by Nina Mason
“I’m no such thing, I assure you.”
Shame burned in her heart. In the studio just now, as she strove to replicate the sensual curve of his lips, she’d imagined how they might feel pressed against hers. More shocking still, she’d longed rather fiercely to run her hands over his torso, to feel the rippling muscles and ribs under his skin, and to tangle her fingers in the carpet of dark curls covering his chest.
Oh, what a wicked, lustful creature she was! Thank goodness he couldn’t read her thoughts or she would die of mortification. Turning away to hide her shame, she said, eager to change the subject, “But, since you’ve brought up your mother…I would like to know more about your family. Do you have any siblings, or is there only you?”
“I have three brothers.”
She moistened her lips. “Are they older or younger than you?”
“All are younger.”
“So, you’re the eldest son?”
“I am.”
“Are you close to your brothers?”
“I used to be, and still write to them when I find the time.”
“Are they all still in England?”
“Mark and Luke are, but John, an officer in the Navy, is abroad at the moment.”
The names produced a minor jar of surprise. “You are…named for the authors of the gospels?”
“We are. At my father’s insistence. My mother, I believe, would have preferred to name us after poets.”
“I see,” said Jane, truly interested. “And what are the professions of your brothers not in the Navy?”
“Mark is a farmer and Luke was a cleric, like our father, until very lately.”
“Oh? And what compelled him to leave the church?”
“The deaths of his wife and daughter, for which he blamed God.”
Startled by his answer and not knowing what to say in response, she shifted the subject. “Are both your parents still living?”
“They are, but I’m estranged from my father.” His lips compressed and his brow wrinkled, as if the mention of his father gave him pain.
“For what reason?” she asked. Then, fearing the question was too personal, she quickly added, “Or would you rather not say?”
“I have no misgivings about telling you.” He licked his lips. “He disowned me when I converted to Catholicism to please the countess.”
Shock jolted her heart with such force, her mouth fell open. “You are a…Papist?”
“In name only,” he said with a shrug. “To be truthful, I’ve never put much stock in religion—another reason for my father’s disfavor. As his eldest son, he expected me to follow in his footsteps. When I chose painting over the pulpit, he never forgave me. You might say my conversion was the final straw.”
“I see,” she said, buying time as she plucked up the nerve to probe more deeply. “And, if you don’t mind my asking…was your relationship with the countess an affectionate one?”
“Hardly.”
His candor pleased her on more than one level. “So, you didn’t love her?”
After an extended silence, he said, looking pained, “To be truthful, Miss Grey, I’ve never loved any woman—and often doubt myself capable of experiencing that most-coveted of emotions.”
His words crushed her hopes and brought more tears to her eyes. “Surely, you are wrong. For you strike me as a man of great passion.”
“I used to be.” His countenance grew even more sullen. “But now, my heart is like a tree in winter. Barren, leafless, and encrusted with ice.”
“Perhaps it will thaw when you meet the right woman,” she offered hopefully.
He brought his face very close to hers and, for a breathless moment, she thought he meant to kiss her. Instead, he said in a strained voice, “I probably should keep this to myself, but my cold heart has warmed some since making your acquaintance.”
For several hellish-yet-heavenly moments, they sat together in silence. His mouth was so close to hers she could feel his breath warming her lips. As her heart leapt toward him, her body impulsively followed. Their mouths met ever so sweetly. Then, mortified by her forwardness, she jerked back and turned away.
“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “I rather liked the feel of your mouth on mine.”
She liked the feel of his, too—very much indeed—but carrying on like a common hussy would only lead to her ruin. “Perhaps we should return to the house and see if Cécile’s headache is any better.”
“Yes,” he said with audible strain. “Perhaps we should at that.”
He stood and offered her his arm. She took his coat sleeve between her gloved hands and let him lead her farther along the path. After they’d walked several paces, he said, “I don’t believe I’ve yet asked your favorite flower.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He waited a few moments before letting out a small laugh. “Will you not tell me what it is?”
“Very well.” She released a sigh. “I shall tell you. As queer as it may seem, my favorite flower is bleeding heart.”
He laughed, drew to a stop, and freed his arm from her grasp. Turning toward the bed to their right, he bent over the boxwood border and plucked several stems of the flower she’d named. Then, he offered the bouquet to her with a gallant bow. “Please allow me to offer you this humble token of my admiration.”
She accepted the flowers with joy in her heart. It was foolish, perhaps, to experience so much elation in response to so simple an offering, but no man had ever given her anything before. He’d also demonstrated tremendous compassion when she told him about her family—and had admitted to liking the brief intimacy they’d shared.
Might he have some feelings for her? Or was he just being kind? Oh—and what about his secret? She must take care not to let him turn her head, lest she end up brokenhearted when the truth came out.
To be truthful, Miss Grey, I’ve never loved any woman—and often doubt myself capable of experiencing that most-coveted of emotions.
The echo of his earlier confession crushed her hopes. As much as she wanted to believe his fears were unjustified, she would be wise to remember his warning, however much his actions appeared to contradict his words. If he couldn’t love her, he couldn’t make her happy. It was that simple. Not that she had any right to entertain expectations, one way or the other.
