"Do you care to sup tonight?" he inquired.
Jane shook her head. "No, I think I shall retire, too. It has been a long day."
He made no reply but walked—slowly, it seemed to her—by her side. His shoulders were so close to hers that she could feel the warmth from them. It made her think of how wide they had looked this morning, how the muscles had shown through the thin fabric of his shirt. And she thought as well of how the shirt had been open, revealing the tanned neck and hint of dark curls on his chest. All at once, her stomach was aflutter and the warmth was coming not just from his presence but from deep within her.
They had reached the door to her room and Saybrook turned to face her. He was close, almost touching her.
"Thank you, Miss Langley, for a special day," he said softly, in barely more than a whisper. The candlelight played off his tousled hair and his eyes, which were fixed intently on her own with an expression that made her feel a bit dizzy.
"It was kind of you to come. It... made Peter very happy," she managed to stammer.
He nodded, but made no move to leave. Neither did he speak. He seemed to be lost in thought as he regarded the flickering candle.
"Good night, my lord." Jane's hand went hesitantly to the door latch.
"Wear your hair loosened from now on," he said abruptly.
Her hand flew from the latch to where her hastily pinned locks hung in disarray around the nape of her neck. "Oh, sir! I couldn't. It wouldn't be at all proper."
"Perhaps not, but... please do it." His hand reached out and slowly brushed a tendril away from her cheek.
Jane nearly gasped aloud as his fingers, barely touching her skin, sent sparks throughout her whole being. As she breathed in, she was acutely aware of his scent, a mixture of bay rum, the faint spiciness of wine and the earthy masculinity of exertion. She quickly averted her eyes to the floor, hoping that in that brief moment he hadn't read her desire for him to keep touching her.
His hand seemed to linger just an instant, then dropped to his side.
"Good night, Miss Langley." He turned and walked quickly down the corridor.
* * *
Saybrook paced in front of the library fire, feeling much to agitated to take comfort in his favorite chair. He sighed and gave thanks that he hadn't encountered any of his servants, for his physical arousal was all too obvious. Miss Langley was affecting him like no other woman—not even Elizabeth. He took a long swallow of his brandy. They had both been so very young. What had he understood of love? On that point, at least, his father had been right.
Elizabeth had radiated a fragile innocence.
But Miss Langley! She radiated forthrightness, honesty and a generosity of spirit. Yet there was also a passion lurking beneath her surface that inflamed his senses. She had ideas, opinions, feelings—he smiled ruefully at the thought of how her chin jutted out when she was arguing, how her sapphire eyes flashed when she was angry or espousing some point of view.
And tonight had he detected a flicker of some other emotion? He groaned aloud. When he had seen that look, he had barely been able to contain his desire. He had wanted to crush her to him, to cover those expressive lips with his own and explore her mouth with his tongue. His hands ached to feel the contours of her firm breasts, to see if her hips were as slender yet rounded as he imagined...
The throbbing in his groin told him he must stop such thoughts or he would go mad!
How miserably he had failed a woman before. How could he ever be sure it wouldn't happen once more?
But he couldn't deny that Miss Langley made him feel alive again. For weeks, there had been, almost unconsciously, a bond forming between them. More and more, he was drawn to her presence. His pulse quickened when she was around. She had penetrated the hard shell he had carefully constructed around his emotions. She made him want to rant, to shout, to laugh, to scream in exasperation—and to love again. He had fought acknowledging what was happening, but today forced him to admit it.
Yes. In spite of all his carefully crafted defenses, he had fallen in love, something he had vowed would never happen again.
As he watched the dying flames, he wondered what she would say if he asked her to marry him. Why, did she even care about him? Or would it be only the title and the money that would sway her?
Or would she think him mad?
Society certainly would. But he didn't give a damn for their opinion. There was only one opinion he cared for, yet he was also terrified of what it would be.
What would it be if she knew the truth about him?
The answer frightened more than he could admit.
All at once, the stem of his glass snapped in his hand. He stared mutely at the shards of glass on the carpet. Flinging the remains into the fire, he collapsed into his armchair, burying his head in his hands. Broken dreams, a broken life. Could he ever come to terms with what had happened in the past?
Could his life ever be whole again?
* * *
Jane somehow managed to walk to her bed. The blood was pounding in her ears and though the room was chilly, she felt a prickling heat at the back of her neck. She brought her hands to her cheeks and they were burning. Slowly, her pulse returned to normal and her breathing became less ragged. What was happening to her, that the merest graze of his hand could affect her like this? Her hands dropped to her lap and she stared at them, amazed to see they were knotted together in a tight fist.
She forced herself to take a few deep breaths.
The moon had just risen and its silvery light crept through her window, silhouetting a bouquet of flowers arranged in an old stoneware jug that sat on her dresser. The same kind of flowers that she had clasped to her breast that first afternoon she had run into the marquess.
It was strange, thought Jane with a soft smile. She had long ago ceased to think of him as proud and unfeeling. Infuriating, yes, and puzzling, too. But on seeing his relationship with Peter blossom, she knew of his depth of feelings, though he seemed to want the world to think otherwise.
