by Nina Mason
The thought pushed her to the brink of hysteria. Turning to Cécile, she cried, “We must go back. Turn the carriage around. I cannot do this. I cannot face him. If he slights me, I’m sure I will curl up and die on the spot.”
“Now, Jane,” said Cécile with the sort of placating smile one might reserve for the village idiot, “you are working yourself into a state over nothing. We will continue on to Paris, we will find Matthew, and we will straighten out this wrong idea you’ve gotten into your head. I’m quite sure I’m right, and that his letters have merely gone astray. Or, that he’s been ill and lacked the strength to hold a pen. You see, there could be any number of explanations for his failure to write besides the one you imagine.”
Jane, feeling drained of all vitality, sank back in her seat and looked out the window. Though the landscape was pretty and pastoral, her present state of mind made it difficult to enjoy the view.
“How much longer until we get there?”
“Not too terribly long.”
Even if she wasn’t so anxious, Jane would have found the journey fatiguing. They’d been on the road since sunrise and had stopped only once to stretch their legs and avail themselves of the necessaries. A chamber pot beneath the seat served their needs the rest of the time.
“Would it help if I offered to go in first?” Cécile asked. “That way, if you’re right—which I’m convinced you’re not—you will be spared the unpleasantness of the encounter.”
Jane took a moment to consider the proposal. If Cécile spoke to him first, she could ascertain his desires with regard to their engagement, sparing Jane the agony of his rejection. And if Cécile was right, and it was no more than lost letters, she would know how to act when they reunited.
“Yes, I think you speaking to him first will spare me much unnecessary anguish.”
“Good, then it’s settled. I shall go to the door while you wait in the carriage. And if you are right, and he wants to break the engagement, I’ll return, tell you as much, and we’ll quietly take our leave.”
“And if I’m wrong?” And oh, please let me be!
“That’s up to you,” Cécile returned with a smile. “Would you rather I come down and collect you?—or send him down to you?”
Jane stopped to think before giving her answer. The idea of seeing Matthew that much sooner, of knowing he still loved her just by seeing his approach, seemed a good choice. If, however, he came to where she sat in the carriage, their reunion would be in plain view of everyone on the street, so they couldn’t so much as embrace. She would have to be satisfied with no more than an exchange of words until they could be alone together.
“Well, Jane, which would you rather?”
“Would that I am given the choice.” She was so aquiver she could scarcely get the words out.
“I’m sure you will be. Now which will it be. Come for you myself or send Mr. Brontë to fetch you inside?”
“Come for me yourself…and then give us a few minutes alone to become reacquainted.”
Cécile smiled into her glove. “So he can give you one of his toe-curling kisses, I should imagine.”
The heat of a blush warmed Jane’s face. “Well, yes. If he has a mind to.”
“And will you marry here or wait until you return to England?”
“If he still desires to make me his wife, I think we ought to wed in England, as I haven’t yet informed my mother or sister of our engagement. If I came back from my visit to you with a husband they knew nothing about, I fear they would be equal parts hurt and disappointed in me.”
“I can see your point,” said Cécile, “but will be sorry to miss the ceremony.”
“Could you not make the trip over, even as my matron of honor?”
“Oh, Jane.” Cécile touched the rope of pearls encircling her throat. “Though I’m deeply honored, shouldn’t that office be performed by your sister?”
“Only if you decline it.”
“I won’t decline it—oh, but perhaps you will withdraw the offer when you learn my secret.”
“Secret?” The word left a bad taste in Jane’s mouth. The last time Cécile kept a secret from her, it nearly ruined her life—and could yet. For they might speak optimistically of her reconciliation with Matthew, but there was still every chance it would never come to pass.
Cécile moved her hand to her belly and looked out the window. “Do you remember me mentioning Lord Fortescue?”
“I believe so…” Jane vaguely recalled a gentleman of that name at her debutante ball.
