Chapter Six
Jane carefully speared a pea with her fork and put it in her mouth. Surely this meal must almost be over. As soon as the women left the men to their port, she’d flee to her room. It might be cowardly, but . . .
Don’t be silly.
Right. She wasn’t afraid of anyone. She merely felt, er, slightly overwhelmed at the moment. It was to be expected. She never left Loves Bridge—and very few people ever came to the village—so she wasn’t used to conversing with people who hadn’t known her since she was in leading strings. Of course it would be wearing to find herself in a roomful of strangers.
She speared another pea with rather more force than necessary.
Strangers with ulterior motives.
Lady Chanton was clearly set on matchmaking, but Jane had hoped Lord Evans’s sister was trying to match only Randolph and Lady Eldon. Now she was beginning to fear the woman—and Lord Evans’s mother—thought she might be an appropriate wife for the earl.
Lady Chanton had told everyone not to stand on ceremony, to sit where they wished . . . and then somehow Jane had got stuck next to her. They’d no sooner taken their seats than she’d started in questioning Jane about Loves Bridge, her friends, her brother, her parents, and the Spinster House. She’d been cordial, but by the time she turned to address her daughter Bea on her other side, Jane had felt like she’d been knocked down and run over by several carriages.
She frowned at the next pea to feel the wrath of her fork. And now she felt as if someone was watching her. She glanced up—
Lud! Someone was watching her—the dowager countess, seated on the other side and the other end of the table. And instead of averting her gaze as any normal person would when caught staring, the woman smiled at Jane before turning to speak to Mr. John Grant, the widower of Lord Chanton’s older sister and father of eight sons, two of whom were also at the table.
She was definitely fleeing to her room as soon as she could.
“May I serve you some more roast pheasant, Miss Wilkinson?”
Lud! Her heart jolted at the sound of Lord Evans’s voice—as did her hand. Fortunately, none of the red wine in her glass made it onto the tablecloth.
The earl had been so busy conversing with the young, beautiful, insipid Lady Charlotte on his right, he’d likely just remembered Jane was here.
That’s not very kind.
Perhaps not, but it was true. The girl was small and blond—like a china doll—and spoke in a breathy little whisper. Every time she smiled, she ducked her head, and she never once, as far as Jane could tell, looked anyone in the eye.
What can he find to talk about with that noddy?
It’s none of my concern.
She kept her eyes on her wineglass. “No, thank you.”
The pheasant dish didn’t move away.
This time she looked up at him so he would be certain to hear her. “My lord, thank you, but I do not care for more pheasant.”
He frowned at her plate. “You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
That was quite bold of him. “Oh? Are you my nanny now?”
He grinned. “Thank God. I thought the fairies had stolen away the real Miss Wilkinson and left a meek changeling in her place.”
Oh? You seem to like meek women.
Fortunately, she managed not to say that out loud. What did she care about his preferences in women?
“Are you certain you won’t take some more?” He dropped his voice. “You’ll need your strength to withstand my sister.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I heard her interrogating you.”
So he hadn’t been so entranced by Lady Charlotte that he’d forgotten she was here.
“You could have come to my aid, you know.”
He grinned. “And risk having you bite my head off? No, thank you. I learned my lesson with Mr. Wertigger.”
She felt herself flush. “I do apologize if I seemed ungrateful then. I was rather, er, annoyed with the man when you came up.”
He snorted. “Rather annoyed? I thought you were going to eviscerate him with your bare hands right there on the village green.”
She’d admit that she’d wanted to do exactly that. “He lied to me—to the committee.”
“Who lied to you?”
Jane jumped at hearing Lady Chanton’s voice and turned toward her, knocking against the platter of pheasant and sending her wineglass teetering.
She lunged for the glass as Lord Evans juggled the pheasant.
“Oh, I am sorry for startling you.” Lady Chanton smiled with far too much satisfaction. Jane half expected her to waggle her brows the way the Boltwood sisters did when they thought they were observing a bit of romance. “You did seem quite, er, engrossed in your conversation.”
Jane waited for Lord Evans to rein in his sister.
And waited.
She looked at the man. He was looking at . . .
Lud! In the confusion with the wine and the pheasant, her shawl had slipped off her shoulders. She tugged it back into place and turned to Lady Chanton.
“A person by the name of Waldo Wertigger lied to me, Lady Chanton.”