And he was devilishly attractive! For some time now, every time he looked at her with those sea green eyes or flashed a lazy smile, she had felt a curious twinge deep inside. She had found herself thinking what it would be like to entwine her hands in his long, silky locks, to feel his lips on hers—shocking, she chided herself. But with an ironic smile she finally admitted to herself that she had fallen head over heels for Edward Sebastian Fleetwood.
She was in love with the maddening marquess.
How ironic, she thought bitterly. She hadn't thought it possible to want to give herself up to someone else and still be left whole—more than whole. And yet that was what she felt. Somehow she trusted he wouldn't trample her ideas, her spirit.
Saybrook had certain feelings for her as well, that she could sense. He had nearly spoken to her tonight, but what would he have said? A marquess could not think of offering a governess anything but a carte blanche.
The thought of him asking her to be his mistress made her feel ill.
Yet hadn't he made himself perfectly clear on how he felt about marriage, and aristocratic females in general? She bit her lip in distress. If she revealed her true identity, how could he feel anything but revulsion at her duplicity? Honesty. Forthrightness. That was why he held her in esteem. Certainly not for her looks or sweet disposition—she cringed at how many times she had verbally boxed his ears. He must think her a veritable shrew!
A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. If he knew the truth, he would think her no different than all the scheming Mamas and simpering young ladies in Town. She didn't think her pride could bear that.
Tears began to form as she wrestled with her thoughts. In a wild moment she thought of throwing on her cloak and leaving that instant. It was dangerous to remain. If he never knew the truth, at least he would never despise her, like he did all the other ladies of their class. But when she considered Peter, she knew she could not wound his innocent trust in such a cowardly manner.
Chapter 8
The next morning Jane awoke feeling tired and empty. The mirror revealed hollows under her eyes that betrayed how little she had slept. At breakfast, Mrs. Fairchild had voiced her concern, but accepted the excuse of a headache. Jane refused to accede to the suggestion that she return to her bed and insisted she was certainly well enough to give Peter his lessons as usual.
Even the boy seemed to sense that something was troubling her, for he was quieter than usual and quick to follow her every request. As she sat with him, working out sums on a slate, a shadow loomed in the doorway.
"Uncle Edward!" greeted Peter, twisting around in his seat.
"Good morning, brat."
Saybrook had just returned from riding. His hair was windblown and his face ruddy from the wind, which only heightened the color in his eyes. He was smiling, though tiny lines around the corners of his mouth hinted at a lack of sleep. His wardrobe had recovered from the ravages of yesterday. A cravat was knotted perfectly at his throat. His buckskins were spotless and snug enough to reveal every curve and muscle. The boots were a different pair and shone brightly, despite a powdering of dust.
Jane studiously avoided meeting his gaze.
"I thought after lunch you might like to ride over to Smythe's farm with me. They are breaking some young horses."
The boy's eyes shone. "Oh, may I, Miss Jane?"
She nodded, still not looking at the marquess. "Yes, you may, provided you apply yourself to these sums for the next hour."
"I thought you might like to accompany us too, Miss Langley," he added, giving a pointed look at her hair, wound in the usual tight bun.
"No, thank you, my lord. Not today," she answered, her voice cool and even. "Now Peter, twelve plus fifteen...."
A puzzled look crossed Saybrook's face as he turned to go.
Jane was relieved to have the afternoon to herself. Her thoughts were still in a whirl of confusion. She was almost tempted to take Mrs. Fairchild's advice and slip back into bed. But instead she donned her oldest gown and took refuge in the gardens, toting a wicker basket and a pair of shears. The soft colors and delicate perfumes of flowers always had a calming effect on her. She wandered through the paths, carefully clipping a lush bouquet from the profusion of plantings. The soft hum of the bees and the scent of lavender and roses made her feel better, if not happy, as she began cutting from a patch of gladiolas.
"Let me take that for you."
Jane felt a low thrill at the sound of the familiar, deep masculine voice. She turned in surprise, having not heard him approach, and dropped her shears in the process.
"I'm sorry I startled you." Saybrook bent to pick them up. "Still stealing the manor's flowers, I see," he grinned.
Jane didn't dare meet his eyes. Surely now that she had admitted her own feelings to herself, they would be more than obvious on her face.
"Thank you, my lord." She reached for the shears and turned quickly back to the flowers, studying them as if particularly engrossed by one of the stems.
Again a puzzled look came over Saybrook's features. "Is something the matter?" he asked quietly. "Have I given you any cause for... offense?"
Jane forced her voice to be steady. "How absurd, sir. How could a servant feel any such thing?"
He took her gently by the arm and turned her around. With a searching look he studied her averted face. "Look at me, Miss Langley. Something is wrong. I would hope that we have become good enough... friends that you will tell me what it is."
His hand was still on her arm, and she was achingly aware of it. Why, his very touch was making her tremble. As he sensed the tremors running through her, he pulled her closer in a protective manner. She should run, she told herself, and yet she was rooted to the ground. Against her conscious will, she found herself looking up at him.
