But as he considered this evening and Thursday’s ball, and undoubtedly the balls and dinners and musicales and ridottos and Venetian breakfasts and God knew what else to come, his heart sank into his boots. Because his wife would no longer be purely his. During the last few weeks, he and Jane had existed in a luminous bubble, where they were everything to one another. Now society would claim her, and that precious intimacy would of necessity change.
“We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”
In her subdued voice, he heard the echo of a thousand previous occasions when she’d wanted something and hadn’t ended up getting it. Like the season her sister had been given and she hadn’t. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes, I think I would. The evening will be easier if your friends are there.”
It was true. “Your friends now, I hope.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “I’m too new to the group to make that claim, but they’re very fond of you. I daresay they’d like to lend their countenance to your wife’s first steps into society.” She paused. “And as you said, if people see that I’ve found favor with the Nashes and their circle, it might scotch any gossip. If I’m on good terms with Morwenna’s family, people won’t find it so titillating.”
Garson hid a wince. He always felt uncomfortable when Jane talked about his lost love, although he never detected a trace of jealousy in her tone. Most brides would resent his loyalty to another woman. Not Jane.
But that’s why you married her, isn’t it?
He tried to ignore the snide little voice. But it stubbornly persisted.
You married Jane because she wouldn’t make emotional demands and insist you mend your broken heart. You married Jane because you knew she’d make the best of a bad lot.
Was he a bad lot? He hated to think he might be.
“Hugh?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said impatiently, even as he couldn’t help recognizing how selfish he’d been when he proposed to Jane. He’d known he caught her at a disadvantage when she was about to become homeless. Now she was committed to a life without love.
After Morwenna left him, he’d resigned himself to a loveless future. But Jane was a warm, vibrant creature who deserved better than a husband who could never give her his heart.
A just man would give her leave to take a lover. Later. After she’d produced a couple of children. She deserved the freedom to fall in love, as surely she must. And men would fall in love with her. She’d whirl through London’s ballrooms, convincing every damn rake in town—as she’d convinced him—that the new Lady Garson was a prize indeed.
She should seek some happiness for herself, once she’d done her duty by her husband. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to picture her in the arms of some faceless cad. He made himself imagine her kissing the blockhead, taking off her clothes, lying naked in the sod’s bed, spreading her legs for the bastard.
He shifted abruptly on the leather seat and bit back a savage curse.
His wife might have a right to stray, but devil take it, he’d do everything in his power to keep her to himself.
Therein lay his dilemma. Until now he’d always believed he was a reasonable man, and that reasonable man pointed out that he wasn’t being fair. Just because he’d been unlucky in love, that was no reason to condemn his wife to an emotional desert.
Bugger it.
“Hugh, are you sure you’re all right?”
“I said I was.” His frustration with the conundrum made him snap.
“If you don’t want to go to the Oldhams’, we don’t have to.” She pulled her hand free of his, and in his blue-deviled state that seemed the first step toward forsaking him altogether. “It’s not as if we’re short of invitations.”
Invitations meant meeting men. And who knew which of those men might turn out to be the swine Jane fell in love with? Garson wanted to bundle her up in his arms, so she could never wander.
The worst of this was he’d brought it on himself. He could have stuck to his original plan to take her straight to Beardsley Hall.
Although there were men in Derbyshire, too. Neighbors and visitors, and guests of his neighbors. Not to mention the men she’d meet on trips into Derby or Matlock or York. The anonymous blackguard who stole her away mightn’t be in London at all. It wasn’t as if the provinces had put a ban on attractive coves with an eye for another man’s wife.
Danger lurked everywhere for a lady with an unattached heart.
Garson had entered this marriage, planning for a trouble-free future. A meek wife. Obedient children. Freedom to nurse his romantic disappointment, without anyone demanding what he was unable to give.
Instead he found himself confused and bad tempered. Obsessed with his wife. Jealous as a starving dog eyeing the only bone in the village. And hating himself for being such a blockhead.