“Oh, do call me Diana, Miss Wilkinson—and I hope you will give me leave to call you Jane. This is an informal, family gathering, after all.”
“Ah.” Except I’m not part of this family.
Yet. She might have a connection soon. Randolph and Lady Eldon had fallen into close conversation the moment they’d first seen each other and were now sitting together at the table.
“Of course you may call me Jane.”
Lord Evans—surely Lady Chanton was not going to suggest Jane call the earl by his Christian name—leaned across her to address his sister. “The fellow advertised a live kangaroo, Diana, but when he arrived in Loves Bridge, it turned out the creature was stuffed. Miss Wilkinson was the one who had to deal with the charlatan.”
The earl’s face was just inches from hers. She couldn’t breathe without inhaling his scent, a mix of soap and linen and . . . him. Her eyes traced his profile—the sweep of his long lashes, the faint shadow of his beard, the strong angle of his jaw—and then wandered back to his mouth. There was a small scar at the corner of his lower lip. How had he—
“Isn’t that right, Miss Wilkinson—or may I call you Jane, since, as Diana says, this is a family gathering?”
He’d turned his head to address her, bringing his mouth even closer. If she leaned forward just the slightest bit—
She jerked back to put more space between them.
What were they talking about? Good Lord, she had completely lost track of the conversation. “Pardon me?”
“I asked if I might call you Jane”—he grinned, his eyes teasing her—“and you must call me Alex, of course.”
She could never call the Earl of Evans Alex. That was far, far too intimate.
And terrifying.
Why?
Because it would open a door she could never again shut. Something important would change, though precisely what that was she wasn’t completely certain.
“You must do as you please.”
Fortunately—or unfortunately, perhaps—Bea chose that moment to say, quite heatedly, to Octavius Grant, her university-aged cousin, “Balderdash! Women are indeed capable of managing their own lives. Look at Miss Wilkinson.”
That, of course, caused everyone to look at Jane—everyone but Lady Chanton, who sighed and addressed her daughter.
“Bea, it is not polite to voice such strong opinions in company.”
“Octavius isn’t company!”
“No, but you are getting ready for your come-out, remember, so you should pretend that he is.”
Octavius made the mistake of snickering—and Bea’s fingers tightened on her wineglass. Jane caught her breath, expecting to see wine stream down Octavius’s face at any moment.
She’d never attended the London Season, but she expected Bea would make quite an, er, splash, though perhaps not in the way her mother would wish.
“And you certainly should not single out Miss Wilkinson.”
Bea let go of her glass—Jane thought she heard Lord Evans sigh with relief at that—and raised her chin. “I believe in speaking my mind, Mama, and not allowing men”—she looked at Octavius—“to rule me. Surely you must agree, Miss Wilkinson?”
Jane hesitated, thereby giving Randolph a chance to jump into the fray.
“Oh, now, you can’t let my sister’s opinion on the matter influence you, Miss Livingston-Smythe. She’s never been to London and she’s more than ten years your senior.” He chuckled. “And I must tell you that all the men in Loves Bridge go in fear of her temper.”
A rather uncomfortable—appalled?—silence settled over the table.
Randolph cleared his throat. “Not that I mean to be critical, of course.”
“Please do not murder your brother at my sister’s table,” Lord Evans murmured.
Jane swallowed her first impulse, which indeed had been to blast Randolph back to Loves Bridge, and forced herself to smile. “My brother is likely correct, Miss Livingston-Smythe, that country manners are different from what would be acceptable in Town, but I must believe that any intelligent man”—she leaned over to direct a speaking look up the table at Randolph—“in either Town or country must value a woman’s good sense. We are not children, so we no longer need an adult’s constant guidance and supervision.”
“Very true.” Lady Chanton stood. “And with that, I think this is an excellent time to leave the men to their port.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lord Evans’s mother also rose. “Don’t linger too long, gentlemen.”
“Well done,” Lord Evans said quietly to Jane as he stood politely with the rest of the men. “Thank you.”
She contented herself with a nod and then followed the other ladies out. Heavens, did he really think she’d brangle with Randolph in front of his relatives? She had more control than that. When she got Randolph alone, however . . .
That discussion would have to wait until morning. Now she was going up to her room. She should tell Lady Chanton, but the viscountess had gone on ahead and—
“Oh, Miss Wilkinson, may I join you?”
