Chapter Fourteen
Alex poured himself another glass of brandy while he waited in the study for Jane to join him. Poppy lounged on one of the settees. The cat had jumped into the pony cart right before he’d driven out of the inn-yard and had planted her furry little arse on the bench between him and Jane.
Not that Poppy’s wall-like presence had made any difference. He couldn’t very well apologize or have any sort of intelligent conversation when he felt like his brains were being shaken from his skull.
He frowned at his brandy. He would broach the subject as soon as Jane put in an appearance. There was no one else at the castle but the servants, and they were off somewhere celebrating the end of the curse. He and Jane would not be interrupted—he glanced at the cat—unless Poppy did the interrupting.
On the other hand, speaking of things now could lead to a certain awkwardness. They were alone and would be stuck here together until Miss Wilkinson could return to the Spinster House. Perhaps he should put the discussion off....
No, if things got awkward, he could decamp to the inn. Or, well, the castle was very large. They could probably live in it for the short time they’d be here together without crossing paths.
Oh, who the hell am I trying to fool? Things already are awkward.
It would be best to try to clear the air now. And then, maybe, once he apologized and understood what had happened in the garden, perhaps then he would find out if Rachel was right, if Jane cared for him.
I hope Rachel is right.
He looked over at Poppy. “Couldn’t take young William’s crying, eh?” He sighed. “I don’t fault you. For such a tiny creature, he has an excellent pair of lungs.” And the quality of the sound itself was more effective than fingernails on slate for setting one’s teeth on edge and getting one’s heart—and head—pounding. He’d been very happy he hadn’t had to linger within earshot.
The cat ignored him. She was too interested in sniffing the settee’s arm.
“Do you approve?”
Poppy spared him a look.
“Hey, you’re lucky you weren’t here before Marcus married. I assure you, the duchess has done wonders. Got rid of all the uncomfortable, ugly, ancient furniture and replaced it with pieces that aren’t instruments of torture.”
But she’d kept the portrait of the third duke—the first Cursed Duke.
He walked over to examine the fellow in the old-fashioned garb. “Do you suppose he knows the curse is broken?”
Poppy did not venture an opinion. If she had, Alex would know without a shadow of a doubt that he had drunk far more brandy than was good for him.
He checked his watch. Where was Jane?
The news of the baby’s birth had definitely set the castle at sixes and sevens. When Alex told Mr. Emmett, Marcus’s steward, the old man had thrown his arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder, quite soaking his coat, while Alex had patted him awkwardly on the back.
And then the story had flown through the castle and likely the entire estate. Everyone had wanted to hear the details and have Alex confirm that, yes, he had indeed seen the baby and the duke in the same room at the same time, both breathing. One of the maids had worried that the duke’s real son had died and someone had substituted another child, so Jane had been compelled to admit she’d seen the baby, ah, emerge.
She’d turned a very interesting shade of red at that.
“I don’t believe there was a dry eye in the castle, Poppy.” He frowned. “Or that there’s now a sober head.” Because once the tears passed, the celebration began.
He looked at his watch again. He’d assumed at least one footman would wait to imbibe long enough to lead Jane to the study, but perhaps that was a false assumption. “Do you think I should go in search of her?”
Apparently, Poppy did. She jumped down and led the way, tail high, through a series of rooms and up the main staircase. The animal appeared to know exactly where she was going.
“Are you part canine?”
Poppy paused long enough to look back at him and sneeze with apparent disdain.
“I meant that as a compliment. You seem to have remarkable tracking skills.” And I’m talking to a cat.
Alex stopped, one foot on the next step. Good Lord! He was indeed losing his mind. There was little question of it now. He should just go back to the study, pour himself another glass of brandy, and wait. Miss Wilkinson would show up eventually.
Or perhaps she’s hit upon a way to avoid me.
His stomach suddenly felt filled with lead.
Of course. Likely the woman had managed to get the attention of one of the servants and had had them bring up her supper so she could hide in her room. And here he’d been cooling his heels in the study for—
“Merrow!”