“Well…” Cécile’s cheeks colored slightly. “I saw a great deal of him while we were in Paris. There were so many gay balls and parties, and Phillippe would always steal off to play cards or dice, leaving me with no dancing partner. Lord Fortescue, bless his heart, was only too happy to step into the void. I have no doubt it will shock you, dear Jane, though how could I help myself when my husband was so neglectful?”
“Please tell me you didn’t go to bed with him.”
She laughed and rubbed her swollen midsection. “I can’t imagine how else he could put his child in me.”
Jane struggled to hide her shock. “Does Lord L’Hiver know? Is that why he’s mistreated you?”
“He doesn’t know. Not as yet, anyway. And he’s mistreated me because he’s naturally cruel. Adrian—er, Lord Fortescue—is sweet and devoted, like your Mr. Brontë. But that’s only part of my secret. The rest is that Adrian is waiting for me in Paris, from where we plan to run away together.”
Though stunned speechless, Jane also was rather pleased for Cécile. “Do you love him?”
“Yes.” Her voice quavered. “I love him so much it hurts.”
“But…what of your husband, your father, and Cœur Brisé?”
“To the devil with the lot of them. We get only one life to live, and I’ve decided to live the better part of mine with someone who doesn’t regard me as a pawn on his chessboard. I will write to Phillippe and Papa when Adrian and I are safely away, to let them know I won’t be coming back.”
“Good for you,” Jane said, flinging propriety out the carriage window. “I applaud your courage and wish you both every happiness.”
* * *
When the bell rang, Matthew was packing for his trip to England. Hurrying to the front door, sure the carriage he’d heard stop out front was the coach he’d requested to convey him to the train station. Either that, or it was Maurice Claremont, come to pick up his newest paintings and say his farewells.
He got the shock of his life when, upon opening the door, he found his troublesome neighbor from Tours standing on his stoop. “Lady Cécile! What in the deuce brings you to my door?”
“It’s Lady L’Hiver now, but that’s neither here nor there,” came her haughty reply. “I’ve come on an errand for a friend and must be quick.”
Matthew was still so stunned by her being there he could not make heads or tails of her statements. “What sort of errand?”
“May I come in? What I have to say is of a rather personal nature and I’d rather not broadcast it out here where other ears might overhear.”
“Of course.” He stepped back to allow her to enter, despite his itching distrust.
She evidently noticed the waiting trunks, because she turned abruptly and, with wide-open green eyes, asked, “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes. I’m returning to England. To reconcile with my family…and call on Miss Grey, if she’ll see me.”
Her face lit up as bright as the streetlamps just being ignited. “You needn’t go all the way to England to see Miss Grey.”
Surprise, laced with confusion and distrust, struck him square in the chest. “Needn’t I?”
“No,” she said, smiling like she had a secret she intended to torture him with. “Though it pleases me greatly to hear you still desire to see her, for that is why I’ve come. To help clear up what I’m sure is only a misunderstanding.”
A cold, hard knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Had Jane
sent Cécile as her intermediary? Was she too afraid to tell him the truth to his face? “Why did she not come herself—or say what she needed to say in a letter?”
“The silly creature was waiting for you to write first.”
“I did write,” he told her. “Time and again, only to have my letters returned—by her, I presumed.”
“You presumed wrongly,” Cécile returned. “Because she never got your letters. She has moved near Bath to open a school, and concluded by your failure to correspond that your heart had changed toward her. I told her she had got a wrong idea into her head, but she wouldn’t believe me. So, I brought her here to speak to you in person.”
“Here? Jane is here?” His hopes soared and his heart began to pound. Could it be true?—or was this just another one of Lady Cécile’s cruel games?
“Yes. She’s waiting in the carriage.”
“I don’t understand.” He squinted at her. “Why is she waiting in the carriage? Does she not want to see me?”
“Of course she wants to see you, you nit. But she wanted me to test the waters, in case her fears proved right.”
“Well, they’re not right.” He was practically shouting. “I do want her! More than anything in the world—and will tell her so this instant.”
When he started toward the gated courtyard where the carriage was parked, Lady Cécile grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.
