by Anna Small
As her passion grew, so did her boldness. She skimmed her fingertips over his jaw and up to his ears, exploring the curves and valleys there until finally locking her hands behind his head. His lips moved from her mouth across her cheek to a sensitive spot just beneath her ear. She pressed against him and held him tighter, an almost desperate sense of longing taking over her conscious thought.
She hadn’t realized she was clutching his hair until he gave a soft laugh and pulled away. She closed her eyes and listened to his breathing. His thumb drew a lazy arch just below her breast. She trembled, her arms now wrapped around his shoulders, which she clung to as if for salvation.
“We should both go to bed,” he murmured. “I will see you in the morning, and”—he swallowed, his heart still pounding hard against her chest—“perhaps we will play again. I do enjoy sharing a bench with you, my darling Miss Brooke.”
She gave a shaky laugh. Realizing she could now touch him as she liked, she shyly stroked the damp hair from his forehead.
“I suppose I am well and truly compromised.”
The thought should have struck her to the core with images of the torments awaiting her in hell for her unmaidenly behavior, but nothing but blissful euphoria overcame her.
He nodded, his expression teasingly concerned. “Aye. Well and truly.” He sighed elaborately, and shifted her on his lap, his hand dropping to her waist. “I suppose I will have to do something about it, before your father comes after me with the old Brown Bess hanging in his library.”
Laughing again, she nestled her head between his neck and shoulder, tears filling her eyes from the outpouring of love threatening to devour her.
“Papa would never use a gun. He likes you too much.” She felt his lips through her hair as he kissed her forehead.
“I have already spoken to your father.”
She looked directly into his eyes. The realization of what he meant soaked into her consciousness.
“When?”
“The other day, when you and your mother were arguing about what to serve for my supper.” He grinned, and she laughed at the silliness of it. “I should have spoken with you first, but you were insisting upon lamb, which is my favorite, so I went to him instead.”
She blinked back her tears. “What did you tell him?”
“You will have to wait until morning to see.”
She remained captive on his lap. She had no desire ever to leave her spot and tightened her arms around him. He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against his chest.
“I cannot wait until morning. What did…what did Papa say?” Her voice was muffled by the pressure of her lips against his neck.
“He told me, ‘Take her away from us, Blakeney, and good luck to you! She’s a lazy wretch and will bring you nothing but misery.’”
Jane laughed in surprise at his teasing, and he joined her. He cupped her cheek with his hand, tilting up her chin to gaze down at her face. “He also said,”—and his voice lowered to a husky whisper—“‘Be careful with your heart. She’ll take it from you, and it will be lost forever.’”
Her lips parted in anticipation of the next kiss. Just as his breath melded with hers, she murmured, “And how did you respond?”
The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip and dropped to her throat, which he caressed until she trembled. “I told him my heart was already lost.”
Closing the last bit of space between them, she pressed her lips to his, losing herself for another blessed moment. She would have stayed in his arms all night, forgetting everything else around her, but he had kept his wits.
“To bed, my darling,” he whispered, and for a moment, she thought he implied something else. Her heart skipped a beat, and she almost nodded, laughing a moment later at her confusion.
Arms linked, they left the drawing room. When they reached the stairs, she took one step before realizing he had not followed. She turned to see what detained him, but he motioned her forward.
“I will be up shortly,” he said. He held up his hand. “Look at me, Jane,” he whispered, leaning close and stroking her cheek. “I’m an old man, and you have me stumbling over my own feet.”
She kissed his palm the way he had kissed hers. “You are not so old,” she teased, remembering what Lucinda had said. She lingered on the stairs, holding his hand in both of hers. “Good night, Frederick.” Her heart pounded so rapidly she feared it would beat out of her chest. Part of her was relieved he showed restraint, but there was another part of her longing to explore all the mysteries his kisses only hinted at. Luckily, she would have the rest of her life to seek them out.
“Good night, sweetheart.” He brushed his sleeve across his damp forehead. She was puzzled why he still perspired when the house was quite cool. “I will see you in the morning.”
In the farmyard, a rooster crowed, causing them both to jump. She giggled. “It is already morning.”
He kissed her fingers. “Go to bed and rest. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day. Perhaps you will allow me another kiss.”
Despite a new bout of blushing, she didn’t avert her gaze. “Yes,” was all she could say. Before she could stop herself, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She was aware of his gaze following her as she walked upstairs. Almost giddy with excitement and weak with desire, she crawled beneath the coverlet, overwhelmed with the possibilities of her future.
****
Frederick waited until her door closed and returned to the drawing room. He knew exactly where Mr. Brooke kept his fine sherry in the cabinet by the window.
Cursing his bad luck in not finding a glass, he unstoppered the bottle and took a small sip, wincing at his lack of proper manners. The pain continued to scourge his arm and shoulder, and he swore under his breath, biting his lip until he tasted blood. He took a deeper gulp, finally setting the bottle down while he waited for a mellowing of his nerves to take effect.