Poppy reclaimed his attention. She’d come back to him and was now eyeing his boots with malice. As she’d decorated Nate’s with her claw marks, he took note. He did not wish his footwear to suffer the same fate.
“All right. I’m coming.”
Poppy snapped her tail several times and hissed briefly, a clear warning that any further loitering would be dealt with severely, and then started back up the stairs.
The oldest part of the castle had been built long before William the Conqueror set foot on English soil. The building was enlarged over the centuries—well, until Isabelle Dorring’s curse, when the Duke of Hart stopped visiting—with new sections added higgledy-piggledy. Now it resembled a very elaborate stone maze with a roof. It had taken Marcus, Nate, and Alex a few days to get their bearings.
Poppy turned down a corridor Alex was certain he’d never seen before.
“Surely Emmett didn’t assign Miss Wilkinson a room this far from civilization?”
The cat did not venture an opinion on the matter.
Several turns later, when Alex was wishing he’d had the forethought to mark his path so he could retrace it, they came to an intersection.
“Which way now?”
Poppy raised her face as if sniffing the air.
Alex knew better than to say what he was thinking—he hoped her tracking skills were indeed as good as any hound’s.
And then they heard a woman’s voice coming from the left.
“Help!”
He and Poppy exchanged a look. “That’s Jane.”
They both broke into a run, pounding—well, Alex was pounding—down the corridor, around another corner—
And there was Jane, standing next to a narrow window, looking pale and anxious—until she saw them. Then relief washed over her features and she smiled—and looked down at Poppy.
“Oh, Poppy. I’m so happy to see you.” She knelt and buried her face in the cat’s fur.
Aren’t you happy to see me?
Alex realized rather painfully that he would much rather Jane bury her face in his chest than Poppy’s back.
“What are you doing here?” All right, then. That had come out harsher than he’d intended.
Miss Wilkinson looked up at him, and then gave Poppy one last stroke before standing. “I, er, thought I’d explore a little.”
To put off meeting me in the study.
The lead in his stomach got heavier.
“I’ve not been to the castle before.”
Did she expect him to believe that? “I thought the duchess was your good friend.”
“She is. But she’s been busy, er”—Jane flushed—“being married.”
Perhaps it was due to Jane’s heightened color, but an extremely inappropriate, deliciously graphic image of what “busy being married” entailed sprang full-blown into his thoughts. It involved this annoying, managing woman, a soft bed, and hopelessly twisted sheets.
His unruly cock swelled with anticipation.
He blinked and realized she was looking at him as if she expected some response. Apparently she’d been talking while he’d been lusting.
“I’m afraid I was woolgathering.” Ha! If only he’d been engaged in something so boring. “I missed what you said.”
And I hope to God I’m not blushing.
He must be, because Miss Wilkinson gave him a wary look before repeating herself.
“I’ve been busy, too, with my work at Randolph’s office and with the lending library.” She cleared her throat and looked down at Poppy. “I’ve started cataloging its books.”
Poppy yawned.
“It’s true the collection isn’t extensive,” she told Poppy, “but no one has ever sorted it out before. I found several very old copies of a treatise on rodent control.”
Poppy stared at her. Alex sniggered.
Miss Wilkinson lifted her chin. “Rodents can be a very serious problem.”
“Which I’m sure Poppy can deal with quite well without recourse to a dusty tome on the subject.”
“Well, of course. She’s a cat. And I expect having a few cats about is mentioned in the treatise.”
“You expect? You haven’t perused this exciting find?”
Miss Wilkinson scowled at him. “I didn’t say it was exciting. I’m not interested in rodent control. As you just pointed out, Poppy does an excellent job of keeping the Spinster House free of vermin. Isn’t that right, Poppy?”
They both looked down to see if the cat concurred, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a problem.”
Miss Wilkinson’s head snapped up and she stared at him. “What do you mean ‘that’s a problem’? What’s a problem?”
“I was hoping Poppy would show us the way back.”
She sucked in her breath. “You don’t know the way back?”