“No. She wants me to deliver your answer…so she can come to you for a proper—or perhaps I ought to say improper—reunion.”
He laughed, feeling as giddy as a child on Christmas morning. “Then go get her. Send her up to me. And be quick about it.”
* * *
Jane never let her gaze stray from the staircase Cécile had ascended toward Matthew’s apartment. This was their second stop. Their first, in a rather dodgy area, had proved disappointing. By sheer luck, the woman now living at the address to which she’d directed her letters had known to where he’d moved.
When she saw Cécile coming back down the stairs, Jane’s heart shot upward as her stomach dropped downward. Was he there? Did he want to see her? She studied Cécile’s expression for clues, but, frustratingly, found nothing to reassure her.
Upon reaching the carriage, Cécile looked up at Jane and allowed the smile she’d been hiding to bloom. “Well, what do you think? It was just as I said. He wrote you several letters, all of which were returned unread. Rather than draw the correct conclusion, he attributed their return to a change of heart on your part. He still wants you Jane, and waits within. Now go, go. Be off like the wind and let him tell you all that’s in his heart.”
Tears of joy sprang into Jane’s eyes. She couldn’t believe she’d heard right—or that her heart was still within her chest, so hard was it pounding inside her ribcage. But with jubilation now instead of trepidation. She climbed out of the carriage and dashed across the cobbles toward the staircase, happier than she thought she’d ever be again.
Behind her, Cécile called out, “Goodbye, Jane, and good luck. I shall have the coachmen leave your trunk in the courtyard.”
She heard the coach pull away as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, she saw him there, at the top, waiting for her, his dark eyes as moist as her own. At the sight of him, a flash of desire went through her body.
He started down as she started up. “Oh, Jane, Jane. My angel, my love. I was so afraid I’d lost you.”
“I had the same fear, dearest, and am so very happy to be wrong.”
When they met midway, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to the top and down the hall toward his apartment. The door stood open and, as he towed her inside, her legs went weak. He shut the door behind them. She felt dizzy and delirious, as if she might swoon.
Then, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her, softly, tenderly, as if afraid she might break. But it wasn’t gentleness she wanted from him, not after wandering so long in the desert.
Burying her fingers in his hair, she pulled his mouth harder against hers and coaxed his lips apart. He groaned and opened wider, plunging his tongue deep. Closing her lips around it, she sucked feverishly until she could no longer discern where her mouth ended and his began.
He tasted intoxicatingly of whisky and smelled of shaving soap, oil paints, and that manly scent that was his alone. The kiss went on and on. She never wanted it to end, but she also wanted more. Taking one of her hands from his hair, she reached down and cupped the bulge between his legs. He groaned softly, low in his throat, and pushed his hardness into her hand. Desire shivered through her, hot and urgent.
Their mouths still locked, he walked her backward toward the wall and pinned her there. The plaster was rough. So was the shadow of whiskers on his chin, but she didn’t care. Yearning to be closer, she withdrew her hand and thrust her hips against his cockstand. She wanted to join with him, to be part of him, to bore into his heart as he bored into her body.
She broke free of his mouth and looked into his eyes. “Take me to your bed.”
He looked pained—not at all the response she expected. “Oh, Jane. How I wish I could.”
Disappointment bit her hard. “Why can’t you?”
“Because my hackney is due at any moment.”
“Your hackney?” Glancing over his shoulder, she saw the pile of trunks for the first time. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Back to England. To reconcile with my father and join the Pre-Raphaelites. I also meant to search high and low for you when I returned, but now, if it suits you, we can go home together.”
“It suits me to the smallest fiber of my being,” she told him, smiling the joy she felt inside “for I wish never to be apart from you again.”
“I have the same wish, my darling.” He kissed her quickly. “And, as I’ve earned enough to support you in relative comfort—plus a little extra for your mother and sister—there is nothing standing in our way. Apart from obtaining the license, of course, which I plan to do as soon as I’m able.” He paused briefly before adding, “Assuming you still desire to be my wife, of course.”