Apparently, not all the women had preceded her to the drawing room. Jane opened her mouth to explain to Miss Livingston-Smythe that she was retiring early, but the girl didn’t give her the opportunity.
“When Mama told me you and your brother were coming, I was so delighted. I’ve been dying to speak to you.”
“Oh. Well.” What was she to say to that? “I don’t know that I’m that interesting, Miss Livingston-Smythe.” She cast a longing look at the stairs.
Miss Livingston-Smythe didn’t appear to notice—or if she did, she didn’t take the hint. “Please call me Bea. May I call you Jane? Uncle Alex says you live by yourself in a place called the Spinster House. I so envy you.”
She still could say she was tired and excuse herself, but she hadn’t the heart to do something this eager young girl—Lady Chanton had mentioned her daughter had just turned seventeen last week—might take as a snub. Jane could remember being seventeen, though it did seem like a very long time ago.
So she repressed a sigh and went with Bea into the drawing room. The rest of the ladies had arranged themselves around the tea tray, but Bea headed for two chairs set off by themselves.
Jane pulled her shawl closer and followed.
“I will tell you,” Bea said once they’d taken their seats, “that I am dreading going up to Town. I’m not certain I wish to marry at all, but I definitely don’t want to be trotted around London to be”—she pulled a face—“examined like a horse for sale.”
Put that way, a Season did sound unpleasant. “I have no personal experience, Miss”—the girl frowned and opened her mouth as if to protest Jane’s formality—“er, Bea, but my one friend who had a Season thoroughly enjoyed all the parties and balls.”
Anne’s stories had been exciting, but they hadn’t made Jane long for the social whirl.
Bea looked skeptical. “How could she have enjoyed it? Didn’t her parents try to push her into parson’s mousetrap?”
Anne’s father had been anxious for Anne to wed, but that had been just recently when he’d wished to remarry. “No. Do you think your parents would pressure you to accept an offer you could not like? Pardon me, but I find that hard to imagine.”
Bea sighed. “No, you are right. I’m sure they wouldn’t. But I still believe it’s terribly unfair. Men have it so much easier than women, don’t you think?”
Jane opened her mouth to agree—and remembered Randolph’s sad tale of his dashed matrimonial hopes. “I’m not certain they do. It takes two people”—if one ignored the possibility of meddling relatives—“to make a marriage. Sometimes men face disappointment.”
Bea looked oddly pleased by Jane’s answer. “Yes, I suppose you are right. Uncle Alex was certainly disappointed.”
Jane’s attention sharpened.
I should not encourage Bea to gossip.
Nonsense. It is only sensible to be informed when the man’s sister and mother have matrimonial schemes that might involve me.
Bea glanced over at the other women and then leaned close to whisper. “I had it out with Mama when she told me Lady Charlotte would be here.”
“Oh?” How had Lady Charlotte entered the conversation?
Jane would admit to not immediately liking Charlotte—all right, she’d taken an immediate dislike to her—but she’d also admit, much as it pained her to do so, that her negative feelings were largely due to jealousy. Lady Charlotte was the epitome of English beauty with her blond hair, blue eyes, and flawless complexion.
The fact that Lord Evans had spent a significant part of dinner talking to the girl was beside the point.
“Yes. Mama said there was nothing to be done—Charlotte is Cousin Imogen’s companion. But I’m afraid I’ll have a hard time being civil to her.”
“Ah.” Jane repressed the urge to ask what made Lady Charlotte so dreadful.
She didn’t need to inquire.
Bea’s eyes had widened at her noncommittal reply. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Er, know what?”
“That Lady Charlotte is the woman who jilted Uncle Alex at the altar.” Bea shrugged. “Or almost at the altar.”
Oh! Poor Lord Evans.
No, not “poor Lord Evans.” Hadn’t the earl already begun combing London ballrooms for a replacement bride? Clearly, his heart hadn’t been injured.
Randolph hid his broken heart so well, I never had an inkling he was wounded.
The situations were not at all comparable. Of course she hadn’t noticed Randolph’s pain. She’d been only fourteen and overwhelmed by their parents’ deaths when his romance had ended.
“He came home to the Hall to lick his wounds and hide from everyone,” Bea said.
