It was all because of him, of course. Wallingford. She had tried hard these past weeks, to forget him. She had worked herself into exhaustion, trying to erase him from her mind. Sometimes she thought she had succeeded. It was only in the darkest hours of night when she dreamed of him, and his hands touching her body, that she realized she’d failed. She doubted she could ever forget him, or the kind of pleasure he had awakened in her.
She was loath to see him again, but knew it was inevitable. He was friends with Anais, and her fiancé. He would attend the wedding. And Jane would be forced to see him. Except the last time they had seen each other, he had treated her like rubbish, and she had possessed a cockney accent.
Lord, what was she to do? One thing was for certain, she could not allow him to discover that it had been her who had cared for him in the hospital.
“My favorite niece marrying, and a future marquis at that,” Lady Blackwood said with a self-satisfied grin as she gazed out the window.
Jane smiled and nodded, determined to forget Wallingford for the time being. “I am happy for Anais. She deserves her prince.”
“Indeed she does. She has loved Lord Raeburn for a heap of years. I have prayed so often that God might have it in his plan to marry them to one another. After the events of last winter, I despaired of it ever happening.”
“True love has a way of always coming out the victor, don’t you think?”
“What would the two of us know about true love?” Lady Blackwood said with a chuckle.
“Indeed,” Jane muttered as she once again focused on the countryside that was whirling past her window.
“I am very pleased that you agreed to act as Anais’s maid of honor,” Lady Blackwood continued, heedless of Jane’s inner melancholy. “I do not understand why you hesitated in the first place. You’ve been friends for years. Who else should it have been?”
A lady of similar background. The daughter of a marquis. Most certainly not some guttersnipe who was her aunt’s companion. But as always, Lady Blackwood chose to ignore and forget that her companion was not of her world, or that of her niece’s.
“Perhaps Ann will suddenly be well by tomorrow.”
“Red measles linger, Jane. I doubt Ann will be in any shape to walk down the aisle with Anais. Besides, red spots are most unbecoming in a lady.”
Jane halfheartedly smiled and let the curtain drop back into place. “It shouldn’t be me. I’m not family.”
“Jane, dear, you really must not dwell on your past. I have told you that your humble beginnings and your pedigree do not interest me. Moreover, Anais feels the same way as I.”
“I am not fit to act as Anais’s maid of honor, your ladyship, and you know it. In fact, I am fortunate to even act as a companion. By rights I should still be living in the parishes or struggling to obtain a post as a chambermaid.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Blackwood said with a scowl. “You are far too intelligent for such menial tasks. You are a lady of considerable breeding. It is not just a matter of it being in the blood, you know.”
Unable to win the argument, Jane let the topic drop. In her employer’s eyes, she was simply a young woman who had once fallen on bad times. A woman she had taken under her wing and tutored. When Lady Blackwood had found her, Jane had been a parentless, homeless waif in need of food, shelter and protection.
“Jane, you’ve not been yourself these past weeks. I can’t understand it. What’s happened?”
“Nothing has happened.”
“Jane, you can tell me.”
What, that I was duped into believing that I meant something to Matthew? That my silly, idealistic fantasy brought me nothing but humiliation and hurt? By God, her pride still stung, and her heart continued to weep blood every time she thought of him.
Good Lord, she should be done pining for him and what she had thought he was. He was the Earl of Wallingford. Not Matthew. He was a womanizing blackheart, not worthy of her notice or her favors.
“Dr. Inglebright is worried about you.”
Jane met Lady B.’s rheumy gaze. “He worries about a great many things, I am only one of them. He needs a break away from the hospital.”
“He is getting that. He told me he has been invited to stay in the country with the Duke of Torrington.”
Jane arched her brow. It wasn’t like Richard to be courted by the aristocracy. She couldn’t imagine it was his doing. More like his father’s, she suspected. Even though he was a doctor, Richard still had obligations to his family, and this was one of those occasions where he had to bow to his overbearing father’s wishes.