And yet, and yet…oh, how bedevilingly hopeful is this foolish heart of mine!
They walked for a time in hospitable silence before he said, “Tell me, Miss Grey, have you yet finished Jane Eyre?”
“I have.”
A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “May I ask what you thought of the book on the whole?”
“I thought it an admirable effort. And very realistic. I was especially pleased Miss Eyre chose to follow her heart in the end. Which reminds me…you never did tell me how your cousin managed to capture women’s thoughts and feelings so astutely.”
His dark eyes twinkled like a man with a secret, which, of course, he was (and oh! what she would give to know what he concealed). “My cousin writes women so proficiently because my cousin is a woman. The name on her book is a nom de plume. Unbeknownst to the reading public, Mr. Currer Bell is actually Miss Charlotte Brontë, a lady of rare spirit, intelligence, and principles. And her two sisters, now deceased, tragically, were also authoresses who published under male pen names. Emily wrote Wuthering Heights and Anne wrote Agnes Grey, another book about a governess. Clever as you are, it surprises me you didn’t solve the riddle on your own.”
Mildly insulted by the reproach, her defensiveness rose to the fore. “I might have, had I more time to turn my mind to it. But, alas, as I said before, I rarely have a moment to myself.”
“I understand,” he said, “and meant no offense.”
“No offense was taken,” she replied, tasting the lie.
He escorted her back to the house directly, saying nothing more. At the doo
r to the parlor where she’d left Lady Cécile to recover, he took his leave, saying, “I have more painting to do before the light is gone.”
Upon entering the room, Jane got a mild shock. Lady Cécile wasn’t inside, but had left behind her cloak, bonnet, and an empty teacup. A desk piled with papers stood in the center of the room. Creeping toward it like a thief, Jane let her gaze roam over the disordered stacks of letters and documents. Having no idea what she was looking for, she hoped an article of interest might present itself. One did: Mathilde Moineau’s Last Will and Testament, which lay in plain view.
Just as she reached for the document, the door burst open. When Lady Cécile rushed in, wide-eyed and breathless, Jane snatched back her hand as quickly as if the will had burned her fingers.
“Oh, Miss Grey, there you are!”
“And there you are,” Jane returned accusingly. “Returning from God alone knows where.”
Lady Cécile lifted her chin in challenge. “If you must know, I was in the countess’ former bedchamber.”
“The countess’ former bedchamber!” Jane was astonished by her audacity to make free of the house. “What in the world possessed you to go in there?”
“I heard a noise and, having nothing better to do, I decided to have a look around.”
“You ventured into the private rooms of the château alone and without permission?” Jane remained stupefied. “That was incredibly daring of you. Why did you not come and find Lord Brontë? Or ask a servant to investigate the noise?”
“You wouldn’t scold me so if you knew what I found in that room besides yards and yards of lavender velvet.”
Curiosity mediated Jane’s pique. “Then, by all means, tell me what you found.”
“A ghost,” she declared, wide-eyed. “And not just some lingering spirit from times past, but a very recent addition to the spiritual plane. Can you guess who I mean?”
Jane couldn’t help making light of her ridiculous claim. “Someone dead?”
“Oh, Miss Grey. How can you make jokes at a time like this? It was none other than the countess herself. And not only did she appear to me, she spoke to me as well!”
Despite her skepticism, the hairs prickled on the nape of Jane’s neck. Having never seen a ghost with her own two eyes, she’d always questioned the existence of such entities. Lady Cécile, however, seemed very much in earnest. “Don’t keep me dangling on tenterhooks. Tell me what the phantom had to say.”
“She said she would haunt the château until Lord Brontë found the love he couldn’t with her.” Rushing forward, she gushed, “Oh, Miss Grey, you will never guess what else she told me.”
“Then you must enlighten me,” Jane said, still unconvinced, “and be quick about it.”
Taking Jane’s hands in hers, Lady Cécile regarded her with uncharacteristic compassion. “She told me he would find the felicity she desired for him with none other than yourself—and that I must step up my efforts to bring the two of you together, which will hasten her journey to Heaven.”
Though Jane’s rational side remained cynical, her sentimental side wanted to believe the improbable story. Imprudent as it was, her attachment to Matthew Brontë was stronger than she cared to admit. She opened her mouth, ready to beg Lady Cécile to divulge his secret, but changed her mind. She had sinned enough for one day and mustn’t involve her charge in her turpitude.
“I haven’t had the time yet to formulate a plan to bolster my efforts, but know that I have every intention of doing so,” Lady Cécile continued excitedly. “Meanwhile, you must bring me up to date. How did things go in the garden today? Did he give you those flowers?”
“Yes.” In the furor, Jane had all but forgotten the bleeding hearts in her hand.
“Has he kissed you yet?”
“No.” A blush scorched Jane’s cheeks as she recalled that momentary meeting of their lips—which, though wonderful, was far too brief to count.
“Tell me the truth, Miss Grey. Are you coming to care for him?”
Jane looked away from the girl’s invasive stare. “I confess that I am, though it’s no doubt foolish of me to give my heart to a man so far above my station.”
