Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “I speak the truth. I saw her ghost,” Phillippe said. “As did Lady Cécile. Do you honestly think we invented the story?”

  “That is precisely what I think.” Matthew searched the room, but detected no movement, no apparition, and no spot colder than any other.

  Shifting his gaze to the trunks the maids had packed with Mathilde’s clothing and other personal items, he noticed something odd. One of her jewelry cases was open and appeared to have been rifled through. A string of pearls was draped over the side of the casket—the necklace he’d given her for her birthday the first year they were together. She’d never worn the gift. Not even when first he gave it to her.

  “If you’re going to give me jewelry, darling,” she’d said with a condescending smirk. “You’ll need to develop better taste.”

  There was nothing tasteless about the necklace. It was a simple strand of pearls. Simple, classic, and unpretentious. He strode over and picked up the strand before rounding on his nephew, whose bulging pockets confirmed his suspicions.

  “You’ve been stealing from me to support your vices.”

  “No, uncle.” Disdain radiated from Phillippe’s squinting eyes. “It is you who has stolen from me. All of this—the furniture, the jewelry, the house, and the property, including your precious garden—should have come to me.”

  “And would have, I daresay, had you shown your aunt the least consideration,” Matthew returned with equal venom. “But you couldn’t be bothered to visit the poor woman while she lay dying, could you? Or show your face at her wake and burial. That’s why she changed her will, Phillippe. Not to reward me, but to punish you.” (To punish them both, really, but that seemed unimportant at the moment.) “So, if you’re seeking someone to blame for your misfortunes, I suggest you consult your looking glass.”

  Phillippe, now red-faced, made a growling sound in the back of his throat, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room.

  Matthew, appalled by the young man’s selfishness and feelings of entitlement, just shook his head while slipping the necklace into the pocket of his frockcoat. Unlike Mathilde, Miss Grey would no doubt appreciate a classic string of pearls.

  * * *

  Was there really a ghost? Jane still had her doubts. Shifting uneasily on the settee, she took a cautious sip from the edge of her teacup. Lady Cécile, who seemed equally on edge, kept looking toward the door, as if expecting someone to come in.

  Jane could guess who, leading her to believe her charge wasn’t as indifferent to Lord L’Hiver as she believed herself to be—or would have her governess and father believe.

  Footsteps in the hall just outside the parlor drew Jane’s attention toward the half-open door. Whoever it was briskly passed by. Disappointment hastened the descent of Jane’s already sinking spirits. She’d hoped it might be Matthew returning with news of what he’d found upstairs.

  Minutes ticked past, and still neither gentleman made an appearance. Then, just when Jane was ready to break down the wall of silence with a question about the ball—a subject guaranteed to restore the girl’s cheer—Lady Cécile exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Grey! There is a chill in the air and my cape is still damp. Would you be so good as to ask the housekeeper for the loan of a shawl? Be quick, will you?—lest I catch my death while you tarry.”

  Jane got to her feet and pretended to set off on the errand. Sure it was an excuse to get her out of the room, she ducked around a corner and waited. Her suspicions were confirmed when Lady Cécile poked her head out of the parlor and glanced up and down the corridor. When the girl came out of the room, Jane considered following her, but then decided against it thinking, If Lord L’Hiver should win the selfish chit’s affections and persuade her to marry him, it might save a better man for a more deserving girl.

  Since fetching the shawl was obviously a fool’s errand, Jane returned to the parlor, but, rather than take up her teacup, she slunk toward the desk. While she wouldn’t resort to rummaging through the drawers, she could not be blamed for happening to observe something left in plain view. To her disappointment, the will was no longer where it had been the previous week. In its place was an unfinished letter.

  Curiosity getting the better of her, she moved around behind the chair so she could view the handwriting the right way round.

  The first thing she noticed was Matthew’s elegant handwriting. His cursive was as confident as it was graceful—just what she’d expect from someone artistically inclined. The correspondence was written in French and addressed to one Maurice Claremont—an old acquaintance, she gathered from the opening inquiries about the gentleman’s welfare. Scanning for something more substantive, she read the following paragraph, from which she deduced Monsieur Claremont was an art dealer or gallery owner Matthew knew in Paris. When she reached the following passage, she read with more care:

  Having at last put behind me the lamentable obstacles and discouragements that silenced my muse, I’m actively painting once again. The canvases I am working on at present interweave the sensual and realistic to the extent that neither element can be extracted from the other. Believing they show great promise, I’m most eager to know if you share my opinion…

  A nearby noise gave Jane’s heart a jolt and instantly raised her gaze from the letter. Seeing Matthew himself standing there, she leapt away from the desk like a startled deer. To her considerable relief, he was too busy searching the room to notice her trespassing upon his privacy.

  “Where is Lady Cécile?” he demanded rather harshly.

  “With your nephew, I presume.” Jane struggled to appear composed, hoping he wouldn’t see her bloodless complexion or trembling hands. “What did you find upstairs?”

  “A thief.”

  His answer confused her. “Not a ghost?”