She had heard of the duke, but had never met him, or knew anything about him. Lady Blackwood’s reputation did not allow for her or Jane to go to any tonnish events, but that did not stop them from reading, and enjoying, the gossip in the newspapers.
“By the by,” Lady Blackwood murmured, “I had an opportunity to question my niece about the guest list for this weekend. I fear that there is a guest who might prove a bit upsetting to you.”
“Oh?” Worse than Wallingford? She couldn’t imagine it.
“Thurston will be there. It seems the old earl is a bosom bow of the groom’s father. I understand he has confirmed that he will be staying the entire weekend.”
All thoughts of Matthew flew out of her mind, replaced with the horror of the past. Sweat prickled Jane’s scalp beneath her bonnet. She did not want to see the earl. She wanted nothing to do with the lecherous beast. The last time she had crossed paths with the earl, he had decided to beat the daylights out of her with his brass-embossed walking stick.
That had been fourteen years ago.
Thurston had been an acquaintance of her mother’s. No, not an acquaintance, Jane thought sourly, but a customer. After her mother had died from drinking herself to death, her mother’s protector had sold Jane to the earl to pay her mother’s debts. She’d been but a child at the time.
At first Jane had gone willingly, assuming that she would be put to work in the kitchens, but when it was made clear the earl had purchased her virginity, Jane had flown into a fury. A fury that had been matched by the ruthless Thurston who had beaten her, then attempted to rape her. Her struggles and screams had only ignited Thurston’s lust, and Jane had barely escaped his clutches with her virginity and life intact.
“We will endeavor not to cross paths with Thurston,” Lady Blackwood muttered as her shoulders swayed in time to the carriage movement. “You will certainly not be expected to speak to him. I shall cut him as I always do. If he decides to stiffen his spine and approach me, I shall have Raeburn rescue us. Anais has already spoken to her intended about Thurston. My niece informs me that Raeburn will be watching.”
“Perhaps I might just stay in my room for the weekend,” Jane muttered as she relived that night, standing out in the rain, hungry and cold and seeking refuge from the elements and the pain in her body from Thurston’s beating. Thank God Lady Blackwood had stumbled across her a few hours later after returning from a friend’s house.
“If it were any other event, I would have declined the invitation, rather than risk a chance of a run-in with Thurston,” Lady Blackwood said, pulling Jane out of her memories. “But I am afraid that I cannot miss dear Anais’s wedding. I also fear, that as the maid of honor, you cannot reasonably spend your time cowering in your room.”
No, she could not.
“I thought it best that you know ahead of time, dear. I know you will want to be prepared for any surprises.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Lady Blackwood smiled affectionately and pressed forward. Laying a reassuring hand atop Jane’s folded hands, she patted Jane’s trembling fingers. “Stiff upper lip, Jane, dearest. The old goat will not get the better of you, or me, for that matter. Show him you are made of better stuff than he. Let him know that he never broke your spirit.”
Nodding, Jane continued to keep her gaze averted from Lady Blackwood. The world outside whirled by, all bright and welcoming, while the dar
kness of her thoughts and the memories of her unhappy childhood raged like a tempest inside her.
For the next hour, Jane waged a private internal war. It had been a long while since she had allowed herself to recall the miseries of her past. Memories that were left best buried threatened to reawaken, and Jane shoved them ruthlessly deeper. She refused to think of her mother—the mother who could not live without a man in her life. Her father, a selfish aristocrat who wanted nothing to do with her. Her mother’s protector, who wanted to sell her to a lecherous old man after her mother died. She refused to think of any of them, and the hell the three of them had put her through.
With a little shake of her head to clear her mind of the disturbing memories, Jane leaned forward and squinted against the glare on the glass. Beyond the gentle slope of grass loomed the Marquis of Weatherby’s enormous mansion. An Elizabethan palace, three stories high, it was also the home of the marquis’s son, Viscount Raeburn. Eden Park, as the estate was named, was the stage for Lord Raeburn’s wedding to Lady Blackwood’s niece.