“I’ve only been in the castle twice before, Miss Wilkinson, and I didn’t go wandering about either time.”
She frowned, looking a bit offended. “I’m not one of the Boltwood sisters. I wasn’t trying to stick my nose into cabinets, if that’s what you mean to infer.”
“I don’t mean to infer anything. I know why you were wandering around up here—you wanted to avoid me.”
The stricken look on her face told him he was correct.
“Come along. Let’s see if we can find our way without Poppy’s help.”
Clearly, if Miss Wilkinson had resorted to exploring the castle corridors to avoid him, Rachel was wrong. The interesting discussion he’d hoped to have concerning their future was not going to happen. They had no future. His instincts—and that of his female relatives—had failed him again.
He’d find Miss Wilkinson’s room for her, apologize for taking liberties—mild liberties—with her in Diana’s garden, and wish her a happy life in the Spinster House. He didn’t see how he could avoid her completely unless he gave up his friendships with Marcus and Nate, but the discomfort and awkwardness would fade with time. His stomach wouldn’t always feel as if he’d swallowed a cannonball.
Of course things would improve. In just a little over a month he’d be back among the ton and attending any number of balls and parties. He wished to go to support Bea on her come-out, but perhaps he’d find a woman to marry. Not to love. He was done with that nonsense. But to wed. A marriage of convenience.
A debutante like Bea?
The iron ball in his stomach heaved.
No, he wouldn’t look at the young girls—that had been one of his many mistakes with Charlotte. He’d look for an older, more mature woman. There were always a few of that sort who either hadn’t taken or had delayed their come-outs for one reason or another. Or he might consider an impoverished companion. Or a young widow. Davenport had married a widow and that seemed to be working out very well. There was no rush. He would take his time.
At the moment it felt as if any woman would do if he couldn’t have the prickly Spinster House spinster. He had to marry someone. He needed an heir. Many ton marriages were just such practical arrangements. The man got a son or two, the woman a home.
Miss Wilkinson already had a home, so she had no need of a husband to clutter it up.
He’d been walking as his unhappy thoughts rolled through him like noxious clouds, taking them round a number of corners and turns, hoping his sense of direction would get them back to the main part of the castle, but at the next intersection, he came to a complete stop. Nothing looked remotely familiar.
He must have made an annoyed sound, because Miss Wilkinson, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, spoke.
“I’m sorry for being such trouble,” she said in a rather small voice.
She actually sounded abashed. He looked down at her. He couldn’t help it. His right eyebrow rose skeptically.
“What?” Now there was the familiar edge of annoyance in her voice.
He grinned. “Thank heavens. For a moment there I was afraid the real Miss Wilkinson had been spirited away.”
She smiled a bit sheepishly. “You were right, you know. I was avoiding you.”
Was it time for a discussion, then? Though not the one he’d hoped to have.
“Why?”
* * *
“Er . . .” Oh, lud, why had she said that?
The proverb was wrong—honesty was not always the best policy. It certainly wasn’t in this case.
Lord Evans was frowning. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”
“Of course not. What a ridiculous suggestion.” She wasn’t afraid of him—she was afraid of herself.
Her head knew what she wanted—a controlled, even-keeled independent life—but her foolish heart kept insisting that no, what she really wanted was this man.
The sooner the Earl of Evans left Loves Bridge, the better for her sanity.
But first they had to find their way out of this maze. How—
The earl suddenly started sniffing the air.
Oh, dear. Is there an odor about me? I bathed yesterday.
She tried to execute a few discreet sniffs herself.... “Do I smell shepherd’s pie?”
He grinned, and her silly heart fluttered.
He should not be allowed to smile. When he smiled, his slightly aloof, stiff, earlish air vanished to be replaced by a warm, almost boyish appeal. Smiling made him far too endearing.
And it scrambled her emotions.
“I believe so. Let’s see if we can follow our noses to the kitchen. From there we can get directions to a more familiar part of the castle—after having sampled the pie, if it’s ready.”
The scent led them down a corridor and around a corner to a very narrow, circular stone stairway.