Garson had a depressing suspicion that his mixed reaction to tonight’s success was only going to worsen as this visit to London progressed. He sucked in a breath that tasted rancid with self-pity and tried to sound like the affable man the world believed him to be. “Let’s go to the Oldhams’. You’ll enjoy it. It’s always a highlight of the season.”
A highlight of the season, and a one-way voyage to Hell.
*
Chapter Twenty-Six
*
Jane was still puzzling over Hugh’s odd humor, when she and Helena set out on the next day’s promised shopping trip. He’d seemed happy at Caro’s dinner, and she’d even caught a gleam of pride in his eyes when he saw her fitting in so well with his friends. Then on the short drive home, he’d been irritable and distracted.
She’d taken too long to notice the change in his mood, because she’d been brooding over what she’d learned about the Dashing Widows, particularly Fenella’s story about finding love after a crippling loss. She found Fenella’s courage inspiring and wished she could talk to Hugh about it. But he’d think she was trying to nudge him into forsaking his allegiance to Morwenna.
The humiliating truth was that he’d be right.
She’d wondered if somehow she’d blundered at the dinner, but when they got home, he rushed her upstairs and barely got her behind a closed door before he started pulling her clothes off. His passion had contained an edge that was breathtakingly exciting. No leisurely, sensual exploration, but fireworks and overwhelming pleasure, and the two of them collapsing in exhaustion.
He’d turned to her twice more, once in the early hours, then just as the sun came up, he’d taken his time to drive her mad with need before he took her on a journey to the stars. That encounter had extended into the morning and afterward, they’d both tumbled into a deep sleep. She’d had to hurry to be ready for Helena at two.
Now with weariness and satisfaction weighting her limbs, she had trouble concentrating on what her new friend said. Her new friends. Fenella had joined them at Madame Lisette’s, where Jane had spent the last hour, struggling to differentiate between hundreds of fashion plates, each more beautiful than the last.
Jane had been grateful to see Fenella. Not only was she the least intimidating Dashing Widow, she wasn’t Morwenna Nash’s sister-in-law.
Fenella laughed, as with unflagging enthusiasm, Helena opened yet another album. “You’re making the poor girl dizzy, Hel. You’re used to wading through all these choices. Jane isn’t.”
Helena looked up in surprise, then laughed as well when she saw Jane’s expression. “Do you feel like you’re drowning?”
“Yes,” Jane said faintly, stepping back from a table littered with books and magazines and falling into a chair upholstered in pink velvet. Madame Lisette, a petite bird-like Frenchwoman, loved pink. The shop was festooned in every shade of that color.
“And each time she comes up for air, you push her head under again,” Fenella said.
“Zut, I am too excited at the chance to make milady Garson un succès fou.” With a decisive snap, the modiste closed the album she w
as poring over on the other side of the table. “Would you like to see tout and choose for yourself? Or would you like milady West et moi to guide you through this forest?”
Jane gave a tired laugh. “I put myself in your hands, Madame.”
“And mine,” Helena said.
Fenella placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’m here for moral support, if these two get too bossy.”
Madame Lisette gestured for Jane to stand up—Jane had already noted that the Frenchwoman treated her clients with scant deference. “In that case, let’s look at you.”
“Trust Madame, Jane. She’s a genius,” Helena said. “I owe all my social cachet to her brilliance.”
“C’est vrai,” Madame Lisette said, her gaze running over Jane as if assessing every inch. “That is a très jolie dress, but too young and too staid for a milady in the first stare of fashion.”
Helena pushed Jane in front of a cheval mirror, as Madame continued her inspection. Reflected back, Jane saw a tall girl with red hair and uncertain eyes. She wore the ensemble she’d put on after her wedding, one of the two dresses Susan had brought down from London. The soft lavender was a flattering color on her pale skin and suitable for someone coming out of mourning.
