He bent to pick it up, letting the waxy leaves needle his fingertips. “I’d no idea you thought that, Jane. Of course I trust you. You’re fearsome, but that only means you make a much better ally than you do a foe.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure if you’re complimenting me or insulting me.”
“A compliment, I assure you.” He seated himself again, turning the holly in his hand. “I don’t trust me, Jane. That’s the difficulty. And as long as you’ve any regard for me, I can’t bear to tell you anything that might cause you to stop.”
“So you don’t trust me. Not enough to decide how I feel about you.”
“Is that all you want from me? I could tell you how to feel. Then I could be like you, laying down the law without knowing of what I speak.”
Again, Jane’s mouth fell open. Edmund felt a sort of barren triumph in having shaken up her impressions of him. Yes, my dear; the dog has a bark and a bite. Did you think he was entirely tame?
“I’ve listened to you, Jane, and I freely admit that you are right about a great many things. I haven’t trusted you as I should. But here’s a question for you: are you glad you married me? Or do you regret it?”
His stomach wrenched; bile rose into his throat, and he pressed his fist against his breastbone, willing it back down.
“Your stomach pain?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just think of the answer. Or—no, maybe there’s no purpose to that. We’re just as married in the eyes of the law whether you love it or hate it. I just wondered.”
The moment had passed, and he relaxed his fist. The holly leaves had been crushed in his fist; small cuts crisscrossed his palm.
“Are you glad or sorry?”
He sat up straighter and shook out his hands. “For myself, glad. For you, sorry.”
“For myself,” Jane echoed, “both.”
“Better than I hoped.” He rose to his feet, paced over to look into her Chinese vase, as though it held secrets and answers and all the wisdom of the ages. “It’s not enough, is it?”
“That depends on what you mean,” she said crisply. “There’s enough regard between us not to humiliate either of us in public. But enough to live under your roof again? No. I can’t bear it.”
“Nor could I.”
A startled gulp rushed from her. Instead of apologizing, walking closer to her, he strode farther away. Poking up the fire again, though the coals had already been scattered.
He turned his head; from the corner of his eye, he saw that she had wrapped her arms around herself. Yes, the room had chilled, but nothing in the fireplace would help that.
Edmund stretched out his arms to clutch at the mantel, fingertips holding tight to cold stone. His head half-turned, facing her, he said in a clipped voice, “I know you wish our marriage could be different. You want more from me. Well, I want to give you more, but you don’t want what it is I can give. You want some—some fake me. The real Edmund—he’s not who you want at all.”
He let his hands drop, then straightened up, still facing away. “And, Jane, when I see your hurt and disappointment that I’m not what you want, I don’t know which of us I’m more disgusted with.”
Jane clutched her arms around herself tighter, tighter, but there was no way to hold her heart steady, to keep it from being sliced. She swallowed. Waited until she could become the baroness: cool and collected. “We probably ought to have been this frank with one another before we married.”
“I don’t know if we could have been.” Edmund gave a harsh laugh. “I wouldn’t even have imagined this conversation. No one has ever put me through such trials as you.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” How many times had she asked him this question?
He shifted a few objects on the mantel. “It’s both, I suppose.”
Somehow that answer felt right. Brutal and jagged, it cut through the numbness within her. She chose her next words carefully, unfolding her arms and looking down at her hands. “I think we started off wrong.”
“In this conversation?”
“In every way. Me gambling, you trying to protect me. Sheringbrook cheating at cards. Any agreement made in a makeshift hell was sure to be a devil’s bargain.”
“You think it went wrong as early as that.” He was silent so long that she permitted herself to look at him.
He had steepled his hands, resting his chin on the fingertips. The firelight made angles of his features. He looked older and harsher than she recalled.
Or perhaps she hadn’t seen him clearly for a long time. Her girlish love had been for an idol of kindness, but he hadn’t known her at all. And what did she know of him? Only his ironclad decency; none of the demons that had forged it.
She could almost laugh at the absurdity. Here they sat face-to-face before a fire, to all appearances a contented married couple.
But appearances were nothing. And soon enough, she’d go back to Xavier House, and she and Edmund would both be alone.
How long would it be before he took a lover? Her mind shied from the idea, but she made herself think of it. It was inevitable. Why . . . just look at him.
She looked, and looked, and looked. Oh, that clean jaw. That strong-boned face, lightly freckled; those shoulders, broad and fit. She knew every inch of his body; she knew nothing of what went on inside his heart.
Eventually he looked back at her. “I won’t apologize again, Jane,” he said quietly. “Not for marrying you. I think we did each other some good.”
Her throat caught. “You covered my debt at a desperate time. That was very kind of you.”
He made an impatient gesture. “Kind, kind. I won’t be thought of as kind. It was selfishness, Jane.”
For a moment, she could only stare. “How so?”
“I needed a wife. I knew you wouldn’t be able to turn down my suit—well, proposal—if you were indebted to me.”
Her fingers clutched at the muslin of her gown, rumpling and creasing it. “I would have taken you on any terms. Any at all.”
“Then, yes. But now?”
