“What in the world were you doing?” she asked, when he didn’t speak again.
“I was…well, I was…” he started to put his hands in his pockets, then seemed to realize he didn’t have any pockets as he wasn’t wearing a greatcoat, and let them lower to his sides.
“Trying to save a moth?” she supplied.
“Yes,” he said, a little defensively.
She frowned, thinking he wasn’t the most articulate person in the world. “Are you going to run from jar to jar, trying to save them all? I have to tell you, I don’t think it’s possible.”
He glared at her. “I’m not a simpleton,” he said. “That moth was very rare.”
“Was it?”
He nodded.
“Then you’ll be glad to know it seems to have decided against suicide for the moment. It’s right beside you.”
He started and then swung around to look. There, resting on the trunk of the tree the man had just fallen from, was a grayish-brown moth with a blue stripe on the lower portion of its wings.
The man ushered her forward to look. “Catocala Fraxini,” he said. “They don’t breed in England, but they’re occasionally sighted here. Blue is an unusual color to find in moths. This specimen is almost perfect—do you see how bright the blue is?”
Jane leaned closer, caught up in the stranger’s enthusiasm. That was something she hadn’t seen much of in the past few months—honest, earnest enthusiasm. The blue was rather pretty, she had to admit, a bright shimmering strip along the moth’s dull wings. “You’re not going to stick a pin in it, are you?”
He glanced up, startled. “Pardon?”
“I’ve seen butterflies and moths on display, and they’re always pinned to a board. It seems rather cruel to me.”
He searched her face, almost as though he wanted to deduce if she was being serious. When he seemed satisfied that she was, he smiled, and his wide smile changed his face—he didn’t look quite as awkward and stiff anymore. He looked more relaxed. Intelligent. He looked like the kind of man she wouldn’t mind knowing.
He pulled a palm-sized book and stubby pencil from his waistcoat—good Lord, how much could the man fit inside those tiny pockets?—and flipped it open. “I sketch to remember what they look like,” he told her. “I always found those collections rather cruel myself.”
She moved to his side so she could see the book. He tilted the pages to catch the candlelight from the jar as he flipped through, illuminating dozens of sketches of moths and butterflies, most of which had been filled in with color. The illustrations were so vivid and real she nearly expected them to fly off the page.
“These are wonderful,” she exclaimed.
He looked up, his face expressionless. “Do you truly think so?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I would be thrilled if I had half your skill. As it is, my watercolors are rather lacking. It’s one of my weaker points.”
The man seemed to have forgotten about drawing the moth. “What are your stronger points?”
She thought about it, tilting her head slightly. “The pianoforte,” she said. “And French. But,” she added before she thought better of it, “I don’t really care about those things.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t you? Aren’t those accomplishments a lady should be proud of?”
“They are,” she allowed.
“Then what do you care about?”
“I care about…my family, and my pets, and I’m happiest in the country when I can take walks that last half the day and return with my hem all muddy and there’s no one there to judge me and no one there for me to impress.” She stopped, breathless, and stared at him. “I shouldn’t have told you all that,” she muttered, embarrassed. She hadn’t been planning to say any of it, actually, but he had been looking at her with such interest that she’d started to ramble.
If men looked at her with interest lately, it was because they knew about her dowry. This man didn’t know who she was, so if he was interested, then it had nothing to do with her parents’ money. The idea was freeing. It had certainly loosened her tongue.
“No,” he said quickly. “I—”
He broke off when the sound of whispering reached them. Someone was coming down their path.
She gaped at him. He grabbed her elbow and hauled her back behind some shrubbery just as a young couple stopped in front of them.
Jane and her companion knelt down, each resting on the heels of their feet. The other couple wouldn’t see them unless they happened to move closer to the shrubs, and at the moment, there seemed to be no reason for them to do so. The woman laughed breathlessly as the man tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers slide down her throat in a rather slow, familiar caress.
“Will you kiss me?” the woman said, glancing up at the man coyly.
She leaned back against the tree trunk, letting the man lean over her. He seemed to suffer no qualms or indecision. He cupped the woman’s face in his hand and kissed her mouth…rather thoroughly.
Jane glanced at her own companion, wide eyed. He met her glance with his own startled one, color rushing to his cheeks. He looked away quickly, and a spark of tenderness unfurled in her chest.
With a hint of mischief, she cupped her hand to his ear, and kept her voice so low it was barely a whisper as she said, “I thought you were a naturalist. Surely a little kissing shouldn’t embarrass you?”
He made an incoherent noise.
She grinned and turned back to watch the show. He would think she was some sort of light skirt, as it completely went against all the deportment lessons she’d ever had, but at the moment, she didn’t particularly care. There was something about darkness and anonymity that seemed to throw inhibition to the wind. And curiosity wasn’t a sin, was it?