“The smell is definitely coming from somewhere below us,” Jane said, eyeing the stairs with trepidation.
“Yes.” Lord Evans looked at her dress and his brow furrowed. “The footing appears quite treacherous here. Perhaps you should stay—”
“Oh, no. I’m coming with you.” She’d spent enough time alone in this maze.
His lips turned up into a faint smile, but his eyes were still worried. “I won’t abandon you, you know. I’ll come back as soon as I discover how to get here from the main part of the castle.”
Waiting might be the wiser course, but she wasn’t going to take it. “I’ll manage.”
“But your skirt . . .”
“The female servants must use these stairs in skirts and with their hands full.”
“And having had years of practice.”
“Yes, but I will have my hands free. I only have to make it down once.”
The man sighed, apparently realizing further argument was futile. “At least let me go first to break your fall if you trip.”
“I won’t trip.”
He let that pass. “Keep your feet to the outside where the step is wider and brace yourself against the wall.”
“Lord Evans, I have navigated circular stairs before.” Though never any this dark and narrow.
The earl showed exceptional restraint—he bit his tongue and started down the stairs.
Jane quickly discovered the footing was even worse than it looked. The stairs descended in an extremely tight spiral, the inner portion of each step being a mere sliver of stone. Even the outer edge was narrower than she’d like, since she wasn’t blessed to have dainty little feet. And while she’d hoped to put a hand on the inner as well as the outer wall, she immediately discovered that wasn’t possible—she needed her left hand to hold her skirt out of the way.
Just go slow. One step at a time. Keep your eyes on your feet.
“I’ve reached the bottom,” she heard Lord Evans say.
She looked up and realized he was out of sight. He sounded close, though. She must be almost done with these blasted stairs.
And then she felt an odd tickling sensation on the hand that was resting against the wall....
She glanced over to see a fat, hairy spider ambling over her fingers.
“Eek!” She snatched her hand back, shook it violently to dislodge the hideous creature—and lost her balance. “Ahh!”
She tried to catch herself, but her feet got all tangled up in her skirt. She was going to pitch headfirst down the stairs—
“Oof!”
She pitched into a hard, male chest instead.
This was becoming a far too frequent occurrence.
She wrapped her arms around Lord Evans, pressing her cheek against the rough wool of his coat as she struggled to get her breathing and heartbeat under control.
Was his heart beating rather wildly, too? Did his lips brush her hair?
No, it must be her imagination.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His arms were around her as well, holding her securely. It was very comforting. Calming.
But she couldn’t stay here all night.
“Y-yes.” She took one last, shuddering breath, inhaling the by now all-too-familiar mix of wool and linen and soap that was Alex, and disentangled herself.
He kept hold of her shoulders. “What happened?”
“Spider.” She cleared her throat. “There was a spider—”
Dear God, she had shaken it off, hadn’t she?
She started to brush wildly at her arms and then jumped about the corridor, shaking her dress.
Lord Evans made an odd, choking noise. “Is this some new dance? Pardon me, but I doubt it will catch on among the ton. It’s a trifle too, er, energetic.”
She could tell he was struggling to keep from laughing.
“I told you I don’t like spiders.”
“Yes, I remember that.” He pointed to something on the ground. “Is that your villain, Miss Wilkinson?”
She inspected—from a safe distance—the eight-legged monster now making its way up the steps.
“M-maybe. Though I think the spider that attacked me was much larger.” She shook her arms and jumped again. Did she feel something else crawling on her?
He grinned. “Would you like me to examine you to be certain you are spider-free?”
She eyed him warily.
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “I promise not to touch—unless it’s to brush off a trespasser.”
“Very well.” She stood still, arms a bit away from her sides, and let Lord Evans walk round her. It was awkward and a bit embarrassing, but it helped that he acted very matter-of-fact about it.
He came back to face her. “There you go. I pronounce you spider-free. Now shall we continue? Unless my nose lies, I think we are very close to our goal.”
