Chapter Seven
I should never have told Bea I’d meet her out here.
Jane pulled her shawl more tightly round her shoulders as she hurried down yet another path. She’d seen the fountain from her room when she’d arrived earlier and had thought it a simple matter to reach it.
Ha! What had looked simple in daylight was impossible at night, even with a full moon. Whoever designed this garden had an evil sense of humor. The walks were a maze of wrong turns, dead ends, and endless loops, and the surrounding vegetation was planted so she got only occasional glimpses of the blasted fountain—and it was never where she expected.
If she did believe in curses and supernatural cats, she might think there was some evil magic at work here.
And then the moon went behind a cloud, turning the garden dark as ink. Something damp and feathery tickled her face, caught her shawl . . .
She squeaked, jumped, hit out—and discovered when the cloud moved on that her attacker was an errant evergreen branch.
She grimaced as her heart slowed. Perhaps she was a little on edge.
I hope there weren’t any spiders on that branch . . . and now on me!
She frantically brushed her hands through her hair.
“Shh!”
She froze. That was a male voice, coming from off to her right.
“Someone’s nearby.”
“Silly. It’s just an animal.” That was a woman. Bea?
Jane debated what to do. If it was Bea, she should probably join her at once, though it was hard to see how Miss Livingston-Smythe could be in any danger of scandal here. All the men but Randolph were related to her.
“Kiss me again.” The woman’s voice was breathy and urgent.
Oh. It couldn’t be Bea.
She should leave the couple to their privacy . . . except she had no idea how to find her way back to the house.
She scowled at the bushes. What to do?
She would approach them. It would be awkward but she didn’t wish to wander the garden forever, especially when there were people nearby who could rescue her. And Bea should be here soon, so they would be interrupted anyway. Better that she, a mature woman, handle the matter than a young girl like Bea.
She turned a corner and finally found the fountain—and the couple, just as the woman pushed the man against a pillar near the fountain’s edge and reached for his pantaloons.
Jane stepped back quickly. Had that been Septimus Grant and Lady Charlotte?
It couldn’t be mousy little Lady Charlotte.
She peered through the leaves. No, it was indeed Lady Charlotte. It was difficult to see precisely what she was doing in the moonlight, but whatever it was involved Septimus’s. . . .
Oh! Jane got a glimpse of something long and pale before Charlotte’s fingers closed over it, stroking....
She scrambled backward so the heat of her face wouldn’t set the bushes on fire.
She knew that a man’s male organ resided behind his fall. She’d felt one of those organs hard against her stomach when drunken Lord Dennis had got her alone in the Davenport Hall library during the party before Anne’s first Season.
Her eyes narrowed. That had been more than ten years ago and the memory still made her angry. The oaf had trapped her against the back of a wingchair—she’d shoved on his chest, but it had been like trying to move a stone wall—and had stuck his tongue down her throat. She’d almost gagged.
She should have bitten him.
She’d never felt so helpless. That was what she’d hated most about the disgusting encounter. Thank God another couple had come into the library at that moment, causing Lord Dennis to release her.
And then the bloody blackguard had had the gall to chuckle and whisper that they could get back to their “play” later. Ha! Over her dead body.
Or, better, his dead body. She’d left the library and taken care to keep the length of the ballroom between her and the blackguard for the rest of the evening.
Septimus was making gasping, almost mewling noises. It was very embarrassing. She started to put her fingers in her ears—
“Imogen’s going to marry Wilkinson,” Charlotte said.
What?!
Jane forgot about embarrassment. Randolph had decided to marry? That was very sudden. Yes, he’d loved Lady Eldon—many years ago. People changed.
“And you know what that means,” Charlotte said.
“Y-yes. Let’s talk about this la”—Septimus’s voice suddenly pitched higher—“ter.”
“No, now. It means I’ll have to go back to Papa, Septimus. And Papa might try again to marry me off to old Lord Evans.”
Old?! Lord Evans isn’t old.
“No. Can’t. Evans won’t have you af-after you j-jilted him.” Some heavy panting. “Zeus!” More panting. “Finish me. Now. P-please!”
Charlotte was not going to be hurried.
“You saw how he singled me out tonight. He apologized for not staying in London to support me! Can you imagine? I didn’t know where to look.”
No, Jane could not imagine. Charlotte should have been the one apologizing.
“If he can be brought up to scratch, Papa will push me and push me to have him.”