With an effort of will, she shoved back tears. This kind, bright, beautiful man—how could he be so stupid? She left him, yet she couldn’t stay away. She hung holly and evergreen in his drawing room. What the devil did he think she felt for him?
She knew the answer: he didn’t trust in or want her love for him. He never had, and there was no reason to think he ever would.
So she mustered some dignity. “Things are different now.”
If she hadn’t known every line of his body, every flicker of his expression, she would probably have missed the tiny ways in which he collapsed. Shoulders sank, mouth tightened; such small movements that anyone else would have missed them.
Jane wished she had missed them, too. He was disappointed, somehow. In her, or in himself? There was no way to know. Edmund, of all men she’d met, turned his feelings inward and let himself be eaten away. Yet he kept the outside braced and strong. Already, he managed a smile for her.
“Why do you crave notoriety so?”
“Not ‘do,’” she murmured. “‘Did.’”
His smile went flat. “Whatever tense you prefer.”
“The tense makes a great deal of difference. I wanted to be noticed in some way because I never had been before. I was always just Xavier’s little country cousin. I knew no one would ever take note of me for my beauty or brains. Being outrageous . . .” She trailed off, her throat catching. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“Friendship? A husband? A mare, a maid, a modiste? Were these all to be thrown away for the sake of a scandal?”
“Not for the sake of one. The scandal was only an unintentional result.”
“Ah. So you threw it away for nothing.” He said this calmly, as though working out her preference on something commonplace like the disposal of used tea leaves. How and why should one dispose of a marriage?
And if she no longer wished to be outrageous, what did she have left? A bunc
h of old loves and desires, ill-fitting and ready to be packed away. Nothing to don in their place, except the longing for escape.
But the only person left to get away from was herself.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did what I thought was right.”
“And now?”
“I still think it’s right,” she said, for lack of anything better to say.
“Ah.” He moved to the L-shaped sideboard and poured out a snifter of brandy. He held it high, letting the light turn it to liquid gold.
Another man might have made a mocking toast to her, said something cutting or bitter.
Not Edmund. He was good to everyone, even the wife who had turned him into an object of gossip. He simply looked at the brandy for a moment, then handed the snifter to Jane. “I’m glad you came, Jane. It was time we talked about these things.”
“Past time,” she agreed.
For tonight, they had said enough. So she stood, and he followed her to the door. They made their way through the corridors in silence; not even their footfalls sounded on the carpets. Their weave worn thin with time, these antiques were faded history. Jane was but a moment in the life of this house.
When they reached the spiraling tiles of the home’s entrance, Jane remembered entering it on her wedding day. She’d taken her gloves off. Edmund had carried her upstairs and made her . . . no, he hadn’t made her his. At least, what they had done in that bedchamber hadn’t changed the matter. In one sense, she had always been his; in another, they had never belonged to one another at all.
Her hand reached up, stroked the line of his cheekbone. For a flicker of a second, his eyes closed and he pressed into her touch.
They drew away at the same time. Jane took her gloves from a servant and pulled them on.
“Thank you for calling,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She hesitated. “I could call again some time.”
“Or I could call on you?”
“As though we’re a courting couple?” They both considered the absurdity of it. As she picked up her reticule, Jane was first to shake her head. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”
So she left him. It wasn’t until the carriage had rolled away from the house that it occurred to her: she’d forgotten to ask just why he’d needed a wife so desperately.
Or—as her heart gave a little flutter—what good he thought she had done him.
Chapter 20
Concerning Plans and Plots
“Lady Kirkpatrick.” The butler trod so silently, Jane hadn’t heard him enter the morning room of Xavier House. “A caller wishes to see you.”
He presented her with a silver tray, an unnecessary bit of fuss for the lone calling card resting upon it. Such a tray should be heaped with invitations.
Well. Maybe not on a wintry Sunday morning. All the polite world was at church right now, except for Jane. Not that she had ever been particularly polite.
She snapped up the card. “Lady Audrina Bradleigh?” Not the name she hoped for, but it would be good to see her friend again. For Jane, London had shrunk to Xavier House and Edmund’s home. A bit more company in either would be welcome. “Please show Lady Audrina in. I’d be delighted to see her. And have tea sent in, too.”
The butler bowed and withdrew; a few minutes later, Audrina entered, dark and glowing with cold and color. Her pink-gray cambric gown was trimmed in rich red velvet; Jane made note of the shade. She ought to wear other colors besides green.
Shaking back the long sleeves of her celadon gown, she clasped her friend’s hand in greeting. “I’m glad to see you. We’re a pair of godless heathens this morning, aren’t we?”
“Not so bad as all that. My mother only attends church because she likes to look at everyone’s hats.”
Exactly why Jane had stayed home. She should have joined Louisa and Xavier, but she just couldn’t bear to be looked at today, hat or otherwise. The ton went less to lift their hearts in prayer than to lift their eyebrows and whisper to one another.
“I was feeling poorly this morning,” Jane excused.