The sun-baked limestone country house rose above the valley in which they were traveling, like a mammoth iceberg rising from the sea. Sitting forward on the bench, Jane pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose, watching in wonder as the mansion grew larger as they approached. Imagine being mistress of such a place, Jane thought in wonder.
Jane finally tore her gaze from the rolling green hills and turned her face from the window. She saw that Lady Blackwood was watching her intently with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“You know, Jane, that I am always here if you need to confide in anyone. I would hope, dear, that you would trust me in matters close to the heart.”
Lady Blackwood was looking at her with shrewd scrutiny. Jane felt herself shrink back from that knowing gaze.
“Thank you, my lady. I do feel quite comfortable speaking plainly with you. Although, I do not have anything to converse with you about at the moment.”
Lady Blackwood arched her brow and sat back against the squabs. Jane knew without a doubt that Lady Blackwood’s intelligent mind was busily trying to fit all the pieces together.
No one knew her as well as her employer, and Jane was well aware that Lady Blackwood suspected Jane was harboring secrets. God help her if Lady Blackwood ever discovered what had happened at the hospital, or in Wallingford’s carriage. What would she say if she were to discover that Jane had once fancied herself in love with Lord Wallingford!
“You are very quiet this afternoon, Jane. You seem to be in deep thought.”
“I underestimated him and allowed him to humiliate me,” Jane murmured absently then caught herself. She had not meant to say that aloud. Fortunately, Lady Blackwood appeared not to hear her.
She really needed to gather her thoughts and her considerable control. Her behavior was irrational, moody, not at all in keeping with her steady character. More than once Lady Blackwood had commented on it. Jane knew it was only a matter of time before her employer demanded to know what was causing Jane to shirk her duties as an attentive companion.
Damn it all! She could not stop from continuously thinking about Wallingford and all that had happened between them.
She had erred. She had done something she had never allowed herself to do before. She had hoped. She had dreamed. And all those dreams had centered around a man she thought was the missing piece of her soul. A man who could read her thoughts and actions so well. A man who truly looked beyond her facade to the depths that were hidden beneath.
Silly romantic twit! Her desire to be desired was nearly her ruination, and all at the hands of the most notorious debaucher in England.
“Look, here we are at last!” Lady Blackwood cried with glee.
Jane looked at the house and swallowed hard, wondering if Lord Thurston would already be there, lying in wait to pounce on her one more time. Or worse, Wallingford.
God, she hoped not. She didn’t think she could handle any more surprises.
10
“Smoke?”
Raeburn declined the offered cheroot with a shake of his head. “Anais can’t abide the smell of it.”
Matthew snorted and put the cheroot to his mouth. Striking a sulfur match, he lit the end of it and puffed, making a great display of smoke. “Seems like a lot of rules and inconvenience when one seeks to please a lady. Myself, I don’t give a damn, and I suspect I am happier for it.”
Raeburn chuckled and continued to look out the salon window that overlooked the drive and the steady stream of conveyances that carried the wedding guests.
“I am the happiest of men, Wallingford. You, of all people, know that.”
Matthew gave an inelegant grunt and blew a cloud of smoke up into the air. “But how long will said happiness last. A year? Two?”
“A lifetime.”
Not bloody likely. However, who was he to drive the joy out of his friend, and on this, the day before he was to wed? Let him keep his hopes for a lifetime of love. He knew better. Nothing lasted a lifetime, least of all the love for a woman.
“She’ll give me the devil for telling you, but I am afraid I cannot contain myself.” Raeburn turned his face from the window. A smug, masculine grin widened his mouth. “Anais is with child.”
“Randy old goat.” Matthew laughed as he congratulated his friend with a hearty slap between the shoulders. “Christ, you’ve anticipated the marriage bed. I’m shocked.”
“I’m not a saint,” Raeburn said with a leer. “I’ve bedded her every chance I’ve had.”