Lord Evans was right. Now that she wasn’t obsessed by the fear of eight-legged creatures, she noticed that the stone corridor was filled with the scent of shepherd’s pie and other gustatory delights. And as they made their way down the corridor, they heard further evidence they were approaching the kitchens—clanging pans, chopping knives, people talking and laughing.
The talking and laughing were rather louder and more exuberant than Jane would have expected, not that she had any experience with servants and large kitchens. And then—
“Is that a fiddle?”
“It certainly sounds like one.” Lord Evans smiled, as one eyebrow winged up. “I’d say the servants are celebrating the heir’s birth.”
And indeed, turning one last corner, they came to a large kitchen filled with people eating, drinking, and dancing.
“And there’s Poppy.” The earl pointed to a small table where the cat crouched, delicately consuming a piece of fish.
One of the castle maids caught sight of them. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, her eyes widened in apparent horror, and then she ran to grab the arm of an elderly gentleman energetically dancing a jig.
It was Mr. Emmett! Jane had never seen the steward so, er, relaxed.
“He’s quite spry for a man of eighty,” Lord Evans said. They watched the steward weave toward them. “And drunk, I suspect,” he murmured by her ear.
A buzz passed through the crowd. The dancing and music stopped, and all the servants turned to stare nervously at them.
Mr. Emmett was too deep in his cups to be alarmed. “Oh, L-lord Evans. And Miss Wil-Wilkinson. Have ye heard? The curse is broken.”
He turned to repeat that announcement to the room. Everyone raised their mugs and cheered—and took another drink of ale.
“Yes, we’ve heard,” the earl said, rather loudly to recapture the steward’s attention. “We’re the ones who told you, Mr. Emmett.”
Mr. Emmett’s head bobbed in inebriated agreement. “Right. Isn’t it wonderful? The curse is broken.”
More cheers. More drinking.
“I say, did George bring you your supper?” Mr. Emmett asked as if the thought had just occurred to him.
Jane saw the maid who’d first noticed them talking animatedly to a thin, young footman whose face suddenly turned as white as his cravat.
“Er, no, I’m afraid he didn’t,” Lord Evans said.
“Oh.” Mr. Emmett looked concerned, but then he washed away any uneasiness with another swallow of ale. “Suppose he forgot. The excitement, you know. I say, have you heard? The curse is broken.”
He raised his mug yet again. This time the crowd’s cheer was a little louder. Likely they’d decided Lord Evans wasn’t going to cut up stiff over one missed meal.
He wasn’t going to go hungry, either.
“Yes. So do you suppose we might trouble you for a bit of that shepherd’s pie and some wine?” the earl asked.
“Oh, yes, yes. Help yourself. Or, Dolly, help the earl, will you? And you, too, George. Did you know you forgot to feed Lord Evans and Miss Wilkinson?”
“I’m sorry, milord, Miss Wilkinson,” George said, having hurried over. He sounded wretched.
“It’s all right,” Lord Evans said. “Just get us a tray, will you?”
George got a tray and Dolly filled it with far more food than Jane, at least, could eat.
“I’ll take it to the dining room, shall I, milord? And wait on ye there.” George couldn’t keep from throwing a forlorn look at the kitchen and all the fun he’d be missing.
“Nonsense,” Lord Evans said. “I’m more than capable of carrying a tray. You go back to the party. We’ll do very well on our own, if you’ll just point us the way.”
“Of course, milord. This way, milord.” George led them across the room to another doorway. “Just through here and up the stairs, milord. Ye’ll come out right by the dining room.”
“Excellent. Thank you, George. Now go and enjoy the party.”
“If yer certain, milord?” George looked hopeful, but still willing to do his duty.
“Of course I’m certain.”
George grinned. “Thank ye, milord. Miss.” He bowed—and took off before the earl could change his mind.
“You don’t object, do you, Miss Wilkinson?” the earl asked as they stepped through the first doorway. “Though of course I should have asked that before our friend George departed. I will, if you wish, call him back, but I imagine he will be very unhappy.”