“Me, too. Or so I said. I’ve a very convincing cough. Mother couldn’t wait to get away from me, lest I give her a cold that will make her nose all red.” Audrina flung herself onto the morning room’s sofa with alarming force. “My mother was dreadful, turning you away when you called. I’m so sorry. I tried to tell her you were calling for me, not her, but she just started giggling nervously and offering cake to all our other visitors. As if I wasn’t even talking.”
“Ehrm.” This was the closest Jane could bring herself to disagreeing with the my-mother-was-dreadful statement, as politeness surely warranted. “Your mother wants the best for you.”
“No, she wants the best for herself. Dukes for sons-in-law, and perfectly behaved daughters until that magical moment arrives.” Audrina leaned forward, her voice dropping low. “I’ve got to ask you, Jane. How did you get the courage to leave Lord Kirkpatrick? And how much money do you think a woman needs to . . . escape?”
Jane gave a hollow laugh. “You’ve no idea how many times I tried to calculate that very thing before I married.”
Audrina frowned. “But it’s your marriage you’re escaping, isn’t it? I thought—”
A footman entered with tea things, and both women went silent as the tray was arranged. Once they were left alone again, Jane folded herself onto a chair near Audrina. As she held a warm cup in chilly fingers, she considered.
“I think,” she began, “I’ve always wanted to escape one thing or another. My marriage is only the latest in a string of lives I’ve left behind.”
“Do tell.” Audrina abandoned her lazy posture, sitting up rapt. “Have you been a pirate? Or worse, an actress?”
Jane laughed. “That sounds dire, doesn’t it? I don’t mean I’ve been anything interesting. Just that I’ve never been happy where I was.”
Her brow puckered; she hadn’t realized how long she’d been running.
“What about now?” Audrina asked. “Is it better now that you’ve left your marriage?”
“I haven’t left my marriage. Only my husband.”
Audrina looked skeptical.
“It’s not the same thing. Though I can’t explain how. I just know that I don’t think it’s the same thing.”
Audrina still looked skeptical. “If you say so. You’re the one who would know.”
“I don’t know anything.” Jane forced a smile. “I’m no better off living in a different house. Escaping from something doesn’t help if you’re still the same unsatisfied pirate or actress at heart. Escaping to something might work, but I never had that part figured out. I almost did once, but—well. I didn’t have the money, in the end.”
“How much money? If one just wanted to go to, say, Scotland. And disappear. How much?”
The avid look on her friend’s face was giving Jane an uneasy feeling down her spine. She could imagine a future conversation with Lady Alleyneham: I may not know how to curtsy to you, but I told your youngest daughter exactly how to run off to Scotland! Happy Christmas!
“Are you all right? Can I help you with—”
“No. I’m fine.” Audrina lifted her chin. “I’m fine. Just wondering about some things.”
Jane tried one of Edmund’s dodges: answering a completely different question. “You asked me how I had the courage to leave Kirkpatrick. Really, it took no courage at all.”
Audrina blinked. “But polite society is so critical of you now, yet you’re not caving. That takes bravery.”
Jane waved a hand, setting her cooling tea to quivering in its cup. “I didn’t think of society’s reaction when I decided to leave, so it doesn’t count. Honestly, I just cut and run. It would have taken far more bravery for me to make a go of my marriage. To try to earn my husband’s trust instead of just assuming I should have everything I wanted, all at once.” Her hand shook, and she set the teacup down on a small table at her side. “I didn’t mean to say that. I—I hadn’t t
hought of it that way before.”
Their marriage had foundered in its first storm, but they hadn’t built it very solidly to begin with. Why should they have expected it to sail along smoothly for the long term? Had either of them thought that far ahead? No, marriage had been an escape for them both.
“But you shouldn’t stay where you’re unhappy. Should you?” Audrina sounded as uncertain as Jane felt.
“Not if you’re in danger.” Jane squinted into the cool light filtering through the room’s tall windows. “I wasn’t in danger, though.”
No, she had simply been on a hunt for happiness. Only the real article would do: bright and pure. Something Edmund hadn’t a prayer of buying for her. “But if I had no idea how to find it myself, why should I expect that he would hand it to me?”
“How to find what?” Audrina asked.
Jane only realized she’d spoken part of her thoughts aloud when her friend replied. “Happiness,” she explained. “The best escape.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Audrina sank against the sofa’s back again, a dreamy expression on her face.
For a few moments, the two friends let their thoughts unroll with the ticking of the mantel clock; then the earl’s daughter stood. “I’d better return home before the rest of my family gets back from church. Thank you for letting me talk to you, Jane.”
“Likewise.” Jane stood, shaking her hand in farewell. “Everyone else I’ve seen lately is a relative or a servant paid by a relative.”
“To be fair, your cousin did give me five pounds to call on you.”
“Ha.”
Audrina grinned. “I’ll try to call again soon.” And then she was gone, leaving Jane behind in the morning room.
The sudden silence seemed heavy and cold, and Jane busied herself with unnecessary tasks as her mind raced. She poured out dregs, stacked up teacups, poked up the fire, and wondered.
Wondered whether Audrina craved escape, with her questions about courage and money and Scotland. What did she want to escape from—or to?
Season for Scandal Page 21