  “No.” He seemed preoccupied. “I found Phillippe, claiming he, too, had seen Mathilde’s ghost. When I insisted upon seeing the alleged apparition for myself, I found he’d been helping himself to his aunt’s jewelry box.”

  “Lord L’Hiver has been stealing from you?”

  “It would seem so.”

  That he didn’t seem angry about it perplexed her. “Will you report his crime to the police?”

  “I’d rather not,” he said. “Having no proof, involving the authorities would only importune me and distract me from my painting.”

  “Are you quite certain Lord L’Hiver is the culprit?"

  He met her gaze for the first time since entering the room. “I’d say his being alone up there, combined with the disturbed jewelry box and his bulging pockets, is fairly conclusive evidence, wouldn’t you?”

  “Did you demand he empty his pockets?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t give a damn about the jewelry.”

  Jane, all aflutter within, touched her throat. “Don’t you?”

  “No. For there are far more important matters weighing upon my mind at present.”

  He took a step back and closed the door, never taking his gaze from hers. Then, he came towards her with fire in his eyes.

  Jane, trembling, licked her lips. With a hard swallow, she asked, “What manner of matters?”

  “Matters of the heart, darling Jane,” he said, his voice and manner much softer than before.

  Jane’s knees weakened to the point of giving way. Instead of drawing nearer, however, he took a seat at the piano and, to her bewilderment, began to play and sing.

  “The truest love that ever heart

  Felt at its kindled core,

  Did through each vein, in quickened start,

  The tide of being pour.

  He played well and had a beautiful voice, but those things weren’t what struck her most. What impressed her most was that she recognized the lyrics as the song Edward Rochester sang to declare his love to Jane Eyre. Was Matthew now using the song to the same end?

  “Her coming was my hope each day,

  Her parting was my pain;

  The cha
nce that did her steps delay

  Was ice in every vein.

  On quaking legs, she walked over to where he sat and set her hands atop his broad shoulders.

  “I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,

  As I loved, loved to be;

  And to this object did I press

  As blind as eagerly…”

  He stopped playing and put one of his hands over one of hers. “Do you recognize the song?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like my voice?”

  “I do. You sing exceptionally well.”

  “Do you like me, Jane?”

  “Yes, Matthew. Very much.”

  Withdrawing his hand from hers, he resumed playing.

  “But wide as pathless was the space

  That lay our lives between,

  And dangerous as the foamy race

  Of ocean-surges green.

  “And haunted as a robber-path

  Through wilderness or wood;

  For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,

  Between our spirits stood.”

  Stopping again, he said, “Will you not sit beside me?”

  Her pounding heart overflowing with joy, she turned and joined him on the bench, her back to the keyboard and her side pressed against his. The contact made her tingle all over as he sang the next several verses, which spoke of danger, enmity, and hardship.

  Stopping before the verse about wedlock, he turned to her with tears glistening in his bewitching dark eyes. “Oh, Jane. Are your feelings equal to mine? Do you love me as I love you?”

  So overcome was she by his declaration, she could barely speak the truth of her heart. “Yes.”

  “I’m thrilled, my darling.” He beamed at her. “You cannot imagine how happy you’ve made me.”

  Turning back to the piano, he skipped the next verse and sang the final stanza.

  “My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

  With me to live—to die;

  I have at last my nameless bliss.

  As I love—loved am I!

  When finished, he gazed at her for several breathless moments, his eyes brimming with adulation. Nobody had ever looked at her that way. Nobody had ever seen her as a person worthy of veneration—or even consideration. The feelings his admiration aroused in her were at once heady and humbling.

  “Turn away from me, my love, if you would,” he said, “for there is something I wish to give you.”

  She did as he asked, unsure what to expect. She’d thought he might kiss her; hoped he would, truth be told, but he could hardly press his mouth to hers when her back was to him. She felt something encircle her throat, sensed him fastening a clasp. She set her fingertips upon the necklace, which felt to be a choker-length string of pearls.

  “Oh, Matthew. Are they real?”

  “As real as my love for you, darling Jane.”

  His moist breath caressed her flesh just before his lips brushed her nape. Her head lolled to the side as he made love to her neck with his lips, tongue, and teeth. Jane, dizzy with pleasure, was sure she’d died and gone to heaven. She pinched her thigh just to be sure. To her delight, she was still alive. So was every nerve in her body.

  His big, warm hands slid off her shoulders, down her arms, and came around her. Pulling her against him, he held her tight against his body. Rather than stop him, she released a breathless moan. She adored his caresses, his closeness, and the deliciously wicked sensations his touch awakened in her. She also adored the smell of him—an intoxicating combination of shaving soap, hair tonic, and his own manly musk.

  “Oh, Jane.”

  She was no longer fashioned of flesh, blood, and bone. The heat of his kisses had reduced her to cinders. One of his hands moved to her hair. Seizing her bun, he bent back her head and captured her mouth with his own. The kiss was savage, passionate, and oh so thrilling. Not only were her toes curled in her slippers, her feet had left the ground. She was floating on a cloud of euphoria ten feet above the floor.