Charlotte must finally have done what Septimus had begged her to do, because the man drew in a sharp breath and then made a shuddering sound.
“You can’t marry him.” His voice was stronger now. Determined. “You love me.”
“Yes, but you don’t know Papa. I told him I loved you when I refused to marry the earl last time—and he locked me in my room and fed me only bread and water until I agreed to the wedding.”
“The dastard!”
Jane nodded. She felt some sympathy for Charlotte. It was too bad every woman didn’t have a Spinster House to fall back on when faced with a pigheaded, overbearing male relative.
“So you see, we have to run for Scotland.”
“Elope?” Septimus sounded deeply shocked. “But think of the scandal! Your reputation is already a bit sullied from your breaking things off with Evans.”
“I don’t care. I love you.”
“And I love you, too much to let you do anything so rash.”
Jane scowled at an innocent leaf. Typical male, thinking he knows best.
“It’s not rash.”
That’s right, Charlotte!
“What if I—or my father—talk to your father?” Septimus asked. “Perhaps we can make him see reason.”
“You can’t. Papa will never give his consent. You don’t have a title, and he is obsessed with titles.”
Just like Lady Eldon’s father. Think of all the pain that dolt caused Randolph.
Jane was tempted to burst into the clearing shouting “Elope!”
“And I refuse to wait two more years until I’m twenty-one and can wed without Papa’s permission.”
“Two years! By God, you’re right. We can’t wait two years,” Septimus said. “We’ll have to—”
“Shh!” This time it was Charlotte shushing Septimus. “Someone’s coming!”
Jane frowned. Charlotte can’t have heard me. I’m not movin—
And then she heard it, too—the sound of someone walking purposefully along the garden path.
“We have to leave,” Charlotte whispered urgently.
“Which way should we go?” Septimus whispered back.
Not this way! Jane looked wildly around, but there was no place to hide. Her only option was to jump into the bushes—where there were likely spiders.
She did not like spiders.
And it was too late to hide, anyway. Lord Evans had just come round the curve in the path.
Oh, why couldn’t a cloud cover the moon now?
* * *
Alex saw Miss Wilkinson up ahead—minus her concealing shawl. His eyes went at once to her lovely, long neck, and then slid slowly down over her creamy skin to stop, sadly, at the fabric skimming her small, delicate breasts. His lips and fingers begged to follow the same path and then dip below—
She inhaled, causing her bodice—as well as his heartbeat and, er, something else—to rise. Then she smiled in a rather forced manner and came over to him.
“This is a beautiful garden, Lord Evans,” she said, rather more loudly than necessary.
Alarm bells rang in his head. There was some sort of meddling afoot. “Yes, it is. My brother-in-law and sister are quite proud of it.”
“As they should be.” She took a step in the direction from which he’d come. “But I’m afraid I’ve got a bit lost. Can you show me the way back to the house?”
What is she trying to keep me from discovering?
“It’s only a few steps to the fountain. You must see it, Miss Wilkinson. It is most impressive, especially in the moonlight.” For some reason his voice dropped on the last word, sounding seductive to his own ears.
She frowned—and then leaned close to whisper, “Did you come out here to find Lady Charlotte?”
“Hmm?” She smelled of lemons. Her skin looked so soft. Was there some way he could touch her shoulder and make it look like an accident?
She shook his arm. “Lady Charlotte—are you looking for her?” Either the moonlight was playing tricks or worry clouded her eyes.
“No. Why are we whispering?”
“Because Charlotte is here—with Septimus Grant.” She paused, biting her lip in what looked like embarrassment.
If the sun rather than the moon were out, he’d wager he’d see her lovely skin flush bright red.
He was more interested in her lovely mouth . . .
“And they aren’t just admiring the fountain.”
“Ah.” He finally heard what Jane was saying.
Charlotte is here with another man.
If he had any lingering doubts about his feelings for his former betrothed, they were put to rest now. He wasn’t even mildly pained to learn about her assignation.
Though he was very much afraid his sangfroid was due to Miss Wilkinson’s presence.
Don’t be a fool. The Spinster House spinster has no interest in marriage.
True. And hadn’t he just concluded he shouldn’t have any interest, either? Not now. Not until he sorted through his feelings and sharpened his ability to read himself and others.
She put a comforting hand on his chest. “I hope it’s not too large a blow. Bea told me the girl . . . er, that you and Lady Charlotte had been betrothed.”