“Better take it a wee bit slower. You’re going to be married to the woman for a lifetime. There are only so many carnal delights. What can be left to experience?”
“Many. For instance, making love to one’s wife while she is big with your child is an experience I cannot wait to try.”
Matthew frowned. “Fat and awkward. Not my idea of a good tumble.”
Raeburn studied him quietly. “Truly? You do not feel a sense of possession when you think of the woman who will bear your sons and daughters? Imagine a woman ripe with your babe inside her. Is there any other thought that makes you feel more manly and virile?”
“I had three wenches at the same time last week at Recamier’s. I felt damn virile and manly, I assure you.”
“Be serious for once,” Raeburn chastised.
“I am being serious. The logistics were a bit trying, but after a few goes, they got the way of it.”
Raeburn’s smile faded. “Think on what I am saying, Wallingford. The woman you love carrying your child. Watching a part of yourself growing inside of her, feeling it move. The profoundness of it. The rightness.”
Stomping out the end of his cheroot, Matthew looked away from the intensity and the probing he saw in his friend’s eyes. He did not want to think such things, for he knew that the miraculous love Raeburn felt for Anais was not to be his. Any woman impregnated with his seed would be by accident and by the way of a one-night stand or a woman who had the misfortune to become his wife and thus a brood mare for the ducal dynasty.
What Raeburn had with Anais was the rarest love he had ever seen. It had survived through childhood and adolescence, past young adulthood and numerous betrayals to survive and flourish. He had never seen that kind of love, and he knew without a doubt that such a thing would never be his.
But did he even want such a thing? He always thought not. A wife was too stifling, children too loud and dirty. Marriage and brats meddled with a man’s routine and a man’s home. He did not want a wife and brats, but he could not deny it to himself, he had thought of a woman carrying his babe. Once. One unguarded moment in the middle of the night, he had thought of a woman dressed in a drab gray gown, a black veil covering her face, her delicate gloved hand caressing her swollen belly. And he had seen his hand, ungloved and large, reaching out to rest upon hers. That night, alone in his bed, he had wanted a wife. He had wanted a child.
Shaking his head, he focused on a black town coach th
at was lumbering along the drive. Shaken from his thoughts, he raised his arm to lean against the window frame and assumed his bored, careless air, the one that hid so much of himself from the world.
“The trouble with pregnant wives, Raeburn,” he drawled, “is that they tend to lose their looks after they’ve given you an heir and a spare. In short, they usually continue to look pregnant when they are no longer belly full.”
“You’re wrong,” his friend dutifully protested. “I think they only look more beautiful to a man.”
“If you say so,” he said with a shrug. “Who is this?” he asked, pointing to the gold crest on the door of the town coach. It had pulled to a stop, and a footman, dressed in a powdered wig and pair of silk breeches and white stockings, was in the process of opening the door.
“That is Lady Blackwood,” Raeburn answered with a smile. “An original as a young woman, and a force to be reckoned with as an old one.”
“The woman who fancies herself a suffrage leader?” he asked, amused. “She’ll swallow her tongue when she finds out that I am in attendance.”
“She knows. Anais told her. You will recall that Lady Blackwood is her aunt. So be nice.”
“As a matter of fact, I do recall the old bird, and her frosty companion, as well. What is her name?”
“Miss Rankin.”
“Ah, yes, the unfortunate Miss Rankin,” he drawled, amused. The last time he had seen her had been in the late winter, in Bewdley, at church. She had garnered his notice because of the color of her hair—an unfortunate red mass that appeared unruly beneath her bonnet.
He had seen that particular shade of red before. The sharp-mouthed woman who had stomped on his pound note had sported hair that color. His teeth ground together. He still felt anger over the fact that Jane had run from him. Naturally, that anger extended to the woman who was brave enough to deny him any information of Jane.
“Has Anais informed you that Miss Rankin is to be the maid of honor?”
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