The couple, she noted, had moved to a more intimate caress quite quickly. The man was now trailing his lips down the side of the woman’s throat. She seemed to like this, as she arched her head back further and moaned. The man continued his descent, tugging forcefully at a low-cut bodice…surely he wouldn’t—
He did!
Jane almost gasped as one pale breast was revealed. The entire breast.
She craned her neck to see better, absently aware of a change taking place in her own body. Her heartbeat had quickened, and she was starting to feel hot, as though she’d stood in the sunlight for too long.
She bit her lower lip as the man ducked his head and captured the woman’s nipple in his mouth.
Jane glanced at the man crouched next to her, starting as she met his eyes. He wasn’t watching the couple anymore, he was watching her. But the moment their gazes met, he looked away again, and his cheeks, which had only been a little bit red, turned a deep crimson.
Had he seen her bite her lip? Had he seen something too stark and wanting in her gaze? Did he guess that her pulse was even now throbbing uncomfortably between her thighs? Good Lord, was he horrified by her impropriety?
Her own face flamed. Lovely. Now they both resembled ripe tomatoes. Tomatoes who were swiveling their heads about trying not to stare at each other.
She forced her attention back to the amorous couple. Oddly, it felt safer to watch them than the silent man next to her. But it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t safe at all!
She nearly cursed when a flash of white caught her attention, and she realized the man was pulling up the woman’s dress. This situation was quickly spiraling out of control. She’d expected a few stolen kisses, not…not…this! He was practically disrobing the woman against a tree! Did these people possess no decency?
Still, she was having trouble drawing her wide-eyed gaze away. There was something so deliciously forbidden about watching the couple—hearing the woman’s little gasps, seeing the man’s strong, caressing hands. Waiting, waiting, for whatever would happen next…
Goodness, Jane
was a wanton and she’d never even realized. It was a startling revelation.
It was even more startling, though, when her companion cupped his hand against her ear, as she’d done to him only moments before, and whispered, “I quite pity that woman’s poor back.”
Jane was so still, so caught up in the sensation of his warm breath fanning against her skin that it took her a moment to realize exactly what he had said. She drew back to look at him. Red still burnished his cheekbones, but in his eyes there was a flash of hidden amusement and something even deeper that touched her more—a hint of uncertainty, as though he wasn’t sure what her reaction to his jest would be.
Her reaction, when it came, was swift. She laughed loudly. Without stopping to temper it as she normally would have, as she’d been taught to do over and over again in her deportment lessons.
A long beat of silence followed her laugh, and then a curse, and then the rustle of clothes being hastily put back where they belonged.
“Who’s out there?” the formerly amorous man demanded, now sounding livid.
Jane froze.
Her companion stared at her, and then, knowing their hiding spot was compromised, he grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet. He started to walk them backward, his hand still clutching hers.
The man was peering at them, trying to make out their faces in the darkness. But she couldn’t make out his, so she assumed they were safe.
“We were just…uh…taking the fresh air,” her companion said haltingly. “Please do carry on with your…ah…business.”
Then, his hand tightened around hers, and he turned, pulling her along with him as he sprinted through the underbrush. When they stopped, close enough to see the torch lights by the balcony, but still in the cover of the trees, Jane was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
“You find that funny, do you?” he said. “I thought he was going to kill me.”
She struggled to control her unruly laughter. “Don’t be silly.” After a slight pause, she added, “He only would have challenged you to a duel.”
The man pushed up his spectacles, which had slipped down his nose during their mad dash through the gardens. “Which might equal a death sentence. I’m abysmal with pistols and swords, I’m afraid.”
“You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t know many gentlemen who would admit that.”
“Should I not have?”
She shook her head. “I like your honesty.”
I like you, she added silently.
Who was he, she wondered? But if she asked him to introduce himself she would have to introduce herself, and he would probably recognize her name. They called her the wagon heiress—the ones who weren’t after her dowry that was. They whispered it behind fans or raised hands, but never quietly enough so she couldn’t hear. And she didn’t want this night marred by names. Didn’t want him to think of her as the wagon heiress, like everyone else did.
There was peace in anonymity.
Before either of them could speak again, a familiar voice called her name. She gazed at the balcony to find her parents starting down the steps.
“I must go,” she whispered, knowing the uproar she would cause if her parents found her alone with a stranger. She turned to walk away, but then swung back, feeling like she needed to say something else to him. “I…I know it’s entirely improper, but I enjoyed myself more tonight than I have in months.”
A smile touched his lips. “I like your honesty,” he echoed.
She ducked her head and hurried toward the balcony, careful not to glance back at him. Her heart roared in her ears.
“Jane,” her mother exclaimed when she sighted her. “Where on earth have you been?”
“I was walking the paths,” she said.
Her father frowned. “Without a chaperone?”
“Just for a few minutes,” she said lightly. “The ballroom was so overheated.”
Her perceptive mother stared at her daughter’s flushed face with a raised eyebrow. “You certainly look overheated,” she stated.
