“Where’s your accent,” he murmured, his mind blanking at the possibility. “You had a cockney accent,” he added, “when we met on the street.”
It couldn’t be. This drab, plain little wretch could not be his Jane. She was not the soft, vulnerable woman possessed of passion. A well of deep passion that was begging to be let free. A passion he had wanted just for himself.
The shadow danced away, leaving her face glowing in the sunlight. No. It couldn’t be. He was seeing things. Thinking strange damn things.
“As I said, you have mistaken me for another. London is full of drab little peahens, sir. Now, then, I’m leaving,” she said in a huff.
“To change?” he asked, unable to stop from goading her.
“To write a poem for my toast,” she snapped. “And you may suffer, for I will not help you with yours.”
“No need, darling,” Matthew drawled, his words intending to push her away. “I doubt you know a suitable word that will rhyme with fuck.”
“Stuck,” she said, turning to face him. “For two days, my lord. We are stuck with one another. Let us make the best of it.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“By giving each other wide berth. We will not stand together, we will not talk to one another and we will most certainly not look at one another.”
“No problem from this quarter.”
“Good. You may be assured that it will be no difficulty for me, either.”
“I didn’t think it would. You’re cold and heartless, frigid, I daresay.”
She glared at him over her shoulder and that strange feeling plagued him again. Bloody hell, it couldn’t be. It just could not be…
11
It was a beautiful wedding.
The bride wept openly, and the obvious adoration the groom felt for his beloved was evident throughout the ceremony. Once or twice, Jane felt the stinging warmth of tears gathering behind her lashes. She was happy for Anais’s joy, Jane reminded herself, but the faint taste of bitterness stung her tongue all the same.
What would it be like, Jane wondered, to have such a man standing before you, his eyes damp with emotion, his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see? The expression that Lord Raeburn’s handsome face had worn when he saw Anais walking down the aisle with her father simply stole Jane’s breath. Such love….
Pain, regret, jealousy filled her soul. She had never known love, let alone the kind that Anais shared with Raeburn. To look upon such a miraculous thing and know that it was never to be yours was the cruellest torture Jane thought she had ever endured.
Looking around the table at the guests seated for the wedding breakfast, Jane’s gaze strayed once more to the happy couple who were seated across from her. Anais was smiling and blushing as Raeburn whispered something in her ear. Not ashamed to show his emotion, Raeburn pressed a kiss to his bride’s temple while his fingertip glided down Anais’s rose-flushed cheek.
“I believe a toast is in order before we begin the meal,” a deeply male voice whispered beside her, jerking her from her musings as violently as the lash of a whip striking her flesh would do.
Wallingford. How could she have forgotten the brute was seated beside her? Every time he moved in his chair, or his arm or thigh brushed up against her, her body jolted as if she had been shocked with an electricity machine. How could she be physically aware of him after the way he had abused her person so abominably? Little peahen, he had called her. A drab, colorless bird…
Her pride still stung at the remembered barb. Still-mad tears wanted to gather in her eyes, but she forced them aside. Jane Rankin did not weep, least of all for a man. She had shed enough tears in her lifetime that she had used them all up. There were no more tears left to spill down her cheeks in response to Wallingford’s cruel assessment of her. Even if it was the truth.
She was what she was. Nothing could change her physical appearance. As Lady Blackwood was wont to say, “God makes us as he intends for us to be.” Jane had never questioned the validity of that statement, until she had laid eyes on the beautiful dark angel that was Lord Wallingford.
More important than her appearance was her personality. She did not want to change who she was. She liked this Jane, this strong, independent person. A person of honesty and integrity, honor. She was a nurse, a person of worth. It was her mind that counted, not her appearance. Richard certainly hadn’t seemed to mind her plainness. With him, she did not have to worry excessively over her hair and her gowns and manners like all the other young women her age. She was simply herself, not some concoction designed to incite the male ideal and fantasy.