A sort of restlessness had overcome him, mixing with the dull ache in his arm. Always the dull, pulsing ache that came on so quickly but could disappear a moment later. He’d lain awake, trying to think pleasant thoughts, but sleep stayed out of reach. And then he remembered his best friend, George Olivier, covered in blood and gasping out his final wishes.
The battlefield was noisy and chaotic, and the French had kept the regiment under siege for days. George, the better soldier, had taken command of their unit when the major fell. Frederick could still hear the shouts and cries, and saw George above it all, barking orders and bringing up a fresh line to the front, to their certain death. With a single look, he’d ordered Frederick back, and Frederick had known he would never see his friend alive again.
The musket ball hit Frederick’s arm, and George had stumbled back to him. Frederick could still see the anguish in his eyes, the snarl of agony on his face. He’d barely reached Frederick’s side when the second volley meant for Frederick struck him down.
He hadn’t realized he was crying. He swiped his shirt sleeve across his face, weak and trembling. No matter how quiet the room he was in or how peaceful a scene, he could never forget. Memories of the terrible day visited him every night, unless he had laudanum or a stiff drink to quell them.
But there was little relief tonight. He’d already drained the last of the laudanum he’d brought and would have to seek some more in Weston on the morrow. In the meantime, he would make do with Mr. Brooke’s sherry. He didn’t think his host would notice and intended to send a case of it to Hartleigh after he returned to London.
Guilt washed over him, mixing with the alcohol’s dull fire. Jane had either been awake already or heard him stumble his way downstairs in the dark and had decided to investigate. He’d hastily sat at the pianoforte in the guise of coming down for a midnight practice, so as not to arouse her suspicion.
The shameful memory of how she’d found him at Everhill still weighed on his conscience. He’d never drunk himself into a catatonic state before, but sometimes, his painful memories caught up with him until he
could neither stifle nor hide them. Unable to lash out at anyone to ease his despair, he turned his helpless rage inward, until it bubbled out of him, like molten lava—unstoppable and inevitable.
He buried his face in one of her mother’s quaint little pillows. Taking slow breaths, he waited for the cramping muscles to ease. But his spirit hand would not be quelled tonight. The tingling fire spread throughout his forearm and to his wrist, ending at the tips of his invisible fingertips. He groaned into the pillow, his entire body tensing and then relaxing as he forced a calmness he did not feel.
The floorboards creaked outside the door. He sat up and dropped the pillow. Had she come back downstairs? He wanted to prevent getting too close to her physically before they married, but she’d been irresistible. While she was in his arms, the pain had seemed to pass, or at least, fade a little. The kind of comfort he couldn’t find anywhere else he’d found in her.
The tired face of Mr. Brooke’s workman appeared around the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, there’s a rider from London outside. Says it’s most urgent.”
Frederick rose from the couch and strode past him into the cold outdoors. The rider handed him a note while the workman held a lamp aloft by which he could read.
“Hope it’s not bad news, sir,” the workman murmured, as Frederick wobbled unsteadily on his legs, a result of too much sherry and not enough sleep.
His sister-in-law’s smudged handwriting leapt from the page, an almost childish scrawl in the desperate message it conveyed. Frederick shut his eyes for a moment.
“It is. The very worst news, I’m afraid.”
He gave swift orders for a horse. There was no time to awaken Jane and explain. In a quiet voice, he gave instructions to the workman about his trunk and hurried to Mr. Brooke’s study. He scribbled a quick note and dashed outside to mount the waiting horse.
In a few lines on a page, his life had changed forever. The euphoria he’d found in Jane’s arms was over.
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you mean, Frederick’s gone? He didn’t even say goodbye!” Jane blinked back stinging tears. She’d gone to sleep with dreams filled with love and had awakened to a nightmare. “He had another week…we meant to walk to Weston…”
“You spent far too much time with him, if you ask me, my girl,” her mother said. “A third son…one-armed, at that…without a fortune, without…”
“He left you a note, Jane,” her father mercifully interrupted. “He received word early this morning that his brother’s illness has worsened. He left before dawn.”
“Harrumph,” her mother snorted. “The earl will pass without an heir, and your Colonel Blakeney’s nowhere near in line to inherit. It shall all go to the second brother. Now, he’s the one you should meet, Jane.” She perked up. “Where did the colonel say his brother lives? The Indies? Where Rosalind’s pearls are from?”
Jane had already taken the letter from her father and collapsed on the bench where she had spent the happiest moments of her life the night before. Nausea welled up inside her, and she feared she would be sick all over her mother’s carpet. What if the day before had been a mistake, and he was rejecting her kindly? Perhaps the tenderness in his eyes had been a ruse, a mere trick to steal a kiss from one who had so easily kissed before…
Tears blurred her vision as she stared at the note. The letter contained only a few words, written on her father’s good cream-colored foolscap with his best pen and the blackest India ink. Frederick’s writing slanted, just like hers, and he signed his name exactly the way she’d thought he would.
Marry me. Frederick.
She raised her tear-streaked face to her father, who wore a satisfied look.
“He spoke to me yesterday, while you and Mamma were in the parlor. He has a sound fortune, though only being a third son.” He darted a glance at his wife, who stared at them both as if she didn’t recognize them. “I gave him my permission, and gladly. He will be a fine addition to your collection of wealthy sons-in-law.”