Jane sighed internally. She loved her mother, but the woman was entirely too sharp. Jane started walking back to the house but noticed a small group of people waiting by an overarching beech tree that seemed to stand alone in the middle of the gardens. One by one, each person…whispered to it? “What do you think they’re doing?” she asked quickly, hoping to distract her parents from her own odd behavior.
“The duke and duchess said it’s a wishing tree,” her father answered. “If you whisper your wish against the trunk, it will be granted. At least, that’s the tradition.”
“How delightful!” she said, overly bright. “Shall we make wishes?” She hurried over to stand behind the few people who were still waiting for their own turn.
As Jane’s father looked on, her mother turned toward her, concern written in her expression.
“I won’t ask what you were doing,” she said, “as I’m rather certain you won’t tell me. But do use sense, my dear. Letting a man lead you astray could affect the rest of your life.”
“I know, Mama. I’m not a henwit.”
But she couldn’t imagine the man she’d met in the garden leading her astray, and she thought if he did have the opportunity to affect her life, it would be for the better. She doubted he would have the opportunity, though. He didn’t seem like he would be comfortable in London society, and surely if he had a high title he would be more accustomed to it? At that thought, a glimmer of disappointment touched her.
When the time came for Jane to make her wish, she stepped gingerly over the gnarled roots of the ancient tree to reach the trunk, then leaned forward and thought a moment before cupping her hands to her mouth.
“I wish for happiness,” she finally whispered against smooth bark.
Whatever vague thing that might turn out to be.
But as she moved away, a spectacled face swam into her thoughts before she managed to push him from her mind.
There was no point, after all, in making useless wishes.
Chapter One
Suffolk, 1815
This Summer
Lord Somerby’s wife had curly red hair that reminded him of a sunset, eyes that were a rich, smooth brown, a splash of freckles across her nose that she tried, unsuccessfully, to remove with a myriad of questionable skin creams, and a laugh that sounded like music.
She, also, unfortunately, hated him.
It had gotten so bad Stephen could barely look at her when they sat down across from each other at the dining room table because the strain was so evident in the pallor of her face. She regretted marrying him. It hadn’t even been a full year, and she already regretted it.
But then, he’d known she would. He should have listened to his fears. Instead, he had thought it fortuitous that for the first time in his life his own desires aligned exactly with his father’s, so he’d repressed his fears, pretending everything was fine.
Now, the effort of play-acting was so much weight on him that his back felt close to snapping.
“I’ll be leaving for London tomorrow,” he said.
His wife was silent for so long, he thought she was ignoring him, and a fierce pain penetrated his chest. Then she looked up. “Oh?”
Oh. That was all he was worth? She didn’t even look interested. “Am I invited?” she asked flatly.
“I didn’t think you would wish to go,” he said. She’d told him she was happiest in the country where she could walk for half the day and return with a muddy dress, so that was exactly where he’d taken her after their wedding.
In his imaginings, however, he’d expected he would take those long walks with her.
She’d never even asked him. She always just set off, cool, and proud, and alone. And he wouldn’t see her for hours.
“I thought we might need a…a break from one anoth
er.”
Her mouth twisted in a smile. “A grand idea.”
If he had been hoping for a protest, it was in vain.
“Why are you traveling to London?”
It was ridiculous, but the very, very slight interest she showed was enough to make his heart leap. “There’s a meeting of the Entomological Society of London,” he said. “It’s about butterflies that…well,” he trailed off when she looked down at her venison. “It would probably only bore you.”
She took a delicate bite and didn’t answer. She had a way of wounding him without saying a thing, and her arrows always found their mark.
“I might have our neighbors over from time to time while you are away,” she said after she’d swallowed.
He set his fork down with a clatter. “Which one?”
By which one, he didn’t mean which neighbors—they only had one neighbor within easy visiting distance. But at Linhurst, there currently resided two people, the Viscount Barton and his unmarried sister, who was about the same age as Jane.
Stephen didn’t care if his wife visited with Viscount Barton’s sister, but the man himself was notorious for going through women like he went through hats. Perhaps if Stephen and his wife were sharing a bed, he wouldn’t concern himself.
But they weren’t sharing a bed.
And he remembered the way she’d watched the couple they had stumbled upon (or more aptly, who’d stumbled upon them) at the Midsummer Ball. Jane was passionate. He worried that since she hadn’t found passion with her husband, she would look elsewhere.
And why should he let it surprise him? It was what aristocratic couples did, wasn’t it?
“Why, both of them, of course,” she said, oblivious to his fears. “It would be rude to invite one and not the other.”
The word erupted from his lips before he could stop it: “No.”
That served to tear her attention away from her dinner. She stared at him, her head tilted slightly. “No?” she repeated. “Why ever not?”
Yes, Stephen, he thought to himself savagely, why ever not?
“He has a poor reputation, Jane,” he finally said.
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