Unhappy? Poor George would be despondent. “Of course I don’t object. I did not grow up with servants, Lord Evans. I am very much used to managing for myself.”
They started up a far more suitable flight of stairs—broad, straight, and—as far as she could see—spider-free.
“You pride yourself on your independent ways, don’t you, Miss Wilkinson?”
“Yes, I do.” She’d had to be independent. She’d had no choice.
Lord Evans likely wouldn’t understand.
It hadn’t just been losing her parents in one fell swoop that had made her grow up so quickly and resolve to rely only on herself. It had been discovering that Papa had lied to her.
Well, not to her directly and not in words. But she’d thought him an intelligent, principled man, if also all too often an angry one. And then she’d discovered her secure, comfortable life was all a sham.
She still got a sinking feeling in her stomach when she thought about that bleak afternoon that Randolph had sat her down in Papa’s study and told her the truth.
“I suppose I’ve always been a bit strong-willed, but when my parents died, Randolph discovered our father had not managed his finances well.” Ha! That was a major understatement. “We’d been living on credit for years.”
“Ah.”
“Randolph moved to address the problem at once, of course.” Which meant they’d gone from a comfortable to an almost hand-to-mouth existence. “He worried we’d lose everything, that he’d have to sell the house and the business.”
Why am I telling him all this? I’ve never talked to anyone about it before, though everyone must have guessed.
There were no secrets in Loves Bridge.
That bothered her too. Lord Davenport, the Huttings—surely the Boltwoods—they all must have known or had an inkling of how things stood, but no one ever said a word to her.
Well, she’d been only fourteen. But Randolph had been taken by surprise as well.
“If I’d been three years older, I might have looked to marry.” Thank God that hadn’t been an option. A marriage made in desperation could not have brought anyone happiness. For her, it would have been . . .
No, the thought was too horrible to contemplate.
“Randolph could have married.”
“Yes, but Imogen’s father wouldn’t give his consent, remember.” She might not understand romantic love, but she couldn’t wish Randolph to wed someone when he’d given his heart to another.
“Imogen married Eldon.”
“Not until the following year and by then we’d got things under control so Randolph didn’t need to sacrifice himself on any matrimonial altar. We weren’t completely out of the woods, but at least we’d beaten the wolf back from the door.” She smiled. She was very proud of what she and Randolph had accomplished on their own.
“Now we’re on very good footing. I see that the bills are paid on time and that we, in turn, are paid by our clients. I remind Randolph of deadlines, rescue important files from under piles of books and newspapers, and, in general, keep the office organized and running smoothly.” She smiled. “I used to have to do much the same at home, but now that part of Randolph’s life is Imogen’s problem, thank heavens.”
That’s right. It was a great relief not to have to take charge of—or at least consider—someone else twenty-four hours a day.
Except it’s also lonely.
This wasn’t loneliness she was feeling—had been feeling—since Lord Evans’s arrival in Loves Bridge. It wasn’t loneliness that had sent her into the castle corridors instead of going downstairs to find the earl.
It was something far more unsettling.
Did she want the sort of connection she’d seen between the duke and Cat? Did she want Lord Evans to love her that way?
“Right. You have only Poppy to look after.”
She laughed, trying to push aside her confused feelings. “Oh, I wouldn’t say I look after Poppy. I think she is even more independent than I am. I do, however, have to deal with a significant quantity of cat hair, so I am still cleaning up after my housemate.”
They’d reached the large—very large—formal dining room with its long polished table and massive chandelier.
“Oh.” Jane stopped on the threshold. “It’s rather grand, isn’t it?”
“Yes. There’s a smaller family dining room, as well, which I think I can find now that we’re back in the main part of the castle, but I wonder if we wouldn’t be more comfortable in the study.”
She didn’t want to look at one more echoing room. She just wanted to sit down with a slice of that shepherd’s pie and a glass of wine and relax.
Or as much as she could relax with Lord Evans there. “The study sounds lovely.”