And yet, she could not get the sound of the deeply painful drab little peahen out of her mind. Oh, how hurtful he was. He was nothing like the man he was when she had nursed him. There was nothing left of Matthew. Wallingford ruled now.
“The toast?” Wallingford murmured once again. “Or are you ignoring me? Or mayhap you are trying to figure out what shocking word I’ve chosen to rhyme with my favorite word?”
Jane slid him a disapproving look, and the devil had the nerve to chuckle. “What do you think the old tabbies will do when I say the word fuck?”
“Hit you over your head with their reticules if they have any sense.”
“What will you do?” he asked, meeting her gaze.
“Nothing. I expect no more out of you than low behavior. Your shocking way of speaking cannot possibly offend me more than it already has. I am prepared for anything, my lord. I only hope that my friend, the bride, is equally prepared.”
“Let us all hope,” he muttered. “So, shall I begin, or shall I defer to you? Ladies first, I believe.”
Her spine stiffened when the word lady escaped his mouth. He had not said it in a sarcastic drawl as he did his other put-downs, but Jane knew that he had meant it as an insult. She was not a lady.
Suddenly she was filled with the uncomfortable emotion of pain once again and she despised the vulnerability that followed it.
“Please, you first,” she muttered.
Avoiding her gaze, Wallingford pushed his chair back and stood, his champagne glass in hand, his arm raised in the air. “A toast to the happy couple,” he said in a loud, imposing voice. The guests quieted and reached for their glasses, their gazes focused on Wallingford and his commanding aura near the end of the table.
“I once told Raeburn that true love was like a ghost. Everyone talks of it, but few have seen it.” Polite twitters ensued, and Jane saw a few knowing nods between some of the elderly men present at the table. “But Raeburn,” Wallingford continued, “is the luckiest of men, for he has seen it. He has it, what most men yearn for and what few will find.”
Jane stared up at Wallingford as he stood beside her, her mouth parted in astonishment. Was this Wallingford? Or had some mischievous woodland faerie sprinkled dust over his head on the ride to the church to turn him into a human being with a conscience? A soul?
This was Matthew, a soft voice whispered to her. This is how he had been with her, when he had thought her someone else, someone beautiful and worthy of him.
“I always believed that men talked of love to make the carnal needs of man more acceptable to themselves and their friends, as well as the fairer sex.” Snickers and grins shot up all around the table, but quieted immediately when Wallingford’s voice took on a soft, almost philosophical tone. “I know now that isn’t always true. For I have seen the strength of it, the power of it to bring together two people who are meant for each other. You have made a believer of me, Raeburn.”
Wallingford saluted the happy couple with his champagne flute. “To Lord Raeburn and his lovely new bride, the Viscountess Raeburn. To true love,” he said, sipping a mouthful of champagne. “Forever.”
“Forever,” the guests cried cheerfully.
“Forever,” Jane murmured, studying Wallingford as he slowly lowered himself into his chair. This was not the man who had cornered her so churlishly in the study. This was Matthew, the m
an she had wanted so desperately all those weeks ago.
The very thought that the man who had awakened her to womanhood resided in the breast of London’s most notorious scoundrel confused her. How could such a beautiful, sensitive creature exist beside such cruel callousness?
“Your turn, I believe.” Again, that same electric frisson swept along her skin. Her hands shaking, she reached for her reticule and pulled the little piece of vellum from the silk bag. “Allow me,” he said, standing and stepping beside her so that he could pull her chair away from the table in order for her to stand. She noticed that he did not regain his chair, but stepped to the side, standing with his arms behind his back, watching her intently.
Aware that all eyes were on her, Jane awkwardly cleared her throat and pushed her spectacles on her nose. She refused to look down the imposing length of the table that was lined on both sides with elegant couples. People of status. People of money. People that were someone. Standing alone, with all eyes upon her, Jane had never been more aware of how utterly out of place she looked. Never had she felt more of a misfit than she did now, here at her friend’s wedding, with twenty couples of importance and means mentally ripping her to her shreds.
