present inside of me. And who would volunteer for that proposition? You?”
He seemed flummoxed by her outburst, nose flaring, eyes flashing, lips parting. There was even a hint of color rising along his cheekbones. Ah, yes. She had him there, didn’t she? Simple logic, really. He should not go about tossing out directives that he could not enforce. He would have to be inside her mind to know whether she had forgotten about Colin, and that was impossible.
Swallowing hard, he appeared at a loss for words.
Her triumph soared. “Further, if you are not inside me, you cannot possibly exert your will over mine in order to achieve what you desire. Perhaps next time you wish to have your way, you shall think of this and wield your tongue more wisely.”
Well, this was most strange. Now his breathing appeared just a bit labored.
“Enough,” he rasped. “I must meet with your father. Where the bl—” He cleared his throat forcefully, then pulled a gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket and flicked open the cover. “What is keeping Lord Berne? Does punctuality mean nothing in this house?”
“There is no need to be insulting. I am certain Papa will be here shortly.”
“How is it an insult to point out what has become patently obvious—”
The door opened, and her father entered with a jovial smile. “Your grace! I see you and my Jane are becoming better acquainted. Excellent, excellent.”
Jane gave Blackmore a triumphant grin of her own. “You see? All one requires is a bit of patience.” She reached behind her to retrieve her blanket, draped it over her arm, and dipped a curtsy. “I shall leave you gentlemen to your discussion.” With that, she crossed the room to Papa, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then continued to the door. She would have exited in near-perfect victory—except he would not allow it.
“Lady Jane,” Blackmore said, his voice a command to stop and turn back.
When she did, her heart gave a little flop, and a flush bloomed beneath her skin.
For, there stood the duke, dangling her plain, well-worn slippers from two fingers. “Forget something?”
*~*~*
Damn and blast. Bloody damned duke and his bloody unnatural perspicacity.
As Jane entered the passage to the kitchen minutes after leaving the library, she lamented the fact that no amount of cursing alleviated her vexation with that man. Granted, she now wore her slippers, and that was helpful on the stone floors of the kitchen. But he had deliberately embarrassed her.
“… the price of pheasant, and I said for that kind of coin, I could hire a hack to Hertfordshire and pluck two or three myself!”
Jane followed the sound of her mother laughing with the housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, and the cook, Mrs. Dunn, as they all huddled around the central work table, apparently debating the supper menu. Mama preferred a very personal approach to meal management, as she often expressed her pleasure or displeasure with Papa by incorporating either his favorite or most despised dishes into their daily menus. Jane thought it one of Mama’s more amusing idiosyncrasies, but then, she neither swooned over roasted pheasant nor paled at the sight of parsnips, as Papa did.
A maid entered behind Jane and nearly collided with her. “Oh! Begging your pardon, my lady. Didn’t see you there.” The girl scarcely paused to curtsy before hurrying off to the dining room with her armful of linens.
Mama looked up from the list she was holding. “Jane? Where have you been hiding this morning?”
Giving her mother a weak smile, she approached the trio of women. Typically, ladies of quality did not spend time in the kitchen with the servants. But her mother was far from typical, and Jane appreciated the result—a household that was more welcoming and comfortable than that of most ton families. “I was in the library, reading a bit.”
Sympathy stole over Mama’s face. She tsked and hugged Jane, then patted her shoulder. “All will be well. You mustn’t allow yourself to sink into despair, dearest.”
“I know. Do not fret over me, Mama. Actually, it was quite pleasant to pass the time in solitude.” A little frown pulled at her brow. “Until the duke arrived.”
Mama gripped Jane’s forearm. “He arrived? When?”
Jane glanced down at her mother’s hand. “A short while ago,” she said cautiously. “He is presently in with Papa.”
Mama’s grip tightened while her other hand sprawled flat across her bodice. “Mrs. Dunn, Mrs. Jones,” she said crisply. “We must take inventory.”
With that, the three women sprang into action, with Mrs. Jones scribbling in her small notebook, Mrs. Dunn calling out ingredients from the adjacent larder, and Mama breathing a bit fast, apparently overcome with excitement.
“Mama, are you quite all right?”
Mama did not glance away from her task of monitoring Mrs. Jones’s list-taking abilities. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Top of the trees, you might say. Why do you ask?”
“You are behaving as though we are expecting the Prince Regent to dine with us.”
She laughed lightly and waved her fingers. “One never knows when one shall be called upon to host a ball or other significant fete. Best to be prepared.”
Jane had little doubt her confusion showed on her face. “Is there some news I have missed?”
At last, her mother looked in her direction, and, apparently unable to restrain her enthusiasm any longer, she broke into a brilliant smile and rushed forward to grasp Jane’s hands. “I should wait to tell you, but I cannot.” She shook their clasped hands up and down like an overeager pup with a discarded stocking. “I expect we shall be planning an engagement ball very soon.”
Stunned, Jane felt her jaw go slack; behind the wave of shock came a small twinge of hurt. “Why did Maureen not tell me she had a suitor?”
“Maur—” her mother began, only to realize her own mistake. “Jane. It is not Maureen who is soon to be married. It is you, dearest.”
Jane stared at her mother, wondering when she had begun imbibing copious quantities of wine with her breakfast. Before the attempted burglary, Jane had been a plain, shy, bookish Oddflower with an overgenerous amount of flesh and exceedingly poor eyesight. Afterward, well … her odds of receiving an offer of marriage from anyone, let alone the kind of gentleman that would send her mother into raptures, would have a hill to climb before reaching zero—a fact Mama did not seem to realize.
“I—I am not betrothed, Mama. You do comprehend—”
“Not yet,” she whispered theatrically, giving Jane’s limp hands another shake. “But even now, your father is accepting the duke’s offer for your hand.”
Was the light dimmer, of a sudden? It certainly seemed so to Jane. And Mama’s voice was fading in and out a bit. Perhaps Jane was coming down with some sort of illness, because she would have sworn her mother said—
“Only imagine it, dearest. My Jane, the Duchess of Blackmore. Won’t it be splendid?”
*~*~*