His head came down slowly, and his lips met hers, gently but firmly. His mouth tasted warm and spicy, unlike any of the other kisses she had occasionally allowed a gentleman to steal. With those she had felt nothing but amusement, but now her senses were so overwhelmed that her knees might have given way if he hadn't slipped his arm around her waist and drawn her tight to him.
His muscular thighs crushed against her, the hard ridge between them pressed up against her. Instinctively she arched against him, drawing a soft groan as his mouth became more demanding. His tongue urged her mouth open, and when she responded, it thrust deep inside, tasting her, sending waves of fire through her every nerve.
It was her turn to moan. Without thinking, she dropped her shears and reached up to twine her fingers in his long hair, reveling in its thick silkiness. Their kiss deepened. Her own tongue hesitantly began its own explorations, surprised at how quickly it wanted more. Her whole being was aflame. There was a throbbing centered between her legs sending hot waves of desire throughout her entire body.
Saybrook gave another hoarse groan. "Jane, Jane, do you know what you are doing to me?" he murmured as he released her mouth to trace a path with his lips down to the hollow of her neck. "God, I want you so badly, I want to make you..." He paused as if unable to say the next words.
Jane forced herself to come to her senses. "Stop it," she cried, pushing him roughly away. "How dare you!" Her worst fears seemed confirmed. "You want to make me what—your mistress? Just because I am a lowly governess, do you really think I would stoop so low as to tumble into your bed on command!"
The hurt showed in Saybrook's eyes. "Jane—Miss Langley—you misunderstand. I want..." He faltered. "That is, I assure you my intentions are honorable...."
Terrified of what he might say next, that she might be forced to admit her secret, Jane flung the most cutting words she could think of at him.
"And were your intentions honorable towards Peter's mother? What has become of her?"
Saybrook recoiled as if she had struck him. His face drained of all color and, for a moment, there was a look of infinite pain in his eyes before they became steely, impenetrable. He stood rigid, not a muscle twitching. It was all Jane could do to keep from throwing herself at his feet and begging forgiveness for wounding him so deeply. Oh, for she knew she had cut him to the very quick.
But she told herself it was better that he should hate her rather than despise her.
There was a dead silence between them. Finally Jane spoke up in a voice hardly audible. "I will be leaving Highwood tomorrow morning. I think it best."
Saybrook's jaw clenched and unclenched as if he might speak. Instead, he spun on his heel and was gone.
Numbly, Jane gathered up her basket and shears. The array of freesia, lilies, roses and gladiolas, a moment ago so gay and colorful to her eyes, now seemed lifeless—poor stems cut off to wither away. She walked slowly towards the house, hardly able to take in that this would be the last time she would tread that path.
As soon as she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Fairchild's hands flew to her face. "Goodness, child! Are you alright? Did something happen?"
"It's nothing, really," she lied. "My headache has come back, that's all." She put her basket on the table. "I shan't be down for supper."
Mrs. Fairchild nodded sympathetically. "You go right up to rest, my dear."
"I'll fix you a nice tisane," added Cook as she came round from the pantry.
At that moment, Henry burst through the back door. "Is there something amiss here?" he inquired, a troubled look on his broad face as he surveyed the three of them.
Mrs., Fairchild and Cook exchanged concerned glances. "Why, not that we are aware of," answered the housekeeper. "Why do you ask?"
Henry shook his head in dismay. "It's the master. Just now, he came to order Hero saddled—in a rare mood, I might add. Then, why, he pushed little Jimmy outta the way in order to mount." He paused, still shaking his head. "I've never known His Lordship to touch a servant, not ever! And the look on his face—it was eno
ugh to make your blood run cold." He looked around. "Something must have upset him something terrible."
Jane turned and left the room without a word. Mrs. Fairchild regarded her retreating form with a concerned look.
"Oh dear," breathed the older lady, twisting a handkerchief in her thin fingers. "Oh, dear."
* * *
Jane sat on her bed staring at the trunk filled with her meager possessions which now awaited a footman to carry it down when the carriage arrived. A curt note had accompanied her supper tray informing her that it would do so at eight in the morning. As she glanced out the window she saw that William Coachman was indeed pulling to a stop in front of the main entrance. She heaved a heavy sigh and collected her reticule as a knock sounded on the door. She would never see Highwood and its people again, and that stabbing thought nearly brought on the flood of tears that wouldn't come last night.
Last night had been beyond tears. She knew that she had to tell Peter herself. After she heard Mrs. Fairchild bring him upstairs to bed, she went to his room. Enfolding his small form in her arms, she haltingly explained that she must be leaving. No reasons of course, just simply that she must go. Instead of crying or begging her to stay, as she expected, he had reacted as inscrutably as his father. He merely stared at her with the same sea green eyes and held her hand very tightly. It had been infinitely worse than any words.
This morning the deep smudges under her eyes revealed that she had found but little sleep during the rest of the night. She paused to look in the small mirror one last time.
Goodbye. Goodbye to Jane Langley.
Downstairs, Mrs. Fairchild dabbed at her eyes, then took Jane's hands in her own. "We shall all miss you very much, my dear," she said. "Promise that you will write to assure us you are well-settled. I wish that you might reconsider..."She trailed off with a questioning look.
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