“How can you say that? You are perfectly matched. And now, to add cream to the pudding, you have the countess’ blessing in your favor as well.”
Jane made no response. Though she couldn’t quite believe the story, neither could she fathom what motive the girl might have for inventing such a fiction. From every angle Jane viewed the tale, she could only see Lady Cécile’s desire to see her happily paired with Lord Brontë.
Shortly thereafter, they left Cœur Brisé. Upon arriving at Vouvray, Jane went straight to her chamber, shut the door, and put all but two of the bleeding hearts in a vase she found in the back of the wardrobe. The remaining stems she pressed between the pages of Jane Eyre, where she meant to keep them always.
Chapter Nine
“You seem quite taken with Miss Grey,” Phillippe said to Matthew from the doorway of the fabrique. “Or do my instincts deceive me?”
Turning from his painting, Matthew fixed him with a remonstrative glare. “Don’t build your hopes up too high, nephew. For as much as I enjoy the lady’s company, I have no intention of giving up my comfortable lifestyle to put a ring on her finger.”
Phillippe looked impervious. “Lady Cécile informs me she has invited le petite mademoiselle to her presentation ball—and that you have promised her several dances.”
“I’ve promised her one dance, as any friend would do.”
Phillippe’s expression was dubious. “Are you denying any romantic interest in the lady?”
“No.”
“Then I must presume your intentions toward the girl are less than honorable.”
Matthew, still gripping his paintbrush, narrowed his eyes. “That would depend on your definition of honorable. For, if I’m not mistaken, many honorable men keep mistresses.”
“You shock me, sir.”
Matthew scoffed. “I shock you, do I? Despite having kept women yourself?”
“I’m not shocked by your ambitions,” Phillipe returned with a smirk. “I’m shocked by your choice. Do you not find Miss Grey rather…flavorless? Surely, you could find yourself a far more tempting morsel with which to sate your appetites.”
Phillippe’s slur toward Jane set Matthew’s blood aboil. “Firstly, I don’t regard Miss Grey as a morsel. And, secondly, I find her anything but bland. On the contrary, I find her to be a savory blend of intelligence, kindness, and taste. In fact, she pleases my palate better than any woman I’ve met hitherto.”
“I was speaking only of her appearance,” Phillippe said. “For unless Cupid has put out your eyes with his arrows, you cannot claim the lady becoming by any standard.”
Matthew took a moment to cool his temper and consider his nephew’s words. Yes, he’d thought Miss Grey rather plain when first he met her, but he now found her features quite pretty.
“As to that, let me just say she had a certain je ne sais quoi I find exceedingly agreeable.”
“Then, why do you not ask for her hand instead of inviting her into your bed?”
“You know perfectly well that avenue is closed to me.”
Phillippe arched an eyebrow. “Because of the terms of your legacy?”
“Yes.”
“And if the terms were altered to allow you to marry and still sustain you both? Not in the style you’re used to, perhaps, but enough to live a comfortable life.”
Suspicion smothered the hope Matthew’s heart strove to kindle. “Altered how? And by whom?”
“I’ve been thinking, dear uncle.” A gleam Matthew didn’t trust in the least came into Phillippe’s sunken eyes. “We could trade places. I would become the master of Cœur Brisé and you would receive an allowance similar in sum to what my aunt bequeathed to me. That would free you to marry Miss Grey and still leave you enough to support her in style—even without whatever you might earn from your painting.”
“Insofar as I’m aware, there’s no provision stipulating I should receive a living after I remarry,” Matthew said. “In fact, your aunt made her wishes crystal clear to me on her deathbed. If ever I take a wife, I will be cut off without a penny.”
“Yes, yes,” said Phillippe. “But now that she is gone, it’s up to us to negotiate the terms between ourselves. And I shall be empowered to alter or nullify her demands once the estate reverts to me.”
“Assuming you can be trusted to keep your word, and don’t gamble away your fortune before you get around to paying my allowance.”
“Gad, uncle. Do you really hold such a low opinion of me?”
“Given your history of unpaid debts, only an idiot would trust in your marker. And while I don’t deny having faults, I flatter myself being easily taken in isn’t one of them.”
Phillippe, looking injured, did an abrupt about-face and strode rigidly down the path toward the house.
Matthew lit several candles to augment the fading light before returning to his painting. His efforts, however, lacked their earlier focus. He was too distracted by thoughts of Miss Grey. While he meant what he’d said to Phillipe, he’d also been reserved in his compliments.
He didn’t think Miss Grey merely pretty. The sight of her set him on fire. Heart, body, mind, and soul. And, if he could trust Phillippe’s promises, he wouldn’t hesitate to court her with marriage in mind. But, unlike the marquis, he wasn’t a gambler. Nor, he suspected, would Jane want him to stake their future on the word of a man known for his deceit.
* * *
Sometimes, Jane became so engrossed while sketching, she forgot about everything else. Then, when at last she returned to the world, she’d find hours had passed in what felt like a brief span of minutes. This was one of those times, but, instead of emerging from her trance in her own good time, she came back to reality with a jolt when Lord Brousseau charged into the conservatory.