“What is all this? Mr. Brooke, to whom have you given your permission and for what task?”
Jane leapt from her seat and threw her arms around her mother, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “I’m going to marry Frederick!” she cried. When her mother simply stared at her, she exclaimed, “Colonel Blakeney!”
“Mr. Brooke! Are you going to stand there and listen to this? I know Jane’s not had any suitors before, but to throw your last unwed daughter at a man who’s not whole, a man who…”
“I know not to what you are referring, my dear, but Frederick Blakeney is as whole a man as I’d ever wish to call son. Jane loves him, and he loves her, and that is whole enough.”
“Well, how much has he a year? Surely, Jane can do better than a poor soldier.”
“I have been most assured he has more than Copeland and slightly less than Shelbourne.” He patted Jane’s arm. “Write him back, quickly, and we’ll send your letter with the afternoon post.” His eyebrows arched. “Although I am quite certain he already knows your reply.”
Before he’d finished speaking, Jane hurried into his study. Among the many items on his desk lay the other half of the foolscap Frederick had used. She laid her hands gently on the paper. He had touched this desk. Had sat upon this very chair. All the poetry Frederick had read came back to her. She sought to take inspiration from him, struggling to find the right words…the ultimate response to the ultimate question.
After a quarter hour, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and very carefully wrote,
Dearest Frederick, yes. Jane.
She blotted the paper and folded it, addressing it to Falconbury Park, London. She held the letter to her lips, kissing the spot where she’d written his name.
****
The clock springs wound with a subtle grinding of gears and chimed the time. Dawn was an hour away. Unable to sleep, Jane stared up at the ceiling. Her letter must have reached Frederick days ago, but she’d received no answer.
No word at all.
Hot tears slid down her cold face. She’d lost her appetite a week before, and not even music brought her any joy. She’d spent hours on her mother’s window seat, staring at the road leading to the village. Her father had noticed but kept his thoughts and concerns to himself. Mamma said not a word, but a permanent frown had landed between her eyebrows, and once she’d kicked a chair leg in passing.
I should have known better. Jane threw off the quilts to cool down and pulled them back up again when the frosty air chilled her. A gentleman like Frederick was not meant for a girl like her. After all, what did she possibly have to offer a husband, let alone the brother of an earl? She possessed few accomplishments and had never come out in society. She’d scorned the debutantes in Weston, though secretly she’d wished to be just like them, giggling and flitting around in their white gowns, their mothers’ best diamond brooches pinned to their hopeful bosoms.
If only she’d listened to her mother and not aspired to believing she could be Frederick’s bride. Mr. Smathers would do for a girl like her. She would have the running of a small household to keep her occupied and would probably get used to his guffawing laugh over time.
“Oh, Frederick.”
The sound came more from her heart than her lips. She covered her face with her pillow so her sobs would not disturb her parents.
Lucinda had been right about him from the first. He would never marry. His heart had been broken and would never mend. An elegant, beautiful lady with plenty of accomplishments had destroyed him for other women. Other women who could love him and give their whole hearts to him.
Better to forget him. Forget him, so she could return to a normal life.
A life without him.
She sat up in bed a moment later, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. A faint thudding noise outside broke the silence, reaching her through the closed windows. She listened intently for a few seconds, hardly daring to breathe in case she lost the sound. It grew louder, and she realized it
was horse hooves thrumming across the road and heading toward the house.
The tiny hairs on her arms lifted. She strained against invisible bands tightening around her arms and legs. She wanted to move but was terrified to do so, in case…
She sprang from the bed and ran out of her chamber, forgetting her wrapper and slippers. Her father’s voice called out sleepily, but she ignored him, pounding down the stairs the way she had as a child on Christmas morning. She struggled frantically with the lock on the front door, even as the footsteps on the other side crunched on the gravel toward her.
With a frustrated groan, she flung the heavy door open, ran three steps, and collided into him.
“Frederick!”
The sob in her voice stifled against his coat. He stroked her hair and face, brushing the tears from her cheek as he laughed. His unshaven jaw rasped against her skin when he kissed her.
“Forgive me for not coming sooner, my dearest,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear.
She was oblivious to the cold air piercing through her night rail until her teeth chattered. She clutched his shoulders through his heavy coat, sliding them up to frame his cold face. How long had he ridden in the night to reach her?
She rose on tiptoe as he opened his coat and wrapped it around her. It was utter heaven to feel the strength of his arms. To breathe in the scent of his horse on his clothes. To feel him strong and alive and here…
“My brother is dead,” he said.
His voice dragged her out of her dreams.
“I am so sorry.” She struggled to suppress her happiness and convey her sympathy. His eyes appeared shadowed and weary, and he seemed to sag a little.
“I must tell you something, before we go inside.” His arms tightened around her. “My brother has no children, as you well know. I’ve been in London longer than I wanted, because we were awaiting Edwin’s reply. He sent word a few days ago he would not leave India. He has disinherited himself.”
His words didn’t register with her. “Then, who is the new earl?”