  The man she loved returned her feelings, and soon all her troubles would be over. As Matthew’s wife, she could give up her demeaning life as a governess and still have the resources to take care of her mother and sister back in England. True, he’d not yet proposed, but he had given her a string of genuine pearls—a bauble worth more than her annual wages! Surely, the necklace was meant as a promise of sorts.

  “Oh, Jane.” He broke from the kiss. “I’m so happy. Tell me you are as happy as I am.”

  “I am, Matthew. Happier than I’ve ever been in my life. But I must know your intentions toward me.”

  His dark, soulful eyes radiated sincerity and tenderness as they stared into hers. “They are as honorable as they can be, my darling.”

  Though she wasn’t sure what he meant, she wasn’t about to ruin the moment with further inquiries. He had declared his love and given her a necklace, which must be enough for now.

  He stood and offered her his hand. “Now, my darling, if you can spare the time, I should like you to be the first to see my new paintings.”

  Her heart fluttered with excitement. “I can think of nothing I’d like more.”

  Except, perhaps, a proposal of marriage.

  As she placed her hand in his, joy overwhelmed her. He was handsome, brilliant, passionate, and romantic—more perfect than she’d ever dreamed any man could be. And he loved her as she loved him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Matthew’s feelings careened between elation and despair as he led Jane through the garden toward the fabrique. She loved him, which made him want to jump for joy, but she also expected a proposal—and not of the sort he planned to make.

  In the parlor just now, the fervency with which she’d kissed him confirmed his suspicion a passionate heart beat beneath that severe black frock of hers. But when push came to shove, would she choose him over respectability?

  Distressingly, there was no way of knowing until he showed his hand, which he wasn’t quite ready to do. Not while there was still a chance of making enough money to marry her. If his new paintings were good enough to get him an exhibition, he might well earn enough to walk away from his legacy. First, however, he needed to get Monsieur Claremont to agree to a visit.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Matthew,” Jane said, pulling him from his thoughts. “Is anything amiss?”

  “No, my darling,” he replied, feigning more cheer than he felt. “What could be wrong when I have the love of the most wonderful woman on earth?”

  She laughed. “Your compliments are too excessive.”

  Stopping just shy of the door to his studio, he gathered her into his arms. “I would beg to differ, had I the least desire to argue with you, which I don’t.”

  A blade of longing sliced through him, cutting deep. He kissed her, open-mouthed. As his tongue found hers, she moved against him, a sensual brush that called blood to his groin. Was it intentional? He didn’t think so. She was too guileless to tempt him by design. But oh, what a masterful job she’d done all the same. All those walks in the garden; all those chats about art and literature. Good conversation was what got his blood pumping, not fluttering eyelashes and heaving bosoms.

  Not that the female form didn’t arouse desire in him. Even Jane’s coltish figure made him burn for her. He couldn’t wait to peel off that matronly frock and feast his eyes on what lay underneath. As he imagined her standing naked before him, a spear of lust pierced his groin. He shuddered and drew back, frightened by the power of his passion for her.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Looking him in the eye, she put her hand on his cheek. “It’s all right, Matthew. I want you, too.”

  Bringing the hand on his cheek to his mouth, he kissed each of her fingers in turn. She stared at him as he did this, and he found her gaze unbearable. As much as he loved her, he still stood an excellent chance of breaking her heart—and his own along with it.

  “Come, my darling.” He turned and pulled
her toward the fabrique’s French door. “Let’s get on with the viewing before we drive each other mad with desire.”

  * * *

  Jane surveyed the group of paintings before her with awe. They were nothing short of brilliant, one and all. He’d revealed them to her, canvas by canvas, with one notable exception: his work in progress, which remained under a sheet on his easel.

  “They’re wonderful, Matthew. Truly. I’m extremely impressed.”

  As she wandered over to examine more closely the large canvas he’d propped atop the mantle shelf, Cécile’s hint whispered in her ear, threatening to wreck her happiness.

  He’s not what he pretends to be.

  She wanted to ask him what it meant as much as she didn’t. Ignorance was bliss, after all, was it not? Oh, but she was not the sort to stick her head in the sand. She was an open and honest person and expected the same in return—especially from the man who professed to love her.

  Pushing the thought from her head, she examined the painting, which depicted a young woman in a purple dress. There were flowers at her feet—symbols no doubt, but representing what? The end of spring? The end of innocence? Perhaps the girl was about to get married and the flowers represented the maidenhood and family she was leaving behind. Only on closer inspection did Jane notice the second figure—a man, hidden in the shadows, with his head bent over the woman’s left hand.

  “What’s the story behind this one?”

  He came up behind her and looked over her shoulder, leaving a safe margin between them. “I call it The Miller’s Daughter, after the poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”

  Jane smiled. Her instincts had been correct, for the poem told of a young couple’s wedding. “I know the poem, but wonder if the painting has a deeper significance.”

  “It’s meant to signify how difficult it is to marry for love when so many pressures are put upon us by society and other people.”