She touched his face and looked into the dark gypsy eyes, which, even painted, saw into her soul. “Yes, Matthew. I do want to marry you. More than anything in the world. But I also desire to make love before we take our leave.”
“If we do, we will have to be quick,” he said, “which would not be my choice under different circumstances.”
“Nor mine,” she said, “but I’ll take what I can get.”
Saying no more, he brought his open mouth down on hers. As she welcomed his tongue with her own, she felt cold air on her legs as he hiked up her skirts. With blind, fumbling fingers, she opened his trousers and stroked his hard, hot penis like a pet.
Then, placing both hands beneath her bare buttocks, he lifted her into the air. She wrapped her legs around him and sucked on his tongue. He entered her with such savage force, her head banged against the wall. The incredible pleasure of his possession made her gasp. She tilted her pelvis to give him more depth as he hammered her with ever more brutal thrusts. She accepted his passionate exertions joyfully, arching her pelvis higher and higher and higher until she reached a shattering climax.
As her sex convulsed around his, she felt the pulsations of his release deep inside her body. Sated, she relaxed her legs and let them return to the floor. They clung to each other, out of breath.
It might have been going on a long time, but now she could hear someone knocking on the door. Matthew, hearing it, too, quickly buttoned his trousers. Jane frantically smoothed down her gown as he moved toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob, but instead of pulling it open, he turned back to her. “Next time, it will be better, I promise.”
“I have no complaints about this time,” she told him with a smile. “I rather enjoyed being the channel for your animalistic passions.”
He laughed. “You are more than a channel for my passions, darling Jane. You are my angel, my inspiration, and my muse. Before I met y
ou, my heart was a frozen, leafless tree in winter. And now it is a rose in full bloom. A red rose, no less—the symbol of undying love.”
Epilogue
One month later…
“You look so beautiful,” Cécile gushed from a few feet behind where Jane stood before the looking glass in her wedding costume. “Absolutely breathtaking.”
The bridal day had arrived at last. Jane’s trunks were packed, locked, corded, and arranged in a row along the wall of her small but cozy bedchamber at her mother’s house, ready to be collected. Tomorrow, at this time, she and Matthew would be on their way to the Lake District, where they would honeymoon for a fortnight before moving into the house he’d bought for them in Bishops Stortford, a charming village on the outskirts of London.
During their month-long courtship, they’d had little time alone, and Jane looked forward to having him all to herself on their honeymoon. Their wedding trip would be modest compared to Cécile’s, but Jane was confident she would enjoy hers far more than had her friend. Because, unlike Cécile, she dearly loved her husband, and planned to spend the better part of their holiday lounging in bed, having heart-to-heart talks, and taking quiet walks together (when they weren’t making love, of course).
Jane studied her reflection with a more critical eye. Though she saw no beauty in the mirror, she did think she looked well enough in the off-white satin bridal gown her mother made for the occasion. Lace edged the modest neckline and a single row of satin roses ran down the front of the voluminous skirt, which rustled exquisitely each time she moved. Cécile had coiffed her hair in a becoming style and was in the process of affixing the knee-length veil she’d brought for Jane from Belgium, where she and Lord Fortescue now kept house. Real white roses ornamented the combs that kept the veil in place. The final touches were the string of pearls Matthew had given her and a pair of bejeweled satin slippers.
Exquisite though her bridal attire was, Jane had no doubt the bridegroom would outshine her in beauty. What would he wear? She couldn’t wait to find out—or to be Mrs. Matthew Brontë. Her heart fluttered with excitement at the thought of becoming the lawful wife of such an amazing man. Other parts quivered at the thought of sharing his bed for the rest of her life. She closed her eyes and for the millionth time, imagined herself back in the fabrique, under him on the daybed with their naked, perspiring bodies joined in amorous congress. Starting tonight, she would be able to enjoy such delicious moments to her heart’s content, free of the residual guilt. And perhaps even conceive a child, God willing. She should like to be a mother, especially to Matthew’s children.