The study was lovely. The dark wood paneling and heavy curtains gave the room an intimate feeling, and the desk, though it was much larger and finer than hers, made her think of the comforting familiarity of Randolph’s office.
Well, perhaps not. She’d never experienced this odd churning of excitement and anticipation when at her desk.
Being alone with Lord Evans in a private room was not a good idea. She’d been wise to avoid it earlier, even though she’d got terribly lost in the castle corridors.
There was no avoiding it now.
What do I want?
She walked over to examine a hideous suit of armor and put more space between herself and the earl.
I don’t know.
She wasn’t used to this feeling of confused indecision.
She’d always known exactly what she wanted—until she’d met Lord Evans.
She turned her attention to the globe next to the armor, spinning it while the earl set the tray on a table and poured them each some wine.
She’d never traveled much. Her journey to Chanton Manor in October might have been the farthest she’d ever been from the village. She’d certainly never been to London, though she read the London papers, of course—or had read them before she’d worried about seeing the earl’s name linked to a Society woman’s in the gossip columns.
Cat was the one who’d chafed at the boundaries she thought Loves Bridge drew round her. Anne, as the daughter of a baron, had had a London Season and had visited many grand estates for house parties. But Jane . . .
She’d been content to do her traveling through books. Actually going to new places, meeting new people—no. It wasn’t something that had ever appealed to her.
Have I grown a little too set in my ways? A little too cautious?
Cat and Anne had many new adventures ahead of them. Jane had . . . nothing. Just the same work at Randolph’s office, the same shabby house—she’d admit that after just a few months, the Spinster House didn’t cause her heart to beat any faster—and the same village she’d known her entire life.
And a supernatural cat. She mustn’t forget Poppy.
Oh, and the lending library. After she finished with the books on rodent control, she could explore the collection’s other treasures—the four or five books on the most common diseases of sheep, for example, or the illustrated guide to local beetles.
Is that all I want my life to be?
She was here with Lord Evans. They were quite alone. The castle staff was in no condition to disturb them.
Was it time to be a little less cautious?
Perhaps a kiss or two will cure me of this odd disquiet. Perhaps then I’ll know what I want.
At the moment she was afraid she wanted Lord Evans. It was almost like she had a fever. She felt her forehead. No, that wasn’t where the heat was.
The earl brought her a glass of wine. “Studying the blackguard who started the curse?”
“What? Oh.”
She’d been staring at—but not seeing—a full-length portrait of a man in early seventeenth-century garb. A young man, trying to look older and wiser than he was, she thought. If there was malice in the fellow, the painter had hidden it well.
“He doesn’t look evil, does he?” She took a large drink. The wine warmed her, settled her.
“No, he doesn’t.” The earl examined the painting. “Marcus said he found a letter this duke wrote to Isabelle, telling her he was coming to Loves Bridge to marry her. Unfortunately, she never read it. She had already, er, left.”
“Oh.” Could two hundred years of heartache have been avoided if a letter had arrived just a little earlier? But then the current duke would never have been born. Cat would not have met him, and the beautiful baby Jane had watched come into the world earlier wouldn’t exist. “It doesn’t matter any longer, does it, A-Alex?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He smiled—and then his expression grew serious. “Jane, I tried to say this at the Spinster House, but we kept getting interrupted. I told you I came to Loves Bridge because Nate asked me to check on Marcus, but I also came to see you.”
Her silly heart leapt with delight. She took another sip of wine to steady it. “Oh?”
“Yes. To apologize.”
“Oh.” That sounded bad. She took another sip. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”
“I think I do. I think I frightened you when I kissed you in the garden that night—well, both nights, I suppose—at Chanton Manor.”
Ah, so here we are.
She took another drink. Warmth spread through her, relaxing her, blunting her worries, making her head buzz just a little, and waking other parts of her that she’d kept under strict control most of her life. She wasn’t drunk—not that she knew precisely what drunk felt like. She just felt braver, more daring, as if many of the rules that confined her—rules she’d put in place and rules Society had placed on her—had loosened. Become negotiable or irrelevant.
She was going to throw caution to the wind.