“Yes. Charlotte jilted me. It’s quite all right to say it.” He almost relished the pain hearing the words brought him—though this time he felt only a dull ache. “Believe me, every last member of the ton knows of it.”
Miss Wilkinson frowned. “I can see that would be rather”—she paused as if searching for the correct word— “uncomfortable, but it was a very good thing she broke it off.”
He felt like he’d taken a flush hit to his breadbasket. “Am I so bad then?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone light.
Miss Wilkinson’s brows shot up—and then she scowled at him. “Of course not. This has nothing to do with you.”
He snorted. How could a broken betrothal have nothing to do with him? Clearly, he hadn’t been able to hold Charlotte’s attention, let alone inspire any warmer feelings in her.
Miss Wilkinson dropped her voice even more so that he had to lean closer to hear her. “Lady Charlotte has loved Septimus all along. Her father forced her into the betrothal with you.”
Zeus! This just got worse and worse. Had he really been that blind? “And how do you know this?”
“I overheard her tell Septimus just now.”
He closed his eyes, mortification and self-loathing churning in his gut. What a bloody fool I’ve been. Did everyone but me see the truth?
But truth was truth, and no amount of wishing things were different would change that. Clearly, he needed to do some serious thinking about himself, women, and marriage before he tried again to find a wife.
“I’m sorry. I thought you should know.”
“Yes.” He didn’t want Miss Wilkinson’s pity. And he certainly didn’t want to pursue the subject any further. A distraction was needed. “Do let me show you the fountain,” he said at his normal volume. “Diana is especially proud of it.”
“Shh,” Miss Wilkinson hissed. “Charlotte and Septimus might hear you!”
“Miss Wilkinson, if they’ve not made their presence known by now, they are long gone. We might have kept our voices low enough that they couldn’t make out our words, but unless they are deaf they were very aware we were close by.”
Miss Wilkinson looked for a moment like she would argue, but then she sighed. “I suppose you are right.”
“Of course I’m right. Now do come along. Once Diana knows you’ve been in the garden, she’s sure to ask you your opinion of the fountain.”
Miss Wilkinson let him lead her into the clearing—and smiled broadly, as if she couldn’t stop herself.
“Oh, how beautiful.”
“Yes.” The fountain wasn’t elaborate, but something about its simplicity along with the water and moonlight gave the clearing a magical feeling.
Or perhaps the real magic was being here with this particular woman—
No. No magic. No thinking or planning or feeling anything with regard to this or any woman for a good long while.
They stopped close to the fountain’s edge.
“Why were you strolling the garden alone, Miss Wilkinson?” he asked. That was odd. “I got the impression at dinner that you planned to run off to your room at the first opportunity.”
Her chin went up at his words, and he swallowed a smile. She was far too easy to tease.
“I was indeed planning to go up to my room, but . . .” She hesitated.
“You thought that would look too cowardly?”
She frowned at him. “No. I, er . . .” She cleared her throat. “If you must know, Bea wanted me to meet her here.” She looked back at the water. “Since she hasn’t yet arrived, I assume she, ah, changed her mind.”
“Yes, she must have. She left the drawing room before I did.” He frowned. “Did she say why she wished to speak to you?”
“She . . .” Miss Wilkinson shook her head.
What was this? “Bea is only seventeen, Miss Wilkinson,” he said sternly. “She should not have secrets from her parents—or her uncle.”
“Oh, I suspect her mother knows precisely what Bea is about.” She raised an eyebrow. “How did you happen to come out into the garden tonight, my lord?”
That surprised a laugh from him. “Diana suggested I follow you in case you got lost.” So Bea was helping Diana do a little matchmaking? Foolish.
Miss Wilkinson laughed too. “Your sister was right—I did get lost.”
A breeze fluttered through the clearing, creating small ripples on the water and causing a few strands of Jane’s hair to fly in front of her face. Without thinking, he reached out and pushed the errant strands back. He’d do the same for Bea or any of his nieces.
The hair was soft and silky and smooth. It caressed his fingers . . .
He did not feel the least bit avuncular now.
Don’t be an arse. She’s the Spinster House spinster. She’s happy with her independence. And you’ve sworn off romance for the foreseeable future.
But the quiet, the moonlight, the privacy of the clearing wove together to draw him to this woman. He stepped closer.
Has Isabelle Dorring’s curse taken hold of me? Because I certainly feel bewitched.