She felt Wallingford’s dark gaze burning into her back, watching her, scrutinizing, no doubt, her awkwardness. Was he taking delight in her discomfort? Was he thinking of how drab a little bird she was amongst all the beautifully dressed women at the table? Did he see Lady Burroughs’s full bosom spilling over her bodice? Was he comparing the outrageously beautiful countess’s coiffure and gown against her bright red hair and dull, serviceable gown?
Inadequacy. Inferiority. The emotions washed over her and she tried to gather her spirit, her confidence, the inner strength she prided herself on. She didn’t care about looks and clothes. They did not make the woman. They did not. It was what resided inside the woman that was her worth.
Jane caught Lady Blackwood’s little wink out of the corner of her eye. It was an encouraging look. A motherly look that suddenly rooted her flighty nerves and fastened them safely inside her. With a tight smile, Jane unfolded her paper, which shook miserably in her hands. Would that she could hide that telling fact, but the more she concentrated on stemming the trembling, the more the convulsing paper trembled.
“It will be quite difficult to follow in Lord Wallingford’s steps,” Jane said with a shaking laugh. “For I do not have the gift of speaking so easily. I lack mesmerism and a silky tongue,” she said, her voice trembling as she fumbled to make a jest. A few murmurs and a giggle from a woman met her ears, making her face flame red with embarrassment. Get on with it, then sit down before you humiliate yourself beyond redemption.
“These are not my words, I am afraid, but the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Words that are most fitting, I think.” Clearing her throat, Jane raised the paper to her face and began to read the lines she had scribbled down hours earlier.
“If thou must love me, let it be naught except for love’s sake only. Do not say ‘I love her smile—her look—her way of speaking gently.’ For these things in themselves, Beloved, may be changed or change for thee—and love, so wrought, may be unwrought. But love me for love’s sake, that evermore thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.”
Lowering the paper to rest upon the table, she turned her gaze to Anais and Lord Raeburn, whose arm was protectively around Anais’s shoulders. “That is the meaning of true love. Love through adversity and joy. Through beauty and plainness. A love with no beginning or end, a love which we have been shown today. To Lord and Lady Raeburn. Forever.”
“Hear! Hear!” a number of the guests called as they clinked glasses. “To forever.”
Anais rose from her chair to embrace her, and Jane hugged her friend tightly to her breast. “Thank you, dear Jane,” Anais whispered through a sniffle. “I will remember those words forever.”
Nodding, she hugged Anais and watched as Raeburn clasped Wallingford’s hand. To her shock, Wallingford embraced his friend and bent his head to say something in Raeburn’s ear. What, she would dearly love to know.
“Come, come,” Lord Weatherby, Raeburn’s father said impatiently. “The food is getting cold.”
Taking their chairs once again, the four of them sat. Jane reached for her napkin and placed it on her lap, careful to avoid brushing against Wallingford, whose large frame was taking up most of the space between their chairs. With a deep breath, she reached for her glass and froze, the crystal goblet sliding from her hand when her gaze landed on a pair of green eyes. Mean green eyes. Familiar, haunting green eyes. Unable to hide her shiver, she looked away from Lord Thurston’s taunting glare.
“Allow me,” Wallingford said softly as he reached for her champagne flute and settled it atop the white damask tablecloth. “Are you chilled?” he asked as she shivered involuntarily. “I can have one of the footmen close the window if you would like.”
Jane looked up at Wallingford and saw that his gaze was volleying between her and Lord Thurston, who was making no pretense of staring at her.
“No, thank you,” she murmured, flustered by the presence of Thurston, and the uncharacteristic concern she heard in Wallingford’s voice.
Wallingford said nothing, but continued to study both Thurston and herself. She could feel his curiosity and hear the questions he must be asking himself. How could a drab servant be acquainted with such an illustrious aristocrat and member of Parliament?
“Bacon?” Wallingford asked, holding the silver tray out for her.
“No, no, thank you.”