“I can’t imagine your uncle hiding, Bea.” She should be more charitable. Perhaps the earl’s return to Society’s ballrooms was merely a case of getting back on the horse that threw him. Earls needed heirs, after all. She—
She should not be encouraging Bea to gossip. “This is really none of my affair, you know. I’m certain your uncle would not wish you to discuss him with me this way.”
Bea continued as if Jane hadn’t spoken. “Charlotte should never have agreed to marry Uncle Alex. She loves Septimus—has loved him forever.”
Jane blinked. “Septimus as in Septimus Grant, your cousin?” Septimus was older than Octavius, but he still seemed quite young to be thinking of marriage.
Bea nodded. “Charlotte—”
“Bea,” Lady Chanton called from the group by the tea tray, “the men will be here soon.”
“Yes, Mama.” Bea turned back to Jane. “I can’t say any more now. Meet me by the fountain later and I’ll tell you the whole. I need your help.”
“What?” Jane’s mouth fell open. She must look like a beached fish. “Help?”
Bea nodded. “Alex needs a wife, and Mama said you are an accomplished matchmaker.”
“Not really.” She’d only made two matches and her goal with both had been to free the Spinster House for herself, though of course she wanted her friends to be happy.
“Bea!” This time Lady Chanton raised her brows significantly and gestured with her head at the door.
“Yes, Mama.” Bea looked back at Jane. “Please? Meet me in the garden by the fountain later.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
They heard the deep sound of male voices. Bea jumped to her feet, so Jane stood as well.
“By the fountain,” Bea murmured as her father and Lord Evans entered the room. “Promise?”
“Oh, very well.”
* * *
Alex took a sip of tea. He’d much rather be drinking brandy.
During dinner he and Charlotte had spoken about the weather and the condition of the roads and other inconsequential topics. Well, he had spoken. She’d mostly nodded. The bulk of her attention had been directed at Septimus Grant on the other side of the table.
And now he was sitting with her in the drawing room, slightly apart from the others. He didn’t have to be. He could have chosen a different seat, but he’d seen her alone and had thought it kinder to join her.
Earlier this year, he would have been delighted with the situation. But now? He wished someone would rescue him. Miss Wilkinson, perhaps.
He smiled inwardly. He knew why she was so attached to that shawl. He’d much enjoyed the glimpse he’d got of her creamy skin when it had slipped off her shoulders at dinner.
“Do you think it will rain tomorrow, my lord?” Charlotte’s voice trembled slightly and her eyes flitted from his face to a point on his right before returning to her teacup.
He forced himself to focus on her. “I don’t know. Rain is always a possibility in England, isn’t it?” Surely she wasn’t afraid of him? “And do call me Alex, Charlotte. We were almost married, after all.”
Her eyes came up to his again—and again slid off to his right before returning to her cup. “Yes, my lord.”
Blast, he was gritting his teeth. He relaxed his jaw, took a breath, and idly glanced over to see what so interested Charlotte.
Miss Wilkinson was talking to Septimus Grant. Odd.
Well, perhaps not so odd. Everyone else was occupied. Randolph and Imogen were in close conversation in the far corner; Bea and Octavius were arguing; Roger and John Grant were likely discussing horses; and Mama and Diana had their heads together.
Oh, Lord. They’re probably plotting something I won’t like. Thank God this house party is to last only a few days.
He turned back to Charlotte and regarded her bowed head. He’d once thought her shyness appealing. Now he thought it annoying.
Well, this would be a perfect time to clear the air. “I wish to apologize, Charlotte.”
That caused her to look up. “You do?” The smallest frown appeared between her brows. “Why?”
Wasn’t it obvious? “I should have stayed in London and supported you after the news got round that you . . . er, that we had called off the marriage.”
“Oh.” The line between her brows deepened.
Was that all she was going to say? Miss Wilkinson would have—
This had nothing to do with Miss Wilkinson.
“I knew your father was very angry. I hope he did not, ah, take his displeasure out on you?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Papa shouted. He always shouts.” Her gaze slid back to Miss Wilkinson and Septimus. “And he sent me away to be Cousin Imogen’s companion.”
“I’m sorry. Do you miss London?”
“Not really.”
Had it always been this difficult to converse with Charlotte?
“I imagine your father will relent. I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”
“He and Mama are busy with Felicity now—that’s my next younger sister. He’s forgotten about me,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
“You must be mistaken.” He’d never liked Buford much, but no man would ignore his own children.