But when she compared it to Fenella’s blue walking dress or Helena’s figure-hugging aubergine merino, she saw what Madame meant. The dress was pretty, certainly prettier than her other clothes, but dull.
“Milady has a superb figure. Clever cutting will show that off. And good skin—but you need strong colors, like crimson and fuchsia and peacock blue.”
“I’m not…” Jane began, afraid that she’d end up looking like a fairground monkey.
Madame ignored her and produced a tape measure from her pocket. “That bosom. Ooh la la. A woman with such a bosom shouldn’t dress like a nun.”
Helena laughed at Jane’s nonplused expression. “Well, she’s right.”
“And that hair. True Titian red. Magnifique. Quelle couleur. Not a lady in London has hair to rival this.” The delight in Madame’s face made Jane feel jittery, even as she soaked up the praise. She’d come to accept that Hugh liked how she looked, but it had never occurred to her that anyone else might share her husband’s eccentric tastes in feminine beauty.
“You’re too kind,” Jane said.
Madame made a very French sound of contempt and waved away Jane’s thanks. “Kind? Non, non, non. I am honest. The English never give praise to what they should and always with the tucking away of their pleasure in their own beauty. You are lovely, milady. I know it. Your friends here know it. Undoubtedly, your husband, the so ‘andsome Lord Garson knows it. Put yourself into my hands, and soon the whole world will know it. There will be no more hiding your light under a thicket.”
“Bushel,” Helena said.
Madame scowled. “Bushel? Thicket? What do I care? What I care about is making this retiring violet the tiger lily she was born to be—and turning her into the toast of London.”
Jane stifled a hysterical giggle. Dealing with Madame Lisette was like trying to hold a firecracker in her hand. Before this, her experience of London modistes was confined to Susan’s Mrs. Haines, who had exuded a grandmotherly air as she’d measured Jane up.
Then she gave you clothes worthy of a grandmother, a nasty little voice reminded her.
“Do you want to be the toast of London, Jane?” Fenella asked.
“Naturellement she does,” Madame retorted.
Jane looked around this elegant, if overwhelmingly pink room, then she glanced at Fenella and Helena. There was no doubt that they were confident of their place in the world.
She wanted to feel that same confidence. Perhaps she should begin by emulating how they looked. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I daresay I might.”
“Brava, milady,” Madame Lisette said and gestured to the two assistants watching procedures from a distance that it was time to move. “Enfin, let’s get to work.”
*
“I hope you were serious about not stinting on my wardrobe,” Jane said to Garson as they sat in the Wests’ box at the Theatre Royal.
The first act of the silly comedy had come to an end. If he was on his own, he’d go home. But Jane had never been to the theatre before, and while he might take little pleasure in the performance, he took great pleasure in her enjoyment.
He smiled, touched by her transparent delight in her new clothes. “If everything is as becoming as this dress, it’s worth it, even if I have to throw the dining table into the fire for heat next winter.”
“Helena kept ordering things. And Fenella said I should just go along with her.”
“One should always listen to Fenella,” he said drily.
Jane nodded, taking his comment seriously. “I’m finding that’s true.”
They were alone in the box. When the interval began, Helena and West had left to talk to the Kinglakes, who were just back from Italy. Garson had tipped the footman outside to keep any curious intruders at bay. As he and Jane were still officially newlyweds, the request should be respected.
Or at least he hoped it would.
The gossip mills were surely grinding at full speed with the news that Lord Garson had finally chosen a bride. The fact that nobody knew the lady in question would only stoke the fever of curiosity. He doubted Jane had noticed the stares—she was too in alt with her new dress and the novelty of a night out in London to see much beyond her immediate company—but he had.
He passed Jane a glass of champagne from the tray the footman had brought in before he took up guard duty. She accepted it and took a sip, as she looked around the sumptuous red and gold interior. “I’m glad we came. I got home completely exhausted this afternoon—you have no idea how tiring it is to stand still for hours while someone pins and measures and fusses. But I’d hate to have missed this.”