He took a deep breath to steady himself and inhaled Jane’s scent. It went straight to his head like a glass of brandy on an empty stomach. He felt slightly drunk. And reckless.
And totally uninterested in abiding by his new rule against romance.
They’d decided at dinner to use Christian names, hadn’t they? Diana had said this was an informal, family gathering.
Miss Wilkinson is not your family.
He ignored the faint voice of reason. It had no place here in the magical moonlight.
“May I call you Jane?”
He watched her swallow, saw the tip of her tongue dart out to moisten her lips.
“Yes.” She was back to whispering.
“And you must call me Alex.” He was whispering too.
“A-Alex.” Her expression softened as her fingers brushed his cheek. The touch was fleeting, but it shot through him to lodge in his heart—and his less noble organ. “Were you very hurt when it happened?”
He knew what she was asking, but he said the words anyway. “When Charlotte jilted me?”
She nodded.
He’d never admitted it to anyone, not even Marcus or Nate, but here in the moonlight, in the quiet privacy of the garden, somehow he could. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” It was true. He no longer ached for Charlotte and soon—he hoped—he’d get over this feeling that he’d been played for a fool.
Well, he did ache, but in a different location and for a much different reason.
No romance, remember?
That was reason talking again. His head. His heart and lower organ had a much different opinion.
Just one kiss. I haven’t kissed a woman in so long. Just one. What could be the harm in that? I’ll stop at once if she doesn’t like it.
Reason wavered, and in that instant his heart—or that lower organ—snatched control. He closed the small space between them to touch Jane’s mouth with his.
She made a small, startled noise, so he drew back a fraction and waited for her to treat him to a thorough scold.
She didn’t. Instead, she gave a little sigh and put her hands shyly on his shoulders.
An invitation—tentative, sweet.
He touched his lips to hers again, brushing lightly back and forth—and won a moan for his efforts. He moved from her mouth to her cheek and then to her jaw.
But she stood so stiffly, almost like a frightened horse, ready to bolt at his first wrong move. Why? She was twenty-eight. Surely she’d been kissed before.
He nuzzled the sensitive spot just below her ear, and won another moan. Yet still she didn’t let her body relax against his.
Perhaps that was just as well. She might find the size of his cock more than slightly alarming. He was a bit alarmed himself—it felt as if it might explode. He moved his hips back an inch or two as a precaution.
“You aren’t afraid, are you?” he murmured.
That had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
Or perhaps it was exactly the right thing. It was time for reason—and sanity—to return.
She shoved on his chest. “Of course not. I’m not afraid of anything.”
He stepped back, beyond arm’s length this time, and struggled to recover his equilibrium.
Miss Wilkinson was not the sort of quiet, restful woman he wished to marry....
Oh, hell, I don’t know what sort of woman I want—and until I do, I have no business kissing anyone.
He bowed slightly. “I apologize for my behavior.”
She steadied herself against the fountain. “As well you should.” She shivered—though not, he suspected, from cold—and wrapped her arms around herself. “Where’s my shawl?”
“I don’t know. Did you have it when you left the house?”
“Yes. I must have dropped it on the path earlier.” She strode off, and he followed meekly behind her.
No, not meekly. Carefully.
“Here it is.” She stopped by a shadowy heap on the edge of the path.
He waited for her to pick it up, but she didn’t. Very well, he’d be a gentleman. He scooped the shawl off the ground and stepped forward to put it on her shoulders.
She dodged away. “Ah, could you shake it out, please?” His brows rose, but he did as she asked.
“Harder?”
He opened the shawl completely and snapped it several times. “Will that suffice?”
“Yes, thank you.” She took it from him and wrapped herself in it, hiding her lovely skin from his view.
A pity.
“What are you afraid—I mean concerned about?”
“Spiders.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not fond of spiders.”
He chuckled—and she glared at him.
“You know, Nate, Lord Haywood, is afraid of spiders too.”
She raised a skeptical brow.
“Well, he was when he was a boy. I made the mistake of dropping one in his bed at school and it was not well received.”
That was putting it mildly. Nate had screamed like a girl—he looked at Miss Wilkinson and decided she would not approve of that description—and leapt out of bed. And then he’d chased Alex down the corridor, cursing and promising to beat him to a bloody pulp.
“I should think not.” She gave him a reproachful look.
“Yes, well, I did apologize profusely.” He offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the relatively spider-free house.”
They walked back in uneasy silence.