“All that champagne on an empty belly will make you cup shot, darling,” he drawled. “And as we have hours left together in service to our roles, being cup shot with me is not to your advantage.”
With a glare, she reached for her fork and stabbed a piece of bacon.
“Wise girl,” he said with a wolfish smile.
Matthew was gone, she thought with a sad wistfulness, and Wallingford was back in all his callous glory. It was easier this way, she reminded herself. It was much easier to despise Wallingford than it was Matthew. Now, if only he would remain Wallingford the rest of the weekend, she could then concentrate better on avoiding Thurston.
“So tell me,” Matthew said as he swung the bride into a wide swinging arc, “what is the story of your maid of honor?”
“Jane?” Anais asked a little breathlessly. Aware that Raeburn was shooting him daggers from the periphery of the ballroom, Matthew slowed the pace out of deference to her ladyship’s delicate condition.
“Yes, Miss Rankin.” He was careful not to appear too interested. Anais, despite being a friend for years, was a woman after all, and women were the very devil with stratagems when they thought to entangle themselves in a plot to hatch a love match.
“She is my aunt’s companion, and the very best friend in the world to me—well, apart from Raeburn, of course.”
“Of course,” he said tightly. Get to the dirt, if you please. But he could hardly say that. To do so would certainly pique Anais’s interest. And why he was interested in the dull Miss Rankin and her equally dull story, he had no bloody idea.
From the second she stepped out onto the terrace and interrupted him with Lady Burroughs he had been interested—even more so after he had realized she’d been the smart-mouthed creature who had stomped on his money.
He had watched her during breakfast. His own reaction was equally interesting. But what was even more remarkable was the little byplay he had witnessed between Miss Rankin and Lord Thurston and the physical reaction he had experienced upon watching the two of them. Very interesting, that.
“How long has Miss Rankin been employed by your aunt?”
“About fourteen years, I think,” Anais said as he spun her around during the Viennese waltz. “She is a most loyal companion to my aunt, and a most reliable friend to me.”
“She doesn’t work elsewhere, does she?” When Anais looked at him strangely, he tried to clarify. “I thought
perhaps I had seen her somewhere before, that is all.”
“No, her occupation is as a companion.”
Frustration welled within him. He couldn’t get past the idea of Miss Rankin as Jane—his nurse. She was all wrong. Yet the thought prevailed, making him stare at her and wonder if it had indeed been her at his bedside. Her in his carriage—her body he brought to climax.
Christ, he could hardly believe it, that creature shuddering in his arms as he ravaged her quim with his mouth. Miss Rankin was cold and removed. Jane was warm and soft, infinitely feminine; it could not have been her he had been with.
“And her family?” he asked, his gaze straying from Anais to the lone figure sitting in the corner of the ballroom, the large potted palm nearly obstructing her from view.
“No family to speak of. I should probably not tell you…”
Yes, he wanted to shout. You should probably not, but devil take it, you must!
“It would be most upsetting to Jane if you knew…”
“Oh, well, then,” he said, acting contrite. “You probably shouldn’t. I don’t think she likes me much as it is.”
A glint twinkled in Anais’s blue eyes. A sparkle of interest. A glitter of excitement. She was piqued. God help him, she was no doubt already planning his wedding to the unfashionable and dowdy Miss Rankin.
“My aunt found her.” Anais deliberately lowered her voice so the other dancers around them could not overhear. “She was huddled in the rain outside my aunt’s town house one evening.”
Matthew arched an amused brow. “She wasn’t casing the house, was she?”
“She was scavenging in the rubbish bin eating the bits left over from dinner.” Anais suddenly looked up at him with sad eyes. “Naturally my aunt could not turn her away. So she offered her protection and employment.”
A host of unsavory emotions twisted his gut. Horror, shame, guilt, sympathy…all foreign to him, and all blasted uncomfortable as they sat heavy in his breast. And the feeling that he was looking upon Jane, the nurse, consumed him.
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