“I commend your efforts,” he said. “That gown is worthy of Helena.”
With an awed expression, Jane stroked the silk skirts belling around her. The gown was in a deep shade of forest green that added a jade tinge to her sparkling eyes. She was so happy and excited. How her restricted circumstances in Dorset must have chafed. With her wearing the height of fashion and her magnificent hair scooped up in a devilishly attractive style that seemed all loose curls, it was as if at last he saw her. How on earth had he dared to call this vivid woman a mouse?
Jane Norris wasn’t born to fade away in some backwater. She was born to reign like a queen. She hadn’t recognized it yet, although she was visibly pleased and surprised at the difference becoming clothes could make. But he’d noted enough glances toward their box to know that Jane’s days of obscurity were numbered.
The change sparked a fleeting sadness. He had fond memories of the shy girl he’d married. But he couldn’t begrudge her the coming success. It was like watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon and unfurl wings in all the beautiful colors of the world. Whatever else he felt about her transformation, he was dashed glad that those nun-like frocks were a thing of the past.
“Madame Lisette made this dress up this afternoon as a special favor so I’d have something nice to wear to the theatre. Oh, Hugh, you should see my ball gown for tomorrow night. I intend to dazzle.”
“You do,” he said with perfect sincerity. He smiled at her. “There’s not a woman here who can hold a candle to you.”
She took his hand. Once she’d been reluctant to touch him. No more. “You’re being kind again.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Just don’t tell Helena what I said.”
Her lips twitched as she released his hand and picked up her champagne. “She’s been kind to me, too. And West has requested a waltz at the Oldhams’.”
Hugh gave a mock growl. “Well, save me the other one and the supper dance. I don’t want to be the sort of husband who can’t get near his wife in a crush.”
He and Jane hadn’t danced together since those awkward childhood lessons. The prospect of twirling around a
ballroom with his lovely wife in his arms was deuced appealing.
She gave a snort of laughter. “You’re such a wag. You’ll probably have to dance with me all night to save me wilting away with the wallflowers.”
“I promise to come to your rescue if you can’t find a partner, darling,” he said, knowing that outcome wasn’t likely. He had a sudden memory of how cranky he’d been about Jane becoming the focus of masculine attention. But he couldn’t wish her first ball to be a disappointment. That would be too petty.
“Is that the done thing, to dance with the same man over and over? I’m woefully out of practice, but before Papa fell ill, I occasionally went to the assemblies in Lyme. A girl was compromised if she danced with the same partner more than twice.”
He laughed. “That doesn’t count with husbands, sweetheart. The world knows I’ve well and truly compromised you.” Under the cover of the back of her chair, he trailed his hand down her spine and briefly cupped the lush roundness of her rump. She shivered with sensuous enjoyment as he slowly drew away. He’d like to do more but damn it, they were in public. “Just in case you’re not sure about that, shall I compromise you again when I get you home?”
“Yes, please.” She leaned forward, eyes alight. “Would it cause a scandal if I kissed you?”
“Do I care?”
“Behave yourself, you two,” Helena said from behind them. Garson had been so focused on Jane, he hadn’t heard the door click open as the Wests returned.
“Killjoy,” he muttered, but he sat back and drank some more champagne. “How are the Kinglakes?”
“Avid with curiosity about Jane. They were most put out that you introduced her to us first. I’ve asked Sally to tea on Friday, Jane. Would you like to come? Sally’s great fun, and she’ll have plenty to talk about, as they’ve just spent the winter in Rome.”
“Are there any Caravaggios left south of the Alps, or did Charles buy them all?” Garson asked.
West smiled. “I gather the Kinglake art collection has a number of impressive new additions.”
Garson turned to Jane. “Charles Kinglake has a famous art collection. We must go and see their new pictures while we’re in Town.”
Lord Garson’s Bride Page 18