“Oh, no. Papa was only ever interested in how much I could bring him on the Marriage Mart. It’s the same with all of us.” Her lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “He wanted sons, you see. He’s quite bitter that he has only daughters. He’d keep trying for a boy, but Mama can’t have more children.” She shrugged. “Lord Chanton is very fortunate that he finally managed to get an heir.”
“Er, yes.” An heir was important, but Alex felt confident Roger would have welcomed another girl had that been the new baby’s gender.
Charlotte glanced over at Septimus and Miss Wilkinson again and something that might have been excitement lit her eyes....
No, he must have been mistaken. The expression was gone almost immediately and when Charlotte spoke, it was in her usual soft, even tone.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I believe I’ll go upstairs now to make certain all is ready for Imogen when she retires.”
From the look of things, Imogen would not be retiring anytime soon—she was still talking to Randolph—but Alex grabbed at the words like a jailed man grabbing an open door. Freedom was at hand!
“Of course.”
He stood and watched her leave. She was small and delicate and beautiful.
And dreadfully boring. How could he ever have thought himself in love with her?
Clearly, he had no business looking for a wife if his judgment of women, and more importantly, of his own feelings, was so faulty.
He took their teacups over to the tea tray. Apparently, others had decided to retire early as well, as the only people left—besides Randolph and Imogen in the corner—were Mama, Roger, and John Grant.
But where was his sister? “Has Diana deserted you?”
“No,” Diana said, coming back into the room. “I was just checking on something. Would you like more tea?”
“No, thank you.”
Roger grinned and pulled a bottle out from behind a potted plant. “How about some brandy?”
Brandy would have made his conversation with Charlotte much less painful.
But perhaps less enlightening.
“Is that what you’ve been drinking?”
Roger’s grin widened. “Of course.” He held the bottle out to Alex.
“No, thank you.” He had brandy in his room, and the faster he retreated there, the less chance his mother and sister would quiz him about his conversation with Charlotte. “I believe I’ll go up to bed.”
“It’s a nice night,” Diana said. “You could go for a stroll in the garden first.”
Mama nodded. “It might help you sleep, Alex. You seem a trifle out of sorts.”
“I am not out of sorts.”
He glared at Roger who, after one explosive guffaw—loud enough to momentarily capture Randolph’s and Imogen’s attention—was struggling to swallow the rest of his laughter. Grant, wisely, kept his eyes on his brandy cup.
All right, yes. He was a trifle out of sorts.
“I believe I saw Miss Wilkinson go out there alone. You should see that she doesn’t get lost.” Diana smiled blandly—it must be quite a struggle for her to appear disinterested. “I imagine she’d like to have a look at the fountain. It’s so lovely and mysterious under a full moon.”
There were times he truly detested his sister. “I’m certain Miss Wilkinson can find her own way. The garden is not that complicated.”
“Not for you. You’ve walked through it many times. This is Miss Wilkinson’s first visit, and the moon casts many confusing—and, er, interesting—shadows.”
Zeus, no matter what Diana did, she always managed to make him want to brangle with her.
He would not give in to that base urge. He had more control—and he also knew he wouldn’t win. He never did.
“Yes. Miss Wilkinson, however, is very resourceful. I’m not worried about her.” He let his gaze touch on all of them—except for Randolph and Imogen. An earthquake could shake the walls and they’d not notice. “Good night then. I will see you in the morning.”
“Alex,” Diana said before he turned away, “will you visit the girls in the morning? The ones who weren’t in the nursery when you stopped in today were very sad to have missed you.”
He grinned. It would be a relief to spend some time with uncomplicated females who said exactly what they meant. “I’ll look in on them after my morning ride, if that suits?”
“That would be splendid.” Diana gave him one of her broad, sunny smiles.
She was a perfectly fine sister when she wasn’t trying to run his life.
He left the drawing room and headed for the staircase—and paused with his foot on the first step.
Oh, hell. Miss Wilkinson truly was quite competent, but now Diana had got him worried. The garden could be confusing at night.
And he wasn’t tired—there was no chance he’d be able to fall asleep anytime soon. He didn’t feel like reading. Perhaps Mama was right and a walk in the garden, breathing the cool night air, would be calming.
He headed for the door.